I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE THINKING. ANOTHER ROMP IN THE SHEETS, slut girl.

That’s not what happened.

Ryan and I talked.

Old pal talk. Mostly.

We spoke of mutual friends, old cases. Katy. Boyd. Charlie, our shared cockatiel.

Ryan relayed news of a homicide in Montreal, a man shot seven times, his chalet set ablaze. Teams were searching for the victim’s hands and head. If found, the missing parts would be at my lab when I next traveled north.

I told Ryan about T-Bird Cuervo’s cellar, and about the santero’s untimely death by train. I traced the link from Asa Finney to Cuervo via the cauldron bones and the vandalism of Susan Redmon’s tomb. Finney and Donna Scott-Rosenberg to Manuel Escriva to the cauldron.

I described Finney’s Web sites, and his seemingly schizoid personas, Ursa and Dr. Games. I mentioned Jennifer Roberts’s conviction concerning Finney’s innocence, and gave my impression of the Wiccans I’d met at Camp Full Moon.

I recounted the discovery of Jimmy Klapec, and described the 666 and inverted pentagram carved into his flesh. I summarized the entomologist’s report, and shared my uneasiness about the lack of animal scavenging and the paucity of insect activity on the body.

Ryan posed exactly the question that I expected. Santería, Satanism, and Wicca? I had no explanation.

I described Boyce Lingo and his extremist brand of morality, and admitted to my unfortunate on-air tantrum. Ryan asked what Larke Tyrell thought of my performance. I shook my head. He let it go.

I explained that Slidell and Rinaldi had been lead detectives on both the Cuervo and Klapec cases. Ryan made sympathetic noises as I described the shooting in NoDa, more as I explained Slidell’s continuing, though curtailed, involvement in all three investigations.

Ryan asked if those assigned to the Rinaldi murder were sharing their findings with Slidell. I passed on the information they’d given to Skinny and he’d given to me. There was no way to trace the nine-millimeter used to shoot Rinaldi. Few were on the streets that night, and those in the shops and restaurants saw little. Eyewitnesses did agree the vehicle involved was a white SUV. Otherwise, accounts were all over the map. Other than heavy credit card debt, Rinaldi had no known personal problems. No addictions. No angry ex-lovers. Except for being a cop, no associations that would put him at risk. No recently released prisoners who might hold a grudge. No unexplained financial transactions, trips, or phone calls.

Ryan asked about Finney. I said he was Slidell’s prime suspect. I ticked off the incriminating evidence: Susan Redmon’s jaw; the tension when asked about Cuervo; the eyewitness report of a Ford Focus, the same model of car Finney owned; the bloody Dr. Games Web site, verified by Slidell as belonging to Finney; the satanic books I’d found at the Pineville house.

I told Ryan that Finney was sticking to his story that he didn’t know Cuervo, and that he was home the night Jimmy Klapec was killed, but took no calls because he was fasting and meditating. I told him that between the grave-peeing incident six years earlier and his recent arrest, Finney had had no interaction with the police. That a search, reluctantly authorized by the DA, had turned up nothing in Finney’s home. That his phone, bank, and credit card records showed nothing suspicious.

I added that, save for Jennifer Roberts and those at Camp Full Moon, no one had been located who knew Asa Finney. Even his fellow Wiccans barely remembered him. He attended few gatherings, was what they called a solitary practitioner. Finney had no employer, coworkers, family, or friends.

I explained that Jimmy Klapec had no police record, but that he was engaged in a high-risk lifestyle as a chicken hawk. That questioning of other hawks had yielded little. Save for Vince Gunther, no one seemed to have noticed the kid’s existence or his disappearance. That, other than the bugs and the postmortem mutilation, neither the corpse nor the scene had yielded trace or any other kind of forensic evidence. That, except for the sighting of the suspicious Ford Focus, canvassing had turned up no witness to the killing or to the dumping of Klapec’s body.

I outlined what Rinaldi’s informant had told Slidell concerning Klapec and the violent customer resembling Rick Nelson. Finally, I described what we’d found in Rinaldi’s notes. RN, Rick Nelson. VG, the mysteriously absent Vince Gunther. GYE, perhaps Glenn Yardley Evans. Boyce Lingo’s phone number.

Ryan asked my opinion of Lingo and his assistant. I told him I thought something was off there. He gave me one of his looks.

I admitted that I had no idea what the motive might be, and that Lingo and Evans were out of town both the day Klapec got into his fight and dropped from the radar, and the day Klapec was killed and dumped at Lake Wylie.

Ryan asked if I thought the Cuervo, Klapec, and Rinaldi cases were connected. I said I wasn’t sure. He asked what Slidell thought. I reiterated Skinny’s conviction that Cuervo and Klapec were linked, and that Asa Finney was implicated in both.

But what you have on Finney, Ryan said, is diddly.

That’s what we have, I agreed, but added that Finney deserved further scrutiny.

Ryan asked about his backyard welcome from Charlotte’s finest. I told him about the porch light signal and the slit-belly snake. He asked who I thought might have left the little critter. I said take your pick.

Ryan said it was good he was here to protect me. I said “my hero.” Laughed.

Ryan’s voice went serious. No, he said. Really.

Unsure of his meaning, I said nothing.

Then Ryan talked. About Lily. Her addiction. Her rehab. His failed attempt to reconcile with her mother.

Ryan said he and Lutetia were now living apart. Admitted he’d made a mistake. Sought forgiveness. Invited me back into his life.

How those words would have thrilled me a few months back. Now they kicked up an emotional twister.

How would my sister, Harry, put it? I’d ridden that pony and been thrown.

And that’s where we left it at 2:45. Given the hour, I offered the foldout in the study. Ryan accepted. Birdie and I retired to my bedroom.

Sleep was a very long time coming.

My clock radio said 8:14. Arrows of light were shooting the shutters and the bedroom floor. The house was quiet. Bird was nowhere to be seen.

Morning sounds drifted in through my partially open window. Birdsong. A leaf blower. On Queens Road, a garbage truck grinding from pickup to pickup.

I felt as anxious as when I’d crawled into bed.

Throwing back the covers, I dressed, did modest toilette, and headed downstairs.

Ryan was at the kitchen table, reading the Observer. Birdie was in his lap.

The Viking blues lit up when I pushed through the swinging door.

“Bonjour, Madam.”

My southern parts did that wee! thing they do.

“Hey.” I ignored my libido.

Ryan was wearing jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, unbuttoned. Under the shirt, his T featured a fat green lizard and the words The Dead Milkmen.

Irrationally, the thing annoyed me.

Whatever happened to AC/DC? Lynyrd Skynyrd? The Grateful Dead? Katy was right. I really was a dinosaur.

I was also irked by Bird being in Ryan’s lap. He couldn’t wait for me to get up and fill his dish?

“You look good,” Ryan said, taking in my quick pony and slapdash mascara.

“Don’t start,” I said. Joking? Maybe. “Coffee?”

“You know how to make coffee?”

“I observe while waiting in line at Starbucks.”

“I’d help, but the cat might feel rejected.”

The cat never raised its head.

I ground beans and measured water. Sort of. I’m more of a guesser.

“Bagel?”

Ryan nodded. I popped two in the toaster, took cream cheese from the fridge. Got mugs. Napkins. Spoons. Back to the fridge for cream. Back to the drawer for knives. Back to the cabinet for plates.

Ryan’s presence was making me edgy as hell.

Looking for diversion, I flicked on the tiny counter TV. It was still tuned to the local news channel I’d punched up before leaving for Rinaldi’s funeral.

“So.” Ryan sat back. “What’s up for today?”

I was about to provide a peevish response when the newscaster’s words registered.

“We could—”

“Shh.” I flapped a hand.

“Did you just shush me?”

“—in the front yard of his Pineville home. Neighbors spotted the body around seven this morning. Authorities believe Finney was shot sometime between ten and midnight last night.”

“Did the woman just shush me?” Ryan asked the cat.

The screen filled with footage of Finney’s small yellow house. Cruisers and other vehicles lined the curb. The ME van sat with doors winged out. On the lawn, a form lay motionless beneath plastic sheeting, beside it an upended roll-out trash can.

“Jesus.” One hand was pressed to my lips.

“Asa Finney was a self-proclaimed witch. One week ago, Jimmy Klapec’s headless body was found on the shore of Lake Wylie, its torso carved with satanic symbols. A suspect in the Klapec murder, Finney had just been released from police custody. Authorities continue to investigate possible links between the two killings.”

“That’s the man you spoke of last night.” All humor had gone from Ryan’s voice.

I nodded.

“Sonovabitch.”

Grabbing my phone, I punched Slidell’s number. Four rings. Five. Six.

“Slidell.” Barked.

“It’s Brennan. What happened?”

“I’m kinda busy here.”

“Summarize.”

“Finney’s dead.”

“I know that.”

“He was putting out the garbage when someone capped him.” In the background I could hear the usual crime-scene noises. Crackling radios. Voices calling out. Others answering.

“A drive-by?”

“Larabee says the gun was fired at relatively close range. Shoeprints in the dirt by the bushes. Looks like someone was waiting for him.”

I struggled to form the words.

“Same weapon as Rinaldi?”

“This was a forty-five. Eddie got it with a nine-millimeter.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Neighbor two doors down saw a Volkswagen Jetta cruising the block late yesterday. Thought it looked suspicious. Got a plate number.”

“What’s your read?” There was no need to spell out my meaning.

“This plays different.”

“How so?”

“It’s sloppy. Eddie’s hit was clean.”

“That’s it?”

“Someone really wanted this guy dead. Six slugs worth.”

Dial tone.

Slamming the phone, I began pacing the kitchen. How had this happened? Had Slidell and I put an innocent man at risk? Was Finney guilty and someone felt the need to take him out?

What someone?

The someone who killed Klapec? Rinaldi? Slidell thinks not Rinaldi.

What would I tell Jennifer Roberts?

Feeling the soft pressure of hands on my shoulders, I turned. Ryan’s eyes were filled with concern.

“Come.” I allowed myself to be led to the table. “Sit.”

I dropped into a chair.

“Deep breath.”

I inhaled. Exhaled.

Ryan handed me a mug, then sat back and assumed a listening posture.

OK. Cop stuff. Safe ground.

I told him what I’d learned from Slidell.

“Was Finney robbed? Was the house burglarized?”

I hadn’t asked. Retrieving the handheld, I phoned Slidell again. Six rings, then I was rolled to voice mail. I didn’t bother leaving a message.

I took a swig of coffee. “I can’t help feeling Finney’s death was my fault.”

“CT.” Ryan used one of our codes. Crazy talk.

Grabbing the phone, I dialed again. As before, Slidell ignored my call.

“Crap.” The device hit the table with a sharp crack.

Ryan’s brows floated up, but he made no comment.

I raised my hands in frustration. “Why Finney?”

Knowing the question was rhetorical, Ryan didn’t answer.

“Nothing in this investigation makes sense. Cuervo, a santero, hit by a train. Rinaldi, a cop, shot in a drive-by. Finney, a witch, gunned down at his home.”

Ryan didn’t interrupt.

“Klapec, a chicken hawk, killed by Satanists and dumped by a lake. Hell, we don’t even have a cause of death in that one.”

I lifted, then smacked down my mug. Droplets jumped the rim and landed on the table.

“And now the asshole detective I’m working with won’t take my calls.”

As if on cue, the phone rang.

Without thinking, I snatched it up.

“About time.” I didn’t even come close to civil.

“It’s Larke Tyrell, Tempe.”

I closed my eyes. At that moment, my battered nerves couldn’t take more strain.

“Good morning, Larke. How are things?” OK. That sounded calm.

“Not good.”

My upper teeth clamped onto my lower lip.

“You spoke to the media after I gave direct orders to the contrary.”

“Lingo was campaigning at Rinaldi’s funeral.”

“I don’t care if the man was doing tai chi naked on the statehouse lawn.” Tyrell was also struggling to keep his voice even. “With regret I must inform you that your services are no longer needed by this office.”

My face went hot.

“Lingo is dangerous,” I said.

“So is a renegade soldier under my watch.” Tyrell paused. “And there’s the matter of the drinking.”

Shame flamed my skin with a hot effervescence.

“I’m sorry,” Tyrell said.

For the second time in minutes I found myself listening to a dial tone.

“Tyrell’s pissed?” Ryan guessed.

“I’m fired,” I snapped.

“He’ll cool down.”

“Andrew Ryan, the voice of wisdom.” I watched black clouds swirl on the surface of my now tepid coffee. “How can you possibly know what Tyrell will do?”

“I know you.”

“Do you? Do you really?” Suddenly, I was collapsing inside. “Months go by, nothing. Then you blow in out of nowhere with your sad story. ‘Poor me, things tanked with Lutetia. I’m all alone. How about a booty call?’”

I knew I was ranting, couldn’t help myself. Finney was dead. Slidell was snubbing me. Tyrell had just fired me. Ryan wasn’t at fault. But he was there in my face so he took the hit.

“And look at you.” I flapped an agitated hand at Ryan. “You’re almost fifty. Who the hell are the Dead Milkmen?”

“Beats me.”

“You’re wearing the T-shirt of a group you don’t even know?” Disdainful.

“I figured it was a charity for the widows and orphans of deceased dairy workers.” Delivered deadpan.

That did it.

I laughed.

“Sorry.” I laid a hand on Ryan’s arm. “You don’t deserve this. Lately, I’m certifiable.”

“But cute,” he said.

“Don’t start, big boy.”

Frustrated, I got up and poured my coffee down the sink. In my condition, caffeine was probably not a good plan.

Minutes later, the phone rang again. I grabbed it.

Slidell’s disposition had improved. Slightly.

“The Jetta is registered to a Mark Harvey Sharp in Onslow County. No police record. We’ve got a call-in down there. Should know something soon.”

Several cells opened sleepy eyes in my subconscious.

What?

No answer from my id.

It was the cemetery all over again.

Ignoring the subliminal stirring, I told Slidell I wanted to be present when he interrogated the driver.

“Why?”

“Because I do.”

Dial tone.

More pacing. Pointless activity. Dishes. Cat litter.

I was sure I wouldn’t hear from Detective Dickhead again. I was wrong. Slidell called back. Background noises suggested he was now in his car.

“We got us a suspect. You won’t believe who was driving that Jetta.”