"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, 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."