Stop Me (31 page)

“You had me at a disadvantage.”

He moved up close behind her, spoke into her ear. “Your only disadvantage is that you liked it as much as I did.”

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Jasmine’s stomach lifted as if she was still on the elevator, so she stepped away. “Do we have to talk about it?”

He leaned one shoulder against the wall, blocking her door. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“Doesn’t it make you uncomfortable?” she retorted.

“Not a bit. I like talking about it. I could talk about it all day. But if you don’t, we could discuss your father instead.”

She rolled her eyes. “How many times did we make love again? What did you like best about it? What was that little French thing you said?”

“That I was drunk with the taste of you.”

That he answered at all took Jasmine by surprise. She hesitated, key in hand, then shook her head. “Stop it. Don’t confuse me.”

“For whatever reason, we’ve been thrown together. We might as well enjoy it while it lasts.”

“It doesn’t work that way. Please step aside.”

With a frustrated sigh, he changed the subject but didn’t move. “What’s up with you and your dad?”

“Nothing. He’s not a subject I wish to address. Ever.”

“Why?”

“That’s addressing it. And right now, we have other things to worry about.” Like what she might find in her room.

“I’m not as bad as you think, Jaz.”

Jaz? That was the second time he’d used her nickname. Only her close friends called her Jaz.

She took in his lean, powerful build, the hair that was beginning to curl over his ears, the golden skin—and let her imagination add the giant chip on his shoulder.

“I’m afraid you’re worse.”

When he scowled but didn’t argue, Jasmine felt a twinge of regret. But she had to take a stand, or she’d leave herself too vulnerable. And she’d learned from a young age that vulnerable was never good.

“Can we go in now?” she asked.

Romain took the key from her, insisting she wait in the hall while he entered.

A moment later, he called back to her. “It’s safe.” The room was as she’d seen it from the fire escape, except that the bathroom was in a similar state of disarray. The shower curtain had been ripped from the rod and her makeup had been dumped in the toilet. In the bedroom, her clothes had been strewn all over the floor, and her computer—which was, fortunately, password protected and still working—had been thrown from the desk. The vicious way the intruder had handled her stuff let her know he didn’t like her very much. She was 185

pretty sure he’d ejaculated onto a pair of her underwear, which he’d placed on her pillow like a gift.

“This guy’s sick,” Romain said, clearly not pleased when he noticed it.

Jasmine grimaced at the sight, but there was a bit of hope mingled with her repugnance. “Semen is actually a good thing. He’s left plenty of genetic material with which to develop a DNA profile.”

“A profile isn’t any good without a suspect to match it against.”

“It’s a step in the right direction.”

Romain cocked an eyebrow at her. “Wouldn’t most women be retching about now?”

“I’m not like most women.” The viscous fluid made Jasmine nauseous; she wasn’t any different there. But the thought of using that disgusting memento to catch whoever had left it gave her some objectivity, some way to deal with the creepy sense of violation that had brought on her nausea.

A deep scowl etched lines in Romain’s face. “This guy is really starting to piss me off.”

“We need to find a paper sack. We can’t put those panties in plastic.”

“I’ll get one from the girl downstairs.”

Romain began to leave the room, but Jasmine stopped him. She’d just spotted something that made her very happy: her cell phone was sitting on the desk.

“He can’t be all bad,” she joked. “He brought back my phone.” She grabbed it to see if, by sheer chance or stupidity, he’d made a call or two. But she didn’t get as far as pushing any buttons. The picture on the screen made her drop it.

“What is it?” Romain asked.

Unwilling to come into contact with the sheets on the bed, or even the furniture, Jasmine sank onto the floor. The queasiness was taking over. Whoever had chased her in the alley hadn’t been content with ransacking the room. He’d returned

—to leave her a few surprises.

Romain picked up her cell to see for himself and swore under his breath. “Is this what I think it is?”

She nodded. The picture on her screen had been changed. Instead of her and Sheridan on vacation in Mexico, there was a picture of an erect penis.

The writing above it said, “You’re dead.”

“We’re dealing with two very different men,” Jasmine said.

She’d put her cell phone on the restaurant table beside her because she was waiting for a call from the police. Seeing the intruder’s genitalia every time she glanced down wasn’t pleasant, but she wasn’t willing to change that picture, to change anything at all, until whoever put it there had been caught.

The panties were in a brown paper sack in her suitcase, and her suitcase was in the back of Romain’s pickup. Occasionally, she checked the truck through the 186

restaurant window to make sure it was still there. She didn’t want to lose that piece of evidence—or her clothes. If anything happened to her suitcase, she’d be stuck halfway across the country with a barely working computer and the cash she’d picked up at Western Union, but nothing more.

With one hand on her chin, Romain turned her head to face him. “Eat,” he prodded, pointing to her food.

He’d taken her to a fast-food joint on General DeGaulle Drive in New Orleans and bought her lunch. She felt too haggard to go anywhere nicer. Her burger was mostly untouched, but she was enjoying the French fries.

“Didn’t you hear me?” she demanded, shoving another fry into her mouth.

He swallowed a bite of his own meal. “I heard you. You said we’re dealing with two very different people. I’m waiting for your reasoning.”

“The man who took my purse and broke into my hotel room didn’t write on the wall or the mirror, didn’t leave a note similar to the others, even though there was a pad of paper on the desk. Plus, he had plenty of time, since he came back.”

“People don’t always do the same thing, not if the circumstances are different.” His voice indicated he was playing devil’s advocate.

“True,” she said, “but a crime scene generally reflects the personality of the perpetrator, and the core of a person’s personality doesn’t change. So many factors contribute to it—genetics, culture, environmental influences, common experiences we all have, unique experiences only the individual has. He is who he is and he can’t change any more easily than you or I can. Which means his method of operation should remain the same, too—especially if we’re talking about something he does to fulfill a specific need.”

He took another bite of his burger. “He left a note. He just didn’t write it by hand. I’m guessing that message on your phone fulfilled his need to communicate.”

“But there was no blood anywhere.”

He lowered his voice in deference to the old lady who’d sat down at the table next to them. They’d spent most of the morning going over that hotel room, inch by inch, searching for evidence. Now it was noon, and the restaurant was getting noisy and crowded. “There were other bodily fluids.”

“Not blood,” she said, matching his low tone. “And I think the blood is important to him. The blood reminds him that he’s in control, that he’s the one in charge. He’s killed before. He can kill again. He’s telling me I’m no challenge, I’m nothing to him. That sort of thing. Remember what he put on my note? Stop me…”

“Believe me, semen makes a man feel in charge, too.” He took another packet of ketchup from the pile she’d placed in the center of the table and squeezed it into the cardboard container that held his fries. “That’s what rape’s all about, isn’t it?” he went on. “Whoever broke in was trying to intimidate you.” 187

“I know. The panties, the phone—that’s all proof. But…it’s different from the impressions I’ve been getting from the man who took my sister.” Jasmine frowned as she stared out the window, watching a dark cloud roll closer. It was going to start drizzling again. “The man who trashed my hotel room isn’t a lust offender as the panties and the picture on my phone might suggest,” she went on, trying to puzzle it out. “He’s not in it for the sexual high that violence and domination give him. The fact that I got away that night made him mad, so he went back to my hotel room and did those disgusting things to tell me that he’ll win in the end, that he’ll stop me.” Romain drank some of his shake. “Stop you from what? Breathing?”

“From investigating. From finding out whatever he’s trying to hide.” He ate a few fries. “I agree that going to the Moreau house threatened him in some way. But if he’s responsible for the body you found there, why bother chasing you down now that you’ve called the police? If he’s afraid of being caught, he should be getting his ass out of town.”

“He doesn’t feel threatened enough to leave, which tells me he’s not afraid of the police. Not yet. He’s still focused on me.”

“So you think there’s something you’ve already found—or might find—that worries him.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.” Jasmine wished she knew what that could be.

“I’m also thinking that Mrs. Moreau is in on the secret, whatever it is.”

“I don’t understand how the trashing of your hotel room and the cellar incident ties in to Moreau. Certainly his whole family wasn’t involved in what he did. And there’s no need to cover for him anymore. He’s dead.”

“It’s unusual for family members to be involved and supportive of that type of crime,” she agreed. “Beyond covering it up, of course.” Finished with his own food, Romain eyed her hamburger, and she pushed it toward him. “His mother lied about being there when Huff returned with the judge’s signature on that search warrant.”

“But there are a lot of mothers who refuse to see what their children really are, who try to protect them. I’m guessing Moreau was a disorganized asocial personality,” she mused.

“And that means…”

“There’s a whole list of profile characteristics. But this type of offender is socially inadequate and usually doesn’t have the leadership ability to get others to join him in his crimes—”

“You’re talking about misfits? The kind of people who were shunned and made fun of at school?”

“Made fun of or simply ignored. According to Ray Hazelwood, a legendary FBI profiler, a disorganized asocial is statistically a nonathletic white male with a low IQ. He kills close to home because he feels uncomfortable leaving familiar 188

territory, and he more often than not lives alone. Or, if he doesn’t live alone, he’s got his own secret places.” She helped herself to some of Romain’s shake. “They’re typically nocturnal and sloppy, with poor hygiene.”

“Almost a perfect description of Moreau.”

“That’s why I don’t see him involving others in his crimes, especially his mother,” Jasmine said. “I can’t imagine a woman of Beverly’s age going along with such immoral behavior, either. She has an invalid son to care for, so she’s pretty stressed. I witnessed the worry on her face when Dustin called out to her.” Romain’s hand halted halfway to his mouth. “No one said anything about an invalid son during the investigation.”

“Why would they? Moreau was living alone when the crime occurred.”

“The entire family should’ve been interviewed by police.”

“Maybe Dustin wasn’t up to it. That’s probably the reason he didn’t attend the trial, either.”

“We need to talk to him if we can.”

“I doubt Mrs. Moreau will let us anywhere close.”

“We could check it out.”

“First, we’re going to find someone with the technology to tell us more about Moreau’s shooting. I want to know whether Huff fired that gun.” If Romain felt threatened by what they might discover, only a slight tightening around his mouth revealed it. “Don’t you know someone who works for the FBI who can do that?”

“It’d take longer than I’m willing to wait. It’s Sunday. We can’t even ship anything today.” She still had the letter from Romain’s parents’ house that she wanted to send to the lab.

“You could upload the video to your computer and e-mail it.”

“If they have an expert who’s available and willing to work on Sunday. Not to mention that it’s the day after Christmas and a lot of people are out of town.”

“It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

“It’s worth a try,” she relented with a shrug. “I can send it to the guy I worked with on the Polinaro case. He seemed grateful for my help. He might do me a favor.”

“Are you going to eat the rest of those?” Romain motioned toward her fries, which were growing cold.

“Where are you putting all this food?” she asked. He didn’t have an ounce of fat on him, but it certainly wasn’t because he counted calories.

“I burn it,” he said.

“That’s not fair,” she grumbled, intent on adding more ketchup to his little pool so he could finish her lunch. She didn’t immediately notice that the old lady sitting next to them had gotten up to leave—and was now standing beside their table, gaping at the picture on Jasmine’s cell phone.

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When Jasmine glanced up, she expected a stern scolding, or at least a disgusted huff. But the old lady didn’t seem very scandalized. She merely looked from the phone to Romain and back again. “Somehow I thought you’d be more impressive,” she said, and shuffled out.

Romain’s jaw dropped. “Hey, that’s not me. I am more impressive,” he called after her. “A lot more impressive. That’s true, right?” The look on his face—half-teasing, half-wounded male pride—made Jasmine laugh until her sides ached.

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Gruber’s sister was late. He sat on his couch, waiting for her, his eyes gritty.

He hadn’t been to bed yet. By the time he’d gotten home last night and washed off the blood, he’d had to start on the house. Once he viewed it as his sister would, he realized it required cleaning. Valerie was all about being “functional.” She wouldn’t like what she saw, and he couldn’t help cringing at the disgust he’d hear in her voice if it wasn’t at least passable.