“Did Eddie have family?”

“A married son. Tony. Lives somewhere up near Boston. Has since he was a toddler.”

“Did they keep in touch?”

“Yeah. But it was something Eddie never wanted to discuss.”

I didn’t ask why Rinaldi’s son had been raised by others. “What’s Tony saying?”

“Find the bastards that killed his father.”

Recognizing Slidell’s surliness as grieving, I let the remark go.

“Look. They got a homicide detail directing the investigation. Robbery and rape are pitching in on neighborhood canvasses, chasing witness leads, doing records checks, that kind of thing. Since the weather was crap, no one was on the street Saturday night. No one saw nothing. At least that’s the story I’m getting. Members of the team don’t exactly keep me on their speed dials.”

I could understand that. Slidell was hard to control under normal circumstances. Given his level of emotional involvement, there was no telling what he would do if privy to even the most tenuous lead in Rinaldi’s death.

“See you at the church?” I asked.

“I’ll be in back.”

After disconnecting, I logged onto my computer and checked my e-mail.

Katy had written to apologize for our spat. Easier than phoning, I guess.

A man in Nigeria wanted my partnership in a scheme to liberate two million pounds. All I had to do was send bank account information.

A colleague at UNCC had sent an e-invite to a Halloween party. Remembering the previous year’s event, I declined.

[email protected]. Subject line blank.

Oh, no.

Oh, yes. Allison Stallings wanted to meet for a drink. She had some follow-up questions.

Bloody hell. Larke Tyrell was correct in his anger. I had talked to Stallings during my bender on Monday. But had I called her? No way.

If she’d contacted me, how had she gotten my home or cell number? Mrs. Flowers would never give out personal information. Nor would anyone at UNCC.

Anyone who knew. What was the name of the new secretary? Natasha? Naomi?

I looked at the clock: 8:05. I dialed.

Naomi swore she’d shared my number with no one.

Had I? I thought back over the past few weeks. Of course. Takeela Freeman. Stallings could have gotten the number from her.

Then why was she now e-mailing instead of dialing?

Because I went twenty-four hours without answering either line? Because those who tried my home got a message that service was disconnected?

I made a mental note to speak with Takeela.

Two messages had arrived from the entomologist to whom I’d sent the Greenleaf and Klapec bugs. Each contained an attachment. I opened and read the first.

No surprise. The insects from the subcellar suggested the chicken had died approximately eight weeks before I’d collected the specimens. That put the last known activity at Cuervo’s altar sometime in mid-August.

That fit. Cuervo had his head-on with the train on August twenty-sixth.

I opened the Klapec report. In addition to species names and numbers, it provided two opinions, one concerning postmortem environment, one concerning time since death.

The first opinion was not unexpected.

The samples contain no evidence of immersion in an aquatic environment.

OK. Klapec was dumped and didn’t wash ashore. Larabee and I had arrived at the same conclusion at autopsy.

The second opinion was more troubling.

The decedent was spotted in situ on October ninth, reported and recovered two days later. Temperatures reached daytime highs in the eighties for the period in question. The body was loosely wrapped in plastic. Trauma was severe. Given these factors, insect activity is unusually light, but not inconsistent with the lower end of a PMI range beginning with a minimum of forty-eight hours.

I sat back, puzzled.

Rinaldi noted that his informant, Vince, had last seen Jimmy Klapec with the violent john, Rick Nelson, on September 29. If that was true, where was Klapec from September 29 until his body turned up on October 11?

JK. 9/29. LSA with RN acc. to VG.

Were we wrong in our interpretation of Rinaldi’s entry? If so, what had he meant?

I pictured Klapec lying on the Lake Wylie shoreline. The carved chest and belly. The truncated neck. That corpse should have been alive with maggots and eggs. Why so little oviposition and hatching? And why no interest from animals?

I pictured Susan Redmon’s skull in the dark of Cuervo’s cellar.

The two scenes were so different, and yet so alike, involving the macabre use of human remains. Why these two discoveries so proximate in time?

I had to agree with Slidell. In my gut, I knew the situations were linked. But how far did the web extend? And who was spinning it?

Finney? He’d denied knowing Cuervo, but tensed at the mention of the santero’s name. He drove a Ford Focus. And had books on Satanism.

I don’t believe in coincidence. Coincidence is merely lack of full knowledge of the facts.

OK. Time for facts.

Googling the name Asa Finney got me two hits, one for an early settler of the town of Hamilton, New York, and one for the Web page of a witch called Ursa.

Asa. Ursa. Bingo. I tried the bear.

On the upper left side of Ursa’s opening page a silver pentagram emitted sparks as it slowly revolved. On the right was a photo of Asa Finney in a long white robe embroidered with the constellation Ursa Major. The Big Bear. Or the Big Dipper, take your pick.

A stratified pyramid filled the center of the screen, offering links to pages within the site. Choices included: Announcements, Book Reviews, Celebrations, Lessonbook, Magick, Moon Phases, Poetry, Rituals, and Samhain.

I chose Poetry.

Finney favored verse about crying lilies, hearts like lighthouses, and bringing about reality through love.

I went to Samhain.

There was a quote from Ray Bradbury’s The Halloween Tree, an ad for a book titled Pagan Mysteries of Halloween, and a lengthy explanation of the festival. Finney’s account of the origin of All Hallows’ Eve coincided with that provided by Jennifer Roberts. I learned, among other things, that in Scotland the practice of donning costumes involved cross-dressing, with men tarting up as women and vice versa.

I was distracted for a moment, unable to form a picture. If men wore kilts, how did that work?

The only thing of relevance was a statement that Samhain often involved two distinct celebrations, one preceding the actual feast. OK. That supported Roberts’s account of an off-schedule gathering at the camp.

Returning to the main page, I clicked on Lessonbook.

There was Finney again, this time in closeup. The guy really did look like an acne-scarred version of Rick Nelson.

Below Finney were more tabs: Medicine and Magick; Every Breath Is a Prayer; Rocks Are Individuals Like Us; Aphrodisiacs: Gifts from the Goddess. I assumed each linked to a Wiccan lesson in living.

Somewhat bored at this point, I chose Aphrodisiacs.

The use of an aphrodisiac affects more than one person. Now there was a revelation. Aphrodisiacs exist as herbs or as food. Herbs include ginseng, garlic, and guarana. OK. I didn’t know that.

Erotic foods can be anything salty, sticky, sweet, chewy, moist, warm, or cool. So what’s left?

At the bottom of the page Finney had included a disclaimer, stating that his advice was for informational purposes only, and warning readers to consult health care professionals before employing aphrodisiacs as sexual aids.

Right. Hello, Doctor. I may eat a caramel. What do you think?

I was about to log out when my eye fell on a box at the lower left-hand side of the page. Finney had provided links to what I assumed were sources for his libidinous fare.