SLIDELL HAD OBTAINED A WARRANT FOR CUERVO’S SHOP.

“I’m impressed.” I was.

“Erskine B. Slidell don’t let no grass grow. And, by the by, Thomas Cuervo’s a card-carrying citizen of these United States.”

“Really?”

“Looks like Mama managed to slip ashore, give birth, collect little Tommy’s papers, then hightail it back to Ecuador. In the eighties, Cuervo started traveling in and out of the country regularly. Been here steady since ninety-seven. INS has no permanent address for him, either here or south of the border.”

“That’s not surprising.”

“After a second, decidedly shitcan session with Roseboro, I cruised by Cuervo’s little pharmacy. Place was closed, but I shopped his picture around. Thought I was in Tijuana, for Christ sake.”

Slidell made a gesture whose meaning was lost on me.

“Finally smoked out a pair of hombres”—pronounced home-brays—“admitted to a passing acquaintance. Boys had some trouble speaking English, but whaddya know, flashed a couple twenties, their communication skills took a sharp upward turn. Seems hawking tonic and weed are but two of Señor Cuervo’s talents. The guy’s some kinda hotshot faith healer.”

“A santero?”

“Or maybe that other thing.”

“Palero?”

Slidell nodded.

Palo Mayombe.

Mark Kilroy.

I pushed the thought to deep background.

“Where’s Cuervo now?”

“Cisco and Pancho were a bit vague on that. Said the shop’s been closed for a couple of months. Suggested Cuervo may have gone back to Ecuador.”

“Does he have family here in Charlotte?”

“Not according to the two amigos.”

“How did you get a judge to cut paper?”

“Seems old T-Bird had other reasons for making himself scarce. Little matter of an outstanding warrant.”

“Cuervo failed to show for a court hearing?” I guessed.

“Drug charge. August twenty-ninth.”

“Any luck with his cell phone?”

“Records show no incoming or outgoing calls since August twenty-fifth. Tracking individual numbers will take some time.”

“You going to toss the shop now?”

Slidell shook his head. “Tomorrow. Tonight I gotta run Larabee’s prints.”

That made sense. The Lake Wylie case was definitely murder. We weren’t even certain the Greenleaf cellar involved criminal activity.

I retrieved the print forms from the main autopsy room and gave them to Slidell.

“I want to be there,” I said.

“Eh,” he said.

I took that as assent.

When Slidell had gone, I looked at my watch. Eight forty. Apparently Skinny’s social life was as pathetic as mine.

I was rebagging the skull when a ping sounded in my brain. You know. You’ve had them. In comics they appear as overhead bulbs with radiating lines.

Prints.

Wax.

What are the chances?

It happens.

Using a scalpel, I cut intersecting lines in the wax coating the top of the skull, outlining a roughly two-inch square. With some teasing, a flake lifted free.

I repeated the process until the entire wax cap lay in pieces on a stainless steel tray. One by one I viewed each under the scope.

I was three-quarters through when I saw it on the concave side of a segment that had adhered to the right parietal. One perfect thumbprint.

Why the undersurface? Had the wax lifted the print from the underlying skull? Had the perp’s finger contacted the hot wax as it was poured or as it dripped from a candle?

It didn’t matter. The print was there and it could lead to a suspect.

Feeling pumped, I dialed Slidell. His voice mail answered. I left a message.

After photographing the print with direct then angled light, I examined every flake twice, upside and downside. I found nothing.

The clock said 10:22.

Time to go.

I was pulling into my drive when Slidell called.

His news trumped mine.

“James Edward Klapec. Went by Jimmy. Seventeen. Looks better with his head. But not much.”

Slidell’s comment irked me even more than usual. We were talking about a dead child. I said nothing.

“Parents live down east, near Jacksonville,” Slidell continued. “Father’s a retired marine, pumps gas, mother works in the commissary at Camp Lejeune. Dropped a dime, found out little Jimmy split last February.”

“Did the parents know he was living in Charlotte?”

“Yeah. The kid phoned every couple months. Last call came sometime in early September. They weren’t sure the exact date. Keep in mind, these folks ain’t checking the mail for an invite from MENSA.”

I wondered how Slidell knew about MENSA, but let it go.

“The Klapecs didn’t come to Charlotte to take their son home?”

“According to Dad, the kid was sixteen and could do as he pleased.” Slidell paused. “That’s what he said, but this shitbird read like an open book. The kid was queer and Klapec wanted nothing to do with him.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Called him a faggot.”

Clear enough.

“Why was Klapec in the system?”

“Kid was a chicken hawk.”

That made no sense. In the parlance of my gay friends, chicken hawks were older gay men looking for young blood.

“I know you’re going to explain that,” I said.

“Punks that hang around gay bars waiting for prey. You know, circling, like chicken hawks. Great lifestyle. Do a john, score some dough, get wasted.”

Deciding the term in this context was a cop thing, I let it go.

So the Lake Wylie boy had followed a common path for runaways. Kid leaves home expecting a Ken Kesey Merry Pranksters bus ride, ends up eating garbage from Dumpsters and turning tricks. It’s a heartrending but predictable course.

“Did you speak with the mother?”

“No.”

“Did you mention the condition of the body?”

There was a brief silence. Then, “Maybe we’ll find the head and they don’t have to know.”

So Badass Slidell had a heart after all.

I described the wax print.

“Worth running,” Slidell said. “Klapec worked a patch in NoDa, around Thirty-sixth and North Davidson.” NoDa. North Davidson. Charlotte’s version of SoHo. “Rinaldi’s gonna float his picture, see what the homeys are willing to share. Before he heads up there I’ll have him collect your wax and run it by the lab.”

“What time are you tossing Cuervo’s shop?”

“Eight. Sharp. And, doc?”

I waited.

“You oughta stay out of the spotlight.”

Overnight, a front swaggered down from the mountains and kicked aside the warm comforter swaddling the Piedmont. I awoke to the smell of wet leaves and the sound of rain drumming my window. Beyond the screen, magnolia branches worked hard in the wind.

Cuervo’s shop was located just south of uptown, in a neighborhood that wasn’t a Queen City showplace. Many enterprises were fifties and sixties Dixie, chicken and burger franchises, body shops, barbecue joints. Others catered to more recent arrivals. Tienda Los Amigos. Panadería y Pastelería Miguel. Supermercado Mexicano. All were housed in strip malls well past their prime.

La Botánica Buena Salud was no exception. Brick, with a dark, brown-tinted window, the operation was flanked by a tattoo parlor and a bronzing salon. An ice cream shop, an insurance agency, a plumbing supply outfit, and a pizzeria completed the assemblage.

A beat-to-crap Mustang and an ancient Corolla occupied a narrow band of asphalt fronting the shops. Each gleamed as though buffed by a proud new owner. A good drenching will do that for old junkers.

I parked and tuned into WFAE. Sipping coffee from a travel mug, I listened to Weekend Edition.

Ten minutes passed with no sign of CSS or Slidell. So much for eight sharp.

Rain turned the neon lights on the tattoo parlor to orange and blue streaks. Through the wash on my windshield I watched a homeless man pick through trash, waterlogged sweatshirt hanging to his knees.

Scott Simon was reporting on mutated frogs when my eyes drifted to the driver’s-side rearview. Slidell was framed in the glass. Below it letters announced: Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.

A sobering thought.

Killing the engine, I got out.

Slidell was also breakfasting on the run, a Bojangles sausage biscuit and a Nehi orange.

“Hell of a downpour, eh?” Garbled.

“Mm.” Water was soaking my hair and running down my face. I raised the hood of my sweatshirt. “Is CSS coming?”

“Thought we’d poke around first, see if they’re needed.”

Preferring to examine his scenes pristine, undisturbed, Slidell’s normal MO was to allow himself time alone before calling in the techs.

Downing the last of his biscuit and soda, Slidell bunched and stuffed the wrapper into the can, then unpocketed and flourished a set of keys. “Asshole at the management office has punctuality issues.”

Up the strip, a storm drain had clogged, turning the asphalt into a shallow pond. Together, Slidell and I slogged to the shop.

I waited while he tried key after key. A bus whooshed past, water spraying from all of its tires.

“Want me to try?” I offered.

“I got it.”

Keys continued jangling.

Rain pelted Slidell’s windbreaker and dripped from the bill of his cap. My sweatshirt grew heavy, began to lengthen like that of the bum.

Far off a car alarm whooped.

Finally, something clicked. Slidell pushed. The door opened with a soft tinkling of bells.

The shop was murky and jammed with so many smells it was hard to ID any single contributor. Tea. Mint. Dust. Sweat. Other odors only teased. Fungus? Cloves? Gingerroot?

My eyes were still adjusting when Slidell found the lights.

The square footage was approximately twenty by twenty. Aluminum shelves lined the walls and formed rows down the center. Slidell headed down one.

I headed down another, reading random labels on my right. Energy enhancers. Brain rejuvenators. Tooth and gum restorers.

Pivoting, I scanned the products at my back. Skin poultices. Fertility oils. Aloe balms. Tinctures of slippery elm, barberry, fennel, juniper.

“Here’s a good one.” Slidell’s voice sounded loud in the musty stillness. “Parkinson’s kit. No more tremors, my ass.” I heard the tick of glass hitting metal, then footsteps. “Here we go. Passion oil. An ancient Hindu recipe. Right. That’ll make your johnson sit up and smile.”

Though I didn’t disagree, I offered no comment.

Beyond the shelving, a wooden counter paralleled the shop’s rear wall. On it sat an old but ordinary-looking cash register. Centered behind it was a curtained doorway.

Slidell joined me, features crimped with disdain.

“Looks like pretty standard fare,” I said.

“Uh-huh.” Slidell lifted a hinged wooden flap connecting the far end of the counter to the wall. “Let’s see what the Prince of Passion keeps stashed in back.”

Crossing the threshold was like entering a different time and place. Even the smells underwent a metamorphosis. Beyond the curtained doorway, the overall impression was of flora and fauna and things long dead.

The space was windowless, and little illumination seeped in from out front. Again, Slidell located a switch.

In light cast by a single overhead bulb I could see that the room was roughly ten by fifteen. As in front, shelves lined both sides. Wood, not aluminum. Those on the right were divided into compartments measuring eight inches square. A small bundle lay centered in each cubby.

The shelves on the left had been converted into pull-out bins, the kind from which seeds or flour might be sold in bulk.

A table ran the length of the back wall. Spread along it were an old-fashioned two-plate scale and approximately twenty glass jars. Some housed recognizable things. Gingerroot. Tree bark. Thistle. Others contained dark, gnarled objects whose provenance I could only guess.

In front of the table sat two folding chairs. Equidistant between them was a large iron cauldron.

“Well, hell-o,” Slidell said.

To the right of the table was a half-open door.

Striding forward, Slidell reached in and felt the wall with his fingers. In seconds, amber light revealed a rust-stained toilet and sink.

I was moving toward the cubbyhole cabinet when a bell tinkled.

I froze. Brushed eyes with Slidell. He flicked a low backward wave with one hand.

Silently, we eased to the left of the door. Slidell’s hand rose to his hip. Backs pressed to the wall, we waited.

Footsteps crossed the shop.

The curtain flicked sideways.