The Witness by Nora Roberts Page B

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.”
    E LIZABETH SPENT TWO HOURS with Mr. Pomeroy from the U.S. Attorney’s Office. She had to go through it all again, every step of thenight, 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