“On Thursday? Or on Sunday?”

He cut in before I could respond.

“Shall we try again? Maybe on a Friday?”

“There’s been someone else, Charlie. A detective in Montreal. I’m not sure it’s over.”

My own words surprised me. Of course it was over. And I was over Ryan.

“He’s very far away,” Charlie said.

In so many ways, I thought.

“Stand by your man,” Charlie sang softly.

I had to smile. The song had played incessantly on an interminable bus trip to a state tennis tournament. It became one of the team’s standing jokes.

“Who owned that tape?” I asked.

“Drek Zogbauer.”

“We went to school with someone named Drek Zogbauer?”

Charlie shrugged.

“I remember everyone applauded when the driver finally confiscated the boom box.”

“I led the ovation. It was not the music of my people.”

I cocked a brow. “Your people?”

“Yankees fans.”

Again, I had to smile.

“I do understand, Tempe. Healing takes time.”

You would know, I thought, recalling the photos of his murdered wife.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I can wait.” Charlie grinned. Sad, but a grin. “I’m a very patient man.”

And then I hugged him.

He started to walk away.

“Charlie.”

He turned back.

“Asa Finney was released this morning.”

One hand went to his chest. “Really. No need for accolades.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Just an acknowledgment that I’m the greatest lawyer on the planet.”

“Between you and me, do you read Finney as capable of violence?”

Charlie stepped back to me and lowered his voice. “Honestly, Tempe. I don’t know. Slidell’s right about one thing. The guy’s one weird duck.”

“Thanks.”

Charlie had gone barely ten paces when Slidell left Dunning and ambled back to me.

“That was touching.”

“We went to high school together.”

“I’m happy for you.”

I said nothing.

“Dunning’s pissed.”

“Why?”

“Switchboard’s lighting up with calls from outraged citizens wanting to know why the cops ain’t rounding up witches and warlocks.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. They think He’d be all for it.”

I just shook my head.

“She puts it partly on you.”

“Wait. What?”

“Says you goaded Lingo.”

“I goaded him?”

“Most callers think you’re the spawn of the devil.”

Thirty minutes later, the cavalcade arrived and a brief graveside service took place. Guns were fired, then the coffin was lowered into the ground. The crowd began to disperse.

The backhoe was shoving dirt onto Rinaldi when I spotted Larabee staring toward the gate opening onto Sharon Amity Road. Curious, I followed his sight line.

Like ants drawn to a gumdrop, reporters were circling a pair of men. All I could see were the tops of two heads, one silver-haired, the other buzz cut.

Boyce Lingo and his aide. Exploiting Rinaldi’s funeral to spread a message of hatred and intolerance.

White-hot anger seared through me.

Elbow-jabbing Slidell, I took off in Lingo’s direction, intending not to speak, but to stand front and center, a living reminder to the commissioner that he’d be held accountable for every word he uttered.

Behind me I could hear Slidell struggling to keep up. Behind him, more movement, which I assumed was Larabee.

Reaching the scrum, I pushed to the front and positioned myself opposite Lingo.

“-Finney was set free this morning. Free to live amongst us paying tribute to Satan, worshipping Lucifer and bringing evil into this world.”

Silence, Brennan.

“Now, the law is the law and the man has his rights. That’s as it should be. That’s our system. But what happens when that system begins to crumble? When the rights of criminals outweigh those of law-abiding citizens like you and me?”

Easy.

“I’ll tell you what happens. O. J. Simpson plays golf in Florida. Robert Blake and Phil Spector party in their Hollywood mansions.”

“Are you saying those juries were wrong?” a reporter called out. “That these guys are guilty?”

“I’m saying our government is losing its ability to protect us against criminals and terrorists.”

“Why?” another voice asked.

“I’ll tell you why. Restrictive laws that tie the hands of police and prosecutors. If elected to the state senate I’ll work hard for repeal of those laws.”

I forgot the chief’s warning. Forgot my plan of silent intimidation.

“This is hardly the place for campaigning, Commissioner.”

As at our previous encounter, all eyes swung to me. Lenses and booms followed.

Lingo smiled benevolently. “We meet again, Dr. Brennan. But, yes, what you say is true.”

“Asa Finney has a right to his day in court.”

“Of course he does.”

I couldn’t let it go at that. “And to worship as he chooses.”

Lingo’s face went somber. “In venerating Satan, Asa Finney and his kind ignore the goodness of Jesus and show contempt for all our Savior has done for us.”

Lingo raised humble hands.

“But enough. She is right. Today is for mourning a fine officer who sacrificed his life in the line of duty.”

With that, Lingo turned and began walking away.

Pumped on adrenaline, I started to follow. Buzz-cut blocked my path.

“I have questions I’d like to pose to the commissioner off air,” I said.

Buzz-cut spread his feet and shook his head.

“Out of my way, please,” I said, voice all steely control.

Buzz-cut’s face remained impassive. “Best to call for an appointment.”

I started to move past him. Extending an arm, he blocked me. I stepped left. He mirrored my move.

I started to say something I would later have regretted.

“Hold on right there.” Slidell was seething. “Did you just strong-arm this little lady?”

Little lady?

Folding his arms, Buzz-cut canted his head, gangsta-tough.

“What’s your name?” Slidell demanded.

“Who’s asking?”

Slidell flashed his shield. “I am, asshole.”

“Glenn Evans.”

“You his flunky?” Slidell chin-cocked Lingo’s retreating figure.

“I serve as Commissioner Lingo’s personal assistant.” The voice was more shrill than I’d expected for a man of his size.

“Perfect. Then you can explain why my partner would be phoning your boss.”

“Are you serious?”

“Deadly.”

“This is harassment.”

“Sue me.”

“I fail to even understand your question. Nevertheless, I’ll answer it. All communication goes through me, personally, and no such call ever came into Commissioner Lingo’s office.”

“You’re pretty sure about that. Don’t need to check a calendar or nothing?” Evans’s belligerence was not improving Slidell’s disposition. “This be easier for you down at the station?”

“You don’t scare me, Detective.”

Slidell glared in silence.

Evans pulled on his nose with thumb and forefinger. Cocked his hands on his hips. Drummed his fingers on his belt. “When did this alleged conversation take place?”

“Shortly before Detective Rinaldi was shot. You want, I can subpoena your phone records. Your preference.”

“This is bullshit.”

“Jimmy Klapec. That name mean anything to you?”

“Who is he?”

“I’m asking the questions.” Slidell’s forehead vein was doing a rumba.

“The commissioner often reaches out into the community, visits homeless shelters, soup kitchens, battered women’s homes, food banks, that kind of thing. He meets a lot of people.”

Slidell said nothing, hoping Evans would feel compelled to continue talking. The ploy worked.

“The commissioner could have met this Klapec at any one of a dozen places.”

“The kid was a runaway living on the streets. Seventeen years old. Detective Rinaldi was investigating his murder. That’s why I gotta be curious Rinaldi’s calling your boss.”

“Wait. Are you talking about the boy found at Lake Wylie? I thought that was some kind of satanic-ritual thing.”