"Have you considered she'd given the baby up for adoption? Or abandoned it? Breast milk doesn't dry up overnight."
He was right about that, but Stacy's gut was telling her Jillian Ricks hadn't abandoned her baby. She told him so.
"Why so certain?"
"Hunch. Instinct." Her hands trembled, so she pressed them against her thighs. "An infant can go around forty-eight hours without nourishment," she said. "The younger the child, the more tenuous the situation. I don't know how long we have. Thirty hours? Thirty-five?" She leaned forward. "We've got to find that baby."
Henry frowned. "We're looking for a murderer, Detective. Not a baby. A theoretical one at that."
"I understand that, Major, but--"
"No buts. You find the perp, got that? That's your focus."
"Yes, sir."
"Good." He glowered at them. "So, go do it."
9:45 a.m.
Sacred Heart Academy was one of New Orleans' storied institutions. An all girls, grades K-12, with a list of society luminary graduates that would make even the most prestigious east coast school proud.
Located on St. Charles Avenue, surrounded by an iron fence, its grounds dotted by magnificent moss-draped Live Oaks, Stacy had always driven by and wondered what would it have been like to attend school here. Would it be as story-book perfect as it looked?
Apparently not--Jillian Ricks had attended the academy.
More like an American horror story.
The headmistress met them at the front entrance, led them to her office.
"Have a seat." She motioned them toward the two chairs in front of her massive wooden desk. Nothing institutional about it. With its scrolls and carvings, it shouted valuable antique.
"Sister," Patterson said, "thank you for seeing us."
"You said you were here about Jillian Ricks?"
Stacy stepped in. "That's right. We understand she was a student here in 2010."
"For longer than that, Detectives. She attended Sacred Heart from the first grade."
"She graduated?"
"No. Her parents withdrew her in her junior year. Right before the Christmas break."
Because she was pregnant, Stacy guessed. Though if the headmistress knew that, she doubted she would tell her. She asked anyway. "Do you know why?"
"I'm sorry, you'd have to speak with her parents about that. We were sorry to lose Rachel."
"Rachel?"
"Jillian was her middle name. She preferred it."
"We'll need her parents' contact information."
"May I ask what this is about?"
"Homicide investigation," Stacy answered. "You'll have to speak to her parents about it."
10:30 a.m.
Uptown, holier-than-thou hypocrites. When their daughter had refused to give her baby up for adoption, they'd kicked her out of the house.
Stacy didn't bother to hide her dislike. "You're telling us you put your daughter and her infant out on the street?"
"We figured she'd be back in a matter of days."
"Days? Really?"
"She had nowhere to go. We let family know they were absolutely not allowed to help her. Same for her friends' families."
Stacy had trouble controlling the anger that rose up in her. She felt the same emanating from Patterson.
They hadn't even asked why they were here.
Almost as if they'd expected it.
"And how long has she been gone?"
For the first time, Stacy saw indecision cross their features. "Six weeks," he answered.
"Not days, then." Sarcasm dripped from the words. "Have you tried to find her?"
"No. We didn't raise our daughter to be a whore. She knows what she has to do to come home."
"She'll be home any day," the mother said, looking at her husband as if for confirmation.
Stacy bit back what she wanted to say. "When did she deliver?"
"The baby was a week old when she left."
"You mean, when you kicked her and her newborn out of the house and into the street."
"Our home, our rules." He swept his gaze over her. "You're not a parent, are you Detective? You'll see, a firm hand's needed. Tough love."
As if Patterson knew she was about to lose it, he stepped in. "What about the baby's father?"
"Trash."
"In your opinion," Stacy said.
"In everyone's."
"Was he still a part of your daughter's life?"
"No. We saw to that."
"How so, Mr. Ricks," Stacy asked.
"With all due respect, it's none of your business. This is a family matter."
"It's a police matter now."
The mother spoke for the first time. "What kind of trouble has she gotten herself into now?"
"She's dead, Mrs. Ricks," Stacy said, unable to hold back her contempt. "She got herself murdered."
11:15 a.m.
Ten minutes later, they were buckled into Stacy's SUV. She started it, but didn't shift out of park. "I hope they did it," Stacy muttered. "It'd make my day to see them cuffed and hauled off."
"No frickin' joke. They hardly flinched at the news." He held up the photo they'd supplied of their daughter. They hadn't even had one of the baby. "You need a license to drive but any psychopath can be a parent. No questions asked." He looked at her. "They were weird about the boyfriend. Think they killed him, too?"