The morning after the visit to the morgue, Elise sat across from Major Hoffman's desk while Gould perched in a nearby chair.

"I could use more manpower," Elise said. She didn't want her request to imply that Gould wasn't holding up his end, but there were times she felt as if she were trying to solve the case on her own.

"Jordan Kemp's death could still be drug-related and self-induced," Hoffman said in her soft, Southern voice. "And so far, no connection has been made to Harrison. Until we have that connection, it's going to be hard to justify pulling people off other cases-but I'll see what I can do. At least temporarily."

"Thanks." Elise wasn't surprised. Dead prostitutes weren't a priority. Not the major's fault. It was just the way things worked.

"What about the other body that woke up in the morgue?" Major Hoffman used a spoon to scrape the last remnants of yogurt from a plastic container. Her nails were long and red; her makeup was flawless. "Samuel Winslow?"

Major Hoffman was a black woman in a position predominantly held by men. For years, the city government had ignored Savannah 's crime problem. When Hoffman came along as head of Criminal Investigation, she immediately put foot patrols in downtown parks and tourist areas, creating a visual presence. She was also working on creative ways to address the racial tension within the city.

"The body was cremated, and there were no in-depth tests run after the initial autopsy," Elise said. "The lab work showed he was a heavy drug user, with large quantities of heroin in his bloodstream, along with a trace amount of morphine. At the time, it seemed to be a pretty straightforward misdiagnosed drug overdose."

"Understandable given the circumstances."

"One other thing." Elise pulled a Polaroid photo from her bag and slid it across the desk. "This artwork was on the body of Jordan Kemp."

Major Hoffman examined the photo, then passed it back. "Black Tupelo."

"Right."

"Did the first prostitute have this kind of marking?"

"No. And no sign that it may have been removed."

"I've scheduled a press conference for an hour from now. Is this Black Tupelo information something we want released yet? What do you think, Detective Gould? You've been awfully quiet."

He shifted in his chair. "At this point, I think we should keep it to ourselves until we have more to go on."

"I agree. What else do you have on your agenda?"

"We're paying a surprise visit to Black Tupelo," Elise said.

"Good luck if you're hoping to speak to Strata Luna. She has little tolerance for the police."

Elise had never met Strata Luna, but like everyone else in Savannah, she was intrigued by her. "I'm hoping to persuade her." She never gave much thought to her own past, but this was a time it might come in handy.

"I'm guessing it will take a court order," Major Hoffman said.

"Which wouldn't make her any more willing to help us."

"Do it your way. In any event, it won't hurt to approach her softly," the major said. "I would also suggest you investigate a rumor I heard of a zombie with a Black Tupelo logo."

"You're going to have to fill me in," Gould said as Elise executed a left turn. "Who exactly is Strata Luna?"

They were in a police car, heading for the riverfront and Black Tupelo.

"You've probably driven by her house. A mansion set back off the street in the Victorian District. It used to be a morgue."

"Morgue?" He groaned. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Strata Luna rarely goes anywhere but Black Tupelo. And when she does leave her house, it's in the backseat of a car with her face hidden by a veil."

"Why the veil? Is she homely? Or just eccentric?"

"I'm guessing she's in a state of perpetual mourning. She lost two children. Or maybe she's playing into the folklore that surrounds her."

"And that would be…?"

"Strata Luna's mother was a Gullah priestess, and Strata Luna grew up in a world of powerful women who could wield a strange control over men. Her mother died of a consumptive curse put upon her by a jealous neighbor. Strata Luna and her two younger sisters participated in the secret ritual of sanctified communion where they tasted of their mother's heart, and burned and inhaled her soul."

"Oh, for chrissake."

"I'm just relating the myth. You're to decide if it's truth or fiction. Anyway, the girls were unskilled, but they possessed their mother's beauty and charisma. They began selling their bodies to men who didn't quibble about the exorbitant price. By the time Strata Luna was in her twenties, her sisters had married and Strata Luna was running her own prostitution business. She didn't believe in borrowing money, but she eventually saved enough to purchase a warehouse near the river."

"Black Tupelo."

"She refuses to have her photo taken. It's said that in cases where the photographer uses high-speed film, a dark image can be seen just beyond her shoulder. Some claim it's the devil, but others say it's the soul of her mother looking for her heart, her spirit trapped between two worlds."

Gould shook his head. "What bullshit."

"Shut up, listen, and learn. As I said, Strata Luna had two children, both girls. Both died tragically. The first child drowned in a garden fountain on her mother's property when she was maybe eight or nine."

"Jesus," he said, suddenly sounding truly upset by her story.

"The second committed suicide about four years ago. Found hanged in a shanty on St. Helena Island. She was an adult by that time. Around twenty-seven or twenty-eight, if I remember correctly. After her death, Strata Luna began to constantly dress in mourning attire."

A block from the Savannah River, in an area surrounded by brick warehouses, Elise pulled to a curb. She shut off the engine and paused with her hand on the door. "One of the big stories is that Strata Luna's mother taught her the secret art of zombie making, and it's rumored that her prostitutes are all zombies she's created."

Gould laughed.

They stepped from the car.

"You laugh now," Elise said. "But if you live around here long enough, something will eventually happen to at least make you wonder… and make you respect the power the mind can have over the body."

"I'm not trying to diminish what you're saying. I've witnessed mass hysteria, but you can't expect me to accept everything you've just told me as fact."

She smiled a little grimly. "Of course not."

They traversed a cobblestone alley until they reached a narrow metal door that looked like a back service entrance. In the center of the door was a discreet Black Tupelo logo.

"Been seeing that a little too often lately," Gould mumbled under his breath.

"I have the feeling we're going to be seeing it a lot more."

There was no handle. Only a keyhole, a doorbell, and a tiny window covered with heavy screen.

Gould rang the doorbell.

"Attempts have been made to close this place down, but it's hard to get somebody on a prostitution charge," Elise said. "You basically have to catch them in the act." She also suspected that a lot of officers didn't want to mess with Strata Luna-they were afraid of what she might do to them and their families.

As in a tiny confessional, an inner door on the window slid open. "Yeah?" came a male voice.

Elise and Gould pulled out their badges and held them high while Elise made introductions.

"You wanna come in?" the voice said. It was Hispanic. Young. Bouncy. "Sure, you can come in. Have a drink. Listen to the jukebox."

The door swung open.

Elise stepped inside, going from full sunlight to a darkness that left her disoriented while her pupils adjusted. Gould bumped up against her from behind.

The place smelled like fermented beer and cigarette smoke. A jukebox in the corner played blues.

"Come in. Have a seat. Look." The young man made a sweep of his arm to the wall behind the bar. "Our liquor license. It's up-to-date. That's what we do here. Sell liquor. And food. Like to see a menu? It's a little early, but I can fire up the grill."

Elise was thinking something to eat might be a good idea. Give them a chance to talk to the young man.

"No, thanks," Gould said.

Her eyes were adjusting to the dark.

Wooden booths lined the wall opposite the bar. In the far booth sat two women, talking, drinking, smoking.

"Maybe something to drink," Elise said. "Nothing with alcohol. We're on duty."

"Sweet tea? We've got the best sweet tea in the city."

Elise slid onto a barstool. "That sounds great."

"I'll have the same." Gould took the stool beside hers.

"Flora!" the young man shouted to one of the women in the back. "Sweet teas… for the detectives."

While waiting for their tea, Elise pulled out five-by-sevens of the two male prostitutes, the photos enlarged mug shots she'd found on file. "Have you seen either of these men?"

The young man picked up the photos and carried them to the light above the cash register. A few seconds later he returned. "No." His voice was neutral.

"Sure?"

"Positive. Are they in trouble?" the young man asked.

"They're both dead."

"Both?" he asked, appearing surprised for the first time.

"Both."

"Shit. That's too bad." He frowned and shook his head. "Way too bad."

The tea arrived. A lovely olive-skinned woman with long, dark, auburn-tinged hair served Elise's drink. The woman was placing the second drink in front of Gould when her hand froze.

An attraction to Gould?

A split second later, she was moving again, setting the glass on the wooden bar.

Elise was never one to pass up an opportunity. "Have you seen either of these men?" She slid the photos across the bar.

The woman gave them a cursory glance, then shook her head. "No. Never." She had a slightly Hispanic accent. "Is that all you need?" The question was for both of them, but the woman was staring at Gould.

"Where's your rest room?" he asked, sounding a little panicky.