Stop Me

by Brenda Novak

  “I’m positive.”

  His gaze moved back to the road. “Mais we will find it then. No problem. No worries.”

  No problem? Was he certain? Jasmine knew she hadn’t reserved a luxurious room. She didn’t know how long she’d be in town, and she had to be careful about the expenses she incurred. Her credit cards would bear only so much. But now she was afraid she might end up in a broom closet. The Internet hadn’t shown any pictures of the hotel itself, just the interior of a room. It was the location—“right in the heart of New Orleans where the city began”—and the reasonable price that had convinced her to stay there. She’d figured it couldn’t be too bad if it was in the Quarter.

  Another Web site had warned her not to stay in the Vieux Carré unless she could tolerate the noise of constant revelry, but that strange feeling, that creepy sense of being inside the skin of whoever had written that note, spooked her so much she wanted to be around people. If she could open her window late at night, hear jazz playing in the street and see a crowd laughing, talking and enjoying the holiday season, she thought she’d feel safer.

  “Will you be staying through Christmas?” the driver asked, his tone more conversational.

  Christmas was just six days away. Could she accomplish what she needed to do in time to return to California? She doubted it. But maybe that was for the best. She usually spent the major holidays with Skye. Sheridan had family in Wyoming and often went home for Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter. Skye’s only living family was a stepfather and two stepsisters, all of whom lived in L.A., which generally left her available. Until this year. Now she was married and had a family of her own, and Jasmine didn’t want to interfere with their first Christmas.

  Which left her as alone in Sacramento as she’d be in New Orleans. “I’m staying through New Year’s.”

  “Not Mardi Gras?”

  “When does it start?”

  “In February. I cannot say exactly when. It is always a different day, you know? On Fat Tuesday.” He said “Tuesday” like “Chooseday.” “Forty-six days before Easter,” he clarified.

  She certainly hoped she wouldn’t be in New Orleans until February. “Probably not,” she said.

  “Are you here on business peut-être?”

  The question momentarily threw Jasmine. She was in town on a personal matter—as personal as a matter could get. And yet the work she’d be doing would be no different from the investigations she spearheaded while trying to help other victims of violent crime. Maybe it’d be easier if she considered the investigation that lay ahead in a more professional manner. Maybe that would counteract the disquiet that hugged her like a sweater.

  “Yes,” she murmured.

  “You must be a very busy lady to travel on business over Christmas.”

  “Some things can’t wait.” This was one of them. She planned to do all the research she could while waiting for the lab results—build this case from square one, like she would any case.

  But as they turned into the French Quarter, she realized again just how foreign New Orleans was to her. The city had a distinctly European feel, one she would’ve loved had she been on vacation. As it was, the narrow streets, wrought-iron balconies and center courtyards, more reminiscent of Spanish influence than French, made her feel out of place. And the crowds and clichéd but famous Laissez les bon temps rouler atmosphere of the many bars, jazz clubs, hotels, restaurants, “gentlemen’s clubs” and boutiques contrasted a little too sharply with her purpose and mood.

  “What is the address of your hotel, madam?”

  The driver turned on the cabin light as Jasmine fished the receipt she’d printed out on the computer at home from her purse and rattled it off.

  “That should be ici,” he said, pointing out the window.

  They both stared at the front of a bar named The Moody Blues. Painted completely in purple, it had a throng of revelers, an abundance of Christmas lights and a lot of loud music, which sounded more like rock than jazz.

  Putting the taxi in Park, the driver got out and went in to speak to the bartender. When he came back, his squat legs carried him with a quicker gait, and he swept his arm out for her to exit as he opened the door. “You can get down.” He gave her a slight bow. “This is it.”

  “This is…what?” she asked in confusion.

  “The hotel. It is above the bar.” He stopped on his way to the trunk and motioned toward the entrance. “Once inside, you will see. Turn to your right and go up the stairs.”

  No wonder there hadn’t been any pictures of the hotel posted online….

  Swallowing a sigh, Jasmine paid him and stepped into the damp, fifty-something weather to accept her bags. He hesitated as if he was tempted to carry them up for her, but she could tell he was reluctant to leave his cab. “I’ve got it,” she said.

  Wishing her a pleasant stay in town, he drove off, leaving her to thread her way through the crush of bodies partying in the bar to the bead-covered entrance of a narrow staircase that led, according to a glittery sign posted above, to the Maison du Soleil.

  * * *

  When Jasmine woke up, she was fully clothed and lying on the covers of her narrow bed. The dim lightbulb hanging from the ceiling was still on; the psychology journal she’d been reading had fallen to the floor. She wasn’t sure how late it was. It was still dark outside but the music that’d drifted through the floorboards when she first arrived had stopped and she could no longer hear the television of the guest next to her. She would’ve opened the window to see what was going on down in the street, except the only window in the room was part of the door leading to the fire escape, which overlooked the redbrick wall of the adjacent building.

  So much for location…

  Blinking to clear her vision, she checked her watch and worked out the two-hour time change. It was five-thirty in the morning. She didn’t know what had awakened her but she had vague memories of disquieting dreams, the kind of nightmares that’d plagued her as a girl after Kimberly’s disappearance. There were many different versions, but mostly she dreamed that her sister was crying out to her as she was being pulled into a large dark room. When Jasmine followed, the room always changed into a labyrinth of corridors. Her sister seemed to be right around the next corner and yet Jasmine could never reach her. She usually woke up drenched in sweat, and this morning was no exception. But she was pretty sure that was partially due to the wall heater she’d cranked up before lying down. It had to be close to eighty degrees.

  Feeling rumpled and more exhausted than before she’d fallen asleep, she got up, switched off the rattling heater and stumbled toward the shower. Afterward she’d go downstairs to speak with the manager. Before reserving her room, she’d called to make sure the hotel had Internet service. She had to retrieve her e-mail and, depending on what she found in New Orleans, would need access to the usual search engines. But she hadn’t been able to connect when she got in last night.

  The shower consisted of a small cubicle with barely enough room to turn around, but it was clean and the water pumped out forcefully enough to massage the stiff muscles in her shoulders and back. She supposed it was the quality of the shower that convinced her not to hunt for a better hotel—the shower and the fact that it seemed pointless to waste the time. She had too many other things to worry about.

  Feeling almost human after she’d dressed, she grabbed her hotel key and took the rickety elevator down to the second floor. She found a slight young woman at the front desk and asked for the manager.

  “Mr. Cabanis owns the hotel and the bar. He should be downstairs.” Because she was dressed in gothic black and looked barely nineteen, Jasmine got the impression she was somehow related to Cabanis, possibly his daughter.

  “Thank you.” Jasmine descended the final flight of stairs to ground level, where a wiry, energetic man with dark hair was restocking the beverage glasses in The Moody Blues.

  “Mr. Cabanis?”

  His eyes flicked her way, but his hands continued
to transfer glasses in a smooth, well-practiced motion. “Yes?” Thanks to his muscular forearms, which were covered in tattoos, he reminded her of Popeye.

  “I’m one of your hotel guests. I called before I left home to confirm that you have Internet service, but I haven’t been able to connect.”

  “It’s not in the rooms yet.” News played on the television bolted to the ceiling in the corner. He glanced at it every now and then as if he resented being interrupted during his morning ritual. “We just opened the hotel and are still making improvements. This building used to be apartments,” he added.

  Somehow that came as no surprise. “So how do I gain access to the Internet? Can I move to a different room or something?”

  The television showed highlights of the latest Hornets game. “The ten rooms that are finished are full. For now, Internet is only available in the lobby, anyway.”

  “That isn’t what I was told over the phone.”

  He finally gave her his full attention. “Someone told you we have Internet service in the rooms?”

  She couldn’t exactly make that claim. She’d said, “Do you have Internet service?” and the person on the other end had said, “Yes.” It wasn’t a lie, but it would’ve helped had that person expanded on his answer.

  “Maybe not. So, can I use what you’ve got in the lobby?”

  “Of course. There’s a dedicated line opposite the reception desk. Just plug in and away you go.”

  She imagined herself trying to concentrate amid the activity she’d witnessed last night—and the noise that rumbled through the whole place—and decided she’d get on the Internet in the early morning. “Thank you.” She started toward the stairs, then hesitated. “Do you watch the news every morning?” she asked, turning back.

  “For the most part.” He’d finished the first rack of glasses and was halfway through the second.

  “I was wondering if you’ve heard any reports recently about young girls being abducted.”

  This got his attention. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Someone took my sister a long time ago. I think he might’ve moved here, that he’s still active.”

  He pursed his lips as he thought it over. Most kidnappings ended within twenty-four hours so they rarely hit the news. But there were instances where the child couldn’t be located—or was found dead.

  “Nothing that I can remember,” he said at length. “Not since the uproar over the Fornier girl, which was…what…four years ago? It was definitely before the hurricane.”

  “The Fornier girl?”

  “You didn’t hear about that?”

  “I’m from California. If it made the national news, it doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “A pervert named Moreau kidnapped her while she was riding her bike. She was only ten.”

  According to estimates provided by the U.S. Department of Justice, 354,100 children were abducted by a family member each year. Strangers, or nonfamily members, attempted to abduct another 114,600 children but were successful in kidnapping only 3,200 to 4,600. Of those cases, 100 ended in murder. Jasmine could’ve recited the statistics in her sleep. Most victims of nonfamily abductions were average children leading normal lives. Seventy-six percent were girls, with a median age slightly over eleven. In eight percent of the cases, initial contact occurred within a quarter mile of the victim’s home, and in the majority of cases—nearly sixty percent—the abduction was a matter of opportunity. But Jasmine knew that anyone out there looking for an opportunity would eventually find it.

  In any event, it sounded as if this little girl fit the profile. “Was she ever found?”

  “Not before Moreau killed her.”

  Almost half the victims abducted by a stranger were murdered. Of those, the vast majority—seventy-four percent—were dead within three hours. Considering the fact that most parents or caregivers spent two hours searching before notifying police, authorities typically didn’t have much chance of saving the child. “How sad.”

  He grimaced. “You don’t want to know what he did to that little girl.”

  No, she didn’t. She could guess easily enough. “The primary motivation in any child-abduction murder is generally sexual assault.”

  “Yeah, well, he did that and more.” Mr. Cabanis straightened. “He’d still be out there, victimizing other children, if it wasn’t for Adele Fornier’s father.”

  Adele. That personalized the story too much for Jasmine. She pushed the name away, refused to connect emotionally with the poor victim, choosing to focus instead on other, more positive aspects of the story. Like the father’s success. Jasmine had become invisible because of her own father’s complete absorption. At least in this case, Mr. Fornier’s dedication seemed to have made a difference. “What did the little girl’s father do?”

  “Helped hunt him down. My own daughter was fourteen at the time, so I followed the story pretty closely.”

  “Moreau’s in prison, then?”

  “Nope. Got off on a technicality.” With a sigh, the hotel owner shook his head. “Damnedest thing you ever heard of.”

  Even if Jasmine found whoever had sent her sister’s bracelet, she’d face other challenges. If the prosecutors didn’t build a solid case, if they made a single misstep, Kimberly’s kidnapper could walk, just as Adele’s had. It was one of those harsh realities that often burned out the sympathetic souls who gravitated to her line of work. “What sort of technicality?”

  “The detective in charge messed up the way he gathered the evidence or something.”

  “How?”

  “I forget. The case went to trial. Seemed like a slam dunk. Then everything went to hell.”

  Sometimes it all seemed so futile, and stories like this one, where a case should’ve come together but didn’t, made it worse. “If he didn’t go to prison, where is he?”

  The man’s eyes lit with a sense of justice and the joy of telling of a good story. “Romain shot him.”

  Jasmine felt her jaw drop. “You’re kidding. Moreau’s dead?”

  “As dead as a man can get. When he walked out of the courthouse…pow.” Cabanis made a gun with his finger and thumb, pulling the trigger as he imitated the sound.

  It took a moment for the finality of Fornier’s action to sink in, but certain questions soon pushed to the forefront of Jasmine’s brain. “Did Fornier go to prison?”

  His work forgotten, Cabanis rested his elbows on the bar. “Of course. Didn’t even bother to resist. He dropped the gun on the courthouse steps and let them arrest him. I saw it on TV. The networks were there. They got it on tape.”

  “Really. How long was his sentence?”

  “Due to the situation, the judge went easy on him. He got two years and served about—” Cabanis’s whiskers rasped as he rubbed his chin “—eighteen months or so. I saw a news piece on his release a couple years back.”

  Jasmine wondered if her father would’ve shot Kimberly’s kidnapper if he’d had the chance and thought it was a definite possibility. Then she put herself in Fornier’s place.

  Would she ever take the law into her own hands? Demand justice at any cost? What kind of person would she be after something like that? She was no advocate of vigilantism, but if she was sure—as sure as Fornier seemed to be—that she had the man who’d brutally murdered her sister, and that man was about to walk…

  “Fornier’s not your average fellow,” the hotel owner was saying. “Used to be Special Forces.”

  “I wonder if he regretted firing that shot.” She was asking herself more than him, but Cabanis answered.

  “I don’t think so. Prison made him even tougher than he already was. He appealed to the public for help when his daughter was first missing. But he didn’t want anything to do with publicity after he got out. In the clip I saw, he kept turning away from the camera, refusing to comment, until a reporter cornered him as he was getting into a car. Then he looked right into the camera and said, ‘I’d do it again.’”

  Jasmine rub
bed away the goose bumps that rose on her skin. “Do you know how Fornier managed to track down Moreau?”

  “I couldn’t give you the details, no.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled as if Fornier’s story was merely one of those horrific tales that fascinated the casual listener, but there was nothing casual about the impact it’d had on her. She’d once feared her father would follow a similar path; now she felt her own thirst for vengeance.

  Stop me. How far would she go in order to accomplish that?

  CHAPTER 3

  There was a sketch artist listed in the Yellow Pages under Forensic Consultants, but Jasmine wasn’t convinced she could rely on the talents of a woman named Rayne Gulley. She was pretty sure the listing had to be a misprint or maybe a joke—until she called. Then she spoke with Ms. Gulley, who sounded surprisingly capable and experienced.

  “I’ve been drawing for nearly forty years,” she said. “Completed more than two thousand composite sketches and, boy, have I met a lot of interesting people during that time.”

  “I’d be describing a man I haven’t seen for sixteen years,” Jasmine admitted.

  “So we’re talking about age progression.”

  “Yes. And you should probably know that I was only twelve when he came to the door.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

  “I think I will.” It was a relief just to be able to say that, to feel confident that she could finally describe the bearded man’s features in enough detail to walk away with a good likeness. In the first few years after Kimberly’s abduction, her parents and the police had her meet with several sketch artists. But no matter how hard she tried, each session resulted in a picture that didn’t resemble him in the least. The constant failure created so much frustration and stress that, at sixteen, Jasmine had been hospitalized for anxiety disorders. At that point, her doctor forbade her parents to speak about the abduction in front of her. He told them to accept what had happened and go on with their lives, and to take better care of the daughter they had left. It was as if they’d all but forgotten her. But nothing he said made any difference. Her parents were mere shells of the people they’d once been. Her mother had started sniping that she should never have married outside her race and religion. Her father had started suggesting she go back to “her people.”