“She never touched her,” John murmured. “She never put her arms around that kid, never asked how she was, never said she was glad she wasn’t hurt. Jesus Christ, if that girl’s life’s been like that, witness protection might be an upgrade.”
Elizabeth spent two hours with Mr. Pomeroy from the U.S. Attorney’s Office. She had to go through it all again, every step of the night, this time with interruptions that demanded clarifications, made her backtrack, jump forward, go back again. With him were three others, all in dark suits. One of them took notes, even though they recorded the interview.
Detectives Riley and Griffith had come, too, so the house felt very small, very crowded.
At one point, Pomeroy eased back in his chair, frowned.
“Now, Elizabeth, you admit you’d had several alcoholic drinks. How many? Three, four? More?”
“A little more than four. I couldn’t finish the last. When we got to Alex’s, I had some water. He made me another drink, but I didn’t want it. I didn’t feel well.”
“And in fact got sick. After you were sick, you fell asleep out on the terrace. How often do you drink?”
“I don’t. I mean to say I’ve had small amounts of wine, as my mother believes I should develop a sophisticated palate, but I’d never had a mixed drink before.”
“So it was your first experience with that kind of alcohol, and you consumed nearly five glasses throughout the evening, became ill, slept—or passed out—outside. Yet you claim you can identify the individuals who entered the home and shot Alexi Gurevich and Julie Masters? And at what distance?”
“About ten feet. But I can be sure. I saw them very clearly. They were in the light.”
“Wouldn’t you have been impaired after knocking back all that alcohol, after partying yourself sick?”
Shamed, she stared down at the hands she had clutched in her lap. “I’m sure my reaction time was impaired, and surely my judgment. But not my eyesight or hearing.”
Pomeroy nodded at one of the men with him. The man stepped forward, laid several photographs on the table.
“Do you recognize any of these men?” he asked her.
“Yes.” She pointed to one at the right corner of the layout. “That’s Yakov Korotkii. That’s the man who shot Alex, then Julie. His hair’s longer in the photograph.”
“Do you know this man?” Pomeroy asked her. “Had you met him before?”
“I never met him. I only saw him, and only last night, when he shot Alex and Julie.”
“All right.” Pomeroy picked up that set of photos, and the man set down another pile. “Do you recognize anyone here?”
“This man. They called him Yegor. I don’t know the rest of his name. He was with Korotkii. He restrained Alex, then pushed him down to his knees.”
“And once more.” Again, the photos were removed, others laid out.
“That’s Ilya.” Because her lips trembled, she pressed them tight. “Ilya Volkov. He came in after … after Julie and Alex were dead. Only a few minutes after. He was angry. He spoke in Russian.”
“How do you know he was angry?”
“I speak Russian, not very well. They said … this is translated. Is that all right?”
“Yes.”
She took a breath, relayed the conversation.
“Then I ran. I knew they’d start looking for me, and if they found me, they’d kill me because I’d seen. When I stopped running, I called nine-one-one.”
“That’s good. You did very well, Elizabeth. We’re going to arrest these men. It may be necessary for you to identify them again, in a lineup. They won’t be able to see you.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Your testimony will help put very dangerous men behind bars. The U.S. Attorney’s Office is very grateful.”
“You’re welcome.”
He smiled at that. “We’ll talk again. We’ll be seeing a lot of each other over the next weeks. If you need anything, Elizabeth, anything at all, one of the marshals will get it for you, or you can contact me. We want you to be as comfortable as possible.”
“Thank you.”
Tension she hadn’t been aware of melted away when he left.
As Terry had earlier, Griffith sat on the arm of her chair. “He was tough on you because it’s going to be hard. What you’re doing, what the defense team will do to discredit your testimony. It’s not going to be an easy road.”
“I know. Are you still part of the investigation?”
“It’s a joint investigation, because Riley and me pushed for it. It’s the feds’ ball, but we’re still on the court. How are you holding up?”
“I’m all right. Everyone’s been very considerate. Thank you for getting my things.”
“No problem. Do you need anything else?”
“I’d like my laptop. I should have asked you before, but I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“You’re not going to be able to e-mail anyone, go into chat rooms, post on boards.”
“It’s not for that. I want to study, and research. If I could have my computer, some of my books …”
“I’ll check it out.”
That had to be good enough.
When night fell, they put her in a car with John and Terry. Griffith and Riley drove behind; more marshals took the lead.
As they sped along the expressway, it occurred to her that only twenty-four hours ago she’d put on her new red dress, her high, sparkling shoes.
And Julie, eyes bright, voice giddy, had sat beside her in a cab. Alive.
Everything had been so different.
Now everything was different again.
They pulled directly into the garage of a simple two-story house with a wide, deep yard. But for the car, the garage stood empty—no tools, no boxes, no debris.
The door leading to the interior boasted a deadlock.
The man who opened the door had some gray threaded through his dark brown hair. Though nearly as tall as John, he was more filled out—muscular in jeans and a polo shirt, his weapon holstered at his side.
He stepped back so they could enter the kitchen—bigger than the one they’d just left. The appliances more modern, the floor a buff-colored tile.
“Liz, this is Deputy Marshal Cosgrove.”
“Bill.” He extended a hand and an encouraging smile to Elizabeth. “Welcome home. Deputy Peski—that’s Lynda—is doing a perimeter check. We’ll be keeping you safe tonight.”
“Oh … But—”
“We’ll be back in the morning,” John told her. “But we’ll get you settled in before we go.”
“Why don’t I take you up, show you your room,” Terry suggested, and before Elizabeth could agree or protest, Terry had picked up her suitcase and started out.
“She looks younger than I figured,” Bill commented.
“She’s worn out, still a little glazed over. But the kid’s solid. She held up to two hours with Pomeroy without one fumble. A jury’s going to love her.”
“A teenage girl taking down the Volkovs.” Bill shook his head. “Go figure.”
Sergei Volkov was in his prime, a wealthy man who’d come from wretched poverty. By the age of ten he’d been an accomplished thief who’d known every corner, every rat hole, in his miserable ghetto in Moscow. He’d killed his first man at thirteen, gutting him with an American-made combat knife he’d stolen from a rival. He’d broken the arm of the rival, a wily boy of sixteen.
He still had the knife.
He’d risen through the ranks of the Moscow
