Stop Me (9 page)

He crossed to the window. “You seem to know a lot about this sort of thing.”

“I’ve spent my life researching it.”

He shoved large hands into the pockets of a brown leather bomber jacket. “Yet you haven’t been able to find your own sister.”

She knew he’d taken that jab simply because she’d dared bring up the past after he’d gone to such elaborate lengths to escape it. But his words still stung.

Although they’d never made any accusations, her parents blamed her, too—for not being a more vigilant babysitter that day, for being unable to provide a clear description afterward, maybe even for being incapable of filling the hole in their hearts after their cherished “baby” went missing. “I haven’t given up.”

“It’s nearly Christmas. What are you doing in Cajun country?” he asked gruffly. “Where’s your husband?”

“I don’t have one.”

53

His gaze flicked to her braless chest as if he was so preoccupied by it he could scarcely think of anything else. “Do you have any identification?” She took her purse from the nightstand, flashed him her driver’s license and handed him a business card.

“Jasmine Stratford, The Last Stand, Victims’ Support and Assistance Nonprofit Organization,” he read.

She smiled. “That’s me.”

“Why do you think I can help you?” he asked as he slipped her card in his jacket pocket.

“I told you. This kidnapper has the same signature as the man who killed your daughter. I want to see if there are other similarities.”

“But you’re ignoring the most salient point. Moreau’s dead. I shot him myself, in cold blood, and if you think that makes me as much a murderer as he was, you’re taking an incredible risk by bothering me.”

She raised one eyebrow. “You don’t want to kill me.”

“And you know this because…”

“You have something far less painful in mind.”

The sexual energy emanating from him was so strong Jasmine could feel it lapping around her. His wife had been dead for six years. It was possible—

considering everything he’d gone through—that he hadn’t been with a woman since.

Jasmine definitely got the impression it’d been a while. But she didn’t take his interest personally. He was living on the bayou, alone for days, even weeks at a stretch, and she was standing within arm’s reach in her bedclothes, reminding him of what he’d lost. Or some of it, anyway…

But his heightened awareness didn’t frighten her. There was an unpredictable, even dark quality about Fornier, but it seemed more erotic than threatening.

“You don’t miss much,” he said, challenging her in return by letting his gaze slide more pointedly over her body.

Jasmine’s breath caught in her throat, but she didn’t cover herself. She wanted to appear unaffected, indifferent, as if the way he looked at her evoked no response whatsoever—but she knew she’d failed when her nipples puckered, displaying proof of the opposite.

His eyes latched onto that proof and a knowing smile curved his lips.

“Neither do you,” she said.

“You’re a beautiful woman. There isn’t a straight man alive who wouldn’t want to touch you.” His voice dropped meaningfully at the end, making it feel like a caress.

“Especially one who’s been living in a swamp for two years,” she said tartly, fighting to retain hold of logic and objectivity.

“So…what do you say we make a deal?”

54

It was pretty easy to guess what his offer would be. “A deal?”

“I give you what you want, and you give me what I want.” Jasmine had never been propositioned quite so bluntly. Neither had she ever been with anyone who stirred her in such an instant and primal way. Was she having this reaction because she identified so deeply with Fornier’s background? Because she admired his courage and resourcefulness, sympathized with the regret he dragged around like a ball and chain? She’d married Harvey out of obligation, overwhelming gratitude and the desire for companionship. The two relationships she’d had after her brief marriage had afforded the same benefits. But never raw desire. Nothing half as potent as this sudden and confusing attraction to a troubled stranger.

Curling her fingers into her palms, she fought his effect on her. “Sorry, I don’t use sex as a bargaining chip.”

That cynical grin returned. “Somehow I thought you were going to say that.”

“I like things simple.”

“No, you like them safe.”

“No safer than you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you don’t really want what you just asked for.” A scowl creased his forehead. “Wanna bet?”

“If you did, you wouldn’t have asked for it in that way.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“What are the odds of a woman agreeing to what you suggested?”

“There’s always a chance.”

“But you provided yourself with an escape hatch.” He leaned against the wall. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Just in case I surprised you and happened to agree, you set up the encounter to be so mechanical it wouldn’t be any different than carrying on as you’ve probably carried on so far.” She gestured with her hand so that he got her point, which provoked a genuine-sounding laugh.

“It’d be a lot different. I promise.”

As far as she was concerned, Satan himself couldn’t have been more alluring.

She was actually beginning to wonder if one night really mattered. The desire to soothe a soul even more damaged than her own was strangely appealing.

But indulging in that kind of intimacy would be a mistake. She doubted he’d let her comfort him, anyway. He was too busy proving he didn’t need anyone.

She shook her head. “It wouldn’t be good.”

His grin slanted to one side. “Try me.”

She wanted to do just that. But it was too reckless, too irresponsible to give in to that urge. “Tempting but not tempting enough.” 55

Releasing a dramatic sigh, he rubbed a hand over his stubble-covered jaw. “So we’re back to your sister, right?”

“Right.”

She knew he wasn’t really disappointed. He’d been testing her, using sex to create a diversion, at the least, an escape at the most.

“What is it you want to know?” he asked.

“Tell me about Moreau.”

“His house was a couple of miles from ours in the Garden District. He lived alone, kept to himself.” His monotone suggested he was attempting to distance himself from the subject. “He had a prior arrest record for molesting a little girl when he was about twenty and a young teen when he was twenty-five, but no convictions.

He was as twisted as they come and, although I’m the first to admit I was wrong for doing what I did, society should thank me for the favor. That’s it.”

“Any other suspects?”

“A few. But there was no physical proof that any of them had my daughter in his house.”

Jasmine sat on the bed. “Are you angry at Huff for bungling the search?”

“No. Huff took a calculated risk—and lost.”

“Which meant you lost, too.”

“Without the physical proof he discovered, there wouldn’t have been enough evidence to charge Moreau in the first place.”

“The cops couldn’t have got what they needed in the morning, after the judge signed the affidavit?”

“Moreau had seen Huff watching his place earlier in the day. He was already spooked and would’ve burned it or gotten rid of it somehow.” A muscle twitched in Fornier’s cheek. “It was the system that failed me, not Huff. A proven predator’s rights turned out to be more important to the state than an innocent child’s.” She heard that sentiment often in her line of work. “Was anyone else privy to all the details of the case?”

“Like who?”

“I don’t know. Someone who followed Huff’s progress, who acted as if he was trying to help. Someone who kept inserting himself into the investigation, maybe even confessed?”

“Because the media took hold of it, we had all kinds of crazies calling in. One guy wasn’t in New Orleans when she went missing, and there were at least half a dozen people who could prove it.”

“Anyone else stand out?”

“There was a guy Huff worked with on the force, a street cop who was trying to work his way up to detective. He wasn’t officially on the case but he took a real 56

interest. Huff believed he might’ve been the one who tipped off the defense to the illegal search.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Huff and Black never got along, and he wanted Huff’s job.”

“The newspaper reported Moreau’s mother as the whistle-blower.”

“That was just the attorney trying to protect Pearson Black. Black’s the one who provided the information. Huff insists he didn’t see anyone besides Moreau at the house when he returned that morning, but Black had helped with the search so, of course, he knew what happened.”

“Do you have regular contact with either of them?”

“I don’t have regular contact with anyone. And I like it that way.”

“Yet you came here.”

He faced her again, doing exactly what she’d thought him incapable of doing

—revealing his most vulnerable self. “I want to believe you about the necklace.”

“It’s still missing, isn’t it?”

“Can you tell me where it is?”

“No. I only know that whoever took Adele kept it in his pocket so he could fondle it when he wanted to remember her.” Jasmine hadn’t realized she knew that detail.

Romain’s eyes grew watery, but he didn’t look weak, he looked dangerous. “If you’re lying, if you’re telling me this to manipulate me, thinking you’ll enlist my help…”

“I’m not lying.”

He stepped closer. “Then how do you know?”

She hated admitting she had psychic abilities. She preferred to hang her reputation on her profiling skills, which was what she played up with the media and the police departments she helped, even though it was really some of both. But she couldn’t say that in this instance. For one thing, she would’ve had no way of ascertaining the information. “I have certain…intuitive abilities.”

“Intuitive?” Skepticism etched deep grooves around his mouth. “Like the crazy old woman who lives a mile from me and claims to be a witch?”

“I don’t claim to be anything,” she said. “Occasionally I get…impressions.

Some are clear. Some are not. There’s no rhyme or reason to them. I can attempt to invite them by studying a particular case and touching something that belonged to the victim or the perpetrator. Once in a while I have an uncanny amount of success.

More often, I get random, fleeting, confusing signals, and I wonder if I’m losing my mind.”

Her honesty seemed to deflect the criticism she felt sure would’ve come in the absence of her own doubt. “But we’re talking about a crime that took place years ago,” he said.

57

“It doesn’t matter. I pick up on random fragments of actions, thoughts or feelings. They can be in the past, present and sometimes even the future.”

“How long have you had this…ability?”

“Since I was fifteen or sixteen, maybe earlier, but I didn’t have anything to compare it to. I chalked it up to coincidence or a good guess or whatever. I didn’t talk about it until I started getting involved in criminal investigations.” If she’d had the ability when Kimberly went missing, she hadn’t known it or known how to use it, but she’d often wondered if it would’ve made a difference. Maybe she would’ve been able to sense the danger that summer day. Or been more help with the search.

“And then?”

“Then I realized I was more intuitive than most people. Sometimes it went beyond that, and I could foretell what was going to happen. Or I could sense where someone had died, or what a particular perpetrator had been thinking. Once I began focusing on these feelings, I got better and better at separating outside input from my own thoughts. But it’s still a very rudimentary and inexact science. I just do what I can.”

“Can you tell me what I’m thinking right now?”

He was being a smart-ass. “I’m not a trick pony,” she said, giving him a dirty look. “And I’m not sure I want to know what you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinking there are stranger things on this earth,” he said, surprising her by backing off.

“I’m not asking you to believe me,” she said.

Again, she got the impression that he wanted to touch her, but it no longer came across in a sexual way. He understood her defensiveness, wanted to reassure and calm her.

At that point, she probably would’ve let him pull her into his arms. But he didn’t try. He moved past her to the door.

Jasmine felt she should stop him. He hadn’t given her very many details on Moreau. But he had mentioned the name of someone else who might be able to help her—Pearson Black—and that was a start. If she needed more information, she knew where to find Fornier.

“This note you received, the one written in blood,” he said, turning back at the last second.

“Yes?”

“What’d it say?”

“Stop me.”

“Stop me,” he repeated under his breath. For a moment, he seemed miles away but his focus quickly returned. “Can I see it?”

“It’s at a forensics lab in California.”

“Can you show me how it was written?”

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This question made Jasmine’s heart race. “Of course.” Walking to the desk in the corner of the room, she picked up a piece of paper and wrote the words exactly as she’d seen them on the note, complete with the strange assortment of capitals and an e that looked a little like an ampersand.

S-T-o-P M-e

The flash of awareness in Romain’s eyes told her he recognized some aspect of what he saw. But he didn’t reveal what. “You’ve got your work cut out for you,” he said simply.

“That’s it?” she asked, overwhelmed by disappointment. “That’s all you’ve got to say?”

“This has nothing to do with me,” he said again, and without another word, he left.

Jasmine stared down at the note. Something about the writing told him otherwise. Or he wouldn’t have gone so pale under that tanned skin.

59

His helmet strapped to the seat behind him, Romain raced down the highway, embracing the cold wind as it numbed his cheeks, stole his breath, whipped his hair.

Had he killed the wrong man?

No. It wasn’t possible. Moreau was a pedophile with two prior arrests. Maybe those arrests hadn’t resulted in convictions, but Adele’s blood had been on Moreau’s work pants, her barrettes in his house. And if those items had left any question, there was that revolting video.