The Witness

Blakley told her, “we’re notifying Child Services. A detective will be in to speak with you.”
    “But Julie. Can I take you to the house first? I left her. I just left her there.”
    “We know where Gurevich lives.”
    He left her alone, but within fifteen minutes someone came in and gave her a vending machine cup of chicken soup. She hadn’t thought she could eat, but at the first sip her abused stomach begged for more.
    Despite the food and the coffee, reaction set in with dragging fatigue. Surrendering, Elizabeth laid her head on the table, closed her eyes.
    Outside the room, Detective Sean Riley stepped up to the two-way glass beside his partner. “So that’s our wit.”
    “Elizabeth Fitch, age sixteen, daughter of Dr. Susan L. Fitch, chief of surgery, Silva Memorial.” Brenda Griffith took a long drink of her Starbucks coffee. She’d been a cop for fifteen years, so calls in the middle of the night were routine. But coffee helped ease the blow. “CPS is coming in.”
    “Have we verified?”
    “Gurevich took one to the forehead, two behind the ear. Low-caliber,close-range. Female vic—her ID says Julie Masters—age twenty-one, but according to the wit, the age is bogus. Officers on scene report she took two head shots.”
    “Fucking sixteen.” Riley, a twenty-year vet with chronic back pain and thinning brown hair, shook his head. “She’s lucky to be alive.”
    “Since she is, let’s find out what she knows.” Brenda stepped out. “Let me take the lead; go soft. If half of what she said in her statement’s true, she’s had a hell of a night. Here comes CPS.”
    “I’ll get the kid a Coke or something,” Riley said. “We’ll both start soft.”
    Elizabeth woke with a jolt of terror, stared at the woman with the pretty face and black hair hauled back in an explosive ponytail.
    “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Detective Griffith. This is Ms. Petrie from Child Services. My partner will be right in. He thought you might want a pop.”
    “I fell asleep. How long …” She looked at her watch. “Oh, God. It’s nearly morning. Julie—”
    “I’m very sorry about your friend.”
    “It’s my fault. We shouldn’t have gone. I knew it was wrong. I just wanted to … I forged driver’s licenses.”
    “So I hear. Can I see yours?”
    “All right.” Elizabeth took the license out of her purse.
    Griffith studied it, turned it over, lifted her eyebrows, glanced at Elizabeth. “You’re telling me you made this yourself?”
    “Yes. I’d been experimenting on how it’s done. And Julie wanted to go to Warehouse 12, so I made them. I know it’s illegal. There’s no excuse. Am I under arrest?”
    Griffith glanced at Petrie, then back to Elizabeth. “I think we’ll hold off on that. Were you acquainted with Alexi Gurevich prior to last night?”
    “No. He came over to our table. We had Cosmos.” She pressed her hands to her face. “God, did it really happen? I looked the club upon the Internet before we went. I’d never been to a nightclub. I read some articles that said it was suspected that the owners were part of the Russian Mafia. But I never thought—when he came over, then Ilya—”
    “Ilya? Is that Ilya Volkov?”
    “Yes. We danced with them, and sat in a booth, and he kissed me. Nobody ever kissed me before. I wanted to know what it was like. He was so nice to me, and then—”
    She broke off, that glint of fear back in her eyes when the door opened.
    “Elizabeth, this is my partner, Detective Riley.”
    “Got you a Coke. My daughter can’t live without a Coke in the mornings.”
    “Thank you. I’m not supposed to drink …” Elizabeth let out a half-laugh. “That’s stupid, isn’t it? I drank alcohol until I was sick. I watched two people be murdered. And I don’t want to disobey my mother’s directive about soft drinks.”
    She opened it, poured it into the plastic cup. “Thank you,” she said again.
    “Elizabeth.” Griffith waited until she had Elizabeth’s attention again. “Did you, Julie, Gurevich and Ilya Volkov leave Warehouse 12 and go to Gurevich’s residence?”
    “No. Just the three of us. Ilya had to take care of something at the club. He was going to come—and he did, but later. After.”
    “Did Ilya Volkov murder Gurevich and Julie?”
    “No. It was a man named Yakov Korotkii. I can describe him, or do a sketch, or work with a police artist. I remember his face. I remember it very well. I have an eidetic