Stop Me (3 page)

“Maybe you could talk his captain into assigning it to someone else.”

“No, Captain Jones stood by his detective the last time. I’m sure he’ll do it again. And I refuse to work with Castillo.” Jasmine couldn’t abide the thought of relinquishing key evidence to someone she didn’t consider competent. It wasn’t as if the Cleveland police would be open and forthcoming with her. They knew her father’s reputation, the trouble he’d caused. Besides, after working in several capacities on numerous criminal investigations, she felt she was better equipped to do justice by her sister than anyone else. She was more motivated to resolve the kidnapping than an outsider could ever be.

17

“What about a private investigator? What about getting Jonathan involved?

You know how good he is.”

“I’ll handle this one myself.”

“How?”

“I’m going to Louisiana.”

These words were met with shocked silence. Then Skye said, “But all you have to go on is a cancellation stamp!”

No, she had more than that. She had his image in her mind, the one she’d conjured out of nowhere when she touched the package. She’d meet with a sketch artist, start circulating a flyer, promise a reward—anything she had to do. Maybe once the shock wore off and she was stronger, she could even plumb the chilling connection she’d felt so briefly.

That strange vision had convinced her of one thing. The man with the beard knew she could stop him. And that was exactly what she intended to do.

Even if it was too late for Kimberly.

18

Jasmine had never been to Louisiana. She’d donated money to the recovery effort after Hurricane Katrina and felt terrible about the damage that remained, but only in a general sense. She couldn’t mourn specific losses like someone who’d been familiar with the area as it was before. It was too dark outside to see much, anyway.

She sat in the backseat of the taxi she’d hired to shuttle her from the airport to the hotel, fidgeting with her purse and wondering if she’d been crazy to come here.

She knew next to nothing about New Orleans, had no contacts in this part of the country. How would she ever find the man she was looking for?

A steady pounding behind her eyes warned of an escalating headache. The plane had been cramped and overheated and the flight had cost her a full day, dumping her halfway across the country after dinnertime. While in the air, she’d been offered only a drink and a small bag of peanuts. She was famished and exhausted. She’d been up all night carefully packaging the box, bracelet and note, and making travel plans that included a stop in Los Angeles so she could hand-deliver those items to the lab, but she hadn’t been able to sleep on the long flight. Far too restless, she’d kept going over the day Kimberly had gone missing, hoping to remember something new or different that might help her now.

As if she hadn’t done it a million times during the past sixteen years, she replayed those few moments yet again, resting her head on the back of the seat.

Jasmine hadn’t heard the knock. She’d been lying on the floor in the living room when a man’s slightly scratchy voice overrode the sound of her TV show.

Kimberly was talking to him. The comfortable, almost familiar way he behaved signaled that this was just another of her father’s workers or soon-to-be workers, so Jasmine hadn’t bothered to move.

Where’s your daddy?

At work.

When will he be back?

Not till later. Do you want me to call him?

No, I can call him from the car.

The fact that he’d acted as though he knew her father, as though he had Peter’s phone number, had fit with day-today life in the Stratford household, so Jasmine had thought nothing of it. But it’d played a major role in the subsequent investigation.

19

Her parents believed Peter had met the man somewhere, that he’d invited him into their sphere of existence. That was part of the reason her mother blamed her father so much. Prior to the incident, Gauri had often complained about so many people coming to the house, but Peter had always teased her out of her concern by calling her Chicken Little. He’d swing her around the kitchen, saying, “The sky is falling, the sky is falling,” in a high-pitched voice as he laughed.

And then the sky fell….

Refusing to get caught up in unhappy memories of the arguments that occasionally bordered on violence, and the tears that followed, Jasmine directed her thoughts back to the bearded man at the door, speaking to Kimberly.

How old are you?

Eight.

You’re sure a pretty little girl.

Jealousy had momentarily flared inside Jasmine at the compliment. She wanted to be told she was pretty, too. Although their father was Caucasian, their mother was from India and both sisters had her thick black hair and golden-brown skin. But Jasmine had wide almond-shaped eyes, which were so startlingly blue that she normally attracted more attention than her younger sister. She would’ve gotten up to bask in the praise Kimberly was receiving, but Kevin Arnold was about to have his first kiss with Winnie in The Wonder Years, and she couldn’t pull herself away.

I can do a cartwheel. Want to watch? Her sister’s voice carried in from the entry hall.

“Not in the house,” Jasmine had yelled, and that was when the man leaned around the corner to take a look at her, and she’d seen his face.

You’re babysitting?

Yep.

Kimberly had peered into the room, too, but only long enough to stick out her tongue. “She’s being so bossy,” she said. Then she told the man she’d show him her cartwheel on the lawn, and they’d gone out. Pleased that she’d done her duty by making sure her sister didn’t kick over a lamp, Jasmine soon forgot all about the interruption and simply enjoyed the rest of her show. But when the episode ended, the front door was still standing open and Kimberly was nowhere to be seen. Neither was the man.

Jasmine knew that even if she lived to be a hundred, she’d never forget having to call her parents to tell them her little sister had gone missing.

On her watch.

“Your hotel is on St. Philip Street?” The taxi driver seemed to find that odd.

Jasmine met his eyes, with their caterpillar-like brows, in the rearview mirror.

“That’s what it said on the Web site.”

“And the name is Maison du Soleil?”

20

His accent was French, but not the kind of formal French Jasmine had heard on television. His r’s weren’t spoken in his throat; they were rolled. “That’s right.”

“Not Maison Dupuy on Bourbon Street.”

“No.”

Those bushy eyebrows met. “I have never heard of this hotel, but I am fairly new to the city. Are you certain of the address, my friend?”

“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.

21

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 22

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.