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."