“What kind of action?”

“You got a cough. You need a job. Whatever.”

Suddenly it clicked.

“You went to T-Bird because you’re pregnant.”

Takeela gave a quick, noncommittal shrug.

Abortion? Healthy baby? Girl versus boy child? What had this girl sought from a santero?

Leaning forward between the seats, I placed a hand on her arm.

“You gave T-Bird your class photo to use in a ritual.”

Suddenly, the defiance was gone. Now she just looked tired and wet. And pregnant. And very, very young.

“I wanted Cliff to take care of me and the baby.”

“But he won’t leave his wife,” I guessed.

“He gonna change his mind.” Unconsciously, one hand stroked her belly.

“Do you know where T-Bird might have gone?” Softly.

“No.”

“Does he have family?”

“I don’t know nothing ’bout no family.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Maybe in the summer.”

“Is there anything you can tell us?”

“All I know is, my grandma say you need something, T-Bird make it happen.”

Takeela laced her fingers over her unborn child and looked at Slidell.

“You gonna charge me with a crime?”

“Don’t leave town,” Slidell said. “We may get to do this again real soon.”

“Next time get party hats.” Takeela hit the handle, pulled herself out, and started up the sidewalk.

Sudden thought. Would she be insulted? What the hell. I knew her future should she follow her current course. Single motherhood. Minimum-wage jobs. A life of long hopes and empty wallets.

I got out.

“Takeela.”

She half turned, hands resting lightly on her swollen middle.

“If you like, I can make some calls, see what sort of aid might be available.”

Her eyes drifted to my face.

“I can’t promise anything,” I added.

She hesitated a beat. Then, “Me neither, lady.”

Jotting a number, I handed her my card.

“That’s my private line, Takeela. Call anytime.”

As I watched her walk away, Slidell got out of the Taurus. Together, we started back toward the botánica.

“So the kid in the cauldron ain’t the kid in the photo.”

“No,” I agreed.

“So who the hell is she?”

Taking the question as rhetorical, I didn’t answer.

“Don’t matter. This creep still had some kid’s skull and leg bones in his cellar. Cuervo’s into more than just curing the clap.”

I started to respond. Slidell cut me off.

“And what about Jimmy Klapec? No question ’bout that being murder. But you say that’s Satanists and Cuervo ain’t, right?”

I raised both hands in frustration.

“And where the hell’s Rinaldi?” Slidell dug for his mobile.

Hurrying through the rain, I kept churning thoughts in my mind.

Takeela Freeman.

Jimmy Klapec.

T-Bird Cuervo.

Santería.

Palo Mayombe.

Satanism.

I had no idea that by day’s end we’d score two more ID’s, close a cold case, and come face-to-face with yet another perplexing religion.

18

AN HOUR OF SEARCHING TURNED UP NOTHING SINISTER IN Cuervo’s shop. The botánica housed no skulls, slaughtered animals, or impaled dolls.

“So T-Bird limited his bone-collector act to the Greenleaf crib.”

I set down the jar I was examining and glanced at Slidell. With his rain-pasted hair and clothing he looked like the couch potato from the Black Lagoon. But I wasn’t exactly at my best either.

“Makes sense,” I said. “The cellar was secret, more secure.”

“Cauldrons are typical of that palo stuff.” I wasn’t sure if Slidell was asking a question or thinking out loud.

“Palo Mayombe. But Takeela’s description of Cuervo makes him sound more like a garden-variety santero.”

“If he’s harmless, how come he’s got cauldrons?”

“Santería has no hard-and-fast rules.”

“Meaning?”

“Maybe T-Bird simply likes pots.”

“And animal corpses.” Slidell whacked the cauldron with the tip of a loafer. It made a hollow ringing sound. “Why’s this one empty?”

“I don’t know.”

“And where the hell is this guy?”

“Ecuador?” I suggested.

“All I care, his ass can stay there. I should be working Klapec.”

With that, Slidell disappeared through the curtain.

I followed.

Outside, the rain had diminished to a slow, steady drizzle. Slidell’s cell rang as he was locking the shop.

“Yo.”

I could hear a voice buzzing on the other end.

“The kid believable?”

The buzz resumed.

“Worth some shoe leather.”

Shoe leather? I curbed an eye roll.

Slidell described our session with Takeela Freeman and our search of the botánica. There was more buzzing, longer this time.

“No shit.” Slidell’s eyes slid to me. “Yeah. She has her moments.”

Slidell waited out a very long sequence of buzzes.

“That address current?”

Again, Slidell glanced at me. I couldn’t imagine what was being said on the other end.

“You stick with Rick. I’ll swing by Pineville. We’ll hook up later this afternoon.”

Buzz.

“Roger.”

Slidell clicked off.

“Rinaldi?” I asked.

Slidell nodded. “Some homey saw Klapec with a john the night he dropped off the scanner. Older guy, wearing a baseball cap. Not a regular. Kid told Rinaldi the dude creeped him out.”

“Meaning?”

“Who the fuck knows? Remember Rick Nelson? Rock and roller got killed in a plane crash back in the eighties?”

“Ozzie and Harriet.”

“Yeah. Remember ‘Travelin’ Man’? Guy had chicks all over the world. Fraulein in Berlin, señorita in Mexico. Great song.”

“What’s Rick Nelson got to do with Rinaldi’s witness?” I asked, heading off the possibility that Slidell might sing.

“Genius said Klapec’s john looked like Rick Nelson in a baseball cap. Real brain trust, eh?”

“What’s in Pineville?” I asked.

Slidell grinned and cocked his head.

Not in the mood for guessing games, I cocked mine back.

“Rinaldi says you’re good.”

“I am,” I said. “What’s in Pineville?”

“Asa Finney.” Slidell’s grin broadened, revealing something green between his right lower premolars. “Popped right out when Rinaldi ran your print.”

“The one in the wax?”

“That very one.”

“Why’s Finney in the system?” I felt totally jazzed.

“D-and-D six years ago.” Slidell referred to a drunk and disorderly charge. “Moron thought peeing on a gravestone was performance art.”

“Who is he?”

“Computer geek. Twenty-four years old. Lives down in Pineville, works from home. You ready for this?”

I waggled impatient fingers.

“Finney’s got a Web site.”

“Millions of people have Web sites.”

“Millions of people don’t claim to be witches.”

“You mean santero? Like Cuervo?”

“Rinaldi said ‘witch.’”

That made no sense. Santería had nothing to do with witchcraft.

“We going down there now?”

Slidell was silent so long I was certain he was about to blow me off. His answer surprised me.

“We take one car,” he said. “Mine.”

Pineville is a sleepy little community curled up between Charlotte and the South Carolina state line. Like the Queen City, the burg owes its existence to trails and streams. Pre-Chris Columbus, one route ran westward to the Catawba Nation, the other was the good old Trading Path. The streams were Sugar Creek and Little Sugar Creek.

Farms. Churches. The railroad came and went. Mills opened and closed. The town’s one claim to fame is being the birthplace of James K. Polk, eleventh president of the US of A. That was 1795. Not much has happened there since. In the nineties, the construction of an outer beltway morphed Pineville into a bedroom burb.

Finney’s house was a post-beltway newcomer with yellow siding and fake black shutters. A nice, neat, forgettable ranch.