“Give what up?”

“John Gacy. Jeffrey Dahmer. Rule number one, dumb ass. Never stash body parts in your own crib.”

“Body parts?” Roseboro was definitely interested now.

Slidell only glared.

Saucer-eyed, Roseboro directed a question to me. “What is he talking about?”

Slidell opened the folder and, one by one, slapped scene photos onto the tabletop. The cauldron. The statues of Saint Barbara and Eleggua. The dead chicken. The goat skull. The human remains.

Roseboro viewed but didn’t touch the prints. After a full ten seconds, he wiped a hand across his mouth.

“This is bullshit. I’ve got no way of knowing what a tenant drags into my basement. I told you. I never set foot in the place.”

Slidell gave him silence. As is common, Roseboro felt compelled to fill it.

“Look. I got a letter from some pinstripe saying the house was mine. I signed the papers, ran an ad. Guy named Cuervo called, agreed to a one-year lease.”

“You background him?”

“I wasn’t offering space in Trump Tower. We agreed on a price. Cuervo ponied up the cash.”

“When was this?”

Roseboro searched the ceiling, the fingers of one hand worrying a scab on the back of the other. Finally, “A year ago March.”

“You got a copy of the lease?”

“I never got around to writing one up. Cuervo forked over every month, never asked for anything. After a while, I forgot about paperwork. Stupid, as things turned out.”

“How’d Cuervo pay?”

“I already said. Cash.”

Slidell wiggled his fingers in a give-me-more gesture.

“He mailed it. I couldn’t have cared less if the guy had a bank account, and I wasn’t about to drive to Charlotte each month.”

“Your little arrangement didn’t have nothing to do with the IRS, now did it?”

Roseboro’s fingers went into overdrive. “I pay my taxes.”

“Uh-huh.”

Flecks of crusty endothelium were building on the tabletop.

“You want to give that a rest,” Slidell said. “You’re turning my stomach.”

Roseboro dropped both hands to his lap.

“Tell me about Cuervo.”

“Latino. Seemed like a nice enough dude.”

“Wife? Family?”

Another shoulder hitch. “We weren’t exactly pen pals.”

“He legal?”

“What am I, border patrol?”

Slidell dug a printout from his folder. The photo looked dark and blurry from where I sat.

“That him?”

Roseboro glanced at the face, nodded.

“Go on.” Slidell took up his pen. I suspected the note-taking was mostly for show.

Again, Roseboro shrugged. He really had the move down.

“After June, the guy stopped paying, stopped answering his cell phone. By September I was so pissed I drove up here to toss his ass out.” Roseboro shook his head in disillusionment over his fallen fellow man. “Shithead was gone. Really screwed me.”

“You’re bringing tears to my eyes, Kenny, you being such an honorable guy and all. Cuervo clear out his stuff?”

Roseboro shook his head. “Left everything. It was crap.”

“You got his number?”

Roseboro unhooked his mobile, powered on, and scrolled the address book.

Slidell jotted down the digits. “Go on.”

“Nothing else to tell. I hired a Realtor and sold the place. End of story.”

“Not quite.” After gophering the stack, Slidell slid free a shot of the human skull. “Who’s this?”

Roseboro’s eyes dropped to the print, snapped back up. “Jesus Christ. How would I know?”

Slidell removed a copy of the school portrait from his folder and held it up. “And this?”

Roseboro looked like a man whose mind was racing. For composure? Comprehension? Explanation? A way out?

“I’ve never seen that kid in my life. Look. I may have tried to scam on a few taxes, but, honest to God, I know nothing about any of this. I swear.” Roseboro’s gaze jumped from Slidell to me and back. “I live in Wilmington. Been there for five years. Check it out.”

“Count on it,” Slidell said.

“You want, I’ll take a lie detector. Now. I’ll do it now.”

Wordlessly, Slidell gathered the prints, placed the folder on the tablet, and pushed to his feet.

I stood.

Together, we started for the door.

“What about me?” Roseboro whined at our backs. “What’s going to happen to me?”

Slidell spoke without turning.

“Don’t schedule no auditions.”

“Impressions?” I asked when we were back in Slidell’s office.

“He’s a sniveling little weenie. But my gut says he’s telling the truth.”

“You’re thinking Cuervo?”

“Or Auntie.”

I shook my head. “Wanda died a year and a half ago. I’m almost certain the chicken was killed within the last few months. I’ll phone my entomologist, see if he’ll hazard a preliminary opinion.”

“If Wanda’s clear, then I gotta like Cuervo. Assuming Roseboro’s not taking us for a ride.”

“May I see the mug shot?”

Slidell dug the printout from the folder.

The quality was, indeed, lousy. The man was all teeth and wrinkles, with thick gray hair swept back from his face.

“If Cuervo is Latino, Santería makes sense,” Slidell said. “Or that other one.”

“Palo Mayombe.” I hoped that wasn’t it. If so, I hoped it was not of the Adolfo de Jesus Constanzo variety. “What about Roseboro?”

“I’ll let him cool his heels, then go in for some more face time. Fear has a way of jogging the gray cells.”

“Then?”

“I’ll cut him loose and start looking for Cuervo. Start with his cell phone.”

“And the INS. Cuervo could be undocumented.”

Slidell rolled his eyes at my use of the term. “Him being illegal could explain Roseboro’s desire for cash and carry only.”

“Rinaldi call in?”

Slidell checked his voice mail and mobile, then shook his head.

“I’m going to the ME office,” I said. “Let me know if Rinaldi learns anything. If not, maybe it’s time to put the girl’s face out there. I’ll phone when Larabee and I finish with the Lake Wylie torso.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Slidell said.

We didn’t know that another plan was already unfolding. A plan traveling a deadly collision course with our own.

15

WEEKENDS MEAN PAYCHECKS AND OPPORTUNITIES FOR KNOCKING back booze. Consequently, the number of brawls, batteries, mishaps, and misfortunes swells from quittin’ time on Friday till church on Sunday. Week’s opening can be bedlam at a morgue. Week’s close, on the other hand, is often tranquil.

Such was not the case this Friday morning.

Two blocks out I knew something was wrong. Vehicles filled the few slots fronting the MCME and lined the curbs on College and Phifer.

Drawing close, I could read logos. WBTV. WSOC. WCCB. News 14 Carolina.

Gunning into the lot, I threw the car into park, flew out the door, and raced toward the building. TV crews, print reporters, and photographers blocked the front entrance. Head lowered, elbows winging, I charged into the pack.

“Dr. Brennan,” a voice said.

Ignoring it, I plowed forward, anger tensing every muscle in my body. After much shoving by me and name-calling by others, I finally broke through.

Boyce Lingo was holding court at the top of the steps. As before, Crew-Cut-Squirrel-Cheeks was covering his flank.

“We are a tolerant society.” Lingo’s kindly smile faded to stern. “But now is not a time for indulgence. An attitude that permits devil worship permits every other brand of evil. Drunkenness, adultery, idolatry, homosexuality. All manner of antifamily moral perversion.”

I stepped forward, arms raised like a school crossing guard. “This press conference is over.”

Lenses swiveled in my direction. Microphones shot toward my face.

I heard murmuring. My name. Anthropologist. UNCC.

“Your presence here is hampering our ability to do our jobs.”

Lingo froze, arms V-ed downward, fingers intertwined in front of his genitals.