Possession in Death by J. D. Robb Page A

sighed as Eve took the tube Roarke
had opened, drank.
    “Thanks. I’m going to sit right here,” she said as much to Janna as Roarke,
“while you get Morris.”
    And while she sat wondering if she had a brain tumor or had dropped into
some strange, vivid dream, she put on the cop and interviewed the dead.
    Minutes later, Morris hurried down the tunnel with Roarke.
    “Dallas.” He knelt, laid a hand on her brow as Roarke had. “You’re
feverish.”
    “Just tell me if you’ve gotten a body in—female, mixed race, midtwenties,
ID’d as Janna Dorchester. Beating death in Riverside Park.”
    “Yes. She’s only just come in. How did you—”
    “Who caught the case?”
    “Ah… Stuben’s primary.”
    “I need to contact him. Can you get me his contact data?”
    “Of course. But you don’t look well.”
    “I’m feeling better, actually.” Odd, she thought, how the cop approach
steadied her, even when her interviewee was dead. “I think I’ll feel better yet
once I talk to Stuben. I’d appreciate it, Morris.”
    “Give me a minute.”
    “Eve.” Roarke took her hand as Morris strode away. “What’s going on
here?”
    “I’m not sure, and I need you to give me a really open mind. I mean wide-open.
Yours is already more open than mine about, you know, weird stuff.”
    “What sort of weird stuff is my mind going to be wide-open about?”
    “Okay.” She looked into his eyes, so blue, so beautiful. Eyes she trusted with
everything she had. “There’s a dead woman sitting right beside me. Her name’s
Janna Dorchester, and some asshole named Rennie Foster bashed her head in
with a rock in Riverside Park. She’s worried her friend Sara might be next on his
list. So I’m going to pass the information to the primary. I can read Russian.”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “I can read Russian. I think I can speak it, too, and I’m pretty sure I can
make Hungarian goulash. And maybe borscht, possibly pierogies. The old
woman, the one who fell into my lap and happened to be a Gypsy speaker for the
dead, did something to me. Or I have a brain tumor.”
    Staring into her eyes, Roarke cupped Eve’s face in his hands.
“Kak vashi
dela?”
    “
U menya vsyo po pnezhne mu.
Hey, you speak Russian?”
    He sat back on his heels, rocked right down to the bone. “A handful of
phrases, and certainly not as fluently as you, apparently. And despite your
answer, I doubt you’re fine.”
    They looked up as Morris came back. “I have what you need.”
    “Great.” Eve took out her ‘link, and staying where she was, contacted
Detective Stuben. “Lieutenant Dallas,” she said, “Homicide, out of Central. I’ve
got some information on your vic, on Janna Dorchester.” She looked at Janna as
she spoke. “You’re going to want to find Rennie Foster and get some protection
to a Sara Jasper. Let me lay it out for you.”
    When she had, she answered his question on how she came by the
information by claiming a confidential informant.
    “Unless Stuben’s an idiot—and he didn’t strike me that way—that should
do it.” Eve got to her feet. “It’s all I can do.”
    “I’m still dead, but I’m not as scared. It’s not so cold anymore.”
    “I don’t think you have to stay here.”
    “Maybe for a little while. It helped to talk to you. I still wish I wasn’t dead,
but…” She trailed off, shrugged.
    “Good luck.” Eve turned to Morris. “I don’t know how to explain it. I need
to see Gizi Szabo.”
    “Dallas, did you just have a conversation with the dead?”
    “It sure felt that way. And I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t spread it
around. I need to work, I need to keep going, or I’m pretty sure I’m going to go
crazy. So…” She started forward, glanced back, and saw Janna lift a hand in
good-bye. “I need to confirm TOD on Szabo.”
    “I’ve run it three times, using various components. It’s still thirteen
hundred.”
    “It’s not possible.” She shoved through the doors of the