Текст книги "Slices of Night"

Автор книги: Alex Kava

Соавторы: J. T. Ellison,J. T. Ellison,Erica Spindler
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 9 страниц)

1:05 p.m.

"Son of a bitch, that was messed up." Patterson jammed his hands into his pockets. "Poor guy..

Stacy didn't comment. She couldn't shake the image of the young man crumbling at the news. Literally falling apart before their eyes. They hadn't been able to help him. He'd begged to know where his baby was. Again, all they'd been able to offer him was nothing.

The need to cry rose up in her throat, strangling her.

Jillian Ricks' baby was out there. Somewhere. She had to find it.

Time was running out.

"Where now?" Patterson asked.

She shifted the SUV into Drive, and pulled out of her parking spot, tires squealing.

He was looking at her strangely. She blinked furiously, cursing the weakness.

"It's okay to cry," he said softly.

"Fuck off, Patterson. I'm not crying."

"Okay then." He lifted his hands as if to ward off an attack. "My bad."

"We need a plan."

"Absolutely."

"Don't patronize me."

"Never."

9:00 p.m.

The plan had included a re-canvassing of the neighborhood around the scene. The good news: a few folks thought they recognized Ricks. The bad news: no one had seen or heard anything the night before.

It'd also included reviewing the debris collected at the scene. There'd been plenty of it–it was the Quarter, after all. Cigarette butts, wrappers, gum, several go-cups, a Cafe du Monde cup. Lots of other goodies.

Stacy had added in a trip to the morgue. To study the remains. The wound.

In the hopes the dead would speak to her.

Instead, she had ended up talking to the vic. Begging for answers. For assurance. And promising she wouldn't let her down.

"Hey, Beautiful."

She looked up to see her husband, standing in the doorway to her cubicle. Dark hair and eyes, quick smile, crooked nose. Her heart did a funny, little flip. Still, after all this time together.

"Spencer." The tiniest wobble in her voice. Concern raced into his eyes, and she knew he had heard it, too.

"Stop it," she said.

"What?"

"Worrying."

"Sorry, babe. Goes with the vows." He lifted a white take-out bag. "I brought food." He shook the bag. "Your favorite, half-n-half po'boy, dressed."

Half fried shrimp, half fried oyster, lettuce, tomato and mayo on French bread.

The last thing on her mind was food. Something else that would cause him to worry. She forced a smile. "Abita root beer?"

"You know it."

She stood and they headed to the break room. They had the place to themselves and sat facing each other over the battered table.

He immediately dug into his sandwich. "Talk to me," he said, around a huge bite.

She forced nonchalance into her tone. "Not much to talk about. Working a new case."

She hadn't fooled him; his gaze sharpened. "Heard about it. Any leads?"

"Nothing." She unwrapped the po'boy. The seafood spilled out the sides. She popped a shrimp into her mouth, then followed it with an oyster.

"You need sleep."

"Not yet. I can't." She lowered her gaze to her food, then looked back up at him without taking a bite. "I'm heading down to the Cafe du Monde tonight. There was an empty cup near the body. Hot chocolate."

"What's this about the vic having a baby with her?"

He had said it casually. Too casually. "Not with her. But somewhere."

"Yeah?" He chewed, expression thoughtful. "Why so certain?"

"Who've you talked to?" she asked, angry. "Patterson? Major Henry? They tell you to come talk to me?"

He frowned. "A murder happens in the Eighth, I know about it. And nobody tells me to 'talk' to you, Stacy. You're my wife." He paused. "What's going on?"

"I'm sorry." She reached across the table and caught his hand, curling her fingers around his, thankful for his strength. "I'm on edge about this case."

"Tell me about it. Maybe I can help."

She began, laying it out the way she saw it. A young vic. New mother. Breastfeeding. The reasons why she believed that, the night she had been killed, Ricks had left her baby behind. She shared how the hours since the murder seemed to be clicking off in her head.

"What about who murdered her? Who've you talked to?"

"Ex-boyfriend, the baby's father. Her parents. Both have alibis. We're looking for others."

Stacy took a swallow of the root beer. "It's someone we haven't interviewed yet. Friend or aquaintance. A stranger. Could've been a thrill kill. A gang initiation. Someone who has issues with the homeless." She paused. "Or, someone who wanted her baby."

Stacy glanced down at her sandwich, realizing she'd only picked at it. She carefully folded the paper wrapper back around it. She lifted her gaze to her husband's. "Here's the thing, this wasn't some hack 'n slash. This perp attacked her with surgical precision."

She took another swallow of the soft drink, using the moment to collect her thoughts. "He knifed her front on. Left side. The angle of the wound tells us he's right-handed. He came in low, slipped the blade in. No struggle. Took her completely by surprise."

"She was walking toward him," he said.

"Yes. Keeping to the shadows. The fringes." She lifted the root beer bottle, then set it down without drinking. "Nobody begs on that corner. St. Peter and Chartres? No way. Too close to the Square. Too much NOPD presence."

"She was heading where? What direction?"

"The River." Home. To her baby. "That's all we have."

"Cafe du Monde, what are your objectives?"

"See if anybody recognizes her. Find out if she was there last night. And if she was, did she have a baby with her."

"Then what?"

"If she didn't, I'll know I'm right. She left the baby someplace for safekeeping."

"With someone," he said.

"No. She had no one."

"Of course she did," he said reassuringly. "What kind of mom leaves an infant alone?"

"She didn't have anyone, Spencer. She was afraid."

"You have me, Stacy."

"What does–" She searched his gaze, suddenly realizing what he meant. "This isn't about me."

"Come on, sweetheart. Don't you think it's possible your instincts are scrambled right now?"

"They're not."

"That they could be driven by the miscarriage?"

Angry, she jerked her hand away. "They're not."

"You know nothing about this girl," he said softly. "Not what kind of mother she was. Not–"

"I know this."

He made a sound of frustration. "Sweetheart, this isn't about our baby."

Angry heat flooded her cheeks. "I can't believe you would say that to me."

"It makes sense. Stacy, honey, we lost our baby, there was nothing you, or I, could do." He paused. "And now you're trying to save hers."

"No." She shook her head. "This young woman was a mother. She left her baby behind, somewhere safe. It was a cold, damp night. Then she was murdered. Her baby is alone and–" Angry tears choked her. "Wow, I married a detective and psychoanalyst."

"I know you, Stacy. Better than anyone."

"I used to think that."

She started to stand, he stopped her. "You didn't cry."

"What?"

"When we lost it."

"You keeping score, Malone?"

"We wanted that baby. Losing it broke my heart. Didn't it break yours?"

She couldn't breathe. "Stop this."

"Didn't it?"

"Yes," she whispered. "It did. Are you happy now?"

He stood and came around the table, drew her into his arms. She resisted a second, wanting to hold onto her anger, the strength it gave her, then melted into him.

After a moment, she lifted her face to his. "I know I'm right about this, Spencer. I need you to trust me."

He rested his forehead against hers. Searched her gaze. "I believe in you, Stacy. And I'm with you, one hundred percent."

10:10 p.m.

Cafe du Monde. Perhaps the most famous eatery in New Orleans, a city known for food, and they only served three things: cafe au lait, milk and beignets–New Orleans' powdered sugar dusted version of a donut.

As such, Cafe du Monde stayed busy. No such thing as a lull here even though they were open twenty-four, seven.

Stacy figured Ricks wouldn’t have attempted to grab a table. No, she would’ve waited in the take-out line. Stacy did the same, though she could’ve used her badge to go directly to the window. Besides not wanting to start an all-out riot, she wanted to recreate Ricks’ experience, see what she’d seen.

Lots of people, tourists and locals alike. Street performers: a human statue over by the closed information center; a group of b-boys at the amphitheater.

She reached the front of the line and held up her shield. “Detective Killian. I need to ask you a few questions.”

The girl at the window looked unimpressed.

“You work last night?”

“I work every night. 6:00 p.m. to 4:00 a.m.”

“Do you recognize this woman?” She slid the photo across the counter.

The girl studied it a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, she comes around sometimes.”

“Was she here last night?

“Yeah, I think so. Always gets a hot chocolate.”

The folks in line behind her were getting restless. Stacy heard a few of them grumble. She ignored them, slipped the photo back into her jacket pocket.

“She have a baby with her?”

“Not last night.”

Stacy’s heart quickened. “But she does sometimes.”

“Yeah.” Her gaze shifted over Stacy’s shoulder. “You gonna order something? If not, my manager–”

Stacy cut her off. “When’s the last time you saw her with her baby?”

“I don’t know. A couple days ago. Before it got cold.”

“Hey, lady!” the guy directly behind her said. “You mind? We’re waitin’ here!”

White hot anger exploded inside her. Stacy swung around, all but shoving her badge in his face. “Back the fuck off! Police business.”

The guy’s eyes widened and he took an instinctive step backward. She knew if he reported the exchange she’d be dragged in front of the PID and get her hands slapped. Abuse of power. Not the profile the city wanted for its department.

Right now, she didn’t give a shit.

Twenty-four hours since the murder.

Baby unaccounted for longer than that.

She swung back around. “You ever see her with anyone?”

“No. Just the baby.”

Stacy narrowed her eyes. “Think hard. You ever see her talking with anyone? It’s important.”

The girl started to say no. Stacy saw the word form on her lips. Suddenly her gaze slid over Stacy’s shoulder. In the direction of the street performer, posing on the edge of the plaza.

“The human statue?” Stacy asked.

“Yeah. That guy. Tin Man. I seen her with him sometimes.”

10:20 p.m.

The Quarter was known for its street performers. Musicians, acrobats, mimes. Human statues. Like the Tin Man here. Blazing heat. Cold, rain, wind. There they stood. Frozen.

Stacy approached him. Painted entirely silver–skin, hair, gym shorts, winged shoes and hat. Eye whites looked disturbingly yellow in contrast.

He stood on a silver platform. She looked up at him. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

He didn’t move a muscle. Stacy gave him props for staying in character. “About a friend of yours. Jillian Ricks.” Still nothing. She held up her shield. “N.O.P.D.”

He eyes shifted, took in the badge. “I’m working.”

How did he manage to speak without moving any other muscle? Bizarre. “So am I, dude. You coming down? Or am I coming up?”

“Climbing down.”

Instead, he leaped sideways off the platform and sprinted in the opposite direction.

“Son of a bitch!” She started after him, berating herself for not seeing that coming. “Police!” she shouted, darting through a crowd watching the b-boys compete with one another.

For a guy who spent his days not moving much, The Tin Man was fast–and nimble. But not fast enough. She got close enough to bring him down as he rounded the corner onto Esplanade Ave.

She tackled him and sent them both sprawling onto the pavement. She heard a sickening crack and saw a spray of blood. Somebody was going to need a trip to the E.R.

Too fuckin’ bad.

Stacy wrenched his right arm around his back, snapped on one cuff, then did the same with the second.

“You never run, asshole,” she said through gritted teeth. “But you do have the right to remain silent . . .”

11:35 p.m.

Stacy had called for a cruiser and let the officers escort the Tin Man to the Eighth. Now, she sat across the scarred up interview room table from him. Patterson stood by the door.

She swept her gaze over him. Legal name Charlie Tinnin. Had a record, though nothing hardcore. Silver smeared by sweat and blood, cleaned away from the nasty gash on his chin and sidewalk burn on his right cheek. The doc who’d taken a look at both had pronounced him fit for questioning.

“Charlie,” she flipping through his file, “you have a record. Surprise, surprise.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Except run. Why’d you run, Charlie?”

“Cuz I don’t like cops. No offense.”

She’d heard that one before. “You sure that’s the reason, Charlie?” She waited. He frowned. “You sure it doesn’t have something to do with Jillian Ricks?”

“What about Jillian?”

“You know her?”

“We’ve talked a couple times.”

“Talked? That’s it?”

“Yeah.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Why?”

“Because she’s dead.”

The color drained from his face. He couldn’t have faked that, but the reason for it was up for grabs.

“Dead,” he repeated. “When–” He cleared his throat. “–what happened?”

“Where’s her baby, Charlie?”

“What?”

“Her baby. It’s unaccounted for.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You are aware she had a baby.”

He nodded. He reminded her of one of those bobble head toys. “So what?”

“She’s missing, that’s what.”

Patterson cleared his throat in an attempt to redirect her. Stacy ignored him. “Why’d you run, Charlie?” she asked again.

“I told you. I swear.”

“When’s the last time you saw Jillian?”

“I don’t know . . . a couple days ago. We didn’t hang out.”

“She have any other friends?”

“I don’t . . . not that I know of. When did she– When did it happen?”

“I ask the questions here, not you. Where were you last night? Between eight and midnight.”

“Working my spot.”

“By Cafe du Monde?”

“Yeah.”

“But you didn’t see Jillian?”

His eyes darted nervously between her and Patterson. “I told you, I was working. She may have walked by, I don’t know.”

“Come on, she walked by? Friends say hello.”

“It was busy. Med convention in town.” When she simply stared at him, he added, “You stand up there without moving a muscle, see what you see.”

He had a point. “Where did she stay?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you do.” And she did. She saw the uncertainty that raced into his eyes. “Where’d she stay?”

“Last I–”

“Excuse me, Detectives?” The desk officer stuck his head in. “A moment.”

Stacy stood and joined Patterson and the officer outside the interview room.

“We’ve got another victim.”

Stacy sucked in a sharp breath. “Where?”

“North Rampart. Near Armstrong Park. Same M.O.”

Stacy’s heart stopped, then started again with a vengeance. “Another young woman with a child?”

“No. An old guy. Also homeless. Just happened.”

The son of a bitch wasn’t killing to acquire the infants. Thank God.

Stacy turned and started back into the interview room.

“Killian?”

Patterson. Confusion in his tone. She didn’t stop or look back, simply returned to her seat across from Tinnin. “Where’d she stay?”

“What the hell, Killian? Release him. He’s not our guy. We’ve got to go.”

“Where’d she stay,” she asked again, holding Tinnin’s gaze. "I need that information. Now.”

“Vic’s still twitching,” Patterson said. “Come on, perp could be close by.”

She looked at her partner. “Go, then! I’ve got this.”

“You’re losing it, Killian. I’m going to have to report this to Henry.”

“Do it then. Take my frickin’ badge.” She unclipped it and slammed it onto the table. “Not now.”

“A warehouse!” the kid blurted out. “Upriver from the Quarter.”

Stacy was aware of her partner’s shocked silence. She turned back to the kid. “You’re going to take me to where Jillian stayed. Now.”

12:10 a.m.

The Mississippi River snaked its way around New Orleans, hugging the French Quarter, feeding the city. All along it, both up and down-river, warehouses dotted the levee, supporting New Orleans’ port, the busiest in the country.

“Where?” she demanded, buckling in.

“Are you crazy?”

She realized she must seem that way to him. Wild-eyed from lack of sleep, an emotional wreck. Her off the rails behavior at the Eighth.

She glanced his way. “Not dangerous crazy.”

“So you’re not going to hurt me?”

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He looked unconvinced, but buckled up anyway.

“The baby,” she said, easing away from the curb. “What’s it's name?”

“Jillian called her Peanut.”

Peanut. Stacy tightened her fingers on the steering wheel. Be alive, Peanut. Be safe.

12:25 a.m.

He led her to an abandoned warehouse just up-river from the French Market, at N. St. Peters and Elysian Fields. She pulled up and parked. Looked at him. “This is it? You’re sure?”

“I just dropped her off here. I didn’t go in.”

“That’ll do.” She popped open the glove box, retrieved her spare flashlight and handed it to him.

He looked at it, then back up at her. “Do I have to?”

“Yeah. Man up, dude.”

He grimaced. “I bet it smells in there.”

It did. Of mold, unwashed bodies and God knew what else. Stacy moved her flashlight beam over the interior. Basic, metal walls and supports, concrete floor.

Jillian hadn’t been the only one to call this warehouse home. Cardboard boxes, ratty old blankets. Figures curled into balls under those blankets. A few huddled together, staring blankly at her.

Eight squatters died in a warehouse like this last winter. It had caught fire and burned to the ground. She shuddered. “Police,” she called. “I’m looking for a baby. Jillian Ricks’ baby.” She swept the beam over the huddled figures. “She called her Peanut.”

Silence.

“I don’t want any trouble. Just the baby. She’s probably been crying.”

The transient didn’t trust anyone, particularly police. They lived on the fringe for a reason, none of them good. Mental illness. Abuse. PTSD. Bad, frickin’ luck.

She dug a bill out of her pocket. Held it up. “I’ve got ten bucks for the one who takes me to her.”

“Twenty.”

Stacy swung in the direction the crackly voice had come. A woman. Face obscured by dirt and wild gray hair.

Stacy dug another ten out of her pocket. “Show me, and it’s yours.”

The woman pointed, then held out her hand.

Stacy closed her fist on the cash. “Nope. You have to take me to her.”

The woman hesitated a moment, then got to her feet. She shuffled forward, waving for them to follow her.

She led them to a far corner of the building. To a grouping of cardboard boxes. She handed the woman the money and focused on the boxes.

A home. Jillian Ricks had built a home for her and her baby.

Emotion choked her. She moved closer. “Peanut,” she called. “Make a sound for us, Sweetheart.”

A low, deep growl answered her. Jillian hadn’t left her child alone after all.

Stacy got to her knees. Directed her light into the makeshift home. A small, dirty white dog bared its teeth. She’d been bitten a couple times before, once by a Pit. A drug dealer had set him on her and she’d been forced to take it down. She loved animals and had hated doing it. She prayed it didn’t come to that tonight.

She shifted her gaze and the flashlight beam. It fell across a small bundle, partly obscured by the dog. The bundle mewed weakly, like a kitten.

Stacy’s heart jumped; she looked back at Tinnin. “She’s alive! Call 9-1-1. Tell them there’s an officer down.”

“But, you’re not–”

“It’s the quickest way to get an emergency vehicle here. Do it!”

It occurred to her she might be down, once that little dog was finished with her. “It’s okay,” she said softly, hoping to reassure the animal. “I’m going to help Peanut.”

She inched into the box, earning another growl. “Peanut needs food and water. And so do you. It’s going to be okay,” she said again. “I promise.”

She crawled in, stopping every few inches to let the animal grow accustomed to her, the whole time continuing to talk softly. The dog watched her warily, muzzle quivering. But not baring its teeth. A good sign.

Stacy took a deep breath. “Good dog. That’s right, good, good dog . . . I’m going to take Peanut now . . . that’s right–”

She scooped her up. Cradled her to her chest. She was alive. Alive and the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

“Peanut,” Stacy whispered, the wail of sirens in the background. “It’s going to be okay now. Everything’s going to be all right.”

And then she began to cry.

One week later.

As Stacy walked into the squad room, it went silent. But only for a moment.

“Welcome back, Killian,” Patterson said, standing. “Way to go.”

Others followed his lead, calling out congratulations, clapping her on the back as she passed.

Yeah, she’d broken ranks–and been reprimanded for it. But she’d also trusted her gut and followed her instincts. Nobody understood–and applauded–that better than another cop.

That it’d paid off was definitely something to cheer about.

Several minutes later, she sank into the chair across the desk from Patterson. “Looks like you managed to keep crime at bay without me.”

He laughed, then shook his head. “A week’s suspension without pay, Killian. That was stiff.”

“But so worth it.” Stacy sobered. “Sorry about that night. I was out of line.”

“You were right. You saved that baby’s life.”

“But the bad guy got away.”

A week had passed with no new leads. Nothing. The med convention had packed up and left town and Stacy couldn’t help wondering if their perp had left with them.

If she had been focused on catching him, if she had joined Patterson at the scene, while it was still white-hot, would the outcome have been different?

As if reading her thoughts, Patterson snorted. “Stop it, Killian. You did what you thought was right and followed your gut. Isn’t that what a cop’s supposed to do?”

“He’s going to kill again.”

“Yeah, he is. But maybe that little girl’s going to grow up and cure cancer.”

She stared at him a moment, then laughed. “We’re going to be okay, aren’t we?”

“Maybe.”

She laughed again. “Fair enough, considering. You plugged everything into ViCAP?”

“Done. How’s the newest member of your family?”

“Peanut, the wonder dog,” she said, shaking her head. Child Protective Services had taken Jillian’s baby until she could be joined with her father, but no way would Stacy allow that brave little pooch to be taken to the S.P.C.A. “I swear, Spencer already loves that mutt more than me.”

Major Henry stuck his head out his door. “Patterson, Killian, 10-21, Waldhorn and Adler Antiques on Royal. Now, not tomorrow.”