Page 57 of His Virgin Vessel

Chapter Twenty-Two

Asa

I hated police stations. Still, I thought that, since, on this occasion I was going in of my own free will and to help the law, I might feel differently about it. I didn't. It wasn’t about why I was there. It was that there was an atmosphere to the place. Like with hospitals. You didn’t have to be ill to hate being in one. Still, I at least felt that this time there was a chance that a visit to a police station might not end up being one of the worst days of my life.

"Not buying it, Mr. Covert! Not buying it!"

This was now hour four, and a few things were becoming swiftly clear to me. Firstly, this was not going to be as easy as I had imagined, and I had not imagined that it would be that easy. Secondly, my antipathy towards police stations was not going anywhere fast. Thirdly, it's possible that a qualification for being an investigator with the organized crime unit is being a grade-A asshole.

"I'm not trying to sell you anything," I grated back to the investigator, trying hard to keep the rage out of my voice and not punch the man in the face.

"Are you trying to be clever, Mr. Covert? Hear that Agent Hamlin?" Agent Quint, leaned back in his chair and addressed his colleague. "He's not trying to 'sell us' anything. Maybe that's because we're not in the market for hooch."

Hamlin inclined her head. She had said almost nothing since entering, in contrast to Quint, who had barely shut up. That was not the only way in which they were a contrast. Quint was a sallow, rat-faced man in an ill-fitting suit, he was in his late forties, and he had the skin of a pumpkin nine days after Halloween. Hamlin was a stunning brunette with the sculpted features of a goddess, porcelain skin, and an incredible figure hugged by an immaculate skirt and jacket. Under other circumstances, I would have been hitting on her. Come to think of it, if it wasn't for Corinne, I'd be hitting on her even in this situation. But, instead, I looked straight through her. I could see that she was a very sexy woman, but felt nothing. It's funny how meeting the right person can completely change how you view other people. At least, it would have been funny at any other time, but right now I was struggling to find anything funny.

"I think we're going to go through this again," said Agent Quint.

"Fine."

"What's that you said?"

"I said, 'Fine'."

"Oh, so it's all right with you, is it?" Quint asked, with mock sincerity. "Because I was really worried about getting your permission to continue this interrogation. Let's go back to the start. You're willing to give us the goods on Frank Rassi, Mafia kingpin, and, in return, you get immunity from prosecution for illegal sales of alcohol and running a protection racket?"

"I don't run a protection racket." The last thing I wanted to do was to get into an argument with this man, but I didn't want anything on the record that might suggest I had admitted to that.

"You sell protection?"

"So does a security firm," I pointed out. So do the police, when it comes to that. They just get paid differently. A protection racket is when you threaten to beat someone up or to torch their business unless they pay you."

"You seem to know a lot about it," Quint interrupted.

"Because I protect people from it," I countered quickly. "One of the things from which I protect people is protection rackets. I've never threatened any of my clients, and if they don't want my help, then that's fine. My services are free to those who buy booze off me."

"Quite the good Samaritan," Agent Quint sneered. "And your contention is that this benevolent work, plus your alcohol selling, is the limit of your illegal activity."

"I don't always ride my bike according to the speed limit," I admitted. I wasn't trying to be cocky, I didn't want to say anything I'd have to backtrack on later. "And, recently, I stole a car, but that was an emergency, and it has now been returned."

"And that's it."

"Pretty much."

"LIAR!" Quint slammed the table with his hand. "You want to know what I think?!" He had already told me multiple times, but Agent Quint was a man who liked the sound of his own voice. "I think you've got a finger in every pie around here. I think there's not a crime that happens in this area where you don't take your cut. I think you're into drugs, extortion, and whatever else is going on. I think you're looking to expand your biker gang, and you want the Mafia competition out of the way. And getting us to dispose of them is a hell of lot easier than doing it yourself. That's what I think."

"His only permanent home is a motor home behind a bar," came a quieter voice from the corner.

"What?!" Quint rounded on Sheriff Dugas, who had been standing, watching without saying a word.

Dugas met the agent's gaze levelly. "I'm just saying that, for a man with a finger in every pie, taking a cut from every crime, he's not exactly living in luxury."

"I didn't say he was good at it!" Quint snapped. "Besides, some people struggle to keep hold of their money."

"Yes," Dugas nodded. He might have hated Quint even more than I did, and he was not even trying to hide his contempt. "Taxes, and so on."

"Maybe you'd rather wait outside," Quint said, adding nastily, "This isn't really policemen's work."

"It's my potential CI you're assessing," Dugas said, still not unsettled by Quint's confrontational manner. "I'm staying."

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