SOUTHERNERS DON’T ATTEND WAKES. WE ATTEND VIEWINGS. Makes sense to me. Drained of blood, perfumed, and injected with wax, a corpse is never going to sit up and stretch. But it is laid out for one final inspection.

To facilitate that last, pre-eternity peek, casket lids are designed like double Dutch doors. Finney and his gal pal had taken advantage of that feature, prying open only the hinged upper half.

OK for a snatch and run in the night. I needed full-body access.

Thanks to the vandalism and to natural deterioration, the top of Susan’s coffin had collapsed into a concavity running the length of the box. Experience told me the cover would have to be lifted in segments.

After prying loose Burkhead’s makeshift repair strips, I hacked through corrosion sealing the edges of the lid. Then, like Finney, I laid to with the crowbar.

Burkhead and Slidell helped, displacing decayed wood and metal to unoccupied inches of floor space. Odor oozed up around us, a blend of mildew and rot. I felt my skin prickle, the hairs rise along my neck and arms.

An hour later the casket was open.

The remains were concealed by a jumble of velvet padding and draping, all stained and coated with a white, lichenlike substance.

After shooting photos, I gloved, uneasy about Hewlett’s assessment that nothing in the coffin had been violated but the head. If that was true, what of the femora I’d found in Cuervo’s cauldron? I kept my concerns to myself.

It took only minutes to disentangle and remove the funerary bedding covering the upper half of the body. Slidell and Burkhead observed, offering comments now and then.

Susan Redmon had been buried in what was probably a blue silk gown. The faded cloth now wrapped her rib cage and arm bones like dried paper toweling. Hair clung to the cushion that had cradled her head, an embalmer’s eye cap and three incisors visible among the long, black strands.

That was it for the pillow. No head. No jaw.

My eyes slid to Slidell. He gave a thumbs-up.

I collected a sample of hair, then the incisors.

“Those teeth?” Slidell asked.

I nodded.

“Do you have dental records?” Burkhead asked.

“No. But I can try fitting these three into the sockets, and comparing them to the molars and premolars still in place in the jaw and skull.”

Teeth and hair bagged, I continued my visual examination.

Susan’s gown was ripped down the bodice. Through the tear I could see a collapsed rib cage overlying thoracic vertebrae. Three cervical vertebrae lay scattered above the gown’s yellowed lace collar. Four others nestled between the soiled padding and the edge of the pillow.

Gingerly, I peeled away coffin lining until the lower body was also exposed.

The wrist ends of the radii and ulnae poked from both sleeve cuffs. Hand bones lay tangled among the folds of the skirt and along the right side of the rib cage.

The gown was ankle-length, and tightly adhered to the leg bones. The ankle ends of the tibiae and fibulae protruded from the hemline, the foot bones below, in rough anatomical alignment.

“Everything’s brown like the Greenleaf skull,” Slidell said.

“Yes,” I agreed. The skeleton had darkened to the color of strong tea.

“What are those?” Slidell jabbed a finger at the scattered hand bones.

“Displaced carpals, metacarpals, and phalanges. She was probably buried with her hands positioned on her chest or abdomen.”

As I snipped and tugged rotting fabric, I imagined Donna thrusting a hand into the covered lower half of the coffin, fingers groping blindly, grabbing, tearing, amped on adrenaline.

“Overlapping hands is a standard pose. Either on the belly or the chest. Often the departed are interred holding something dear.”

Burkhead was talking to be talking. Neither Slidell nor I was listening. We were focused on the fragile silk covering Susan’s legs.

Two last snips with the scissors, then I tugged free the remnants of the skirt.

One lonely kneecap lay between Susan’s pelvis and her knees.

“So Hewlett screwed up,” Slidell said.

“Both femora are gone.” Relief was evident in my voice.

“I’m going to fry that pissant Finney. And his sicko girlfriend. We done here?”

“No, we are not done here,” I snapped.

“What now?” Slidell’s thoughts had already turned to tracking Donna Scott.

“Now I check for consistency between this skeleton and the skull and leg bones found in Cuervo’s cauldron.”

“I gotta make a call.” Pivoting, Slidell strode from the tomb. In seconds, his voice floated in from outside.

Folding back the torn edges of the bodice, I lifted the right clavicle, brushed and inspected its medial end. The growth cap was partially fused, suggesting a young adult with a minimum age at death of sixteen.

I lifted and inspected the left clavicle. Same condition.

I was scribbling notes on my case form when Slidell reappeared.

“Asked Rinaldi about a query I popped through to LAPD before heading over here. About Donna Scott and her daddy, Birch.”

“I thought Rinaldi was canvassing in NoDa.”

“Chicken hawks went to ground. He’s at headquarters, plans to head back out when they resurface after dark.”

I resumed my analysis by removing and inspecting the right pelvic half. The shape was typically female. The pubic symphysis had deep horizontal ridges and furrows, and a slender crest of bone was in the process of fusing to the upper edge of the hip blade.

I made notes on my form, then picked up the left pelvic half. Adipocere, a crumbly, soaplike substance, clung to its borders and symphyseal face. Ten minutes of cleaning revealed characteristics identical to those on the right.

More notes.

I was examining the rib ends when Slidell’s phone shattered the silence. Yanking the device from his hip, he shot outside. As before, his words were lost, but his tone carried in through the open door.

Slidell’s second conversation was longer than his first. I was repositioning a vertebra when he reentered the tomb.

“LAPD got back to Rinaldi.”

“That was quick,” I said.

“Ain’t computers grand?”

Burkhead had gone motionless. I could tell he was listening.

“Birch Alexander Scott purchased a home in Long Beach in February of 2001, moved in that summer with his wife, Annabelle, and two daughters, Donna and Tracy.”

“That squares with Finney’s story,” I said.

“Things didn’t go exactly as the old man intended. Two years after relocating, the guy was taken out by a massive coronary. Wife’s still enjoying the house.”

“What about Donna?”

“Sounds flaky as ever. Enrolled in the School of Cinematic Arts at the University of Southern California in 2002.” Slidell put a sneer into the program title. “Dropped out in 2004 to marry Herb Rosenberg, age forty-seven. Ever hear of him?”

I shook my head.

“Guy’s some bigwig freelance producer. Marriage lasted two years. Donna Scott-Rosenberg now lives in Santa Monica. Since July she’s been working as a researcher for a TV series.”

“Did Rinaldi get a phone number?”

“Oh, yeah.” Slidell waggled his cell and disappeared again.

“Who is Donna Scott?” Burkhead asked.

“She may have been involved in the vandalism.”

One by one, I assessed the maturity of the long bones.

Neck and shoulders screaming, I finally sat back on my heels.

Clavicles. Pelves. Ribs. Long bones. Every indicator suggested death between the ages of fifteen and eighteen.

Age. Gender. Height. Robusticity. Preservation. Staining.

Cuervo’s cauldron contained the partial remains of a black female who’d died in her mid to late teens. A black female now missing her head, jaw, and thigh bones.

Susan Redmon was a perfect match for the girl in the cauldron.

It was full night when Slidell and I left Elmwood. Thick clouds blanketed the moon and stars, turning trees and tombstones into dense cutouts against a background only slightly less dense. A cold rain was still falling, and legions of tree frogs matched vocal offerings with armies of locusts. Or maybe they were crickets. Whatever. The sound was impressive.

Burkhead assumed responsibility for securing the remains and locking the crypt. I promised to return Finney’s jaw and the cauldron skull and femora as soon as I’d satisfied my boss that they were, indeed, Susan Redmon’s missing parts. He promised to do his best to persuade cousin Thomas to cough up for a new casket.

Slidell was restless and grumpy. Though he’d left messages, Donna Scott-Rosenberg had not phoned him back

Slidell called Rinaldi again as I was buckling my seat belt.

I looked at my watch. Nine fifteen. It had been a very long day. I’d eaten nothing since the turkey and Cheddar sub at headquarters.

Leaning back, I closed my eyes and began rubbing circles on my temples.

“Broad isn’t burning up the line getting back to me. I’ll give her till morning, then bring down some heat. Let’s focus on Klapec. Anything new up there?”

Rinaldi said something. From Slidell’s end of the conversation I gathered he’d returned to NoDa.

“Oh, yeah? This guy’s really credible?”

Rinaldi spoke again.

“And he’s willing to share?”

More listening on Slidell’s end.

“See you at ten.”

Slidell’s mobile snapped shut.

We rode in silence. Then, “Ready to call it a day, doc?”

“What’s Rinaldi got?” I mumbled.

“His hawk is willing to dish on this Rick Nelson john.” Slidell stopped. “Know what I liked about Nelson? His hair. Guy had hair like a Shetland pony.”

“What’s the kid’s story?” I brought Slidell back on track.

“Describes the guy as average height and build, white, a conservative dresser, not a talker. Says he used to do Ricky-boy until he got the crap beat out of him.”

I opened my eyes. “The man was violent?”

“Kid claims the asshole tuned him up good.”

“When was this?”

“June. When he refused to do him anymore, Klapec took over.”

“Anything else?”

“Says he’s got info, but it won’t be free. There’s a novel approach. Rinaldi’s meeting him at ten.”

“Where?”

“Some Mexican joint on North Davidson. I’m gonna stop by, provide a little sales incentive of my own. You want I should run you back to your wheels?”

My stomach chose that moment to growl.

“No,” I said. “I want you should buy me an enchilada.”

Located at Thirty-fifth and North Davidson, Cabo Fish Taco is a bit upmarket to qualify as a joint. The place is more Baja surfer meets Albuquerque artiste.

Slidell parked outside the old Landmark Building, now home to the Center of the Earth Gallery. Hanging in the window was a still life of a glass tumbler containing an egg yolk and two halves of a plastic Easter egg balanced on the rim.

Seeing the painting as we exited the Taurus, Slidell snorted and shook his head. He was about to comment when he spotted Rinaldi walking toward us, from the point where Thirty-fifth dead-ends at the tracks.

Slidell gave a sharp whistle.

Rinaldi’s head came up. He smiled. I think. I’m not sure. At that moment, reality went sideways.

Rinaldi’s hand started to rise.

A gunshot rang out.

Rinaldi’s arm froze, half crooked. His body straightened. Too much.

A second shot exploded.

Rinaldi spun sideways, as though yanked by a chain.

“Down!” Slidell shoved me hard toward the pavement.

My knees cracked cement. My belly. My chest.

Another shot rang out.

A vehicle screamed south on Davidson.

Heart hammering, I looked up, barely raising my head.

Gun drawn, Slidell was thundering up the block.

Rinaldi lay still, long spider limbs arrayed terribly wrong.