For a moment, no one spoke. In the background I could hear Slidell’s TV mimicking mine.

“You think Stallings is tipping Lingo?”

“It’s possible.”

“What’s in it for her?”

“The guy’s a grandstander. Maybe she’s a wannabe, or a freelancer selling pics here and there to the press. Maybe she thinks Lingo will blow the situation into a bigger story than it might otherwise be, score her some fame and fortune.”

I waited while Slidell chewed that over.

“So where’s Stallings get her info?”

“She could have a police scanner.”

“Where’s a little girl like that gonna come up with a police scanner?” Slidell said police with a very long o and a whole lot of scorn.

“RadioShack.”

“Get out. How’s she gonna know to operate a gizmo like that?”

Slidell’s ignorance of technology always astounded me. I’d heard rumors that Skinny had yet to make the move to touch-tone dialing at home.

“It’s not rocket science. The thing sweeps through a group of frequencies searching for one in use, then stops so you can listen. Like the SCAN button on your car radio.” I couldn’t believe Slidell was hearing this for the first time. “Stallings could have picked up on Rinaldi’s request for a cadaver dog. Or maybe Lingo has a scanner of his own.”

I waited out more mental mastication. Then, “Who’s this Antoine LeVay?” Slidell’s tone had edged down a notch.

“Anton. He founded the Church of Satan.”

“That’s real?”

“Yes.”

“How many members?”

“No one really knows.”

“Who’s this other kid Lingo’s talking about?”

“Anson Tyler. Lingo’s way off base there. Tyler’s whole upper body was missing, not just his head.”

“Missing where?”

“When a corpse floats, the heavy parts hang down. A human head weighs about four to five kilos.” I stopped. Could Slidell convert metric? “About the same as a roaster chicken. So the head detaches early.”

“That don’t answer my question.”

“The missing parts are wherever the current took them.”

“So you’re saying there’s no link between this Catawba River kid and the kid we found today?”

“I’m saying Anson Tyler lost his head due to natural processes, not intentional decapitation. There wasn’t a single cut mark anywhere on his skeleton.”

“What about the skull in the cauldron?”

“That’s a tougher call.”

“You find tool marks on that?”

“No.”

“On the leg bones?”

“No.”

“That bit about the kid in London, that true?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me ’bout that.”

“In 2001, the headless, limbless body of a four-to-six-year-old boy was pulled from the Thames below the Tower Bridge. The cops named him Adam. The postmortem showed he’d only been in that part of the world a short time.”

“Based on what?”

“The food in his stomach and the pollen in his lungs. It also showed that he’d ingested a potion containing poisonous Calabar beans in the forty-eight hours prior to his death.”

“And?”

“Calabar causes paralysis while keeping the victim conscious. It’s used commonly in witchcraft rituals in West Africa.”

“Go on.” Slidell’s voice was pure steel.

“Adam’s bones were also analyzed to determine geographical origin.”

“How’s that play?”

“Foodstuffs bear traces of the soil in which they were grown or reared.” I kept it simple. “Samples taken from Adam and compared to places around the world suggested he came from the vicinity of Benin City, in Nigeria. Investigators went to Africa, but discovered little.”

“Any arrests?”

“No. But there are persons of interest. Mostly Nigerians, some of whom have been linked to human trafficking.”

“But there’s insufficient evidence to bring charges.” Skinny has never been a champion of individual civil liberties. His disgust was evident.

“You’ve got it.”

As dual voices reported sports scores in my bedroom and across town in a condo I didn’t want to picture, I debated in my mind. Tell Slidell the most worrying element and risk sending him off in the wrong direction? Keep it to myself and risk impeding the investigation?

“There’s more,” I said. “Authorities in London claim that in recent years some three hundred black boys have gone missing from the system and not returned to school or reappeared. Only two have ever been traced.”

“Where the hell are the families?”

“When questioned, caregivers and relatives say the boys have left the UK to return to Africa.”

“And no one can confirm.”

“Exactly.”

“Cops think these kids have been murdered?”

“Some do.”

My eyes drifted to the clock radio. Six thirty. I was naked, sans makeup, with tangled wet hair that looked like seaweed.

And due at Charlie’s in thirty minutes.

I needed to hurry. But I wanted to know what Slidell and Rinaldi had learned about the property on Greenleaf.

“What did you find out about Kenneth Roseboro?”

“Kenny-boy’s some kinda musician living in Wilmington. Claims the minute Aunt Wanda went belly-up and the place was his, he ran an ad and rented the dump out.”

As Slidell talked I tried donning the panties one-handed.

“Roseboro never lived in the house?”

“No.”

“How many tenants occupied the premises?”

“One. Upstanding citizen name of Thomas Cuervo. T-Bird to his friends and business associates.”

“What business?”

“Pissant little shop out South Boulevard.” Slidell snorted. “ La Botánica Buena Salud. Natural cures, vitamins, herbal remedies. I can’t believe people blow money on that horseshit.”

While I didn’t totally disagree with Slidell, I wasn’t in the mood for his thoughts on holistic healing.

“Does Cuervo have a record?”

“In addition to brain tonics and flatulence powders, T-Bird has periodically dealt in stronger pharmaceuticals.”

“He’s a drug dealer?”

“Penny-ante stuff. Nickel bags. Racked up some drunk and disorderlies.”

As I did my Karate Kid crane kick maneuver, the panties caught on my upraised foot. I toppled and my elbow slammed the wall.

“Shit!”

Birdie shot under the bed.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Why did Roseboro decide to sell?” I chucked the skivvies to rub my elbow.

“T-Bird skipped, owing a lot of back rent.”

“Skipped where?”

“Roseboro claims he’d really like to know.”

“Did you ask about the cellar?”

“I’m saving that for our early morning chat.”

“Mind if I observe?”

Pause.

“What the hell.”

13

I PARKED ON THE BORDER BETWEEN FOURTH AND FIRST WARDS. Walking along Church Street, I couldn’t help thinking the quarter was a poster for Charlotte’s uptown revival.

Charlie’s unit was midpoint in a row of nine spanking-new townhouses. Kitty-corner from it was the McColl Center for Visual Art, a studio and gallery complex recently created within a renovated church.

One empty lot down from the former house of worship, mounded rubble attested to a recent implosion. Way past its shelf life, the old Renaissance Place Apartment building had been toppled to make way for a spiffy new tower.

Two blocks southeast, I knew other buildings had also been earmarked for demolition, including the Mecklenburg County Government Services Center, our very own reborn Sears Garden Shop. Everyone at the MCME was dreading the move.

C’est la vie, Charlotte-style. A new landscape rising from the old.

I rang Charlie’s bell at 7:23, damp hair yanked into a high ponytail. Fetching. But I had managed mascara and blusher.

My summons was answered by a host who looked exceedingly good. Wash-faded jeans. Slip-on loafers, no socks. Zip-front sweater showing just a hint of chest.

“Sorry I’m late.”

“No problemo.” Charlie buzzed my cheek. He smelled good, too. Burberry?

Flashbulb image of the Skylark.