I was taken aback by the question and what it implied. At first I was hurt and then angry. It took less than a second for the anger to be replaced by understanding. I knew the victim, and I knew The Craft. The symbols and words in the pictures were no great mysteries to me. I was sure that Ben didn’t truly suspect me of the crime, but if he was going to bring me into this investigation, someone was bound to ask the question. He was correct to assume that I would prefer it came from him.

“Felicity and I had dinner with my dad,” I answered. “We went over to his place around four-thirty and left from there.”

“Where’d you eat?”

“Union Station,” I told him. “There’s a restaurant down there with a fantastic mixed grill. Before you ask,” I added, “we got home around nine-thirty.”

“Your old man can verify this, right?”

“The phone’s right there.” I pointed at the bookshelves. “His number is on the speed dial. I’m sure the receipt is upstairs if you want a copy of that too.”

“I’m sorry, man.” He looked back down at his drink. “You know I had ta’ ask…”

“…Or somebody else would,” I finished the sentence for him. “It’s all right. I was a little miffed at first, but I understand.”

“Okay,” he answered, then drained the coffee from his cup and set it on the table before him. “Let’s go do this.”

*****

Ariel Tanner had lived on the first floor of a four-family flat on a street called Shenandoah within the city limits of Saint Louis. From my house in the suburbs, it took the better part of thirty minutes to reach it even though the Saturday morning traffic was light. The morning sun was already climbing in the sky when we rolled into the alleyway behind the flat and Ben pulled the Chevy into something resembling a parking space.

“This is it,” he told me, switching off the knocking engine and pushing open his complaining door.