“In case we lose touch.”
The girl rolled her eyes.
“Name?”
“Patti LaBelle.”
“Buckle up.” Slidell yanked and clicked his seat belt, then jammed the key into the ignition.
The girl raised a hold-it palm, then lay both hands on her belly. “All right.”
Slidell relaxed into the seatback. “Name?”
“Takeela.”
“That’s a good start.”
Eye roll. “Freeman. Takeela Freeman. You want I should spell that?”
Slidell produced a notebook and pen. “Phone number, address, name of parent or guardian.”
Takeela scribbled, then tossed the tablet onto the dash. Slidell picked it up and read.
“Isabella Cortez?”
“My grandmother.”
“Hispanic.” More statement than question. “You live with her?”
Tight nod.
“How old are you, Takeela?”
“Seventeen.” Defensive.
“You in school?”
Takeela shook her head. “It’s all bullshit.”
“Uh-huh. You married?”
“More bullshit.”
Slidell gestured at Takeela’s belly. “We got a daddy?”
“Nooo. I’m the sweet Virgin Mary.”
“What?” Sharp.
“Why you want to fry my ass?”
“The father’s name?”
Heavy sigh. “Clifton Lowder. He lives in Atlanta. We’re not mad at each other or split up or nothing. Cliff’s got kids there.”
“And how old is Cliff Lowder?”
“Twenty-six.”
Slidell made a sound like a terrier choking on liver.
“Is there a Mrs. Lowder in Atlanta?” I asked.
Takeela jabbed a thumb in my direction. “Who’s she?”
“Answer the question. Mr. Wonderful got a wife?”
Takeela shrugged one shoulder. So what?
I felt a wave of emotions. Anger. Sadness. Revulsion. Mostly revulsion. Slidell nailed it.
“What kind of yank-off works the school yard for nooky?”
“I told you. I ain’t in school.”
“Good career planning. Big Cliff weigh in on that decision?”
“He treats me good.”
“Yeah. And I’ll bet he’s a swell dancer. The asshole knocked you up, kitten. Then he dumped you.”
“I already tole you. I ain’t been dumped.”
“Will Mr. Lowder be helping with the baby?” I tried to sound sympathetic.
Another shrug.
“When’s your birthday?” Slidell’s tone was as far from sympathetic as a tone can be.
“What? You gonna put me in your address book? Send me a e-card every year?”
“Just wondering your age when you and loverboy tripped the light fantastic. If you weren’t sixteen, he could be looking at statutory rape.”
Takeela’s mouth clamped into a hard line.
I changed gears. “Tell us about Thomas Cuervo.”
“Don’t know no Thomas Cuervo.”
“You just left his shop,” Slidell snapped.
“You talking ’bout T-Bird?”
“I am.”
Another shrug. “I was out walking, saw T-Bird’s door open.”
“Walking. In a typhoon.”
“I wanted primrose oil to rub on my belly.”
“Can’t have stretch marks ruining our runway dreams.”
“Why you so mean?”
“Must be a gift. Where is T-Bird?”
“How the hell would I know?”
For a full minute no one spoke. Rain drummed the roof and ran in rivulets down the windows.
After watching a plastic bag skitter across the street and paste itself to the windshield, I broke the silence.
“Do you live with your grandmother, Takeela?”
“So?”
“I’ve heard that T-Bird is a wonderful healer.”
“Last I looked, that ain’t illegal.”
“No,” I said. “It’s not illegal.”
“Why’d T-Bird have your picture?” Slidell cut in.
“What picture?”
“The picture laying on my desk. The picture we can go downtown and peruse together.”
Takeela splayed her fingers and widened her eyes. “Ooh! That’s me looking real scared.”
Slidell’s jaw muscles bulged. His gaze slid to me. I squinted “Cool it.”
“T-Bird has been missing for several months,” I said. “The police are concerned he may have come to harm.”
For the first time she turned to face me. I saw turmoil in her eyes.
“Who’d want to hurt T-Bird? He just help people.”
“Helps them how?”
“If someone need something special.”
I pointed to the cross on her neck. “You’re Christian?”
“That’s a dumb question. Why you ask that?”
“T-Bird is a santero?”
“The one ain’t got nothing to do with the other. You want to pray, you go to church. You want action, you go to T-Bird.”
“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 S
atanists 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.
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.
<
br /> 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.”