Slave to the Rhythm (20 page)

Laney gave a bright smile that made her eyes crinkle.

“I know! What a relief. Flare-ups usually pass quite quickly for me, but sometimes it can take a couple of weeks.”

I wanted to ask more about her illness, but Laney didn’t give me the chance.

“Come on, let’s go for breakfast—or brunch—whatever it is. My treat.”

“I’ll pay you back when I can,” I muttered.

Laney sighed. “Ash, you tied my shoelaces.”

I glanced at her, confused. “Your shoelaces?”

“You put socks on my feet and tied my shoelaces when I couldn’t . . . because you didn’t want me to go outside and have cold feet.”

“Well, yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“For . . . socks?”

“For noticing that I needed them.”

She’d lost me. “I don’t understand.”

Laney gave a small smile. “I know. But you helped me when I needed it, and now I’m doing the same.”

I didn’t eat much of my breakfast pizza. My anxiety was contagious and Laney ended up asking the server to wrap the food to go.

By the time we reached the car, I must have looked as if I was about to bolt because Laney took my hand and squeezed my fingers.

Christ, that hurt!

I grunted and yanked my hand free.

“Sorry!” Laney gasped, wide-eyed.

I shook my head and held my hand tightly against my chest, willing the pain away.

“W-what did I do?”

I grimaced. “I broke my fingers a while ago. They’re still sore sometimes.”

“How did you do that?”

I didn’t answer, and Laney paled as realization swamped her.

“Oh,” she said softly, her expression wounded.

We rode to the police station in silence. I felt shitty that I’d hurt her—again. All she’d wanted was to give me comfort. I couldn’t even get that right.

When I saw the police station, an involuntary shudder ran through me. It was an ugly concrete bunker, squat and low with small, featureless windows, and I was already fighting back the idea that I’d be locked up in there. I’d never liked small spaces but since being trapped in the back of Sergei’s car, dislike had turned to panic.

My hands started to shake and I swallowed several times, trying not to throw up.

“It’s going to be alright,” Laney said, as she pulled into the parking lot.

I stared at her, wanting to believe it badly.

“Ash,” she said softly, stroking my cheek. “It’s going to be alright.”

I blinked, then took a trembling breath and leaned into her hand.

We stayed there, touching, eyes closed. And when we walked into the building, she gently took hold of my other hand.

Laney’s father came as soon as the desk sergeant informed him that we’d arrived.

“Hey, pumpkin!”

When he noticed that we were holding hands, he frowned, and his voice immediately became all business.

“We’re ready for you now. Laney, you’re in with Mark and Luis; Mr. Novak, you’ll be with Detectives Petronelli and Ramos. And this is Angela Pinto—she’s your legal counsel.”

A tall, curvy blonde woman smiled at Laney and they hugged quickly.

“Angie! Thank you so much for doing this.”

“No problem, Laney. I’m happy to.”

“This is my friend, Ash.”

Angela glanced at Laney quizzically, then introduced herself to me as we shook hands. I muttered something unintelligible, and was led away. It felt like I was going to my execution. Laney gave me an encouraging smile.

I couldn’t return it.

“Do you need an interpreter, Mr. Novak?”

“Ash?” Laney asked when I didn’t answer.

“What? Uh, no. Thank you.”

“Well, if you’re sure . . .”

I nodded curtly. I couldn’t imagine delaying this any longer, even though I wanted to puke. Or run.

The interview room was brightly lit and quite large, but there were no windows, and I felt an unexpected wave of panic start to choke me. My brain imagined that I was trapped in here with Oleg, and I gasped for air, feeling like I was drowning. I closed my eyes and fought to control my breathing.

I couldn’t seem to stop my body reacting to a threat that probably wasn’t even there. But bad things happened in police stations, didn’t they? My body started to shake.

“Could we get Mr. Novak some water, please?”

I heard Angela’s voice but it was several minutes before I got a grip, and then one of the police officers returned with a paper cup of water. I stared at it, wondering if I’d be able to pick it up without dropping it. I managed to take a sip before water slopped over the sides of the cup.

“We can do this another time,” Angela said, earning an annoyed look from one of the detectives.

“No,” I said hoarsely. “No, I need to get this done.”

“Interview with Aljaž Novak. Detectives Derek Petronelli and Oscar Ramos and Mr. Novak’s attorney Angela Pinto are present. So, Mr. Novak, for the record, could you give us your full name, date of birth and address.”

“Aljaž Novak. March 15
th
1992.”

“And what is your address—for the record?”

“I was staying with my friend Luka Kokot back home. You want that address?”

Not that it would do them any good as he was on tour.

“Could you tell us where you met Miss Hennessey?”

“In Las Vegas. She was in a club at the hotel with her friends. We talked for two or three minutes.”

“And?”

“She went back to her room,”
and I went to look for a quick fuck.
“I didn’t see her again until . . . when everything happened.”

There was a short silence, and I looked up to see them exchanging glances heavy with meaning.

“Could you describe the circumstances leading up to your arrival in Las Vegas?”

I took a deep, calming breath.

“I was looking for a new partner on a website I use, and . . .”

“A sexual partner?” Detective Ramos interrupted quickly.

What?
I looked up, confused. Then realized what he was suggesting.

“No, no, a dance partner. I’m a ballroom dancer. I split up with my last partner and I’d been looking for someone of competition standard—it’s not so easy to be compatible. But then I clicked a link for dance opportunities, and it took me to a website about working in Las Vegas.”

“And were you employed as a dancer in Slovenia at the time?”

“No, it’s hard to make a living that way.”

“So what did you do?”

I sighed and stared up at the ceiling. “I worked in construction.”
And hated every fucking minute of it
.

“Okay, so what happened next?”

“I emailed them my résumé and they replied the next day. They said I was just what they were looking for and that they’d arrange a work visa. I just had to buy my airplane ticket. It all happened really quickly.”

“Did that surprise you?”

I shrugged. “Not really. I’d gotten their name from the Dansesport site, so I thought it was okay.”

“Go on.”

“When I arrived, that’s when I thought there was a problem.”

“Why was that?”

“This guy, Oleg, picked me up at the airport and there was a minivan waiting. There were four girls there—they looked like dancers.”

“What do you mean?”

“Slim, good muscle tone and posture, hot, you know?”

Derek Petronelli was a huge guy who looked like he’d never met a donut he didn’t like. But if the look on his face was anything to go by, he’d really like to know a bunch of hot women who were dancers.

“And what happened then?”

I rubbed my eyes. It seemed impossible now. I was so fucking naïve, but I’d been full of hope that evening.

“There was Yveta and her friend Galina—they were Russian. Marta was from the Ukraine—that’s what Yveta said. I never knew the other girl’s name. We didn’t think she spoke English . . . or Russian. She was young. I don’t know, maybe 16? Oleg took our passports. I wasn’t happy, but I didn’t want to make trouble the first night with my new boss.

“When we got to the hotel, they told us to tell our families that we were fine, then they took our phones. I had a bad feeling, but I didn’t know what to do. Then the next day I met Sergei.”

“What’s his last name?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. He was just Sergei. The only last name was the big boss, Volkov.”

Petronelli looked at his partner, then back at me. “Would you be able to identify these people if we showed you some photographs?”

I grit my teeth and nodded. “I’ll never forget their faces.”

“Okay, we’ll get to that. What happened after your phone was taken?”

I continued the story, describing the Korean and my belief that he was beaten to death.

“But you don’t know for sure?”

The policemen shared another look and I started to sweat. They didn’t believe me—I had no evidence. And I was getting to the part where I had to tell them about the girl . . . and what had been done to me. When I described the end of the shopping trip, my pulse started to race.

“Sergei got in the limo and he said, ‘Daddy wants to play’. I knew what he meant. I told him to . . .”

I glanced at Angela and she nodded at me to continue, her expression serious.

“I told him to fuck off. He just laughed and said that was the general idea. Then Oleg punched me from behind and I fell into the car. That’s when Sergei pulled a gun. He held it to the back of my head. I could feel the metal pressing into my neck. I remember thinking, ‘If he kills me now, the stupid bastard will shoot off his own dick’.”

I took a sip of water, trying to ignore my shaking hands.

“He kept telling me to blow him, but I wouldn’t. I’m not gay!” I stared up at the detectives, but their faces gave nothing away. “I’m not,” I said again, banging my fist down on the table.

“It’s okay. Take a moment,” Angela said calmly.

I gripped the edge of the table and forced myself to go on. If I stopped now, I didn’t think I’d ever be able to say it again.

“He forced my hand against the door and slammed the gun into it. He broke this finger. I still wouldn’t do it, so he broke another finger the same way. I was afraid I’d pass out, but I didn’t. I was so angry, almost more angry than scared. He asked me how many bones there were in my foot, because he’d break them all. I said, ‘I’ll bite off your fucking dick and spit it at you’.”

The humiliation was fresh all over again, and I couldn’t look at anyone in the room.

“Then he pressed a button, and the panel between the front seat and back seat slid down. Oleg . . . he had the girl . . . the young one. She was crying and she’d been beaten. Oleg started to squeeze her neck. I’ve never seen anyone’s eyes bulge before. They went red—all the white parts went red—and I thought,
Oh my God, all the veins in her eyes are breaking!
She was looking at me the whole time. She just kept looking at me. Her lips were blue and she was scratching at Oleg’s hands, but he just laughed. And Sergei . . . he was laughing, too. He said, ‘She won’t last much longer’. And . . . and . . . I didn’t want her to die. Then she wasn’t moving anymore. And I knew he wanted to kill her. He was
enjoying
it. They both were! Those sick bastards . . .”

I covered my face with my hands.

“So I did it. I did what he said. Oleg kept laughing and Sergei . . .”

I heaved, but managed not puke, swallowing back the vomit that threatened to humiliate me again.

“It made me sick. When he . . . finished, I threw up all over him. He was so angry, screaming at me. He slammed the gun against my head, here, and I thought he’d shoot me, but he opened the car door and pushed me out. He held the gun and pointed it at me. I thought he’d kill me. I didn’t even care anymore.” I glanced up, but it wasn’t the police station I was seeing. “The girl . . . I think he killed her in front of me and I did
nothing!
”

I shouted out the last word and Angela rested her hand on my arm lightly. Her sudden touch made me lash out, overturning the chair as I leapt backwards.

There was an appalled silence while Angela stared at me fearfully.

“I think we should take a break now,” said Petronelli.

Angela nodded and closed her notebook.

“Interview suspended at 15:24.”

“I’m sorry.”

But I wasn’t sure who I was saying it to.