A dark blue Ford Focus was parked in the driveway. Slidell and I got out and moved up the walk.

The stoop was concrete, the door metal and painted black like the shutters. A sculpture was centered on the door, a butterfly with lace enveloping the wings.

Slidell pressed the bell. Muted harp sounds trilled somewhere inside.

Seconds passed.

Slidell rang again, held the button.

Lots of harp.

We heard rattling, then the door swung in.

Hair swelled from Finney’s forehead like a wave rolling from a beach. Comb tracks ran straight backward above each temple. His lashes were long, his smile bad-boy crooked. Had it not been for severely acne-scarred skin, the man would have been rock-star good-looking.

“You Asa Finney?” Slidell asked.

“Whatever you’re selling I will not buy it.”

Unsmiling, Slidell showed his badge. Finney studied it.

“What do you want?”

“Talk.”

“This isn’t-”

“Now.”

Wary, Finney stepped back.

Slidell and I entered a tiny foyer with a gleaming tile floor.

“Come with me.”

We followed Finney past a cheaply furnished living-dining room combo to a small kitchen at the back of the house. A faux pine table and chairs occupied the center of the room. A half-eaten carton of yogurt and a bowl of granola sat on a place mat, spoons jutting from each.

“I was eating lunch.”

“Don’t let us stop you,” Slidell said.

Finney resumed his chair. I sat across from him. Slidell remained standing. Interrogation tactic: height advantage.

Finney finger-drummed the table. Nervous? Annoyed that Slidell had outwitted him by staying on his feet?

Slidell folded his arms and said nothing. Interrogation tactic: silence.

Finney draped his napkin over one knee. Picked up his spoon. Set it down.

I looked around. The kitchen was spotless. A carved stone mortar and pestle sat on one counter beside an herb garden nourished by long fluorescent bulbs.

Above the sink hung an intricately carved rendering of a naked, antlered figure with a stag to its left and a bull to its right. A ram-headed serpent coiled one arm.

Finney followed my line of vision.

“That’s Cernunnos, the Celtic father of animals.”

“Tell us ’bout that.” Slidell’s tone was glacial.

“Cernunnos is husbandman to Mother Earth.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He is the essence of the masculine aspect of the balance of nature. In that depiction the god is surrounded by a stag, a bull, and a snake, symbols of fertility, power, and masculinity.”

“You get off on those things?”

Finney’s gaze swung back to Slidell. “I beg your pardon?”

“Sex. Power.”

Finney began picking at one of his cheeks. “What are you implying?”

“You live by yourself, Asa?” Interrogation tactic: subject switch.

“Yes.”

“Nice house.”

Finney said nothing.

“Must cost some bucks, a crib like this.”

“I have my own business.” Finney’s scratching had created a flaming red patch among the pits. “I design video games. Manage some Web sites.”

“Word is you got a dandy of your own.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“You tell me.”

Finney’s nostrils narrowed, expanded. “The same old ignorant bigotry.”

Slidell tipped his head.

“Look, it’s no secret. I’m Wiccan.”

“Wiccan?” Heavy with disdain. “Like witches and devil worshippers?”

“We consider ourselves witches, yes. But we are not Satanists.”

“Ain’t that a relief.”

“Wicca is a neopagan religion whose roots predate Christianity by centuries. We worship a god and a goddess. We observe the eight sabbats of the year and the full-moon esbats. We live by a strict code of ethics.”

“Those ethics include murder?”

Finney’s brows dipped. “Wicca incorporates specific ritual forms, the casting of spells, herbalism, divination. Wiccans employ witchcraft exclusively for the accomplishment of good.”

Slidell made one of his uninterpretable noises.

“Like many followers of minority belief systems, we Wiccans are continually harassed. Verbal and physical abuse, shootings, even lynchings. Is that what this is, Detective? More persecution?”

“I’m asking the questions.” Slidell’s drawl was pure ice. “What do you know about a cellar on Greenleaf Avenue?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

I watched Finney for signs of evasiveness. Saw only resentment.

“Got cauldrons and dead chickens.”

“Wiccans do not practice animal sacrifice.”

“And human skulls.”

“Never.”

“How ’bout a guy named T-Bird Cuervo?”

There was a subtle tensing around Finney’s eyes.

“He is not one of us.”

“Ain’t what I asked.”

“I may have heard the name.”

“In what context?”

“Cuervo is a santero. A healer.”

“You two dance in the moonlight together?”

Finney’s chin hiked up a notch. “Santería and Wicca are really quite different.”

“Answer the question.”

“I don’t know the man.”

Again, a crimping of the lower lids?

“You wouldn’t be lying to me, now would you, Asa?”

“I don’t have to sit still for your bullying. I know my rights. Dettmer versus Landon. 1985. A district court in Virginia ruled that Wicca is a legally recognized religion to be afforded all benefits accorded by law. Affirmed in 1986 by the Federal Appeals Court for the Fourth Circuit. Get used to it, Detective. We’re legal and we’re here to stay.”

At that moment my cell chirped. The caller ID showed Katy’s number. I rose and walked to the living room, closing the door behind me.

“Hey, Katy.”

“Mom. I know what you’re going to say. I’m always dumping you. And, yes, I’ve probably bailed way too many times. But I’ve been invited to this awesome picnic, and if you don’t mind, I’d really, really like to go.”

I was lost. Then I remembered. Saturday. Shopping.

“It’s not a problem.” I was speaking softly, trying not to be overheard.

“Where are you?”

“You go, enjoy.”

Through the door I heard the cadence of voices, Slidell’s harsh, Finney’s affronted.

“You’re sure?”

Oh, yeah.

“Absolutely.”

As we spoke, I perused book titles on a set of wooden shelves pushed up against one wall. Coming to the Edge of the Circle: A Wiccan Initiation Ritual; Living Wicca; The Virtual Pagan; Pagan Paths; Earthly Bodies Magical Selves: Contemporary Pagans and the Search for Community; Living Witchcraft: A Contemporary American Coven; Book of Magical Talismans; An Alphabet of Spells.

On a lower shelf, two books caught my attention. Satanic Bible and Satanic Witch, both by Anton LaVey. How did those fit in?

“Charlie said you rocked the other night.”

“Mm.”

My eyes roved to a statue of a goddess with upraised arms, a stone bowl of crystals, a cornhusk doll. Hearing soft clacking, I looked up.

A miniature wind chime swayed from a hook screwed into the top outer frame of the bookcase. The shells hung on strings attached to a pink ceramic bird.

Katy said something that my brain failed to take in. My gaze was locked on an object barely visible behind the dangling cowries.

“Bye, sweetie. Have fun.”

Pocket-jamming the phone, I dragged a chair to the bookcase, climbed up, and reached for the top shelf.