Page 97 of Beautiful Agony

"Officer Mackland was... reluctant to accept my invitation for a polite conversation." I keep my voice steady, neutral. "Some persuasion was required."

"Persuasion?" Rutledge drums his fingers on his desk. "That looks like assault and kidnapping of a police officer to me."

"If I may, Captain." Aleksey interjects. "My client acted in self-defense when Officer Mackland drew his weapon—while off duty, mind you—during what was intended to be a peaceful discussion about certain irregularities at local establishments."

"Self-defense?" Rutledge scoffs. "You call this self-defense?"

"Would you like to see the rest of the video where he explains exactly how many bribes he's taken from Kirsan Kuular over the years?" I say quietly. "Or would you prefer that this piece of shit continue dishonoring the badge that you so proudly wear?"

Rutledge's face flushes red. "Show me."

I press play.

"State your name and rank," my voice commands from off-screen.

"Brian Mackland. Police Sergeant with the Seattle PD." His voice trembles.

Rutledge's hands curl into fists on his desk. I notice a muscle twitching in his jaw.

"How long have you worked for Kirsan Kuular?"

"Six years now, give and take." Mackland swallows hard. "Started small, just looking the other way. Then... more."

"What kind of work do you do for him?"

"Security. Mainly at his casino." Mackland's eyes dart around frantically. "Sometimes the clubs too."

Rutledge's face has gone from red to ashen. His knuckles are white where they grip the edge of his desk.

"Tell me about the clubs," my voice demands.

"I mean, what do you want to know?"

"Whatever comes to mind."

Mackland takes a deep breath, hesitating as he mulls over the words. "Usual shit. Legitimate clubs upstairs, but if you know somebody, you can go one floor below."

"What happens when you go below?"

"I mean shit," Mackland shakes his head, blinking fiercely. "I've only been down there a couple of times. But it's pretty much the same thing. Bottles and girls. You pay for a table, and girls will sit down with you, talk with you."

"Is that all that happens?"

"No," Mackland admits. "I mean, usually, yeah, that's all that happens. But if you're willing to shell out the big bucks. Well, then you can ask the girls to show you one floor deeper."

"What happens there?"

"Whatever the fuck you want, man. You fucking paid for them."

A sound escapes Rutledge's throat. His whole body is rigid with fury.

"Tell me about the girls."

"They're…" Mackland hesitates. "They got no names. You're not supposed to ask them about names. Hell, I don't think half of them even speak English. Real young too. I know for sure that a couple of them are sixteen. Some sick bastards specifically request the young ones."

I pause the video. "Would you like to see more, Captain? Or is this convincing enough for you?"

Rutledge holds up his hand, his voice hoarse. "Stop. That's... that's enough."

---