Slices of Night - a novella in 3 parts Read online

  Copyright © 2011 by J.T. Ellison, Alex Kava and Erica Spindler

  All rights reserved. Prairie Wind Publishing

  www.PWindPub.com

  ISBN: 978-0-98836761-1-9

  Cover art byBecky Hicks

  Hoffman Miller Advertising

  Compiled and Formatted byDeb Carlin

  Prairie Wind Publishing

  Photo Credits:

  J.T. Ellison by Chris Blanz of Cabedge

  Alex Kava by Deb Carlin of Prairie Wind Publishing

  Erica Spindler by Hoffman Miller Advertising

  Excerpts reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  INTRODUCTION

  THE MISSING AND THE GONE by Erica Spindler

  BLOOD SUGAR BABY by J.T. Ellison

  COLD METAL NIGHT by Alex Kava

  GET TO KNOW THE AUTHORS

  ~J.T. Ellison

  ~Erica Spindler

  ~Alex Kava

  CHAPTER EXCERPTS

  WHERE ALL THE DEAD LIE-J.T. Ellison

  WATCH ME DIE-Erica Spindler

  HOTWIRE-Alex Kava

  INTRODUCTION BY ALEX KAVA

  July 2010 Erica Spindler, JT and Randy Ellison, Deb Carlin and I went out to dinner at Remy’s in New York City. It wasn’t the first time we had all gotten together. By now we were more than colleagues. We were friends. Sometime during dinner Deb asked Erica, JT and I if we’d ever consider writing something together. Of course, we said we’d love to. But as writers we spend a good deal of our time alone. We need to climb inside our minds and inside our characters. Rarely do we collaborate and when we do, it’s usually to contribute a short story that we’ve written alone but are including in an anthology.

  Thankfully Deb continued to pester us. She volunteered to be the architect, to put together and format the book, to keep us on deadline, and to cheer us along. I mentioned to Erica and JT that it would be fun if our protagonists had to deal with the same serial killer, each in her own city. From there we started developing our killer including his MO, the weapon he used, even the victims he chose. Then we decided who had to deal with him first, second and third. And that’s the order the stories were written, so that we could respond to each other.

  SLICES OF NIGHT is the result. We have had an incredible experience working on this together for all of you, our readers. We hope you enjoy reading it as much as we have enjoyed writing it.

  DEDICATION

  To DEB CARLIN,

  You pulled this together, an insane, thankless task.

  But you did it with grace, aplomb and good humor.

  Lady, you're amazing!

  Erica to J.T. and Alex:

  Without you this business would be a lot more difficult

  ~and a lot less fun.

  THE MISSING AND THE GONE

  by

  Erica Spindler

  Until today, N.O.P.D. Detective Stacy Killian figured she was made of relatively tough stuff. She'd weathered some horrendous shit, including being shot, kidnapped, and betrayed on the most elemental level. She'd figured she had seen it all when it came to pain and suffering, both hers and that of her fellow human beings.

  She would never be cocky again. Never think she was so big and bad.

  She'd lost the baby.

  The one neither she nor Spencer had planned for. The pregnancy. Her first reaction to it had been Hell, no. Not now, not yet.

  But then it had begun to change her. Everything from the way she viewed her body to the way she made love to her husband. She was going to be a mother. She and Spencer had made this little boy or girl with their love.

  Nine weeks later, all that was gone. And she was left empty, feeling lost and broken.

  She wanted to weep. To wail and rage. If she allowed herself that luxury, she feared she wouldn't be able to stop. The pain, the sense of loss, went so deep, it had burrowed into her bones.

  "I'm so sorry sweetheart."

  She shifted her gaze to Spencer, perched at the side of her bed. She took in his strong, handsome face. Her husband. Her best friend.

  Brokenhearted. Family was everything to him. The Malone clan was as big and close knit as they came. Seven siblings, five in law enforcement, fiercely loyal to one another.

  He had been so excited. So proud.

  She had to be strong for him.

  "I'm okay," she said. "We'll be fine."

  He frowned slightly at that. "Of course we will." He took her hand, laced their fingers. "We'll have other babies."

  A knot of tears formed in her throat. But she had wanted this one. It had become real for her.

  "It's good we didn't tell anyone," she said. "We won't have to deal with everyone's pity."

  Again the frown. "The family needs to know. So they can help --"

  "No."

  "At least your sister? Jane will --"

  "No," she said again, softly. "This is good. I'll get back to work, and no one will know."

  French Quarter

  5:15 a.m.

  Stacy worked the New Orleans Eighth District. The Eighth stretched from Howard Avenue to Elysian Fields, which included party-central --The French Quarter. The Quarter saw lots of drunk and disorderly, pandering and prostitution, drug offenses and thefts. Murders too. Though they typically killed each other after they left the party.

  Dawn broke over the spire of St. Louis Cathedral. She lifted her gaze to the spire, then moved it slowly across the landscape. The Cabildo. Jackson Square. The Pontabla. Picture postcard perfect. Tourist central.

  Marred this evening by emergency vehicles and crime scene tape stretched across the Cabildo's impressive colonnade.

  One of the most historically significant buildings in the United States. The location of the signing of The Lousiana Purchase. Rebuilt twice. Now a museum.

  Hell of a place for a murder. So not P.C..

  Apparently the perp hadn't gotten the memo.

  She tugged on the brim of her ball cap and glanced at her partner. "Ready Patterson?"

  He yawned. "As I'll ever be."

  They crossed to the scene officer, signed the log, then ducked under the scene tape.

  Shadowed. Ten degrees cooler. Oddly removed from the twenty-first century French Quarter, coming to life behind her.

  Stacy could almost believe she'd stepped back in time.

  Except for the vic.

  She and Patterson stopped just behind the pool of blood. This woman had not been in the Quarter to party. Homeless, the cardboard placard around her neck announced. Please help.

  She wondered how many folks had walked by this spot without seeing her? Or noticed her but thought she was sleeping there, like so many of the homeless across U.S. cities did, in doorways, alleys, and parks.

  She shifted her attention back to the victim. Ragged blue jeans. Battered denim jacket. Long sleeve shirt under that. Wearing a Saints ball cap, ponytail poking out the back--same as Stacy. Frayed backpack on the walkway beside her. Zipped. Robbery hadn't been a motive.

  Stacy glanced at her partner. "Wonder how she avoided our sweep?"

  "Must have been hunkered down somewhere. Came out after dark."

  She nodded. The NOPD routinely herded the homeless out of the Quarter, dumping them at various shelters around the city. They were particularly thorough when big conventions were in town, like the medical convention currently visiting the Big Easy.

  A conventioneer had stumbled upon her. A surgeon. He had tried to help but she'd already been dead. He stood at the edge of the scene now, looking anxious.

  She waved the scene officer over. "Get the doc's statement and contact infor
mation, then let him go." The officer started off; she stopped him. "And thank him for his help."

  "You okay, Stacy?"

  She looked sharply at Patterson. Good guy. Decent cop. They'd only worked together a handful of times. Stacy blew through partners pretty quickly. The lucky ones were promoted. The unluckiest of the menagerie had ended up dead. "Why do you ask?"

  "You seem off, that's all."

  She worked to hide a sudden uncertainty, the urge to wrap her arms protectively over her middle.

  Did something about her broadcast the news? Like a tawdry neon sign at the side of the highway?

  "Just tired." She fitted on her Latex gloves. "It's too frickin' early for this shit."

  "You got that right."

  She squatted beside the victim, being careful to avoid the blood around the body. The body lay crumpled, lower body supine, upper body twisted to the right, face in profile.

  Stacy shined her flashlight beam on the victim's face. "Damn, she was young."

  Her partner took a spot across the body from her. "No shit. I'd be surprised if she was even twenty-one."

  Stacy moved the light. "Look at her hands. How clean they are." The longer on the street, the dirtier and more rag-tag they got. "She hasn't been out here long."

  "Maybe not at all?"

  "Maybe," Stacy agreed. "Could've been a hustle."

  "Med convention brings 'em out."

  "Oh man," Stacy said. With her gloved hand, she eased the denim jacket aside. "She was knifed. Looks like one blow. Clean."

  Blood had drained from the wound, soaking her lower torso. Oddly, her upper torso was wet as well, her blue shirt marred by circular stains. But not blood.

  Stacy frowned. "What the hell is that?"

  5:42 a.m.

  "Breast Milk," Coroner's investigator Ray Hollister said, a short time later. "She was lactating."

  Stacy stared at him, feeling his words like a punch to her gut.

  "Not pregnant," he went on. "A new mother. Breastfeeding, judging by the amount of fluid."

  "How new a mother?" she asked.

  "I'll know after the post. There's a schedule of healing that occurs by the sixth week after delivery. The perineum, the uterus. After that, it gets tougher to calculate."

  Seconds passed. The silence was punctuated by the click and whir of the crime scene camera and the murmured conversation of the techs. Stacy shook her head. "Breastfeeding, you said?" He nodded and she moved her gaze between the two men. "So where's the baby?"

  8:55 a.m.

  The Quarter never slept and neither did the cops of the Eighth. While the techs finished processing the scene, Stacy and Patterson canvassed the area. Most businesses were just opening for the day, their employees not the same ones who had been in the night before.

  They'd collected names and numbers and acknowledged they'd have to revisit most of them again later.

  As the minutes had passed, Stacy's thoughts kept returning to one: Where was the baby?

  "Fill me in."

  Major Henry was a fireplug of a man. No neck, huge chest, all torso. He bench-pressed four-fifty. Which was no shit--Stacy had seen him do it.

  "Vic's one Jillian Ricks. Eighteen. Barely, according to her 2010 Sacred Heart Academy I.D. Stab wound to the chest," Stacy continued. "Pierced the lung and heart. Surgical precision. Conventioneer found her around 3:00 a.m.."

  "He checks out," Patterson offered. "He had just broken away from a group to go to his hotel."

  "No other identification on her?"

  Patterson shook his head. "Ran her name through the system. No driver's license, nothing."

  "Motive?"

  "Not a robbery," Patterson said. "Her backpack was with her, untouched. Evening's collection in a zip-bag inside. Thrill-kill, maybe. Random act." He glanced at her. "Child abduction."

  Stacy leaned forward acutely aware of minutes ticking past. "There may be a child involved. An infant." Henry's expression darkened and she quickly explained.

  "What other proof do you have?" Henry asked.

  "None yet. Hollister promised to move her to the front of the line."

  Her superior moved his gaze between them. "What are you thinking? That she was killed for her baby?"

  Stacy pursed her lips a moment. "Maybe. But I don't think she had the infant with her. Last night was cold and damp. My theory is she left it someplace safe."

  "With a relative? A friend?"

  "Again, maybe, though people in her position usually don't have anyone to turn to. If they did, they wouldn't be on the streets."

  "Theory based on what? Having a kid brings in the sympathy cash."

  "No diapers or wipes in the backpack. No change of clothes, nothing. A new mother doesn't leave home without her supplies."

  "How do you know so much about this, Detective? You and Malone have a kid you haven't told us about?"

  She flushed. "My sister Jane. She has two."

  "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?"