Slices of Night - a novella in 3 parts

by Alex Kava; Erica Spindler J. T. Ellison

  Before she could respond, her cell phone sounded. "Killian," she answered.

  "Detective, Ray Hollister. Autopsy's complete. You want the highlights?"

  "Always. Patterson's with me. I'm putting you on speaker." Stacy clicked over and set the phone on the console. "Okay, go."

  "Except for the knife wound, which killed her, she was a healthy young woman. The blade entered under the breastbone and hit both lung and heart, very neat, no torn edges, in and out."

  "Type of blade?" Patterson asked.

  "Stiletto-type, double-edge. Five or six inches long. Frontal attack."

  Stacy stepped in. "We I.D.'ed her, spoke with her parents. They claim she gave birth seven weeks ago."

  "Jibes with my findings. It's in the report."

  "Any sign of drug or alcohol abuse?" Patterson asked.

  "None. But Tox will give us the full story."

  Stacy made a sound of impatience. "What about T.O.D.?"

  "Eleven p.m. Friday. Give or take."

  It was 11:00 a.m. now.

  Twelve hours since the murder.

  "When was the last time she breastfed?"

  Hollister let out a bark of laughter. "I'm good, Detective, but not that good."

  "Bullshit. An estimate."

  "I'm not going to pull a number out of a hat, Detective Killian, no matter how bad you want one. I can say, however, her breasts were engorged, so it'd been a number of hours, but how many--"

  "Thank you. That's what I was looking for."

  Approximately sixteen hours since the baby had been fed.

  Thirty-two hours remaining.

  "Want the report sent over?"

  "Absolutely."

  Patterson looked at her, frowning. "What was that about?"

  "What?"

  "That sound you made at my question about drugs."

  "That information's inconsequential to this case. Ricks wasn't an addict."

  "How the hell do you know?"

  "No need to get testy. C'mon, really, what does that have to do with this case?"

  "The one we're working. A murder investigation. IF she was involved with drugs, it could've gotten her killed. It happens every frickin' day."

  He was right. It did happen everyday. It could have gotten her killed.

  But it was wrong. Here, it didn't work.

  She told him so.

  He paused. The silence stretched uncomfortably between them. "What case are you working, Stacy? I'm getting the feeling, it's not the same one I am."

  NOON

  The boyfriend, one Blake Cantor, was a chef's assistant at a local chain restaurant, Zea's. Good food. Rotisserie meats and corn grits to die for. Stacy's stomach rumbled loud enough to make Patterson chuckle.

  On paper, the young man Ricks' parents had called "trash" seemed like a pretty decent guy. Full time job, no record, clean cut.

  Paper didn't always tell the tale; she'd met some pretty amoral bastards who looked like saints on paper. People like the Rickses.

  "What's up?" Cantor asked warily. "My boss said you needed to talk to me."

  "Detective Killian," Stacy said, holding up her shield. "My partner, Detective Patterson."

  "We need to ask you a few questions about Jillian Ricks."

  Fear raced through his eyes. "I haven't seen her for months."

  "You seem a little nervous, Blake. What's wrong?"

  "Nothing. I'm done with her, that's all."

  "Done with her? Wow, that sounds cold."

  He flushed and backtracked. "Look, I liked Jillian. A lot. But I don't want any trouble."

  "Sit down, Blake."

  "Why?"

  He looked panicked now. "Sit", she repeated. "Now."

  He did, though he looked for all the world like he wanted to bolt. Or puke.

  "When's the last time you saw her?"

  "January 5th."

  "You seem pretty certain about that date."

  "I am. It's the day I broke up with her."

  "You broke up with her? Why?"

  He stared at them. "For real?"

  "Why wouldn't we be 'for real', Blake?"

  "Her parents didn't send you?"

  "Why would they have sent us?"

  The kid looked from her to Patterson and back, as if trying to decide if they were being honest. After a moment, he sighed. "They hated me. They told me if I saw her again, they'd make my life hell."

  Stacy made a sound of disbelief. "And that's all it took? You bolted like a scared rabbit?"

  He flushed. "They sent a couple of guys. Beat me up pretty bad. Told me the next time I might be dead. Or worse."

  "You didn't report it to the police?"

  "Seriously?"

  The powerful and the powerless. The dynamic that spawned many of society's ills. "She was pregnant. Did you know that?"

  The blood drained from his face. "What?"

  "Pregnant," Stacy repeated. "She delivered in August."

  He stared at them a moment, expression anguished, then dropped his head into his hands and wept.

  A knot of emotion formed in Stacy's throat. She'd been on the receiving end of some pretty slick lies; she would bet her badge Cantor's reaction was legit.

  After several moments, he straightened, wiped his eyes. "I'm a dad?"

  "It seems true."

  "Is it a boy or a girl?"

  Stacy realized they hadn't even asked. "I'm sorry, Blake, I don't know."

  He suddenly looked confused. "Why are you here?"

  "Where were you last night?" she asked instead. "Between nine and midnight?"

  "Here. Working."

  "You can prove that?"

  "Yeah. I was on the line all night. Didn't get out of here until midnight. Had a drink with the crew after."

  No help here.

  Another hour gone.

  "Thank you, Mr. Cantor." She stood, Patterson with her. "We'll be in touch."

  "Wait!" He scrambled to his feet. The panic was back. "Why'd you want to know that? Where's Jillian?"

  "Jillian was murdered last night. I'm sorry."

  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, c
rooked 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 c
ouple 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.