The Other Side - J. D. Robb [10]
“Karrie and Zach Morgenstern,” the woman told her. “This is our place. Oh, Zach.” Karrie curled a hand around his arm. “She stopped in here almost every day since she came.”
“How long is that?”
“About a month maybe. She came to find her great-granddaughter. This is terrible; I can hardly take it in. I really liked her. She had such interesting stories—and she told my fortune once. She’s—what is it, Zach?”
“Romany. A Gypsy. The real deal, too. She’s in four D, Lieutenant. I carried some stuff up for her a couple times. Man, this is crap, you know that? Just crap. She was a sweetheart. Do you want me to take you up?”
“No, I’ll find it. The alley between the buildings. This building uses that recycler?”
“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.
Four
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