Possession in Death (4 page)

“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.”

Beata hadn’t packed it up, Eve thought, and wherever she was, it wasn’t
home.

Goulash did a bustling business on Saturday evening. Spices perfumed air
that rang with voices and the clatter of silverware, the clink of glasses. The
waitstaff wore red sashes at the waist of black uniforms while moving briskly
from kitchen to table.

A rosy-cheeked woman of about forty offered Eve a welcoming smile.
“Welcome to Goulash. Do you have a reservation?”

Eve palmed her badge. “We’re not here for dinner.”

“Beata! You’ve found her.”

“No.”

“Oh.” The smile faded away. “I thought… I’m sorry, what can I do for
you?”

“We’re meeting Detective Lloyd on a police matter. We’ll need somewhere
to talk. And I’ll need to speak with you and your staff.”

“Of course.” She looked around. “We’re not going to have a table free for at
least a half hour, but you can use the kitchen.”

“That’s fine. Your name?”

“Mirium Frido. This is my place, my husband’s and mine. He’s the chef. Is
this about Beata? Beata Varga?”

“Indirectly.”

“Give me one minute to put someone else on the door.” Mirium hurried
over to one of the waitresses. The girl glanced at Eve and Peabody, nodded.

Mirium signaled Eve forward, then led them through the dining room, past
the bar, and through one of a pair of swinging doors into the chaos of the kitchen.

“Dinner rush. I’ll set you up over here—our chef’s table. Jan invites
customers back sometimes—gives them a treat. I told Vee to send Detective
Lloyd back when he gets here. He’s been in several times about Beata, so
everyone knows him. Can you tell me anything about her? Do you have more
information?”

“I’ll know more when I speak with the detective. She worked for you.”

“Yes. A beautiful girl and a good worker. She was a pleasure.” Mirium
reached back to a shelf, picked up three setups, and arranged them on the table.
“I know they think she just took off—Gypsy feet—but it doesn’t make sense. She
made amazing tips—the looks, the voice, the personality. And… well, she just
wouldn’t be that rude and careless, wouldn’t have left without telling us. Or her
family.”

“Boyfriend?”

“No. Nothing serious and no one specific. She dated—she’s young and
gorgeous. But she was serious about her dancing. Went to auditions, took classes
every day. She had an understudy spot in a small musical review. And she’d just
landed a part in the chorus on a new musical spot off-Broadway. There wasn’t
enough time for a serious boyfriend. I’m sorry, please sit. How about some
food?”

“We’re good, thanks. You have flyers at the reservation station, I noticed.”

“Yes. Her grandmother—well, great-grandmother—is here from Hungary.
She had them made up and takes them around the city. She comes by here every
day. Detective—”

“Lieutenant,” Eve said automatically.

“Lieutenant, Beata worked here nearly a year. You get to know people who
work for you, and I promise you, she wouldn’t worry her family this way. I’m so
afraid something’s happened to her. I know Madam Szabo’s determined to find
her, but with every day that passes…”

“I’m sorry to tell you Gizi Szabo was killed this afternoon.”

“No.” Instantly Mirium’s eyes filled. “Oh, no. What happened?”

“We’re going to find out.”

“She told my fortune,” Mirium murmured. “Said I would have a child, a son.
Jan and I haven’t… That was two months ago. I found out yesterday I’m
pregnant. I told her just today.”

“She was in today.”

“Yes, about eleven, I guess.” Shaking her head, Mirium swiped at a tear
while the kitchen bustle raged on around them. “She was so happy for me. She
said she’d felt his search, my son’s. An old soul, she said, who’d turned the
wheel again. She talked like that,” Mirium murmured. “I don’t really believe that
sort of thing, but when she looks at you… She’s—she was—Romany, and a
speaker for the dead.”

So am I, Eve thought with a quick chill. I speak for the dead. “What time did
she leave?”

“She was only here a few minutes. She said she was going home. She said she
felt closer to Beata, felt something coming. Or someone. I don’t know, she was
—I want to say optimistic. She was going to rest and then do a new spell because
she was breaking through, well, the veil. She said Beata was toward the setting
sun, below the rays, um, locked beyond the red door. I have no idea what that
meant,” Mirium added. “Or if it meant anything, but she was
fierce
about it. She
swore Beata was alive, but trapped. By a devil.”

“I know how that sounds,” she continued. “But—” She glanced over.
“Here’s Detective Lloyd. Sorry I went on like that.”

“Don’t be,” Eve told her. “Every detail, every impression, is helpful.”

“I just can’t believe Madam’s gone. She was such a presence, even for the
short time I knew her. Excuse me. I need to tell Jan. Hello, Detective Lloyd,
have a seat.”

Lloyd was a square-faced, square-bodied man who transmitted
I’m a cop
from thirty paces. He gave Eve and Peabody a brisk nod, then sat at the little
square table. Shook hands.

“It’s too bad about the old lady. She had some juice, had some spine. She
should’ve stayed back home.”

She made home where she landed, Eve thought, remembering Peabody’s
take. “Tell me about Beata Varga.”

He hitched up a hip, took a disc out of his pocket. “I went ahead and made a
copy of the file for you.”

“Appreciate it.”

“She’s a looker. Smart, from what I get, savvy, but still green when it comes
to city. Used to wandering with her family—tribe, you’d say. Came here
wanting to be a Broadway star, and the family wasn’t happy about it.”

“Is that so?”

“Wanted her home. Wanted her to stay pure, you could say. Get hitched,
have babies, keep the line going, that sort of thing. But, the old woman—Szabo
—overruled them. She wanted the girl to take her shot, find her destiny, like
that. The girl got a job here and a place a couple blocks away. Started taking
classes—dance classes, acting classes, stuff like that, at West Side School for the
Arts. Went to the cattle calls regular. No boyfriend—or not one in particular.
Dated a few guys. I got the names and statements, the data in the file there.” He
nodded toward the disc. “Nobody rang the bell.”

He paused when Mirium came over with a tray holding three tall glasses. “I
don’t mean to interrupt. Just something cold to drink while you talk. If you need
me for anything, I’ll be out front.”

“They’re good people,” Lloyd commented when she left them. “Her, her
husband. They come up clean. Ran the whole staff when I caught the case. Got
some bumps here and there, but nobody popped.”

“What’s the time line?”

When he didn’t refer to his notes, Eve knew the case had him, and his teeth
were still in it.

“Beata Varga went to her regular dance class, eight a.m. to ten. Hit a
rehearsal for the show she just landed at Carmine Theater on Tenth at eleven.
Reported here for work at one, all excited about the show. Worked a split shift,
so she was off at three, hit her acting class from three thirty to five, back to work
at five thirty, off at eleven. Walked down the block with a couple friends from
work—names in the file—then split off to go home. That’s the last anyone can
verify seeing her. Eleven ten, then poof.