Stop Me

by Brenda Novak

  Jasmine tried calling the NOPD, had even spoken to the chief of police while they were driving back to New Orleans, but her outlook was no more optimistic after she hung up. “He doesn’t want anyone else to believe Moreau might’ve been innocent,” Jasmine said. “That would raise even more questions about how the case was handled, and how he could’ve allowed such misconduct.”

  Romain switched lanes. “But if we’re right and Adele’s real killer is still free—”

  “Chances are good Chief Ryder will find out eventually,” she said. “A man like the one who killed Adele doesn’t stop on his own. That type of killing is a compulsion, a hunger. It only grows stronger.”

  “So you think your sister’s dead.” To Romain, it seemed pretty obvious that Kimberly Stratford had been killed long before Adele’s kidnapping. But he was curious to see if Jasmine was still holding out hope.

  She avoided his gaze. “Probably.”

  Romain had refused to let himself dwell on Jasmine’s pain. He’d been too consumed by his own, searching for any way to avoid more of the same helplessness and regret. If he refused to care about Jasmine, he wouldn’t have to share her suffering. He could sidestep the whole issue, go on living an existence numbed by solitude and anger. That’d been his plan—until now. It’d only been a few days and already he couldn’t avoid her pain any more than he could avoid his own. Because he did care about her, far more than he wanted to. “It’s got to be tough not knowing,” he said.

  “I want to bring her home, even if it’s only her body.”

  At least he had the satisfaction of knowing that Adele was laid to rest next to Pam. That knowledge came with a price, but being left to wonder and question, to keep searching, would be worse. Jasmine had been clinging to nothing but hope for sixteen years. “If this guy is really the guy—” he motioned to the photograph in the seat between them “—he killed Adele within a few weeks and dumped her body in a very public place. Why do you think he didn’t do the same with Kimberly?”

  “He took Kimberly a long time ago. Maybe it was still early in his career and he was being cautious. Or he didn’t feel the need to make such a public statement.”

  “But he didn’t send you anything written in blood, either. Not until recently.”

  “No,” she said. “For some reason, he suddenly wants to let us know what he’s been able to get away with.”

  “Why do you think he’s taunting us instead of the police?”

  “Too many years have passed. There isn’t anyone on the police force anymore who’s really invested in these cases, at least no one he feels is competent enough to catch him. Who’ll give him more attention than we will? He’s all about getting a reaction, and these notes make us sit up and take notice.”

  “So he’s baiting us because we’re the most likely to care, most likely to try and stop him.”

  “That would be my guess.”

  “But he’s still being careful. Other than Adele’s necklace, he didn’t leave much for us at the house. That deputy made a mess dusting for prints, but I’m willing to bet he’ll soon find out that they all belong to me, you or Mem.”

  “Part of our killer wants to be caught, at least subconsciously. The other part doesn’t. Self-preservation is a strong instinct. He’s got what he knows is ‘normal behavior’ warring with his unacceptable desires, and we’re seeing proof of that conflict.”

  Jasmine’s cell phone interrupted them. Romain fell silent as she answered it, mildly surprised when she handed it over to him. “It’s Huff.”

  A lot had changed since he’d worked so closely with Huff, but Romain still had a difficult time believing such a dedicated cop would purposely ignore clues and evidence he should’ve investigated. But maybe Romain hadn’t seen the situation clearly. He’d been so shocked by everything that was happening, he’d had to rely on someone, and Huff had been the obvious choice, one of the good guys. Now Romain realized he should’ve kept an eye on even the cops. “Hello?”

  “There you are.” Huff sounded impatient, almost irritated. “You’re a difficult man to get hold of.”

  “What’s going on? Why are you in New Orleans?”

  There was a long pause, then he said, “Why do you think?”

  Something was different; something significant had changed.

  “You know it wasn’t him, don’t you?” Romain said.

  Huff muttered a curse, all the agreement Romain needed.

  “What changed your mind?”

  At the bitterness in his voice, Jasmine reached over, and Romain took her hand. It was becoming easier to accept her comfort. But he wouldn’t think about that, either; wouldn’t question it. Not now, anyway. What she gave him simply was. And somehow it made life better, especially when her arms went around him and, for a time, he could lose himself in the sensations she evoked.

  “I received a note like the one you called me about. It was written in blood, using that odd mix of capitals and lowercase letters,” Huff explained.

  “You didn’t seem to care about the note Jasmine received when I talked to you before,” Romain said. “You told me it had to be some sort of coincidence.”

  “I would’ve ignored this, too. Believe me, resurrecting this case is the last thing on earth I want to do.”

  “But…”

  “I’m a cop.”

  So his conscience had finally prompted him to face what he’d been trying so hard to avoid. “You were a cop when I called you about Jasmine’s.”

  Huff blew out an audible sigh. “The note I got said something no one but the killer would know.”

  Romain shot a glance at Jasmine, who was watching him carefully. “What’s that?”

  “He told me where the fiber evidence came from.”

  “The fibers found in Adele’s hair?”

  “Yes. We couldn’t find a blanket near the dump site, remember?”

  “And there wasn’t one remotely similar inside the Moreau residence. You assumed Moreau had gotten rid of it somewhere else.”

  “A plausible assumption.” Huff was still on the defensive. “But this note said it was a baby blanket. He didn’t wrap her in it, Romain. He gave it to her to sleep with.”

  The image that rose in Romain’s mind made him cling that much tighter to Jasmine. He trusted her to stop the pain, and her desire to do so seemed to help. “That’s what the note said?”

  “The note told me where I could find a fuzzy red baby blanket.”

  Romain clenched his jaw. “And?”

  “It’s the one. It was buried in a plastic bag not far from the Old Gentilly Landfill.”

  “Francis’s attorney went after the lack of fibers as a possible defense,” he said. He’d gone after everything imaginable, eventually landing on the method through which the evidence had been collected. And he’d won. Until Romain had taken the law into his own hands….

  Unable to keep driving, he pulled over to the side of the road. “I shot an innocent man.” As if the notes weren’t enough, the fibers confirmed it. “I killed a man because you said you found my daughter’s blood on his clothes. Because you said you saw him doing unspeakable things to my child on tape!”

  “I never said it was Moreau on that tape!” Huff insisted. “I said it was a man who fit his description, who wore similar clothes. It never showed his face, and I didn’t lie about that.”

  “Did you lie about any of the rest of it?”

  “No! I found his pants in the cellar, like I said. And he had priors. You know his history.”

  “Murder wasn’t included in those priors!”

  “I believed he got carried away, finally went too far. Whoever was on that tape definitely went too far.”

  The tape. Romain couldn’t even let himself imagine it. Don’t think about it. Don’t picture it. Instead, he focused on one key word. “Believed,” he repeated.

  “Moreau was a pedophile,” Huff said. “He wasn’t an innocent—”

  Romain cut him off. “Just answer one q
uestion.”

  “What?”

  “Did you purposely overlook certain details in order to get a conviction?”

  “No! What kind of man do you think I am?”

  Romain didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t even know what kind of man he was. “If Moreau didn’t do it, that evidence must’ve been planted,” he said. “Who did it?”

  “That’s what I’m here to find out. Do you think I’d leave my family at Christmas if this wasn’t important to me? If I didn’t feel terrible about it?”

  “Tell him we have a picture of the guy,” Jasmine said. “Maybe he can help us identify him.”

  Apparently, Huff overheard her. “Who’s that?”

  “Jasmine Stratford. She has a picture of the man who killed her sister and Adele.”

  “Then we should meet—go over what she’s got, what I’ve got, what you’ve got. Put all the pieces on the table and see if we can’t come up with some leads. Can you drop by my hotel?”

  Just the sound of Huff’s voice, the intensity of his personality, carried Romain back—back where he didn’t want to go. But he had no choice. “When?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Where is it?”

  Huff gave him the name and address.

  “We can be there in an hour.”

  “I’ll be waiting in the lobby,” he said and hung up, but Jasmine had another suggestion.

  “Let’s make a copy of this. Then you can meet Huff while I go to the Moreaus’ old neighborhood and start asking questions,” she told him. “We need to put a name to this face.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Gruber thought it’d be easy to follow Romain and Jasmine anywhere they went. He watched it happen over and over in the movies. He’d gotten behind the wheel of his car and angled it so he could see when they passed him on the road, and he’d pulled out just at the right moment. Not fast enough to draw attention, not slow enough to make the effort pointless. But pointless it turned out to be. He lost Romain’s pickup long before he ever reached New Orleans. Probably because Peccavi kept calling him, distracting him as the traffic on the road increased.

  Frustrated that the old woman had interrupted him this morning and Romain had somehow outdistanced him on the road, Gruber finally answered. “What is it?”

  Silence. Suddenly aware of the impatient tone he’d used, he tried to back off. “I had her,” he said. “She and Romain Fornier were right in front of me.”

  “Leave Fornier out of it,” Peccavi said.

  “Why?”

  “The more people you involve, the bigger the backlash.”

  That wasn’t what Gruber wanted to hear. He was tired of Peccavi’s dire warnings, his pearls of wisdom. Peccavi thought Fornier might be too much for Gruber. But Gruber didn’t care if Fornier used to be Reconnaissance Marine or a janitor. A bullet did the same damage to one as the other. And Gruber had a bullet with Fornier’s name on it. The gun he’d stolen from one of his mother’s lovers years ago waited in his trunk. “We can’t,” he told Peccavi. “Anything happens to her, he’ll be all over it. They both have to go.”

  Peccavi paused, then sighed. “It’s not that easy to dispose of the…trash.”

  Gruber nearly rolled his eyes. For all of Peccavi’s business acumen, he had no idea who he was dealing with, no idea that Gruber had ever done more than snatch a few kids for the sake of a living. “It won’t be hard for me.” No one had discovered the three bodies he’d dumped in the bayou over the past two decades. There was no reason to believe he’d be discovered now. But he couldn’t say that. Peccavi believed Francis was responsible for Adele, like almost everyone else did.

  “You’re confident, I have to give you that. Where are you?”

  “On the road from Portsville to New Orleans, following Fornier and Jasmine, until I lost them.”

  “Forget about them for a minute, then. We have to transfer Billy.”

  “Why? He’s fine where he is.”

  “No, he’s not! This is our lifeblood, this is our business. I have a skittish pair of buyers, and I don’t want to queer the deal by dragging this out.”

  Basically, he wanted the money. Peccavi was putting his share of the proceeds in an offshore account. He claimed he’d retire soon and leave the country, get him an island girl and spend the rest of his life in some tropical paradise, and Gruber believed he would. No doubt he’d stashed away quite a sum.

  “Can’t you ask Phillip to deliver Billy?” Gruber said. “I have things to do.”

  “Beverly doesn’t know where Phillip went. He disappeared again last night.”

  “He’ll be back, though, right? He always comes back.”

  “I don’t care if he does. I’m done with him. He’s not doing his job.”

  Which meant Peccavi would have his own body to dispose of when Phillip returned. Peccavi had certainly dealt with Jack.

  It was going to be a big week for both of them. And it all hinged on doing what had to be done without leaving any trace.

  “How far do I have to travel to get Billy where he has to go?”

  “Utah.”

  There was no way. Valerie was rotting at his house. “I can’t,” Gruber said, more adamant than ever. “You’re going to have to ask Roger. Jasmine Stratford has my picture. She knows I’m mixed up in her sister’s disappearance.”

  Peccavi started to speak, but Gruber cut him off. “If I don’t take care of this now, it’ll risk the whole enterprise. If they get to me, they get to you. I’m only one step away.” For the first time, he was glad he’d turned Kimberly over to Peccavi. That link strengthened his position now.

  Drawing the threat back to Peccavi worked even better than Gruber had expected. “Fine,” he snapped. “I’ll do it myself.”

  As far as Gruber was concerned, it was damn time.

  “Call me when you’re finished,” Peccavi added.

  “I will.” Gruber exited the freeway and stopped at a gas station to wash his hands. Then he turned right on the road that would take him to his brother-in-law’s house. Showing some concern for his missing sister would buy him some much-needed time. After that he would head home. He shouldn’t have gotten anxious enough to traipse all the way to Portsville trying to chase Jasmine down. Now that she had his picture, he didn’t need to find her. She’d find him.

  All he had to do was wait.

  * * *

  Because Jasmine had left her car in Portsville, splitting up meant she had to rent another one. When she mentioned it, Romain argued that meeting with Huff wouldn’t take long, but they were working against the clock. The man in the picture would strike again. A vague uneasiness settled over Jasmine every time she thought of him. He was in a constant state of agitation these days, which told her something in his psyche had changed, grown more important or more immediate. She wasn’t sure what that was or how she could be so certain. It was just one of those strange feelings that came over her every once in a while. The kind of gut feeling she’d learned to trust.

  They had to act fast to stop him before he hurt someone else. And they could cover more ground by splitting up than by staying together.

  Besides, it was becoming all too easy to trust that she and Romain had a future beyond the few passionate encounters they’d shared. At odd moments, she could imagine herself bearing his child.

  “What?” he said as he dropped her off at the car rental place.

  She smiled at the futility of trying to avoid the desires that flared up whenever she was with him, and shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “Yeah, well, this means nothing, too,” he said, and then he pulled her back into the truck and kissed her soundly. She’d barely recovered before he started rattling off a set of stern instructions.

  “As soon as I leave Huff’s hotel, I’ll buy a cell phone. Keep yours on so I can call you as soon as mine’s working. I want to stay in close contact. And, whatever you do, don’t go inside anyone’s house. I don’t care who it is, even if it’s a child who
’s home alone.”

  “Got it,” she said with a small salute.

  His sober expression underscored his warning. “I mean it.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to me, Romain.”

  “I have to believe that,” he said. At least, that was what she guessed he said. His voice was so low it was difficult to tell, and she was already shutting the door.

  * * *

  The house where the Moreaus used to live—back when Beverly’s husband was still alive—was actually in a decent neighborhood. The homes were older but well-maintained. It was the sort of suburb where young families moved in and used a bit of elbow grease and creativity to dress things up. There were minivans in various driveways. Christmas decorations and lights adorned almost every house.

  Jasmine parked at the curb across from the Moreaus’ old address. She figured the people who’d bought the house would probably know the least about them, and planned to approach the neighbors first. With so many young families, she was worried there’d been too much turnover in the area. Quite possibly no one would remember the Moreaus, especially Milo who, according to Jonathan in California, died of a heart attack fifteen years ago.

  Getting out, she pulled her coat tight against the biting wind, then walked up to the door on the left and knocked. But her first attempt was a disappointment. The aging Mexican lady who answered didn’t speak English, and no one else appeared to be home. Smiling and waving to let her know it was okay, Jasmine walked to the other side of the Moreaus’ former residence and rang the doorbell.

  An attractive young girl with long blond hair poked her head out. “Yes?”

  “Is your mother home?”

  “Just a minute.”