The Other Side - J. D. Robb [7]
“Eve. Eve. Lieutenant Dallas!”
She jerked, sucked in air like a diver surfacing, and found herself staring at Lopez’s face. “What?”
“Thank God. You’re all right?”
“Yeah.” She raked a bloodied hand through her hair. “What the hell happened?”
“I honestly don’t know.” He glanced over to where, a foot away, two MTs worked on the woman. “She’s gone. There was a light—such a light. I’ve never seen . . . Then she was gone, and you were . . . ” He struggled for words. “Not unconscious, but blank. Just not there for a moment. I had to pull you away so they could get to her. You saw the light?”
“I saw something.” Felt something, she thought. Heard something.
Now she saw only an old woman whose blood stained the street. “I have to call this in. I think you’re going to be late for Mass. I need you to give a statement.”
She pushed to her feet as one of the MTs stepped over.
“Nothing we can do for her,” he said. “She’s cold. Must’ve been lying there for a couple hours before you found her. Fucking New York. People had to walk right by her.”
“No.” There were people now, crowding the sidewalk, ranged like a chorus for the dead. But there hadn’t been . . . “No,” Eve repeated. “We saw her fall.”
“Body’s cold,” he repeated. “She’s ninety if she’s a day, and probably more than that. I don’t see how she could’ve walked two feet with all those slices in her.”
“I guess we’d better find out.” She picked up her ’link, called it in.
Three
After cleaning the blood from her hands, she secured the scene, retrieved her field kit from the trunk. She was running the victim’s prints when the first black and white rolled up.
“She’s not in the database.” Frustrated, Eve pushed to her feet, turned to the uniforms. “Keep these people back. Talk to them. Find out if anybody knew her, if anybody saw anything. There’s a blood trail, and I don’t want these people trampling all over it.”
And where the hell were they, she wondered, when the woman was staggering down the street, bleeding to death? The street had been empty as the desert.
“What can I do?” Lopez asked her.
“Peabody’s on her way—small slice of luck having a bunch of murder cops a few minutes away. I want you to give her a statement. Tell her everything you saw, everything you heard.”
“She had an accent. Thick. Polish or Hungarian, maybe Romanian.”
“Yeah, tell Peabody. Once you’ve done that, I can have one of the cops drive you where you need to go.”
“If you need me to stay—”
“There’s nothing more you can do here. I’ll be in touch.”
“I’d like to finish giving her Last Rites. I started, but . . . She’s wearing a crucifix around her neck.”
She debated. He’d already had his hands all over the body, and his clothes were stained, as hers were, with the old woman’s blood. “Okay. You can do that while I start on her. Try to keep contact to a minimum.”
“Your hand’s bleeding a little.”
“She dug in pretty hard with her nails. It’s just a couple scratches.”
Lopez knelt at the woman’s head while Eve got gauges and tools out of her kit.
“Victim is Caucasian or possibly mixed race female of undetermined origin, age approximately ninety. Before expiring, she gave her name as Gizi. Multiple stab wounds,” Eve continued, “chest, torso, arms. Looks like defensive wounds on the arms, the hands. She didn’t just stand there and take it.”
“She should have died at home, in her bed, surrounded by her children, grandchildren. I’m sorry,” Lopez said when Eve glanced up. “I interrupted your record.”
“Doesn’t matter. And you’re right.”
“That’s the difference between death and murder.”
“It’s the big one. Do her clothes look homemade to you?” As she asked, Eve turned up the hem on the long skirt with its wide stripes of color. “This looks handmade to me, and carefully done. She’s wearing sandals—sturdy ones with some miles on them. Got a tattoo, inside left ankle. Peacock feathers? I think they’re peacock feathers.”
“She’s wearing