"Must have been hunkered down somewhere. Came out after dark."

She nodded. The NOPD routinely herded the homeless out of the Quarter, dumping them at various shelters around the city. They were particularly thorough when big conventions were in town, like the medical convention currently visiting the Big Easy.

A conventioneer had stumbled upon her. A surgeon. He had tried to help but she'd already been dead. He stood at the edge of the scene now, looking anxious.

She waved the scene officer over. "Get the doc's statement and contact information, then let him go." The officer started off; she stopped him. "And thank him for his help."

"You okay, Stacy?"

She looked sharply at Patterson. Good guy. Decent cop. They'd only worked together a handful of times. Stacy blew through partners pretty quickly. The lucky ones were promoted. The unluckiest of the menagerie had ended up dead. "Why do you ask?"

"You seem off, that's all."

She worked to hide a sudden uncertainty, the urge to wrap her arms protectively over her middle.

Did something about her broadcast the news? Like a tawdry neon sign at the side of the highway?

"Just tired." She fitted on her Latex gloves. "It's too frickin' early for this shit."

"You got that right."

She squatted beside the victim, being careful to avoid the blood around the body. The body lay crumpled, lower body supine, upper body twisted to the right, face in profile.

Stacy shined her flashlight beam on the victim's face. "Damn, she was young."

Her partner took a spot across the body from her. "No shit. I'd be surprised if she was even twenty-one."

Stacy moved the light. "Look at her hands. How clean they are." The longer on the street, the dirtier and more rag-tag they got. "She hasn't been out here long."

"Maybe not at all?"

"Maybe," Stacy agreed. "Could've been a hustle."

"Med convention brings 'em out."

"Oh man," Stacy said. With her gloved hand, she eased the denim jacket aside. "She was knifed. Looks like one blow. Clean."

Blood had drained from the wound, soaking her lower torso. Oddly, her upper torso was wet as well, her blue shirt marred by circular stains. But not blood.

Stacy frowned. "What the hell is that?"

5:42 a.m.

"Breast Milk," Coroner's investigator Ray Hollister said, a short time later. "She was lactating."

Stacy stared at him, feeling his words like a punch to her gut.

"Not pregnant," he went on. "A new mother. Breastfeeding, judging by the amount of fluid."

"How new a mother?" she asked.

"I'll know after the post. There's a schedule of healing that occurs by the sixth week after delivery. The perineum, the uterus. After that, it gets tougher to calculate."

Seconds passed. The silence was punctuated by the click and whir of the crime scene camera and the murmured conversation of the techs. Stacy shook her head. "Breastfeeding, you said?" He nodded and she moved her gaze between the two men. "So where's the baby?"

8:55 a.m.

The Quarter never slept and neither did the cops of the Eighth. While the techs finished processing the scene, Stacy and Patterson canvassed the area. Most businesses were just opening for the day, their employees not the same ones who had been in the night before.

They'd collected names and numbers and acknowledged they'd have to revisit most of them again later.

As the minutes had passed, Stacy's thoughts kept returning to one: Where was the baby?

"Fill me in."

Major Henry was a fireplug of a man. No neck, huge chest, all torso. He bench-pressed four-fifty. Which was no shit--Stacy had seen him do it.

"Vic's one Jillian Ricks. Eighteen. Barely, according to her 2010 Sacred Heart Academy I.D. Stab wound to the chest," Stacy continued. "Pierced the lung and heart. Surgical precision. Conventioneer found her around 3:00 a.m.."

"He checks out," Patterson offered. "He had just broken away from a group to go to his hotel."

"No other identification on her?"

Patterson shook his head. "Ran her name through the system. No driver's license, nothing."

"Motive?"

"Not a robbery," Patterson said. "Her backpack was with her, untouched. Evening's collection in a zip-bag inside. Thrill-kill, maybe. Random act." He glanced at her. "Child abduction."

Stacy leaned forward acutely aware of minutes ticking past. "There may be a child involved. An infant." Henry's expression darkened and she quickly explained.

"What other proof do you have?" Henry asked.

"None yet. Hollister promised to move her to the front of the line."

Her superior moved his gaze between them. "What are you thinking? That she was killed for her baby?"

Stacy pursed her lips a moment. "Maybe. But I don't think she had the infant with her. Last night was cold and damp. My theory is she left it someplace safe."

"With a relative? A friend?"

"Again, maybe, though people in her position usually don't have anyone to turn to. If they did, they wouldn't be on the streets."

"Theory based on what? Having a kid brings in the sympathy cash."

"No diapers or wipes in the backpack. No change of clothes, nothing. A new mother doesn't leave home without her supplies."

"How do you know so much about this, Detective? You and Malone have a kid you haven't told us about?"

She flushed. "My sister Jane. She has two."

"Have you considered she'd given the baby up for adoption? Or abandoned it? Breast milk doesn't dry up overnight."

He was right about that, but Stacy's gut was telling her Jillian Ricks hadn't abandoned her baby. She told him so.

"Why so certain?"

"Hunch. Instinct." Her hands trembled, so she pressed them against her thighs. "An infant can go around forty-eight hours without nourishment," she said. "The younger the child, the more tenuous the situation. I don't know how long we have. Thirty hours? Thirty-five?" She leaned forward. "We've got to find that baby."

Henry frowned. "We're looking for a murderer, Detective. Not a baby. A theoretical one at that."

"I understand that, Major, but--"

"No buts. You find the perp, got that? That's your focus."

"Yes, sir."

"Good." He glowered at them. "So, go do it."

9:45 a.m.

Sacred Heart Academy was one of New Orleans' storied institutions. An all girls, grades K-12, with a list of society luminary graduates that would make even the most prestigious east coast school proud.

Located on St. Charles Avenue, surrounded by an iron fence, its grounds dotted by magnificent moss-draped Live Oaks, Stacy had always driven by and wondered what would it have been like to attend school here. Would it be as story-book perfect as it looked?

Apparently not--Jillian Ricks had attended the academy.

More like an American horror story.

The headmistress met them at the front entrance, led them to her office.

"Have a seat." She motioned them toward the two chairs in front of her massive wooden desk. Nothing institutional about it. With its scrolls and carvings, it shouted valuable antique.