went to the club. Julie and I, we went to the club.”
“Julie Masters.”
“Yes.”
“What club?”
“Warehouse 12. I …” She had to tell the truth. No more lies. “I made fake IDs for us.”
His face barely registered surprise as he wrote in his little book. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen. I’ll be seventeen in September.”
“Sixteen,” he repeated, studying her, voice and eyes flat. “Where are your parents?”
“It’s just my mother. She’s out of town at a medical convention.”
“She’ll need to be notified.”
Elizabeth only shut her eyes. “Yes. She’s Dr. Susan L. Fitch. She’s registered at the Westin Peachtree Plaza hotel, in Atlanta.”
“All right. And you forged identification to gain entrance to Warehouse 12.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. You can arrest me, but you have to find the men who killed Julie.”
“You said you were in a house, not a club.”
“We met Alex at the club. We went to his house. We shouldn’t have. We’d been drinking. We shouldn’t have. I got sick, then I went outside because …” Tears slid down her cheeks again. “I went outside, and two men came in. They shot Alex, then when Julie came into the room, they shot her. I ran.”
“You don’t know where this house is?”
“I could find it. I could take you, or draw you a map. But I didn’t look at the address. It was stupid. I was stupid. Please, we can’t just leave her there.”
“Do you have this Alex’s full name?”
“I … Yes!” Thank God. “Alex, but the man who killed him called him Alexi. Alexi Gurevich.”
Blakley went very still, and his eyes sharpened. “You’re telling me that you were in Alexi Gurevich’s house, and witnessed a double murder?”
“Yes. Yes. Yes. Please.”
“Just a minute.” He rose as the second officer came in with the coffee. Blakley murmured to him. Whatever he said had his partner shooting Elizabeth a quick look before he hurried out of the room.
“Given your age,” 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
“Julie Masters.”
“Yes.”
“What club?”
“Warehouse 12. I …” She had to tell the truth. No more lies. “I made fake IDs for us.”
His face barely registered surprise as he wrote in his little book. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen. I’ll be seventeen in September.”
“Sixteen,” he repeated, studying her, voice and eyes flat. “Where are your parents?”
“It’s just my mother. She’s out of town at a medical convention.”
“She’ll need to be notified.”
Elizabeth only shut her eyes. “Yes. She’s Dr. Susan L. Fitch. She’s registered at the Westin Peachtree Plaza hotel, in Atlanta.”
“All right. And you forged identification to gain entrance to Warehouse 12.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. You can arrest me, but you have to find the men who killed Julie.”
“You said you were in a house, not a club.”
“We met Alex at the club. We went to his house. We shouldn’t have. We’d been drinking. We shouldn’t have. I got sick, then I went outside because …” Tears slid down her cheeks again. “I went outside, and two men came in. They shot Alex, then when Julie came into the room, they shot her. I ran.”
“You don’t know where this house is?”
“I could find it. I could take you, or draw you a map. But I didn’t look at the address. It was stupid. I was stupid. Please, we can’t just leave her there.”
“Do you have this Alex’s full name?”
“I … Yes!” Thank God. “Alex, but the man who killed him called him Alexi. Alexi Gurevich.”
Blakley went very still, and his eyes sharpened. “You’re telling me that you were in Alexi Gurevich’s house, and witnessed a double murder?”
“Yes. Yes. Yes. Please.”
“Just a minute.” He rose as the second officer came in with the coffee. Blakley murmured to him. Whatever he said had his partner shooting Elizabeth a quick look before he hurried out of the room.
“Given your age,” 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
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