by Brenda Novak
A woman with a shaggy haircut replaced the young girl. “What can I do for you?” she asked curiously.
“My name is Jasmine Stratford. I’m searching for my sister, who went missing sixteen years ago. I’m wondering if you can help me identify this young man.” She held out the picture she’d taken from Beverly’s office.
“Your sister was kidnapped?”
“Yes. And I’m fairly certain this man had something to do with it.”
“How terrible!” She took the photograph and peered closely at it. “That’s Milo Moreau on the left. He used to live next door, but he’s not around anymore. He died a couple of years after I moved in.”
“And the young man beside him?”
“I don’t know. Once Francis Moreau did what he did—you heard about that, right? About that girl he killed?”
Jasmine nodded.
“This isn’t connected, is it?”
“I think it is.”
“Oh. Wow. I always thought he was weird. Mrs. Moreau was a little weird, too.”
“In what way?”
“Just…super private, I guess. The last time I saw her was at a gas station right before Katrina. We were both evacuating. She’d already moved, sold the house to pay for Francis’s attorneys’ fees, which is why I remember running into her. It was quite a coincidence. But if you could find her, she should be able to identify the guy in your picture.”
Jasmine didn’t mention that she knew where the Moreaus lived or that Beverly was probably the last person who’d help her. “Were the Moreaus friendly with anyone on the street? Maybe someone else might remember this person.”
The woman nibbled on her lip. “So many people have moved away. With the hurricane and the economy…” Her face suddenly brightened. “Ila Jane Reed on the corner might be able to help you. She’s been here going on fifty years, I bet. She’s old now, but her mind’s as sharp as ever.”
“I’ll try her,” Jasmine said. “Thank you.”
“Good luck. I hope you find your sister.” The woman closed the door and Jasmine made her way down the street.
Response at the Reed house was slow, but the door finally swung inward and a white-haired woman pulling an oxygen tank stepped into the opening. “Yes?”
Once again, Jasmine described the reason for her visit and held out the picture.
“He’s not one of the Moreau boys, is he?” Mrs. Reed asked above the rhythmic hiss of her oxygen.
“No.”
“It’s my vision,” she explained. “It’s not what it used to be.” Bending closer, she studied the photograph but ultimately shook her head. “I’m sorry. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him.”
Jasmine swallowed a sigh of disappointment. Someone had to know his name. “Thanks for trying. Can you think of anyone else who might be able to help me? Maybe someone who was particularly close to the Moreaus while they lived here?”
“There’s the Blacks,” she said. “Their boys ran around with the Moreau boys when they were growing up.”
Jasmine’s pulse leapt at the name. “The Blacks?”
“Charmaine and Doug. The Moreaus used to live across the street from them. Their kids are all grown and gone now, but Doug and Charmaine are still around.”
Jasmine held the picture to her chest. “Do you happen to remember the names of their boys?”
“Dirk and…” Mrs. Reed squeezed her eyes shut as if that might jog her memory. A moment later, they popped open. “Pearson! Pearson Bailey Black. He was the youngest. What a little hellion,” she added, but Jasmine scarcely heard her trailing comment.
That couldn’t be a coincidence, she was thinking. Pearson was too unusual a name. “Do you know where I can find Pearson?” she asked, hoping to clarify that what her instincts told her was true.
“He was a cop. One of NOPD’s finest. Until there was some mix-up down at the station and Pearson got blamed for something he didn’t do. Lost his job over it. Really upset his parents. It was so unfair.”
Unfair? Jasmine believed the exact opposite, but she didn’t say so. “What does he do now?”
“He’s a security guard. But that’s temporary. He’s planning to become a private investigator.”
“I’m sure he’ll make a good one,” she said politely.
“There’s Charmaine now.” Mrs. Reed motioned toward a car turning into the drive closest to Jasmine’s rental car. “You should talk to her. I’ll bet she can tell you who’s in that picture.”
With a quick thank-you, Jasmine hurried down the street. She could hear Mrs. Black getting out of her car. The telltale crackle of sacks indicated she’d been shopping.
“Hello?” she called before Mrs. Black could go in through the garage door.
The crackling grew louder as Pearson’s mother came to the garage opening and peered out at her. “Hi, there. What can I do for you?”
“Looks like you’ve been busy.”
Soft and round and dark-haired, she smiled with unabashed glee. “I love the after-Christmas sales, don’t you? I’ve already finished most of my gift-buying for next year.”
Jasmine came closer and held out the picture. “I was just talking to Mrs. Reed. She thought you might know the name of the teenager in this photograph.”
“That’s Milo Moreau.” She pointed to the man whose identity Jasmine already knew.
“And the other one?”
“Gruber Coen.”
“Coen? How do you spell that?”
“C-O-E-N.”
Jasmine could scarcely breathe. At long last, she had the name of the man who’d taken her sister. The thought alone made her oddly exultant. But who was this Gruber that he could walk away with an eight-year-old girl? “Do you know where he lives now?” Her nails bit into the palm of her free hand as she silently prayed for some clue to his location.
“No. I didn’t keep track of him. I never liked him, to tell you the truth. Neither did my sons. He came from an unfortunate situation, but—” she shifted her bags to her other arm and Jasmine reached out to take the heaviest one from her “—he was odd, for lack of a better word.”
“In what way?”
“A loner. Always sullen. Always staring at you as if there was more going on behind those eyes than he wanted you to know. Mr. Moreau volunteered with some church group and used to bring him home. He tried to make the boys include him, but Gruber would stand off to the side with his hands in his pockets while they did normal boy things.”
“Like…”
“Like playing basketball or roller hockey.”
“They never got to like him?”
“Not at all. Except maybe Francis. They were both outcasts, more or less. They rode around together once in a while after they got into high school. But they caused trouble wherever they went. One time they put a dead squirrel in a girl’s locker because Francis had asked her out and she’d turned him down.”
Jasmine’s hands were growing numb from the cold. She curled them inside the sleeves of her coat. “What about Pearson?”
Her eyebrows went up. “You know my son?”
“Mrs. Reed mentioned him to me,” she said to avoid a direct answer.
Mrs. Black set her bags on the trunk of the car and took the one Jasmine was holding for her. “Pearson always preferred Phil or Dusty. But he didn’t approve of what happened to Francis a few years ago, I’ll tell you that much.”
“You’re referring to the fact that Francis was tried for the murder of Adele Fornier.”
“That’s exactly what I’m referring to.”
“Pearson believes Francis was innocent?”
“He had some priors for sexual misconduct, and I’m not making light of that. But he didn’t kill the Fornier girl. Pearson swears up and down Francis was framed.”
“By whom?”
“He doesn’t know. He said Francis was involved with someone named Peccavi.”
“I have sinned,” Jasmine murmured.
Mrs. Black tilted her head. �
��What?”
“That’s what it means. It’s Latin.”
“If you say so.” She began gathering up her bags.
“Do you believe there’s any chance Gruber could be Peccavi?”
“I’d believe anything of Gruber.”
It was cold, and Jasmine had detained her long enough.
“Thank you for your time.”
“No problem,” she said.
After Mrs. Black had gone inside, Jasmine stood gazing down the neat row of houses. Gruber. Francis. Pearson. Dustin. Phillip. This had been quite a street. It’d yielded two child molesters, one of whom was also a murderer.
But now she knew at least one person who could lead her to Gruber Coen. Taking out the business card Pearson had given her, she dialed his number.
* * *
Huff was waiting for him in the coffee shop at his hotel.
“Jasmine’s not with you?” Huff asked as Romain slid into the seat opposite him.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Huff didn’t look good. He’d lost more of his hair, but it wasn’t the aging process that was getting the best of him. Romain suspected he was working too many hours. Dark circles underscored his eyes, and his face was drawn and pinched. “She had other business to attend to.”
“What could be more important than this?”
“Finding the man who kidnapped and probably murdered her sister.”
“Aren’t we after the same man?”
“Yes, but there was no need for both of us to be here.”
“Did you tell her about the blanket?”
“She knows.” Romain pointed to a paper sack in the seat next to Huff. “Is that it?”
Pulling out part of a fuzzy red blanket stained with mildew, Huff nodded. “I’m going to have it tested for genetic material, but that’ll take a while. The fiber evidence was easier. It required only a microscope.”
“You’re sure it’s a match?”
“Positive.”
Romain sank lower and stared at it. His child had touched the blanket, maybe even comforted herself with it. “How could Adele’s blood have gotten on Moreau’s pants, her barrettes in his cellar?”
“He was living alone, but I’m sure his family came to visit him on occasion, so they would’ve been familiar with the place. Any one of them could’ve put those things in the cellar.”
“Dustin’s been bedridden for years. And Beverly is an unlikely candidate.”
“What about Phillip?”
“He doesn’t seem the type. Besides, it was Francis who was spotted at the school, Francis who carried in something heavy the day Adele went missing.”
Huff stirred more cream into his coffee.
“He bought a new rug that day, remember? The defense brought it up in court.”
“That’s a convenient coincidence. I believed Francis was the murderer then. And I still believe it now.”
“Me, too. I’m guessing they were in it together. But that’s very rare, isn’t it? For collusion on this kind of sex crime?”
Huff shrugged. “It’s happened before. Some women have even helped their husbands or lovers imprison and torture sex slaves.”
“We’re talking about crimes against children here. It’d be a lot harder to get someone to go along with that.”
“Harder, maybe. But it’s conceivable.”
The waitress approached and Romain ordered a cup of coffee and some scrambled eggs. “What about Black?” he asked.
“What about him?”
“He was at Francis’s house the night you performed the search. He could easily have tossed that stuff into the cellar for you to find.”
“But he’s the one who claimed it had been planted, who tried to get Francis off, remember?”
“Are you sure it was Black?”
“Positive. I trust all the others who were there during the search.”
Romain toyed with the salt and pepper shakers. “Have you ever heard of Better Life Adoption Agency?”
A strange expression appeared on Huff’s sallow face. “Where’d you come up with that name?”
“It’s where Mrs. Moreau works.”
“She doesn’t work. She lives on SSI.”
“According to her son Dustin, she works nights at this adoption agency.”
Frown lines etched deep grooves in Huff’s forehead. “When did you talk to Dustin?”
“I paid him a visit the other night.”
“Was he lucid?” he asked, turning his cup around and around in its saucer.
“More lucid than he wanted to be. I think he was in a great deal of pain.”
“He must not’ve known what he was talking about. What he said can’t be right.”
The waitress brought Romain’s coffee, and he stirred a spoonful of sugar into it. “Why not?”
“Because that orphanage doesn’t exist. Years ago, a pregnant woman came into the station and filed a complaint saying a man offered her a large sum of money for her baby. She claimed he represented a place called Better Life Adoption Agency and promised that her child would go to a very wealthy couple.” Huff took a sip of his own coffee. “So we looked into it,” he went on after swallowing. “But we couldn’t find any proof of such a place. And because she was a prostitute and a drug addict, and her claims were uncorroborated, we finally figured she was hallucinating or out to get someone who’d wronged her.”
“Did she give the man’s name?” Romain asked.
Huff’s whiskers rasped as he rubbed a hand over his jaw. “It seems like she had a name, but I can’t remember it. It was unusual—I recall that much.”
The waitress delivered Romain’s eggs, but he pushed them aside, too interested in the conversation to be bothered with breakfast. “Was it Peccavi?”
The frown lines disappeared as Huff’s eyes widened. “That’s it! She said a man by the name of Peccavi approached her and offered to buy her baby. She was adamant. But she was also shaking from withdrawal.”
“So let’s say it’s true,” Romain said. “Let’s say the Moreaus, at least Beverly and Phillip, and maybe Francis when he was alive, are involved in a black market adoption ring. And let’s say Peccavi is the leader.” It made sense, based on what Dustin had told him. It also stood to reason that the Moreaus wouldn’t want Jasmine nosing around, and that they might kill someone in order to keep their secret, which could account for the body she’d found in the cellar. “Maybe Francis got out of line and started taking physical advantage of some of the children they kidnapped.”
“But we now know Francis didn’t kill Adele,” Huff argued.
“The ring could include other people. It’s possible Francis kidnapped Adele, planning to turn her over to Peccavi, but another member of the group, someone even more twisted than Francis, got hold of her.”
“Twisted is right,” Huff muttered into his cup, and Romain knew he was remembering what he’d seen on that tape.
Romain returned to the puzzle coming together in his head. “Say this twisted person got so carried away he killed her. Then he had to dispose of her body. He dumps her in the park restroom, she’s discovered, and the hunt is on.”
“At this point, the pressure’s mounting and he’s in a panic,” Huff chimed in. “You’re on television begging for clues, offering rewards. I’m doing all I can to ferret out suspects. Maybe I even question him.”
“Then the neighbor calls to report that she saw Moreau carry something into the house the day Adele went missing.”
Huff pushed his coffee away, too. “He’s a loner, has a history of sex crimes, and he’s been seen at the school. So he becomes our focus.”
Something that might be problematic to their developing scenario suddenly occurred to Romain. “Wait. The members of this ring can’t take the children to their own homes. It’d be too risky. There’s a place offsite where the transfer happens. That’s where Beverly goes each night.”
“But Moreau brings Adele home this time. He doesn’t tel
l any of the others because it’ll get him in trouble with the ringleader—Peccavi—but he plans to have some fun before he turns her over.”
Romain winced but continued to work out their scenario. “And he lives alone, so he thinks he can get away with it. But, somehow, this other guy, the guy who’s even more twisted than Moreau, takes her from Francis and the situation goes from bad to worse.”
“That could be it,” Huff said with a decisive nod. “Once he’s killed Adele, he has to make sure no one finds out it was him, especially Peccavi, because he’s now endangered the whole bunch of scumbags.”
Romain leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “He knows if Peccavi catches him he’ll be as dead as Jack Lewis, the man Jasmine found in that cellar.”
“So he frames Francis,” Huff went on, “who’s already the prime suspect. And Francis performed the actual abduction, so he was seen hanging around Adele’s school. It’s perfect.”
“All he has to do is plant the evidence. The bloody chinos were close enough to Moreau’s size and standard enough to be found in almost any male closet. The video and the barrettes make it even better.”
Some color was finally entering Huff’s cheeks. “But he throws it all in the cellar because they’ll be discovered by the Moreaus if he puts them inside the house.”
“Which is why the cellar door was broken before you ever got there.” Romain stared at Huff, his chest rising and falling with excitement.
The waitress came by for the third time, probably to ask about the meal growing cold on the table, but Huff waved her away. “Why couldn’t the man who killed Adele be Peccavi?” he asked. “Maybe Peccavi framed Moreau.”
“No. Jasmine specifically said that there are two distinct personality types at work here.”
“The Stratford woman?”
“She’s a profiler.”
“I know, but profiling isn’t an exact science.”
“There’re two men involved.” Romain had too much faith in Jasmine to disbelieve her on that point.
“Then who’s Peccavi, and how do we catch him?”
“Pearson Black!” they both said at once.
“That’s why he followed the case so closely, why he got involved and caused it to unravel,” Huff added.
“I’m guessing he promised Francis he’d get him off—if Francis kept his mouth shut about the adoption business. Francis did as he was told. So Black went to work.”
