“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.
“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.”