Carla begins. “The shoeprints found in the Levertov kitchen are from a man’s hiking boot, size eleven and a half. Unfortunately, it is an extremely popular model, available everywhere: Macy’s, Nordstrom, Saks. The material on the floor was mostly water, with particulate matter consisting of mud, soot, road salt. Another shoeprint matching these was found in a small snow bank near the entrance to the stairwell. Everything on the stairs themselves is too smudged.”

As he had the first time he had seen it, Paris looks once again at the sketch of the young blond woman, as described by the regulars at Vernelle’s Party Center, and sees Rebecca.

Why?

Granted, the cheekbones and eyes are familiar, as is the hint of a dimple, but that’s about it. Beyond that, it doesn’t look like her at all.

Does it?

Or is it just this spell he’s under?

Job, Jack.

Everyone concurs that their suspect had to have listened in on Paris’s and Carla’s radio traffic and known that Carla would be buying the hot dog for Paris, which is one of the reasons why Paris had phoned the Second District to move in and not radioed Carla. There had been no time to establish a scrambled command frequency. They had, of course, found the hot dog cart abandoned and currently had it in the lab.

It still didn’t nail down the Paris Is Burning connection, but there was no longer any doubt that Paris is the subject of this psychopath’s attentions. He’s not just baiting the department, the system, the city.

This is personal.

Paris holds up the composite of the hot dog vendor, sans spectacles and beard, says: “No one at the party looked anything like our actor. As far as we know, he wasn’t even at that party. Now, if he is some kind of rent-a-cyber-stud for this NeTrix, Inc., he might show up at the big New Year’s Eve bash. In fact, he may not have any idea that we made the house in University Heights yet, or established any kind of connection. Just because he has some kind of thing for me doesn’t mean he knows anything about the last party.”

Elliott asks: “How do you know that someone at the party didn’t tell him about you and Carla?”

“Believe me, nobody looked at me. Carla’s the only reason we got in the door in the first place. They know us as Cleopatra and John. I don’t think he has any idea we would come at him from this side. I vote for hitting that party tonight.”

Elliott looks at Carla Davis. “You agree?”

“Absolutely,” Carla says. “If we bring in Herb now, or whoever actually lives in that house, and sweat him, we tip our boy for sure. We lose the possibility that he shows up at the party. He’s in the wind. I say we raid the party at midnight.”

“What time does this thing start?” Elliott asks.

“Ten o’clock,” Carla says. “Herb sent me an e-mail this morning.”

51

The stairway to the basement is narrow, unlit, paneled haphazardly with three different types of Masonite, all overlapping each other by a few inches or so, all banged into place with bent and tortured sixteen-penny nails. At the bottom of the stairs is a rack of garden tools—rakes, picks, shovels, hoes, mattocks—hung on a Peg-Board. Paris and Mercedes reach the bottom, turn to the right: low ceiling, crosshatched with exposed wire, heat ducts, copper pipe. A single bare bulb hangs, casting brusque shadows.

They turn the corner, skirting the furnace, and see a slight brown woman of seventy, her chalky hair pulled back into a bun and infused with an elaborate network of colorful shells and beads. She wears a multicolored caftan and Dr. Scholl’s sandals. Behind her oversized, cat’s-eye framed glasses, Paris can see that she has a lazy left eye.

“This my ’buela,” Mercedes says after hugging the old woman. “My grandmother. Evangelina Cruz.”

“Mrs. Cruz,” Paris says. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Evangelina Cruz holds out her small calloused hand. Paris shakes it, noticing that Mercedes is right to say they favor each other. For a moment, when Evangelina Cruz smiles at him, he can see the young woman rise to the surface.

“Bienvenido,” she says.

“Thank you,” Paris replies.

Evangelina Cruz looks to her granddaughter for a sign, then turns and parts the curtain of garnet-colored glass beads in the doorway behind her, steps through. Paris and Mercedes follow.

It is a small, square room, perhaps ten by ten feet, damp concrete floor, painted masonry walls. Against the far wall is an altar, a four-foot-tall, three-foot-wide structure that appears to be a series of five steps, leading upward, covered in a bright white cloth. Each of the treads bears a number of items—candles, bowls, loose shells and shell necklaces, statues, cards, small pieces of pottery. But mostly candles. There are candles everywhere, all of them scented. The mélange of sweet and bitter and earthen aromas is overpowering.

Then there are the animal smells. The smells of cages.

Evangelina Cruz steps to the right of the altar, reaches beneath the white cloth, presses a button. Within seconds, music begins to play, a vibrant African beat, mostly drums. She looks heavenward, then reaches into the pocket of her caftan and produces a cigar. She lights it slowly, methodically. When it is fully lighted she draws the smoke into her mouth, then exhales it over the altar. She then blows smoke at Paris and places the cigar onto a brass incense plate.

“Donde está tu fotografía?” Evangelina asks.

“She needs the photographs now,” Mercedes whispers.

Paris reaches into his pocket and produces photocopies of the photographs of the four victims. Fayette Martin, Willis Walker, Edith Levertov, and Isaac Levertov. He hands the paper to Evangelina Cruz. Without looking at the photographs, she drops them into a large terra-cotta bowl on the bottom step of the altar. She then leans over and picks up an earthen cruet and pours what appears to be water into the bowl, half-filling it. She places the pitcher back onto the altar, then dips her fingers into the liquid and flicks them over the altar.

Before Paris can react, she turns and flicks the last few drops over him.

“Maferefún ashelú!” she says.

Then, without a word, she leaves the room, the glass beads clapping behind her. Paris hears a door open and close. Then again, fainter. After a few moments, Evangelina returns, carrying a chicken. A live chicken. She turns up the music.

Paris looks at Mercedes and lets his right eyebrow do the talking.

Mercedes leans close. “Don’t worry. She eats them after.”

Up goes the remaining eyebrow. “She’s going to kill it?”

Mercedes smirks. “And I suppose you send condolence cards to KFC when you’re done with a bucket?”

She has a point, Paris thinks. He just wasn’t prepared for some kind of barnyard slaughter in the basement of a house on Babbitt Road. He directs his attention back to the altar.

Evangelina Cruz puts the body of the chicken under her left arm, and with her right hand she reaches into the pocket of her caftan. This time she produces a pearl-handle switchblade, clicks it open, and cuts the chicken’s neck, deeply, taking the head nearly off. It flutters wildly under her arm, but Evangelina Cruz doesn’t even flinch. She holds the chicken’s exposed throat over the bowl containing the four photographs, and Paris watches as a series of bright scarlet spurts cloud the water, blurring the photographs completely.

In the background, the tribal music plays.

Evangelina chants. “Maferefún ashelú!”

The chicken’s blood squirts into the bowl.

“Maferefún ashelú!”

Paris looks at Mercedes. “Do you know what that means?” he whispers.

“Yes,” she says. “She is offering praise to the police.”

Paris is shocked. “There’s a saying for that?”

Mercedes smiles as the ceremony continues.