Stop Me (39 page)

“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 233

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.

234

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

“Is your mother home?”

“Just a minute.”

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.

235

“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?” 236

“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.

237

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.”