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 memory. I don’t forget. I don’t forget,” she repeated, with her voice rising, body shaking.
“Detectives,” Ms. Petrie began. “Elizabeth has been through a severe trauma. She’s had enough for the night.”
“No. No. I need to help. I need to do something.”
“We have her mother’s permission to question her,” Griffith stated.
“My mother?”
“She’s been notified. She’ll fly back in the morning.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes. “All right.”
“Elizabeth. This is important. How do you know the man who killed Gurevich and Julie was Yakov Korotkii?”
“Alex called him by his last name when they talked. Julie … she must have been in the bathroom. I fell asleep for a little while, out on the terrace. Their voices—Alex’s and the two men’s—woke me.”
“Two men.”
“The other was bigger, burlier. Korotkii called him Yegor. Korotkii said Alex had stolen from his uncle. Alex called him—the uncle—Sergei. He denied it, but he was lying. I could see he was lying. Korotkii, he was … Have you seen a cobra kill a mouse? How it watches, so patient. How it seems to enjoy those moments before the strikes as much as the strike itself? It was like that. Alex was dismissive, as if he were in charge. But he wasn’t in charge. Korotkii was in charge. And Alex became afraid when Korotkii said they knew he was cooperating with the police. That Sergei knew. He begged. Do you need to know what they said to each other?”
“We’ll get back to
“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 memory. I don’t forget. I don’t forget,” she repeated, with her voice rising, body shaking.
“Detectives,” Ms. Petrie began. “Elizabeth has been through a severe trauma. She’s had enough for the night.”
“No. No. I need to help. I need to do something.”
“We have her mother’s permission to question her,” Griffith stated.
“My mother?”
“She’s been notified. She’ll fly back in the morning.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes. “All right.”
“Elizabeth. This is important. How do you know the man who killed Gurevich and Julie was Yakov Korotkii?”
“Alex called him by his last name when they talked. Julie … she must have been in the bathroom. I fell asleep for a little while, out on the terrace. Their voices—Alex’s and the two men’s—woke me.”
“Two men.”
“The other was bigger, burlier. Korotkii called him Yegor. Korotkii said Alex had stolen from his uncle. Alex called him—the uncle—Sergei. He denied it, but he was lying. I could see he was lying. Korotkii, he was … Have you seen a cobra kill a mouse? How it watches, so patient. How it seems to enjoy those moments before the strikes as much as the strike itself? It was like that. Alex was dismissive, as if he were in charge. But he wasn’t in charge. Korotkii was in charge. And Alex became afraid when Korotkii said they knew he was cooperating with the police. That Sergei knew. He begged. Do you need to know what they said to each other?”
“We’ll get back to
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