Possession in Death (In Death #31.5)(7)

“I called them off. I’m right here, after all.”

“Actually, I can use the head guy. My gauge is wonky. I recorded TOD as the damn TOD, since she died in front of me. But my gauge is putting it almost four hours earlier. Cause is pretty clear, but you might find something else. If you can take over on the body, I want to get on this blood trail, find the kill spot.”

“Go ahead.”

She followed the blood west.

The neighborhood was quiet. Maybe the heat kept people inside, she thought, or maybe most of them were at the sale at the Sky Mall or at the beach. But there was some pedestrian and street traffic.

Had no one seen a staggering, bleeding old woman and tried to help? Even for New York, that was too cold to believe. But the trail continued west for two blocks, right over crosswalks—as if the dying had felt obliged not to jaywalk. Then it headed north.

Buildings older here, she noted, squat towers of apartments and day flops, tiny markets and delis, the 24/7s, coffee shops, bakeries, and bodegas—and more people out and about on their Saturday business.

She continued another three blocks, then jogged north where the trail led into the mouth of a narrow alley between buildings.

And there, without question, was the kill spot.

Deep in the narrow trench, shadowed by overhangs, stinking of garbage from an overfilled recycler, blood splattered the pocked concrete walls, drenched the filthy ground.

She hitched open her field kit for a flashlight and played it over the walls, the ground, the neatly tied bag of trash beside the recycler.

“Did you tie that, Gizi? Bringing out the trash? Do you work here, live here? What were you doing in the alley otherwise? And how the hell did you walk better than six blocks after he sliced you to pieces? And why? Help would have been right around the corner.”

Crouching, she unknotted the trash bag. Fruit and vegetable peelings, she noted, packaging from a small loaf of bread, an empty box of powdered milk, a long, slim bottle that had held some sort of wine…

She retied the bag, tagged it for evidence, and shifting it, found the key.

Old, heavy, she noted as she studied it. But then there were old buildings here that might still run to straight lock and key. She turned to the alley door and its keypad. Entrance digitally secured, but inside?

She’d have to see.

She bagged the key, labeled it, then walked back to the alley door and tried to see it.

Wants to take her trash out, comes out with her little bag, walked to the recycler.

Was he waiting for her? Why? Did she walk into an illegals deal?

Puts her bag down, turns—spatter says she’d turned, about three-quarters away from the wall when she was attacked. So he came from behind her, most likely. From the mouth of the alley or through the door behind her.

Eve positioned herself, started the turn from the wall. The first slice ripped the back of her right shoulder with a shock of pain that knocked her against the recycler. She grabbed for her weapon, swung to defend, but somehow the knife plunged into her back, once, twice. Dimly she heard something clink onto the ground, and thought: My key.

Then she was sliding down toward that filthy ground. But hands grabbed her, wrenched her around, shoved her hard against the wall. Through eyes glazed with shock and pain she saw the face of a demon—curling horns piercing the forehead, skin red as hellfire slashed with black and dirty gold. It bared its fierce teeth as the knife tore through her chest.

She put up her hands to fight, and the blade sliced them. She opened her mouth to scream, to curse, but had no voice.

As she fell, the only thought in her mind was Beata.

She came to coated with sweat. The hand holding her weapon shook as she slapped the other over her body looking for blood.

But she stood, unharmed, just as she’d been before she’d felt the first blow.

“What the hell was that?” Dizzy, she bent over, head between her knees until she got her breath back.

“Dallas? Hey!” Peabody rushed forward. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

“Jeez, you’re white as a ghost.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “It’s the heat.” To prove it, maybe to assure herself of it, she swiped the back of her hand over her sweaty brow. “Who’s on scene?”

“Five uniforms, Morris. Crime scene got there before I left to follow you in.” Peabody scanned the alley floor, the walls, the stinking recycler. “That’s a hell of a lot of blood. How’d she manage to walk all that way after this?”

“Good question. It looks like she came down to take out her trash. The contents of the bag I tagged look like basic garbage from a single. And there was a key between it and the recycler. Could be hers, as it’s about the only clean thing in here. Contact crime scene. We need them down here. Stick with the bag until they get here. I’m going to check the buildings. If that’s her trash, she had to come from one of these two buildings.”

She didn’t draw a clean breath until she’d stepped out of the alley—and the instant she did, the shakes and dizziness vanished as if they’d never been.

She tried the ground-floor market first, moving past the displays of summer fruit and sleeves of flowers into the relative cool of the shop.

She walked to the counter where the woman sitting on a stool behind it greeted her with a wide smile. “Good afternoon. Can I help you find something?”