Possession in Death (7 page)

When she had, she answered his question on how she came by the
information by claiming a confidential informant.

“Unless Stuben’s an idiot—and he didn’t strike me that way—that should
do it.” Eve got to her feet. “It’s all I can do.”

“I’m still dead, but I’m not as scared. It’s not so cold anymore.”

“I don’t think you have to stay here.”

“Maybe for a little while. It helped to talk to you. I still wish I wasn’t dead,
but…” She trailed off, shrugged.

“Good luck.” Eve turned to Morris. “I don’t know how to explain it. I need
to see Gizi Szabo.”

“Dallas, did you just have a conversation with the dead?”

“It sure felt that way. And I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t spread it
around. I need to work, I need to keep going, or I’m pretty sure I’m going to go
crazy. So…” She started forward, glanced back, and saw Janna lift a hand in
good-bye. “I need to confirm TOD on Szabo.”

“I’ve run it three times, using various components. It’s still thirteen
hundred.”

“It’s not possible.” She shoved through the doors of the autopsy suite. “I was
there
. Lopez was there, hours later. She fell off the curb, we administered first
aid. She—”

“Eve,” Roarke interrupted, “you just spoke with a woman killed more than
two hours ago, and you’re questioning the possible?”

“I know the difference between dead and alive.” She stepped up to the body.
“Why can’t I see
her
? Why can’t I talk to
her
? I look at her, and I
feel… rage and frustration. And… obligation.”

“I spoke with Chale,” Morris told her. At the sink he ran cold water over a
cloth, wrung it out. Then he came to her and smoothed it over her face himself
to cool it.

“He said the same, but he also said that she took your hand, spoke to you,
and there was a light—a blast of light and energy. And for a moment after it, you
seemed to be blank. Just blank. He said something seemed to pass between you.”

She took the cloth, mildly embarrassed he’d tended to her—that she’d let
him. “You don’t believe that kind of thing.”

“The science says this woman died at one this afternoon—irrefutably—but
there’s more in the world than science.”

Maybe, she thought—hard to argue about it right at the moment. But it had
been routine and order that had gotten her through the experience with Janna.
So she’d stay there as long as she could.

“Let’s stick with science for the moment. What can you tell me about the
weapon?”

“All right. A thin, double-edged blade. Seven and a quarter inches in
length.” He turned to a screen to bring up the image he’d reconstructed from the
wounds, then turned back to the body. “You see here where the killer thrust it
fully into her, the bruising from the bolster.”

She leaned in, studying the gouges, the slices. “A dagger.”

“Yes. He hit bone. The tip will be chipped.” Morris showed her a tiny piece
of steel, sealed in a tray. “I recovered this.”

“Okay, that’s good. He stabbed her in the back first—back of the shoulder.”
She remembered the shocking, tearing pain. “Because he’s a coward, and because
he feared her. She didn’t see his face—he wore a mask or makeup. A kind of
costume, because he’s theatrical. A devil,” she murmured, “because it’s a role he
plays, or wants to. Because it’s powerful, because it instills fear, because he
wanted that image to be the last she saw.”

“Why?” Morris asked.

“He has something she wanted, and she wouldn’t have stopped until she got
it back. Exposed him. Punished him. Deprived him.”

“Now you’ll get it back.”

She turned to Roarke, nodded. “Yeah. I will. I need to go home. You could
drive while I talk to some cops.”

“Dallas,” Morris said, “I’d like to talk about this at some point.”

“Yeah. At some point.” She hesitated, handed him back the cloth, then
closed her hand over his for just a moment. “Thanks.”

Cooler, steadier, she walked down the tunnel with Roarke.

“Is she there?”

Eve paused, looked down at the floor where she’d sat with Jenna. “No. I
guess she’s gone wherever she had to go. Jesus, Roarke.”

He took her hand firmly. “Let’s get to the bottom of this, because right now
I don’t know if you need a doctor or a bloody priest.”

“A priest?”

“For an exorcism.”

“That’s not funny,” she muttered.

“It’s not, no.”

Roarke gave her the time she needed while he drove. He said nothing,
listening to her talk with a handful of cops about someone named Alexi Barin.
Since her color was back, and her skin no longer felt as though it might burn off
her bones, he checked the impulse to take her straight to a health center.

He considered his wife, among other things, cynical, stable, and often
annoyingly rooted in reality and logic.

When she told him, straight-faced and clear-eyed, she’d had a conversation
with the dead, he leaned toward believing her. Particularly adding in her
unhesitating response to his simple
How are you?
in Russian.

She clicked off her ‘link again, said, “Hmmm.”

“How do you make Hungarian goulash?”

“What? I’m not making goulash.”

“I didn’t ask you to make it, but how you would.”

“Oh, it’s a test. Well, you’d cut up some onions and brown them in hot oil
—just to golden brown, then you’d take this beef you’d cut in cubes and coated
with flour, add that and some paprika to the oil and onions. Then—”

“That’s enough.”

“Why would you coat good meat with flour? I thought flour was for baking
stuff.”

“Which proves you know less about cooking than I do, which is next to
nothing, and yet you can toss off a recipe for goulash.”

“It’s weird, and it’s pretty fucking irritating. Which is why I’m going home
instead of in to Central. I’m not going to find myself talking to some dead guy or
whatever in front of other cops.”

“You’re still you,” he murmured, foolishly relieved. “You’re more
embarrassed than frightened by the situation you appear to be in.”

“I don’t even believe this is happening, but I know it is. I’m not sure I
wouldn’t rather have a brain tumor.”

She took a breath, then another. “I’m going back over it in my head. She was
walking—staggering—bleeding all over the place. Science says she was dead, but
Lopez saw her, too—and the medics when they got there. She talked to me. She
looked at me.”

She moved back to the scene. “But she’d walked that way for blocks—I
followed the blood trail back. And no one helped her, no one called for help. I
can’t buy that, so, using the twisted logic of this whole deal, I have to conclude
no one saw her.”

“Continuing with that so-called twisted logic, she came to you. She had
enough left in her to cross your path, to leave you a trail, to give you what you’d
need to help her.”

“You could theorize. And the first thing she said was the girl’s name: Beata.
That she was trapped, needed help. She told me her name, and when I asked
who’d done this to her, she said the devil. And…”

“What?”

“She said I was the warrior. Her eyes were so dark, black eyes, so intense.
She said I had to take her in, let her in. She asked me, begged me. Take me in, so
I said sure. I just wanted to keep her calm and alive until the MTs got there.”

“You agreed.”

“I guess I did.” Huffing out a breath, she dragged a hand through her hair. “I
guess I did, then she grabbed my hand, and bam—blinding light and like this
electrical shock. These voices. I saw her face—the girl—Beata. Next thing I
know, Lopez is calling my name, the medics are there, and Szabo’s dead. Cold
and dead.”

“Because, scientifically at least, she’d died hours earlier.”

“It’s fucked up,” was Eve’s opinion. “I felt shaky and off. I guess I haven’t
felt all the way steady since. I recognized things I shouldn’t have and didn’t
recognize things I should. God, Roarke, I got lost driving to the morgue. I just
couldn’t remember the streets.”

He thought of how she’d looked, face dead white, shiny with sweat. “I think
we should call Louise, have her come take a look at you.”

“I don’t think a doctor’s going to help, or a priest either. I can’t believe I’m
saying this, but I think it’s like Janna. When we close the case, it’ll be done.”

She shifted to him. “She cut me a little with her nails, see?” She held up her
hand, palm out. “Said all this stuff about blood to blood and heart to heart. I had
her blood all over me by then. And she said it wouldn’t be finished until the
promise was kept. And the thing is, I promised to find Beata while I was trying to
keep the old woman alive.”

“You made a blood pact with a Romany.”

“A Romany speaker for the dead, apparently. Not on purpose,” she added
with some heat.

“An accidental blood pact,” he qualified.

“You’d have done the same damn thing.” Peeved, she shifted away again.
“And you’re a civilian. I’m a cop. Protect and serve, goddamn it.”

“Which rarely includes blood pacts with dead travelers.”

“Are you trying to piss me off?”

“Got your color back,” he said easily.

“Well, whoopee. Eyes on the prize. I have to find out who killed Gizi Szabo,
and I have to find Beata.”

“She’s alive, Beata. You’re certain.”

“In my current condition, tossing out the logic that says otherwise? I think
Szabo would have known if the girl was dead. And I think I’d know it now.
Instead, I have this certainty, against all that logic, that she’s alive, trapped by the
same devil who killed her great-grandmother. He wants to keep the girl, and the
old woman made sure people knew she was getting close to finding her. Maybe
she did that to lure him out, maybe she did it because it kept her going. But she
was a threat.”

Her nerves throttled down a few more notches when Roarke drove through
the gates, when she saw the house. Home. Hers.

“Beata’s a liability now,” Eve added. “And that may weigh heavier on him
than his need to keep her. Szabo stirred things up, and now I’ve done the same.
He may decide to kill her rather than risk discovery.”

“This Alexi Barin?”

“He’s heading the list. He knew her, wanted her, got shut down by her.
He’s got an ego the size of Utah. He knew where she lived, where she worked,
very likely knew her basic routine. Added, they were rehearsing for this big
dance—
Diabolique
, Angel and Devil, which is no fucking coincidence.”

“I’d agree. That would make it easier yet to lure her. Extra practice, after
hours.”

“There you go. He’s had violent run-ins, got a sheet, and the cops who
busted him all say he’s got a temper that lights him up—quick and fast. And
that’s why he’s not in Interview right now.”

“Because while Szabo was killed violently and perhaps on impulse, if Beata’s
still alive, being held against her will, that took some planning. And continues to
take planning.”

“Right now, it’s a good thing you can think like a cop, because I don’t know
if my brain’s firing on all circuits.” She got out of the car. “I need to be home. I
need to be back in control. And if you’re up for it, I could use some help running
everybody on my list who knows Beata, studied with her, worked with her. Her
neighbors, her friends, people who saw her routinely. You want what you see—
or have to see it to want it.”

“You give me the names, I’ll start your runs—on the condition that you
rest. An hour,” he said as she started to protest. “Nonnegotiable.”

“I just need to clear my head. And I’m starving,” she admitted. “I feel like I
haven’t eaten in days, like everything’s burned off.”

“Possibly a side effect of possession.”

“That’s not funny either.” She stepped inside, gave Summerset a beady stare.
“
Baszd meg
,” she suggested and watched his eyes widen.

Suspected she saw his lips twitch in what might have been a restrained smile.

“I see you’re broadening your linguistics.”

“That wasn’t Russian,” Roarke said as they headed up the stairs.

“I think it’s Hungarian. It just came to me—and I figure he knows I just told
him to fuck off.”

“Rude, yet fascinating.” He went with her to her office. “You, up.” He
pointed at the cat currently sprawled in Eve’s sleep chair. “You, down,” he
ordered. “Give me your list, and I’ll get those runs going.” He brushed a hand
over her hair, struggling against worry. “How about pizza?”

“I could eat a whole pie.” She dropped into the chair. “Thank God my
appetite’s not running to that borscht, because I’d really rather have a brain
tumor than beet soup.” She dragged her notebook out of her pocket. “Most of the
names are in here. I have to get more. Peabody and McNab were hitting the
theaters where she worked or would have, and I need neighbors. But that’s a big
start.”

“Food first.” He walked into the kitchen.

Galahad didn’t leap into her lap but sat eyeing her.

“I’m still me,” she murmured. “I’m not her. I’m still me.” When he bumped
his head against her leg, her eyes stung. “I’m still me,” she repeated.

Roarke came back with a plate on a tray. “I ordered up a whole one, but you
start with that. And drink the soother. Don’t argue,” he warned. “I doubt you’ve
looked in the mirror in the last few hours, but when I came in to the morgue,
you looked like you belonged there. You’ll eat, drink a soother, then we’ll see.”

With that, he turned to her desk, sat, and began inputting names into her
computer. Eve ate like a horse.

“God, that’s better. No shakes.” She held out a hand, a steady one. “No
queasiness, no jumps.” Still she looked down at the cat. “He won’t sit in my lap,
even for pizza. He’s not sure of me. I guess he senses something’s off. That I’m
off. How long do you think—” She couldn’t say it.