That gets his attention. His eyes sharpen and he actually looks at me now instead of through me. "You witnessed a homicide?" I watch his shoulders square and his chest puff out ever so slightly.
"Yes. Two men shot another man in an alley and I saw the whole thing happen."
He reaches under his desk and a loud buzzer sounds that makes me jump. A heavy door to our left clicks open with a mechanical whine, and he barks, "Come on through and go down the hall, second door on the right. Wait there, and someone will be with you."
I glance at Lena, who lets me cling to her arm like a scared child as she leads me through the door. The hallway is even brighter than the main entryway, and none of the large metal doors have windows, though I've never been in a police station like this before. This is probably just par for the course, maybe why criminals are so grumpy.
The room he directed us to is small and windowless. There's a metal table bolted to the floor and three metal chairs with no cushions. The walls are bare except for a clock, and Lena and I sit down while she squeezes my hand.
"It's gonna be okay," she whispers.
I can't even nod at her. I feel so numb and yet so overstimulated at the same time, it's painful. I should've said something at work, told Linda or the bartender, or anyone, for that matter. But I know what sort of shit Dimitri Gravitch is into. For all I know, it's something he set up, and then what? God, this is terrifying.
After a few minutes of waiting and listening to the clock on the wall tick, a large, rotund man with a balding head and narrow eyes walks in. He sits down and pulls out a notepad as he says, "My name is Detective Pyotr Volkov. My lieutenant tells me you witnessed a crime. Tell me what happened."
Reliving the details of the shooting for a second time is just as painful as it was when I told Lena at the apartment, but I struggle through it a bit easier, at least. This time, my words are fully coherent and I don't want to throw up all over the man's nice, shiny shoes. But it doesn't stop the terror I'm feeling.
"Can you describe the shooters?"
"One was tall with broad shoulders, dark jacket. The other was shorter with a shaved head." I close my eyes and try to picture them clearly. "The lighting was bad, so I couldn't see their faces."
"What about the victim?" he asks, and I get the feeling this man has been doing this a long time. He's not even fazed by my shaking or fumbling around with words.
"I didn't see his face. But there was so much blood and his body just… dropped. But he had a tattoo…" His eyes light up as I describe the tattoo on the man's wrist.
When he's scribbled all the details down and leans back in his chair, I notice darkness seem to wash over him. His facial expression changes, narrower eyes, pursed lips, and his finger taps on the metal table between us. "It's not good, ladies. The tattoo you've described links this to organized crime."
"What does that mean?" Lena asks. Her hand finds mine under the table, and her palms are as clammy as mine are. She doesn't even look scared. How is she so calm?
"It means these are dangerous people with connections all over the city." His eyes grow darker as he leans forward, and this sounds like a warning. "They don't leave witnesses alive."
"So, what am I supposed to do?" I blurt out. "Just wait for them to find me?"
"We'll investigate the scene and collect evidence." He picks up his pen again. "But I need to be honest. We can't offer much protection right now."
"What do you mean?" Lena squeezes my hand harder and glances from me to the detective's face.
"Without evidence that you're being actively threatened, we can't provide protective custody." He looks at me directly. "We'll increase patrols in your neighborhood and keep your statement on file, but unless we have proof you're in immediate danger, our hands are tied."
This feels like an insult. "So I risked coming here and you can't do anything?"
"I understand your frustration. We'll do everything we can to investigate, but I can't promise protection I can't provide." The look of defeat on his face is the only reason I don't tell him how unfair this is. If his hands are tied and he's the only hope I have of someone protecting me should these criminals find me, what hope do I have left?
The detective gives us his card and walks us back out, though if truth be told, I'd rather stay right there in that cold, hard room. But we have to go home. Lena and I don't talk on the drive home. My mind's racing through every terrible possibility. They find me at home. They corner me at work. They go after my family.
I have no clue what sort of trouble I'm in if those men realize who I am and what I've seen. And if Detective Volkov is right and the men are related to organized crime, it really might involve the casino in some way. This is insane, and I'm not equipped to deal with this level of bullshit.
Back at the apartment, I head straight for the freezer and pull out the vodka, and I don't even bother with a glass. My reality has just gotten too fucked up to process it while sober. Something has got to take the edge off, or I'm going to go insane.
"Easy," Lena says, but I ignore her and take another long drink.
The alcohol burns, but it pushes back the fear for a minute. I collapse on the couch with the bottle in hand and my thoughts still racing.
"I can't believe this is happening." I press a palm to my forehead. "I could die. Those men could kill me."
"You're not gonna die." Lena doesn't sound convinced, but I know she's trying to comfort me.
"The police won't help me. I can't afford private security. I can't quit because I need the money." Vodka spills down my chin.
