J. Robb - Possession in Death

“Yeah. Damn thing's been broken for nearly a week, and we can't get them to come and . . . ” Zach trailed off. “Is that where she was killed? In the alley? You mean we were right in here when . . . ”

“Nothing you could've done. Is there anyone you know who gave her any trouble? Anyone who'd want to cause her harm?”

“I really don't.” Zach looked at Karrie, got a shake of the head. “She was nice. Colorful. Did some fortune-telling out of her place.”

“You said she was here to look for her great-granddaughter.”

“Yes.” Karrie sniffled, blinked at tears. “God, it's really hitting me. She came over — the granddaughter — about a year ago. She didn't live far from here, and she came in a couple times. That's why Madam rented the place upstairs. Anyway, the granddaughter came to work, wanted to dance — on Broadway, like they all do, you know? Then about three months ago her family stopped hearing from her, couldn't reach her. And the place she worked waitressing said how she just stopped showing up. They contacted the police, but the cops didn't do much, I guess . . . Sorry.”

“No need. Do you know the granddaughter's name?”

“Sure. Madam Szabo talked to everybody about her, put out flyers.” Karrie continued as she reached under the counter, “She worked at Goulash — Hungarian restaurant a block west. We hand out flyers for her. You can have this. She's beautiful, isn't she? I think that's what her name means.”

“Beata,” Eve murmured, and felt as if her heart cracked in her chest. Such grief, such sorrow it almost took her to her knees as she studied the photo on the flyer.

The face that had been the light in the black.

“Ma'am? Um, Lieutenant? Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks for your help. I may need to speak to you again.”

“If we're not here, we live up on six. Six A, front of the building,” Karrie told her. “Anything we can do.”

“If you think of anything, you can contact me at Cop Central.” Eve dug into her field kit for a card. “Anything strikes you.”

Eve walked out just as Peabody approached. “Sweepers have the alley,” she said.

“Vic was Gizi Szabo, and had a weekly unit on four. Claimed to be a Gypsy from Hungary.”

“Wow. A real one?”

“Nobody claims to be a fake one,” Eve returned, and felt herself steady a little. “Been here about three months, looking for a great-granddaughter who went missing.” Eve used her master to access the apartment building's entrance. “Did some fortune-telling out of her place.”

One glance at the ancient elevator had Eve choosing the stairs. She handed Peabody the flyer. “Run them both,” she said. “Had Morris confirmed TOD before you left?”

“His TOD jibed with your gauge. Around one this afternoon.”

“That's just bogus.” And it infuriated her more than it should have. “I know when somebody dies when I've got my hands on their fricking heart, and I'm talking to them.”

“Hungarian Gypsy fortune-teller. Maybe it's some sort of — ”

“Don't even start with that voodoo, woo-woo, Free-Ager shit. She was alive, bleeding, and talking until about an hour ago.”

At the door of 4 D, Eve took the key she'd found out of the evidence bag, slid it into the lock. And turned the knob.

It reminded her of her first apartment — the size, the age. That's what she told herself when struck, just for an instant, with a sharp sense of recognition.

The single room had no doubt been rented furnished, with a couple of cheap chairs and a daybed with a cracker-thin mattress, a chest — newly and brightly painted — that served as dresser and table.

Boldly patterned material had been fashioned into curtains for the single window, and with these and scarves and shawls draped over the faded chairs, spread over the narrow bed, the room took on a hopeful cheer.

One corner held a sink, AutoChef, friggie, all small-scale, along with a single cupboard. Another table stood there, painted a deep, glossy red under its fringed scarf. For seating, there were two backless stools.

Eve saw the old woman there, telling fortunes to those who sought to know their future.

“She made it nice,” Peabody commented. “She didn't have a lot to work with, but she made it nice.”

Eve opened the single, skinny closet, studied Szabo's neatly hung clothing, a single pair of sturdy walking shoes. Kneeling, she pulled two storage boxes out of the closet.

“Beata's things. Clothes, shoes, ballet gear, I'd say. A few pieces of jewelry, face and hair stuff. The landlord must have boxed it up when she didn't come back, didn't pay the rent.”

It hurt, hurt to look through, to touch, to feel Beata as she dug through pretty blouses, skimmed over worn slippers.

She knew better, she reminded herself, knew better than to become personally involved. Beata Varga wasn't her victim, not directly.

The promise is in you.

The voice spoke insistently inside her head, inside her heart.

“Tag these,” Eve ordered, shoving to her feet. She crossed over to the chest, studied the photo of Beata propped there and fronted by three scribed candles. Beside the photo a handful of colored crystals glittered in a small dish along with an ornate silver bell and a silver-backed hand mirror.

“What do we have on the granddaughter?” Eve asked.

“Beata Varga, age twenty-two. She's here on a work visa, and employed — until she went missing three months ago — at Goulash. No criminal. The family filed a report. A Detective Lloyd is listed as investigating officer. Missing Persons Division out of the One-three-six.”

“Reach out there,” Eve told her. “Have him meet us at the restaurant. Thirty minutes.”

She opened the first drawer of the chest, found neatly folded underwear and nightclothes, and a box of carved wood. She lifted the lid, studied the pack of tarot cards, the peacock feather, the small crystal ball and stand.

Tools of her trade, Eve thought, started to set the box aside. Then, following impulse, pressed her thumbs over the carved flowers on the sides. Left, left, right. And a narrow drawer slid out of the base.

“Wow.” Peabody leaned over her shoulder. “A secret drawer. Frosty. How did you open it?”

“Just . . . luck,” Eve said, even as the hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

Inside lay a lock of dark hair tied with gold cord, a wand-shaped crystal on a chain, and a heart of white stone.

“They're hers.” Eve's throat went dry and achy. “Beata's. Her hair, something she wore, something she touched.”

“You're probably right. Szabo probably used them, along with the cards and crystals, maybe the bell and the mirror in locator spells. I'm not saying you can find people with spells,” Peabody added when Eve just stared at her. “But that she thought she could. Anyway, Detective Lloyd's going to meet us.”

“Then let's see what else we can find here first.”

The old woman lived simply, neatly, and cautiously. In the cloth bag in the bottom of the chest Eve found a small amount of cash, another bag of crystals and herbs, a map of the city, and a subway card, along with ID and passport and a number of the flyers with Beata's image and information.

But taped under the friggie they found an envelope of cash with a peacock feather fixed diagonally across the seal.

“That's about ten thousand,” Peabody estimated. “She didn't have to read palms to pay the rent.”

“It's what she did. What kept her centered. Bag it, and let's seal this place up. We should get to the restaurant.”

“She made it nice,” Peabody repeated with another glance around. “I guess that's what travelers do. Make a home wherever they land, then pack it up and make the next one.”