The Other Side Page 6

  “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.”

  Seven

  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 gat
es, 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.

  “It’s going to be fine.” He rose to go to her. “We’ll do whatever needs to be done, then we’ll do whatever comes after that. You’ll be fine.”

  “I have to live with the dead, Roarke, I don’t want to chat with them. I see the advantage for a murder cop. Hey, sorry about the bad luck, but who killed you? Oh yeah, we’ll go pick him up. Move on. I don’t want to work that way. I don’t want to live that way. I don’t think I can.”

  “You won’t have to.” He took the tray, set it aside. “I swear to you, we’ll find whatever needs finding.”

  She believed him. Maybe she had to, but she believed him.

  “In the meantime . . . ” She took his hand. “Can you be with me? I need to be me. I need you to touch me—me—and feel what I do when you’re with me. Know that you feel me.”

  “There’s no one but you.” He slid onto the chair beside her. “Never anyone but you.”

  “Don’t be gentle.” She dragged his mouth to hers. “Want me.”

  She needed those seeking hands, that mouth hungry for hers. Needed to feel and taste and ache, needed to know that it was her mind, her body, her heart meshed with his.

  Love, the dark and the light of it, was strength, and she took it from him.

  He tugged her jacket down her shoulders, hit the release on her weapon harness as his mouth captured and conquered hers. And those hands, those wonderful hands lit fresh fires, a new fever that raged clean and bright in her blood. Her fingers fumbled for the chair controls so they tumbled back when it slid flat.

  It wasn’t comfort she wanted, he knew, but lust—the greed and speed. Perhaps he needed the same. So he pinned her arms over her head, used his free one to torment until she bucked beneath him, crying out as she came.

  And there was more. Dewy flesh quivering under his hands, frantic pulses jumping at the nip of his teeth. The lust she wanted beat inside him as wildly as her heart.

  His woman. Only his. Her flesh, her lips, her body. Strong again.

  “Now. Yes. Now!” Her nails dug into his hips as she arched against him, opened to him.

  Hot and wet, she closed around him, crying out again as he thrust hard and deep, as she bowed to take him. Holding there, holding for one heady moment as he looked in her eyes. As he saw only Eve.

  Then the whirlwind, wicked and wild, spinning them both too high for air, too fast for fear.

  And when the world settled back, all the colors and shapes and light, then came the comfort. She lay locked in his arms, breathing him in. Her body—her body—felt used and raw and wonderful.

  Eyes closed, she ran a hand through his hair, down his back. “No problem, considering you might have just indirectly banged a ninety-six-year-old woman?”

  “If I did, she gave as good as she got.”

  She laughed, tangled her legs with his. “We’ll still bang when we’re ninety, right?”

  “Count on it. I’ll have developed a taste for old women by then, so this could be considered good practice.”

  “It’s got to be sick to even be thinking this way, but it’s probably like making jokes in the morgue. It’s how you get through.” She untangled, sat up. “What I’m going to do is grab a shower, then coffee, then go over your runs. I’m going to work this like it needs to be worked and keep this other thing off to the side. Because if I think about it too hard, I’m just going to wig out.”

  He sat up with her, took her shoulders. And what she saw in his eyes blocked the air from her lungs. “What? What?”

  “You are who you are. I know you. You believe that?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “You’re Eve Dallas. You’re the love of my life. My heart and soul. You’re a cop, mind and bone. You’re a woman of strength and resilience. Stubborn, hardheaded, occasionally mean as a badger, and more generous than you’ll admit.”

  Fear edged back, an icy blade down the spine. “Why are you saying this?”

  “Because I don’t think you can put what’s happened aside, not altogether. Take a b
reath.”

  “Why—”

  “Take a breath.” he said it sharply, adding a shake so she did so automatically. “Now another.” He kept one hand on her shoulder as he shifted and touched the other to her ankle.

  And the tattoo of a peacock feather.

  Eight

  She got her shower, got her coffee. She told herself she was calm—would be calm. Panic wouldn’t help; raging might feel good, but in the end wouldn’t help either.

  “There are options,” Roarke told her.

  “Don’t say the E word. No exorcisms. I’m not having some priest or witch doctor or voodoo guy dancing around me, banging on his magic coconuts.”

  “Magic . . . Is that a euphemism?”

  “Maybe.” It helped to see him smile—to think she might be able to. “But I’m not going there, Roarke.”

  “All right then. What about Mira?”

  “You think she can shrink Szabo out of me?”

  “Hypnosis might find some answers.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not being stubborn. Or maybe I am,” she admitted when he cocked his eyebrows. “Right now I’d rather not bring anybody else into this. I just don’t want to tell anybody I invited a dead woman to take up residence in my head, or wherever she is. Because that’s what I did.”

  She shoved up, began to pace. “I said sure, come right in. Maybe if I’d been paying attention to what she was saying, what she meant, I’d have locked the door. Instead I’m all, yeah, yeah, whatever, because I’m trying to keep a woman science says was already dead from bleeding out. It doesn’t make any sense, goddamn it. And because it doesn’t, I have to set it to one side. I have to,” she insisted. “I have to work the cases—cases—with my head, my gut. Fucking A mine. Which I damn well would’ve done anyway if she’d left me the hell alone.”

  “So you’ll fight this with logic and instinct?” He decided they could both use a glass of wine.

  “It’s what I’ve got. It’s what’s mine. And if there’s any logic to this other part, the part that makes no sense, when I find the killer, when I find Beata, it—she—goes away. If I don’t believe that, I’m going to lock myself in a closet and start sucking my thumb.”