The air shimmered, and a car appeared in the pasture. From the detailing, the black convertible appeared to date from the mid-1960s. The shaven-headed man behind the wheel looked around for a moment before throwing the car into gear. As the Thunderbird rolled out on to the dirt road, he spoke to his two passengers
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...and miles away, as she sat at a word processor in her newsroom, Eva Timmons became aware of the familiar sensation of someone else looking through her eyes. She paused in midsentence and sighed. "What do you want?" she thought.
"Information," Leah replied. "New York City art collector named Hensel Spitz." She used Eva's hands to hit "Enter" a couple of times, then typed the name on a blank line. "Address, phone number, anything else you can find out in half an hour. Who knows, there might be a story in it for you."
"You always say that," Eva grumbled mentally. "All right, boss, your demand is my command." She saved the story and alt-tabbed to the station's "morgue" database. "Check back with me then, I'll have something for you."
"Thanks, Eva."
"Don't mention it." Eva started typing commands into the search engine as Leah's presence faded out of her mind.
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