“I don’t know anything about his shipping operations.”
“You live with him. Attend business dinners. Surely you’ve overheard conversations?”
“I don’t pay attention to business talk.”
“What about Marelli’s Restaurant nearly three months ago? You were present during a gang shooting.”
My mouth goes dry. “I was having lunch.”
“With Mason Porter, who’s been charged with conspiracy to commit kidnapping. He claims he was paid by organized crime to lure you there. That suggests your husband has dangerous enemies.”
“I’m not discussing that without my lawyer.”
“We’re trying to help you, Mrs. Volkov. To understand the threats against you and your child.” Morrison closes his notepad. “The FBI has resources your husband’s private security doesn’t.”
“I don’t need your protection. I need you to leave.”
“That’s not how this works.” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a folded document. “We have a federal warrant for your testimony.”
I take it with trembling hands. Federal court seal at the top. Judge’s signature at the bottom. My name in the middle.
“I’m eight months pregnant. I can’t just leave?—”
“We’ll have you back in two to three hours. This is just questioning. You’re not under arrest.” Morrison checks his watch. “But we need to leave soon. The judge is expecting us at the courthouse by three thirty.”
Dalton speaks for the first time, voice flat. “Time is a factor, ma’am.”
I look at Isaac again. “Is Pedro really downstairs?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He’s lying. I can see it in how he holds his body, how his eyes dart away.
“Can I get my purse?”
“Of course. Agent Dalton will accompany you.”
Dalton follows me to the bedroom, staying close. I grab my purse and pull out my phone, typing fast.
FBI agents here. Taking me to the federal courthouse for questioning. Stewart Ave. Something feels wrong. Call me.
I hit send.
“Ready, Mrs. Volkov?” Dalton asks.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
Morrison smiles. Something in that smile makes my blood run cold. “Thank you for cooperating.”
We walk to the elevator. The doors open. Morrison gestures for me to enter first.
The three men crowd in with me. The doors close, and we descend.
“Which courthouse?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Federal District Court on Las Vegas Boulevard,” Morrison says smoothly. “About fifteen minutes from here.”
But he said Stewart Avenue before. That’s where he claimed their field office was. The discrepancy is small, but it’s there.
