HAD HATSHEPSUT’S MUMMY APPEARED IN THAT DOORWAY I couldn’t have been more surprised.

The girl was young, maybe sixteen or seventeen, with nutmeg skin and center-parted hair tucked behind her ears. Only her waistline differed from the school portrait. Based on belly size, I guessed she was almost full term.

The girl scanned the room, expression watchful and alert.

“Está aquí, señor?” Whispered.

I held my breath.

Still clutching the curtain, the girl stepped forward. Backlight from the shop sparkled moisture in her hair.

“Señor?”

Slidell’s hand dropped. Nylon swished.

The girl’s face whipped our way, eyes wide. Flinging aside the curtain, she bolted.

Without thinking, I blew past Slidell and raced across the shop. By the time I cleared the shelving, the girl was out the door.

Rain still poured from the sky and sluiced along the pavement. Head lowered, I pounded after my quarry, water pluming up from my sneakers.

I had the advantage. I wasn’t pregnant. By the pizzeria, I’d closed the gap enough to lunge and catch hold of the girl’s sweater. Reaching back, she knuckle-drilled my hand again and again.

It hurt like hell. I held on.

“We just want to talk,” I shouted through the downpour.

The girl gave up pummeling my carpals to claw at her zipper.

“Please.”

“Leave me alone!” Struggling to shrug free of the sweater.

I heard splashing behind me.

“Hold it right there, little lady.” Slidell sounded like a whale spouting air.

The girl’s thrashing grew desperate. Rain flicked from her hair, sending spray across my face.

“Let me be. You got no-”

Slidell pinwheeled the girl and clamped her arms to her sides.

She kicked back with one foot. A heel connected.

“Sonova-”

“She’s pregnant,” I yelled.

“Tell that to my goddamn shinbone.”

“It’s OK,” I said in what I hoped was a reassuring voice. “You’re not in trouble.”

The girl glared at me, fury in her eyes.

I smiled and held her gaze.

The girl squirmed and kicked.

“Your choice.” Slidell panted. “We do this civilized, or I cuff you and we do it downtown.”

The girl stilled, perhaps laboring through her alternatives. Then her shoulders slumped and her hands balled into fists.

“Good. Now I’m going to let you go and you’re not gonna do nothing stupid.”

We all stood there, breath coming in gasps. After a moment, Slidell released his grip and stepped back.

“Now. We walk to my car, all calm and collected.”

The girl straightened and her chin tipped up in defiance. I could see a small gold cross lying in the hollow of her throat. Below it, a pulse beat hard.

“We all on the same page?” Slidell asked.

“Whatever gets you off,” the girl said.

Regripping the girl’s arm, Slidell motioned for me to follow. I did, watching drops dimple the lake at my feet.

Slidell eased the girl into the passenger seat. As he circled the hood I displaced a mashed pizza box, a Chinese takeout bag, and a pair of old sneakers, and climbed in back. The Taurus’s interior smelled like week-old underwear.

“Jesus.” The girl’s left hand rose to cover her nose. The fourth finger wore no ring. “Something die in here?”

Sliding behind the wheel, Slidell slammed and leaned against the door, then pointed a key in her direction.

“What’s your name?”

“What’s yours?”

Slidell badged her.

The girl blew air through her lips.

“What’s your name?” Slidell repeated his question.

“Why you want to know?”

“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.”