“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.”