by Brenda Novak
a-D-e-L-e
A shiver went through Jasmine as she studied the mix of capitals and the strange e’s. This was what Romain had seen last night, what he’d tried to walk away from.
Setting down the spoon she’d been using to stir her coffee, she leaned back. “What made you change your mind about telling me?”
“If I could’ve ignored it, I would have.”
“And you couldn’t because…”
“It wouldn’t be right.”
In other words, the truth was the truth, and he wouldn’t hide from it even if it meant he’d have to face some painful realities. Jasmine had to respect that. “So you’ll help me?”
“I just did.” He stood up and drew a set of keys from his pocket. He was finished. But Jasmine had one more question.
“Do you have a tattoo on your arm?”
One eyebrow slid up, giving his expression a sardonic cast. “I have a couple of them.”
“Is one a heart, with a ribbon bearing your daughter’s name?” Part of her hoped he’d say no, that this was one little test she’d fail. It happened occasionally. And when it did, she was able to convince herself that she wasn’t so different from everyone else.
Obviously baffled, he hesitated but then nodded. “Why?”
Such incontrovertible evidence that she’d “done it again” always unsettled her. It made her feel that she was using only a small part of her gift. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to develop her perception any further. She was convinced that she’d been able to experience Romain’s fantasy because, in a sense, he’d invited her into his dream through his desire and she’d reciprocated through her own. She’d certainly never experienced anything similar with anyone else. “Just checking,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant.
He watched her carefully. “What’s my other tattoo?”
She told herself to give him the wrong answer. Then maybe he’d assume someone who’d seen him swimming or fishing without his shirt had mentioned it to her. But she didn’t understand how he figured into Kimberly’s case—and thought there might come a day when she’d need him to trust her intuition. “A rose, with your late wife’s name.”
He stared at her, his face a mask. “Where is it?”
“Her name? Along the stem.”
“I’m asking about the tattoo.”
She put her hand behind her, to the flat part of her shoulder blade, flushing because the memory of kissing him there flashed through her as she did. “Right here.”
He swung the keys on his ring around and around as he considered her answer. “Do you want to tell me how you know that?”
“Not really.”
He hesitated but ultimately seemed to understand that he’d be better off if he didn’t allow himself to be drawn in any further. “Fine. Good luck finding your sister.”
Unable to resist provoking him a little more, Jasmine lowered her voice. “Take care of that cut on your thigh.”
* * *
“Sorry, Pearson Black is no longer on the force.” The stocky, bald sergeant behind the bulletproof glass at the front desk of the NOPD hadn’t bothered to check any employment records before dispensing this information. He’d known Black by name.
“You’re sure?” Jasmine asked.
“Positive.”
The badge on the sergeant’s uniform identified him as P. Kozlowski. “When did he quit?”
“Didn’t quit. Got fired a year ago.”
Jasmine struggled against the disappointment of running into yet another roadblock. “How well did you know him?”
“I worked with him now and then.”
His clipped tone indicated he had strong feelings about Black. Jasmine guessed they were negative. “But you didn’t like him.”
Kozlowski focused on the business card she’d passed through the slot. “What’d you say your interest in Black is?”
“He might have some information on a case that’s related to one I’m looking into.”
“And which case would that be?”
He was skeptical; evidently, he didn’t trust outside investigators. “Adele Fornier.”
At this, he turned around to see who might be listening to the conversation. When no one in the busy station seemed to be paying attention, he cleared his throat. “We’ve heard enough about that one to last a lifetime.”
“Detective Huff’s mistake cost everyone, I know.”
“If you want to call it a mistake.”
“What would you call it?”
His mouth worked as he swept his teeth with his tongue. “It’s in the past. I don’t have a comment.”
She’d given him a card, but that didn’t prove anything to him. It didn’t make her who she said she was. Neither did it offer any guarantees as to her goals and motivations. He was playing it safe. “Were you involved in the case?”
“Not really.”
“Do you know much about it?”
“Just the basics. Killer’s dead.”
“That’s what I’ve heard.”
“So what do you want with Black? He didn’t work that case, either.”
“Someone told me he kept close track of it. And there are a few…similarities between Moreau and the man who took my little sister in Cleveland sixteen years ago.”
His eyes widened in sudden recognition. “Wait a minute…you’re that profiler I saw on America’s Most Wanted, right? What was it…last month?”
“A few days before Thanksgiving.”
“I thought you looked familiar. It was your card that threw me. Victims’ Support and Assistance. I only saw part of the show and I assumed you were FBI.”
“I work for the FBI occasionally, as a consultant.”
“That must be what I heard.” Now that he had some frame of reference, Kozlowski grew noticeably friendlier. “What was it like? Going on TV?”
Jasmine hid a smile, although she found his enthusiasm amusing. “It’s great to have the media on our side for a change,” she said, searching for common ground between them.
“No kidding.”
“You probably already know, but they caught the guy I profiled.”
“The week after it aired, right?”
“Within twenty-four hours.”
“I go on their Web site every few days,” he explained.
“About Black—”
He grimaced and lifted a hand to stop her. “Don’t waste your time with him. He followed all the sensational cases. But he was the worst cop I ever knew.”
So she’d guessed correctly. Kozlowski didn’t care for Black. “I’d still like to ask him a few questions. Can you tell me where I might find him?”
He cast another glance over his shoulder, seemed content with what he saw and continued, “Last I heard he was working as a security guard for a shopping center in a pretty rough part of town.”
“So he’s fallen on hard times.”
“You could say that.” His lips twisted as if Black’s misfortune pleased him. “Are you familiar with the city?”
“Not really.”
“Then you won’t truly appreciate how far he’s fallen until you see for yourself. I’ll draw you a map.”
Just that quickly, Kozlowski had become an ally. Interesting what a little fame could do. “What didn’t you like about Black?” she asked while he sketched.
“He was…odd.”
“In what way?”
“Like me, you’ve seen some pretty sick stuff, right?” He slid the map through the portal as she nodded. “It’s not something we enjoy, but it’s part of the job and we handle it the best we can.”
“I’ll go along with that.”
“Well, Black was different. He didn’t just tolerate the violence and depravity, he thrived on it. The sicker the situation, the more excited he got. He was one demented son of a—” he caught himself “—gun,” he finished. “I don’t know how his wife stands him and I can’t help wondering how his little boys will turn out.”
“So…you’
re telling me he liked murder scenes?”
“Or fight scenes. Or car accidents. Anything bloody. He took pictures and kept the grossest ones in a scrapbook. He attended every autopsy he could, then went on and on about the details. Toward the end, he even kept an online journal.”
“How do you know?”
“I read it. I think we all did. It made him look worse than most of the guys we put away.”
“What’d your chief think of Black?”
“Didn’t like him. No one did.”
Jasmine knew that some seriously twisted minds gravitated toward police work. Fortunately, most would-be criminals failed the aptitude tests and background checks necessary for the job. But no system was perfect. “How’d he get on the force to begin with?”
“He wasn’t so bad when he started. He grew worse as the years went on.”
Jasmine took the map and adjusted the strap of her purse. “What finally got him fired?”
The door opened behind Jasmine and a heavyset woman came in. Kozlowski called a fellow desk sergeant to the window to handle the visitor, then told Jasmine he’d take his break and meet her out front.
After weaving through the desks behind the bulletproof glass, he emerged in the lobby through a metal side door. Then he held the outer door open for her and followed her to one side. “If you tell anyone I told you this, I’ll deny it,” he said.
She raised her hand in the classic oath position. “I won’t say a word.”
“One of the detectives here caught Black trying to steal some evidence on an important case.”
So this was what he’d been burning to divulge. “You’re kidding.”
He waited for a middle-aged man who was approaching the station to go inside before responding. “I’m not. It was a double homicide, and we definitely had the right guy. Why would Black want to fix it so the perp could get off? It’s beyond me.”
“A bribe?”
“Possible. It’s tough to support a family on a cop’s salary, and his wife was out of work at the time. But we don’t really know.”
“Was he a detective by then?”
Kozlowski scratched his head. “No. He never made detective.”
“Did he know the defendant?”
“Not that we could ascertain.”
“He must’ve had some reason for doing what he did.”
He shrugged. “Could’ve been a bribe, like you said.”
Or he wanted to make the department look bad. Maybe it was his way of taking revenge on coworkers he didn’t like and who didn’t like him.
“He claimed he was just checking things out, making sure all the evidence was there,” Kozlowski told her. “But he wasn’t on that case, either.”
“How was he caught?”
“Another officer surprised him while he was trying to switch some DNA samples.”
“Was he ever drawn up on formal charges?”
“No. The chief didn’t want the publicity, not with all the post-Katrina stuff. He was working too hard to get this department back in shape, rebuild the public trust.”
“And without a recommendation, Black wouldn’t be able to get on anywhere else either, so he couldn’t do the same thing again.”
“Which is why he resorted to security work. He has to make a living somehow, you know?”
Jasmine glanced at the map Sergeant Kozlowski had given her. “He works here?” She pointed to the X Kozlowski had put in the center, beside Big Louie’s Supermarket.
“A friend of mine saw him in the parking lot one night, wearing a security uniform. There’s a rowdy bar in the same strip mall. That’s probably why he’s there, not the supermarket. But I can’t remember the name of the place.”
“How long ago was he spotted in that location?”
“Maybe a month or two.”
Jasmine hoped Black still had the same job. “What about Detective Huff?”
“What about him?”
“Was he a good cop?”
“The best,” Kozlowski said without hesitation.
And yet Huff had bent the rules, too. Kozlowski had already acknowledged as much.
“Where is he now?”
“I heard he moved to Colorado.”
“Denver?”
“Don’t know.”
“What was Huff and Black’s relationship like?” Jasmine asked.
“The day Huff left, he walked into the chief’s office and told him Black was a danger to society.” He grinned. “Only with a few choice words thrown in.”
Jasmine swallowed a sigh. Huff had cheated with the search warrant. Fornier had taken the law into his own hands. Black had tried to destroy evidence.
It was getting difficult to tell the good guys from the bad guys.
CHAPTER 7
How the hell did she know?
Just three days ago, Romain had cut his leg on a nail protruding from a piece of scrap lumber he’d been using to build his screened-in porch. He probably should’ve gotten a tetanus shot, but that required going to town and seeing a doctor, which he wasn’t particularly eager to do. Instead, he’d hoped for the best and recently he’d noticed the wound had started to heal. He’d forgotten about it until Jasmine had made that comment at the restaurant. He certainly hadn’t mentioned it to anyone.
Setting the groceries he’d bought on the counter, he strode to his bedroom, dropped his jeans and peered at his upper right thigh.
Sure enough, there was still a scab. It was quite apparent—but it was also in a place no one else had seen in a long, long time.
“I’ll be damned.” Her abilities were uncanny, and that made him even more uneasy. He’d never been much of a believer in the supernatural. His mamère had repeatedly told him that one in every three women was a witch; since he’d never know which one was and which one wasn’t, he’d better treat them all right. He’d grown up with that kind of talk, had learned to disregard it as the manipulation and superstition it was.
So what was Jasmine? Smoke and mirrors—or the real thing?
He heard a knock at the door and wondered if she’d decided to put off her return to New Orleans. Considering what he wanted to do, her company wouldn’t be entirely unwelcome. Especially now that he knew she’d somehow seen him without his clothes on. Her revelation told him she wasn’t as opposed to what he’d suggested last night as she’d implied.
On the other hand, her gift frightened him, and so did her goal. Her journey would lead back into the past—and that was someplace he never wanted to go again.
“T-Bone! You d’ere? T-Bone!”
“Speaking of witches,” he mumbled and went to the door.
“You fa-get old Mem, boy?”
When he’d moved to the swamp, he’d found Mem living even more meagerly than he was. At first she’d refused to answer the door and he’d had to leave whatever he’d brought her on the porch. Now, he had the opposite problem. She kept a lookout for his truck and waited anxiously for the supplies he provided.
“Have I ever forgotten you?” he asked. He’d bought her groceries; he’d just been in too big a hurry to see what remained of that nail injury to stop anywhere, least of all Mem’s. He knew she’d tie him up with some chore, fixing her roof or her window or some such thing if she could.
“No.”
“Exactly. And I didn’t forget today.” He nodded toward his truck. “Go ahead and get in. I’ll drive you and your groceries home,” he told her.
“What’d you get me?” Mem wanted to know.
“Eggs, butter, flour, sugar. The usual.”
She leaned heavily on a cane, her wrinkled face rapt with anticipation. “Coffee?”
“Of course.” There were beignets, too, but she didn’t need to know everything.
“D’at’s a good boy. Your mamère, God rest her soul—” one arthritic hand moved in the sign of the cross “—would be proud of her T-Bone. He does not forget old Mem. No, he doesn’t. And for him I cast my most powerful spells.”
“It’s a
fair trade,” he said to salvage her pride.
“D’at’s right.” She nodded her gray head. “I bring you d’is.” Thrusting one hand into a fold of her brown, sacklike dress, she withdrew a sachet filled with her special blend of herbs. She made him a new one almost every week. “It will give you power. Power to have anyt’ing you want.”
Nothing could bring Adele back. Or Pamela. But he forced himself to accept it. “I’m just happy we both have enough to eat,” he grumbled.
“You always find plenty of de shrimp and de crabs,” she said. “It’s magic. My magic.” He thought his shrimping and crabbing success had more to do with hard work than herbal sachets, but it didn’t hurt to let her think he saw value in what she did for him.
“I can tell,” he mumbled.
“D’ere was a car here last night,” she said, her voice rising suspiciously.
He grinned at her abrupt change of topic. No doubt she’d been dying to know about his visitor ever since she’d spotted Jasmine’s arrival. “Just another witch,” he teased.
He’d expected her to chuckle at his answer. But Mem’s eyes grew dark, her pupils shrinking to mere pinpricks. “She’s bad luck. Tell her to stay away.” She waved her arms in an adamant motion, then started toward his truck.
Romain hesitated before following. Mem was full of dire warnings. Don’t go out on de bayou, not today, T-Bone… Beware of de storm d’at’s brewing… It’ll be a hard, hard hurricane season, you mark my words…. To her, something as innocent and natural as a broken tree branch served as a harbinger of bad luck. Too superstitious for her own good, she was determined to look out for him whether he welcomed it or not. But today her words matched his own concerns too closely to disregard them.
“You worry too much,” he told her.
She stopped shuffling long enough to tap her temple with one crooked finger. “Mem knows.”
And this time Romain wondered if she was right.
* * *
While waiting until it was late enough to visit Big Louie’s, Jasmine called every sheriff’s office and police department in Colorado, searching for Detective Huff. By the time she finished with those and started on the short list of marshals’ offices, she was beginning to realize that even if Huff had relocated to Colorado after leaving Louisiana, there was no guarantee he’d still be in the state.
