BY THE TIME ELIZABETH CAME BACK IN, WEARING JEANS and a blue tank with a thin froth of lace at the edges, he’d piled a plate with bacon, eggs, toast.
“Did Detective Griffith pack everything you needed?”
“Yes. I wasn’t sure what to do with the suitcase. You said we weren’t staying here.”
“Don’t worry about it. Eat while it’s hot.”
She stared at the plate. “That’s a lot of food.” Bacon? Her nutritionist would have a heart attack.
The idea of the reaction made her smile.
“You look hungry.”
“I am.” The smile stayed in place when she looked up at him. “I’m not supposed to eat bacon.”
“Why?”
“Processed meat, sodium, animal fat. It’s not on my approved list. My mother and my nutritionist have devised a very specific meal plan.”
“Is that so? Well, it’s a shame to let it go to waste.”
“It would be.” The scent drew her to the table. “And you went to the trouble to cook it for me.” She sat, picked up a slice of bacon, took a bite. Closed her eyes. “It’s good.”
“Everything’s better with bacon.” He set a tall glass of juice and three Tylenol beside her plate. “Take those, drink that. I can see the hangover.”
Now the smile fell away. “We shouldn’t have been drinking.”
“No, you shouldn’t have. Do you always do what you should do?”
“Yes. I mean, before yesterday. And if I’d done what I should have yesterday, Julie would be alive.”
“Liz, Julie’s dead because Yakov Korotkii is a murderer, because the Volkovs are very bad people. You and Julie did something stupid. She didn’t deserve to die for it. And you’re not responsible. Take the Tylenol, drink the juice. Eat.”
She obeyed more out of the habit of obedience than desire now. But, oh, the food was so good, so comforting.
“Will you tell me what happens now? I don’t know what happens now, and it’s easier to know what I’m expected to do.”
He brought his coffee to the table, sat down with her. “A lot of what happens next depends on you.”
“Because my testimony as to what happened, what I saw, what I heard, will be necessary to convict Yakov Korotkii on the murder charges, and the other man as his accomplice. And Ilya as an accessory after the fact. Also, it could implicate Sergei Volkov, though that may be hearsay, I’m not clear on that. He would be the most desired target, as it appears he’s the head, or one of the heads, of the organization.”
John leaned back in his chair. “You seem to have a solid grasp on the situation, as it stands.”
“I’ve been monitoring some criminal justice courses, and doing a lot of reading.”
“Since yesterday?”
“No.” She nearly laughed, but it caught in her throat. “Since I started college. I’m interested.”
“But you’re studying to be a doctor.”
She looked down at her plate, carefully scooped up a bite of scrambled egg. “Yes.”
He got up, opened the fridge again, took out a Coke for himself, then a second. He cocked a brow in question.
“I’m not supposed to— Yes, please. I’d like a Coke.”
He opened both, then sat as a compact woman with blond hair in a sleek ponytail stepped in. “Liz, this is Deputy Marshal Norton. Terry, Liz.”
“How’re you doing today, Liz?”
“Better, thank you.”
“Liz was just asking about the process, though she seems to have a handle on it. Terry’s contacted the U.S. Attorney’s Office. You’ll have a representative from Child Services present while they talk to you, if your mother hasn’t arrived by that time. Your cooperation is voluntary, Liz, but—”
“I could be held as a material witness. It won’t be necessary. I have to cooperate, I have to testify. Will you tell me if the Volkovs are Russian Mafia?”
“What we believe and what we can prove—”
“I want to know what you believe,” Elizabeth interrupted. “I think I should know my situation. I may be a minor, legally, but I’m not a child. I have an IQ of two hundred and ten, and excellent comprehension skills. I know I behaved foolishly, but I’m not foolish. I understand if I witnessed murders carried out on orders of what would be the pakhan—the boss—I’m a target. If I testify, Korotkii or one like him will do whatever can be done to stop me. Even after I testify, and particularly if my testimony leads to convictions, I’ll be a target. In retribution.”
She paused, took a sip of Coke right from the can. Amazing.
“I was impaired last night—this morning, more accurately. From drinking, being sick, then from shock. I didn’t fully assess the situation. But I have now. If the Volkovs are simply very bad men, a loosely formed gang of thugs and criminals, it’s a difficult situation. If they are organized crime, if they are Red Mafia, it’s much more. I want to know.”
She watched the two deputies exchange a look.
“Once I’m able to access a computer,” Elizabeth added, “I’ll be able to research and find the answer for myself.”
“I bet you could,” John murmured. “We believe—hell, we know—the Volkovs are organized crime. We know they’re heavily involved in weapons and human trafficking, in computer fraud—a specialty—in protection, theft, drugs. They’re a wide-reaching organization, with considerable legitimate—or legitimate enough—interests, such as nightclubs, restaurants, strip joints and real estate. Law enforcement’s been able to peck away a bit, but the hierarchy hasn’t been touched. We know Korotkii is Sergei Volkov’s mechanic—his hit man. But we’ve never been able to pin him.”
“He liked killing Alex. He felt great contempt for Alex. With Julie … killing Julie annoyed him. Nothing more, nothing less. I’m sorry, I can’t finish the food.”
“It’s okay.”
She looked down at her hands for a moment, then back up into John’s eyes. “I won’t be able to go back to Harvard. I won’t be able to go home again. If I testify, I’ll have to go into the Witness Protection Program. Isn’t that what will happen?”
“You’re getting a little ahead of yourself,” Terry told her.
“I always think ahead. I didn’t last night, and there was a terrible price. Would I be able to go to another university, under another name?”
“We could make that work,” John said. “We take good care of our witnesses, Liz. You can look that up on the computer, too.”
“I will. They don’t know who I am. I mean to say I only told Ilya my first name. He only knew Liz—and really it’s always been Elizabeth. And I … before we went to the club, I cut and dyed my hair. I don’t look like this.”
“Like the hair,” Terry said. “It’s a good look for you.”
“I look very different. Last night with makeup, and the dress, the hair, I looked very different than I did. Maybe there’s a way to give testimony without them finding out who I am. I know it’s a slim chance, but I’d like to try to believe that. For now, anyway.”
Terry shifted as her cell phone beeped. She pulled it from the case on her belt. “Norton. Yeah. Copy that.”
She replaced the phone. “They’re bringing your mom in.”
“All right.” Rising, Elizabeth took her plate to the sink. “I’ll do the dishes.”
“I’ll give you a hand,” John said.
“No. If you don’t mind, I’d like a little time alone before my mother gets here.”
“Sure.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “It’ll be all right, Liz.”
She only nodded and kept her hands busy, out of sight. So no one could see them tremble.
By the time the plainclothes officers brought her mother to the door, she felt she had herself under control. In the sparsely furnished living room, Elizabeth got to her feet as Susan came in. One look told her the apology she’d practiced would be far from adequate.
“For God’s sake, Elizabeth, what have you done to your hair?”
“I …” Thrown off balance, Elizabeth lifted a hand to her hair. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“Dr. Fitch, I’m Deputy Marshal Barrow, and this is Deputy Marshal Norton. We understand this is a very difficult situation. If we could sit down, we’ll explain exactly what precautions we’re taking to protect your daughter.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ve already been briefed. If you’ll excuse us, I’d like to speak to my daughter alone.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Fitch, for her protection, it’s necessary for at least one of us to remain with Elizabeth at all times.”
Elizabeth glanced his way, wondered why he’d left her alone in the kitchen.
“Very well. Sit down, Elizabeth.” Susan remained standing. “There are no acceptable explanations, no rational reasoning, for your behavior. If the facts have been related to me accurately, you broke the law by forging documents you used to gain entrance to a nightclub with another minor. Where you consumed alcohol. Are these facts accurate?”
“Yes. Yes, they’re accurate.”
“You compounded this by showing yet more poor judgment by accompanying a man you’d just met to his home. Did you engage in sexual relations with this man?”
“No.”
“It’s imperative you answer truthfully, as you may have contracted an STD or become pregnant.”
“I didn’t have sex with anyone.”
Susan eyed her as coldly as she might a specimen under a microscope. “I’m unable to trust your word. You’ll submit to an examination as soon as possible. Actions have consequences, Elizabeth, as you know very well.”
“I didn’t have sex with anyone,” Elizabeth said flatly. “Julie had sex with Alex, and now she’s dead. It seems the consequence is too harsh for the action.”
“By your actions you put yourself and this other girl in serious jeopardy.”
The words were like stones, hurled at her limbs, cracking bone.
“I know. I have no excuse.”
“Because there is none. Now a girl is dead, and you’re under police protection. You may also face criminal charges—”
“Dr. Fitch,” John interrupted. “Let me assure you and Elizabeth. There will be no charges.”
“Is that for you to decide?” she snapped, then turned straight back to Elizabeth. “I’m aware that girls of your age often show poor judgment, often defy authority. I made allowances for that in our conversation before I left for Atlanta. But I expect better than this debacle from someone with your intellect, your resources, your upbringing. It’s only through the whims of providence you weren’t killed.”
“I ran away.”
“At last showing common sense. Now, get your things. I’ll arrange for one of the gynecologists on staff to examine you before we go home.”
“But … I can’t go home.”
“This is a poor time to exhibit misplaced independence.”
“Elizabeth is under the protection of the U.S. Marshals Service,” John began. “She’s the only witness to a double homicide. The man who committed those homicides is suspected of being an assassin in the Volkov bratva. That’s Russian Mafia, Dr. Fitch, if those facts weren’t related to you.”
“I’m aware of what Elizabeth reported to the police.”
Elizabeth knew that tone—the chief-of-surgery tone that demanded no nonsense, brooked no argument, accepted no discussion.
“I’m also told she wasn’t seen by this man, and her name is unknown to him and his associates. I intend to take my daughter home, where she will be properly disciplined for her unfortunate behavior.”
“You can intend anything you want, Dr. Fitch, but Liz is under the protection of the U.S. Marshals Service.”
John spoke so calmly, so matter-of-factly, Elizabeth could only stare at him.
“She’ll be moved from this location tonight, to one we feel is more secure. Your residence is not a secure location, and her safety is our priority. As I assume it would be yours.”
“I have the resources to hire private security, if necessary. I’ve contacted my lawyer. Elizabeth can’t be forced to testify on this matter.”
“They’re not forcing me. I’ve agreed to testify.”
“Your judgment continues to be poor. This is my decision.”
He’d called her Liz, Elizabeth thought. He’d called her Liz and defied Dr. Susan L. Fitch’s directive—to her face. So she would be Liz. She wouldn’t crumble like Elizabeth.
“No, it’s not.” The world did not end when she spoke the words. “I have to testify. I can’t go home.”
A flash of shock overlaid the brutally cold anger on Susan’s face. “Do you have any concept of the consequences of this? You won’t be able to participate in the summer program, or study at Harvard in the fall. You’ll both delay and impair your education, and you’ll put your life, your life, Elizabeth, into the hands of people whose true agenda is to convict this man, at whatever cost to you.”
“Julie’s dead.”
“Nothing can change that, but this decision could ruin your life, your plans, your future.”
“How can I just go home as if none of this happened? Go back to my life? And your plans, because they’ve never been mine. If their agenda is to convict the murderers, I accept that. Yours is for me to do nothing, to obey, to live the life you’ve designed for me. I can’t. I can’t do that anymore. I have to try to do what’s right. That’s the consequence, Mother. And I have to accept the consequence.”
“You’ll only compound your mistake.”
“Dr. Fitch,” John began. “The federal prosecutor is coming here to talk with Liz—”
“Elizabeth.”
“You’ll hear what he has to say. What steps will be taken. You can take a little time. I understand this is a shock. We’ll move you and your daughter to the new location, where you can take a few days to consider, to talk.”
“I have no intention of going anywhere with you, and am under no obligation to go anywhere with you. I expect you’ll come to your senses in a day or two,” she said to Elizabeth. “Once you realize the limits of your current circumstances, and the true scope of those consequences. I’ll tell Dr. Frisco you’re ill, and will catch up on the work. Think carefully, Elizabeth. There are steps taken that can never be undone.”
She waited, her mouth flattening when Elizabeth failed to respond.
“Contact me when you’re ready to come home. Deputies,” she said, and walked to the door.
John beat her to it. “One moment, Doctor.” He picked up his radio. “Barrow. Dr. Fitch is coming out. She’ll need to be escorted to her residence.”
“Copy that. We’re clear out here.”
“You don’t approve of my decision in this situation,” Susan said.
“You don’t need or want my approval, but no. Not by a long shot.”
“You’re right. I neither need nor want your approval.” She walked out without a backward glance.
When he stepped back, he saw Terry sitting on the arm of Elizabeth’s chair, a hand lightly laid on the girl’s shoulder.
“People react to fear and worry in different ways,” he began.
“She wasn’t afraid or worried, or not primarily. Primarily, she’s angry and inconvenienced. I understand that.”
“She was wrong,” Terry told her. “I know she’s your mom, but she was way off base.”
“She’s never wrong, and she’s never been a mom. Is it all right if I go to my room for a while?”
“Sure. But, Liz,” John added when she got up, “nobody’s never wrong.”
“Bitch,” Terry said under her breath when Elizabeth left the room. “Coldhearted bitch, coming in here, not one fucking hair out of place, kicking that girl at a time like this.”
“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 bratva, becoming a brigadier before his eighteenth birthday.
Ambition had driven him higher until, with his brother Mikhail, he’d taken over the bratva in a merciless, bloody coup even as the Soviet Union crumbled. It was, in Sergei’s mind, a moment of opportunity and change.
He married a woman with a lovely face and a taste for finer things. She’d given him two daughters, and he’d been amazed at how deeply he’d loved them from their first breath. He’d wept when he’d held each child for the first time, overcome with joy and wonder and pride.
But when, at last, he’d held his son, there were no tears. That joy, that wonder and pride, were too deep for tears.
His children, his love and ambition for them, pushed him to emigrate to America. There he could present them with opportunities, with a richer life.
And he’d deemed it time to expand.
He’d seen his oldest child married to a lawyer, and had held his first grandchild. And wept. He’d set up his younger daughter—his artist, his dreamer—in her own gallery.
But his son, ah, his son, his businessman with a degree from the University of Chicago, there was his legacy. His boy was smart, strong, clearheaded, cool-blooded.
All the hopes and hungers of the young boy in the Moscow ghetto had been realized in the son.
He worked now in his shade garden of his Gold Coast estate, waiting for Ilya to arrive. Sergei was a hard and handsome man with shocks of white waving through his dark hair, thick black brows over onyx eyes. He kept himself rigorously fit and satisfied his wife, his mistress and the occasional whore.
His gardens were another source of pride. He had landscapers and groundskeepers, of course, but spent hours a week when he could puttering, digging in the dirt, planting some new specimen with his own hands.
If he hadn’t become a pakhan, Sergei believed he might have lived a happy, very simple life as a gardener.
In his baggy shorts, the star tattoos on his knees grubby with earth and mulch, he continued to dig as he heard his son approach.
“Chicken shit,” Sergei said. “It’s cheap, easy to come by, and it makes the plants very happy.”
Confounded, as always, by his father’s love of dirt, Ilya shook his head. “And smells like chicken shit.”
“A small price to pay. My hostas enjoy, and see there? The lungwort will bloom soon. So many secrets in the shade and shadows.”
Sergei looked up then, squinting a bit. “So. Have you found her?”
“Not yet. We will. I have a man checking at Harvard. We’ll have her name soon, and from there, we’ll have her.”
“Women lie, Ilya.”
“I don’t think she lied about this. She studies medicine there, and is unhappy. Her mother, a surgeon, here in Chicago. I believe this is also true. We’re looking for the mother.”
Ilya crouched down. “I won’t go to prison.”
“No, you won’t go to prison. Nor will Yakov. I work on other avenues as well. But I’m not pleased one of my most valued brigadiers sits now in a cell.”
“He won’t talk.”
“This doesn’t worry me. He will say nothing, as Yegor will say nothing. The American police? Musor.” He dismissed them as garbage with a flick of the wrist. “They will never break such as these. Nor would they break you if we were not able to convince the judge on the bail. But this girl, she worries me. It worries me, Ilya, that she was there and lives. It worries me that Yakov had no knowledge she and the other were there.”
“If I hadn’t been delayed, I would have been there, and would have stopped it. Then there would be no witness.”
“Communication, this was a problem. And is also been dealt with.”
“You said to keep an eye on him, Papa, to stay close to him until he could be disciplined for stealing.”
Ilya shoved up, yanked off his sunglasses. “I would have cut off his hand myself for stealing from the family. You gave him everything, but all he thinks of is more. More money, more drugs, more women, more show. My cousin. Suki.” He snarled the word for traitor. “He spits in our faces, again and again. You were good to him, Papa.”
“The son of your mother’s cousin. How could I not do my best? Still, I had hopes.”
“You took him in, him and Yakov.”
“And Yakov has proven himself worthy of that gift time and again. Alexi?” Sergei shrugged. “Chicken shit,” he said with half a smile. “Now he’ll be fertilizer. The drugs. He was weak for them. This is why I was strict with you and your sisters. Drugs are business only. For drugs—that is the root—he steals from us, betrays us and his own blood.”
“If I’d known, I’d have been there, to watch him beg like a woman. To watch him die.”
“The information on his arrest, on the deal the bastard made with the cops, only came to us that night. He had to be dealt with quickly. I sent Yakov and Yegor to check his house, to see if he was there. So perhaps he was dealt with too quickly. Mistakes were made, as the Americans say. You’ve not been one to whore with Alexi in the past. His taste was always less refined than yours.”
“I was to stay close,” Ilya repeated. “And the girl, she was intriguing. Fresh, unspoiled. Sad. A little sad. I liked her.”
“There are plenty of others. She’s already dead. Now you’ll stay for supper. It will please your mother, and me.”
“Of course.”