Kathy Reichs - Devil Bones

“Banana cream purchased at Edible Art. Though galactic, sadly, my powers have boundaries.” Charlie sat.

“Thank God.”

Two bites and I winged back to Lingo. This round, I really cranked up.

“Lingo’s hysterics about Satanists and child murder are going to scare the hell out of people. Worse. He could inspire the right-wing loony fringe to start burning crosses on the lawns of Ashkenazim and Athabascans. I’ve seen it happen. Some holier-than-thou nitwit hits the airwaves, next thing you know folks are organizing down at the mini-mart to go out and kick ass.” I air-jabbed my fork for emphasis. “Statues? Beads? Coconut shells? Forget it. Satan wasn’t on the A list down in that cellar.”

Charlie raised his palms in my direction. “Put down your weapon and we all walk away.”

I lay my fork on my plate. Changed my mind, picked it up, and dived back into the pie. I’d hate myself later. Tough.

“Lingo really pissed you off,” Charlie said.

“It’s one of his specialties.” Garbled through crumbs and banana.

“You done venting?”

I started to protest. Stopped, embarrassed.

“Sorry. You’re right.”

We both ate in silence. Then, “Athabascans?”

I looked up. Charlie was smiling.

“Ashkenazim?”

“You know what I mean. Minority groups that are not understood.”

“Aleuts?” he suggested.

“Good one.”

We both laughed. Charlie reached out, stopped, as though surprised by the action of his hand. Awkwardly, he pointed one finger.

“You have whipped cream on your lip.”

I made a swipe with my napkin.

“So,” I said.

“So,” he said.

“This was nice.”

“It was.” Charlie’s face was fixed in an expression I couldn’t interpret.

Awkward beat.

I rose and began gathering dishes.

“Not a chance.” Shooting to his feet, Charlie took the plates from my hands. “My house. My rules.”

“Dictatorial,” I said.

“Yes,” he agreed.

An hour later I lay curled in my bed. Alone. Perhaps it was the panty-tumble incident. Whatever. Birdie was keeping his distance.

The room was silent. Slivers of moonlight slashed the armoire.

Given the calm of the room and the demands of the day, I should have fallen asleep quickly. Instead, my thoughts spun like whirligig blades.

I’d enjoyed Charlie’s company. Conversation had been easy, not strained as I’d anticipated.

Sudden realization. I’d done most of the talking. Was that good? Was Charlie Hunt the silent, pensive type? Still waters running deep? Shallow waters barely running at all?

Charlie had appeared to understand my frustration with Lingo. Though I had, indeed, been venting, he hadn’t treated me like a sleep-deprived toddler.

Our dialogue had been strictly present tense. No mention of past marriages, lost loves, murdered spouses. No discussion of the years between the Skylark and now.

I remembered the wedding picture. Charlie’s expression. What was it I’d seen in his eyes? Resentment? Guilt? Grief for a woman blown up by fanatics?

Not that I wanted to share secrets with Charlie Hunt. I hadn’t mentioned Pete and his twenty-something fiancée, Summer. Or Ryan and his long-ago lover and damaged daughter. Ours had been a mutual, unspoken complicity, both dancing around the edges of our respective pasts. It was better that way.

Ryan.

I hadn’t expected Ryan to call. Yet, arriving home, I’d felt hope on seeing the pulsing red beacon.

Three voice-mail messages. Katy. Pete. Hang-up.

My daughter wanted to discuss Saturday’s shopping excursion. Sure she did.

My estranged husband hoped to arrange a dinner for me to meet Summer. That was as likely as pork chops on Shabbat.

The blades twirled crazily.

Ryan.

Was he happy reunited with Lutetia? Was it really over between us? Did I care?

Easy one.

Should I care?

Pete.

Don’t go there.

Charlie.

Enough.

The Lake Wylie corpse.

What had bothered me about the body? The paucity of maggots, given Funderburke’s statement? The absence of smell or signs of scavenging? The missing head? The symbols carved into the flesh?

Duh, yeah.

Was the Lake Wylie case somehow tied to the Greenleaf cellar? If so, how? The former suggested Satanism. The latter looked like Santería or a variant such as Palo Mayombe.

What had happened to the Lake Wylie kid’s head?

Sudden image. The hunk of brain buried in the cellar cauldron.

Was it human? Note: Ask Larabee.

My pessimist brain cells threw out a thought.

Mark Kilroy’s brain was found floating in a cauldron.

Adolfo de Jesus Constanzo and his followers were an aberration of Palo Mayombe. They were not Satanists.

Kenneth Roseboro.

Was Roseboro being truthful about the house on Greenleaf? His tenant? Where was T-Bird Cuervo?

Cuervo. Wasn’t that Spanish for “crow”? Thomas Crow. T-Bird. Cute.

What story would Roseboro tell in the morning?

The mutilated kid at Lake Wylie.

The cauldron bones.

The school portrait.

Boyce Lingo.

Charlie Hunt.

Pete’s nuptials.

Ryan’s détente with Lutetia.

And on.

And on.

Jumbled images. Confused musings.

But not as confused as they were about to become.

THE CMPD IS HEADQUARTERED IN THE LAW ENFORCEMENT Center, a geometric hunk of concrete looming over the corner of Fourth and McDowell. Across the intersection is the new Mecklenburg County Courthouse, site of Boyce Lingo’s most recent performance.

All detective units are on the second floor at Law Enforcement. At 8:00 A.M. I presented ID, passed security, and rode the elevator ass to elbow with cops and civilians gripping cups from Starbucks and Caribou Coffee. Conversations centered on the upcoming long weekend.

Columbus Day. I’d totally forgotten that Monday was a holiday.

No picnic or barbecue for you. Loser.

Kenneth Roseboro presented himself ninety minutes later than Slidell had ordered. His tardiness did not put Skinny in the best of moods.

Nor did the sludge that passed as coffee in the homicide squad room. While waiting, Slidell and I knocked back a full pot. Rinaldi was out showing the cauldron portrait to school photographers, so I was on my own with his partner’s bad humor.

This did not put me in the best of moods.

Slidell’s desk phone finally rang at 9:37. Roseboro was in interrogation room three. The sound and video systems were up and running.

Before entering, Slidell and I paused to view Wanda Horne’s nephew through a one-way mirror.

Roseboro was seated, sandaled feet jiggling, spidery fingers interlaced on the tabletop. He was maybe five-two, a hundred and twenty pounds, with an oddly elongated head that balanced on his neck like a budgie on a perch.

“Nice hair,” Slidell snorted.

Roseboro’s scalp was looped by concentric circles of ridges and furrows.

“He’s got a three-sixty wave,” I said. “Like Nelly.”

Slidell looked at me blankly.

“The rapper.”

The look did not change.

“Jaunty shirt,” I segued. It was lime and large enough to shelter a racehorse.

“Aloha.” Slidell hiked his pants. The belt settled above a roll that masqueraded as his waist. “Let’s sweat this prick.”

Roseboro started to rise when we entered the room.

“Sit,” Slidell barked.

Roseboro folded.

“Glad you could make it, Kenny.”

“Traffic was heavy.”

“Shoulda set out earlier.” Slidell regarded Roseboro as he though he were scum in a drain.

“I didn’t have to come here at all.” Roseboro’s tone fell somewhere between sulky and bored.