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.