Stop Me (4 page)

23

“Mr. Cabanis owns the hotel and the bar. He should be downstairs.” Because she was dressed in gothic black and looked barely nineteen, Jasmine got the impression she was somehow related to Cabanis, possibly his daughter.

“Thank you.” Jasmine descended the final flight of stairs to ground level, where a wiry, energetic man with dark hair was restocking the beverage glasses in The Moody Blues.

“Mr. Cabanis?”

His eyes flicked her way, but his hands continued to transfer glasses in a smooth, well-practiced motion. “Yes?” Thanks to his muscular forearms, which were covered in tattoos, he reminded her of Popeye.

“I’m one of your hotel guests. I called before I left home to confirm that you have Internet service, but I haven’t been able to connect.”

“It’s not in the rooms yet.” News played on the television bolted to the ceiling in the corner. He glanced at it every now and then as if he resented being interrupted during his morning ritual. “We just opened the hotel and are still making improvements. This building used to be apartments,” he added.

Somehow that came as no surprise. “So how do I gain access to the Internet?

Can I move to a different room or something?”

The television showed highlights of the latest Hornets game. “The ten rooms that are finished are full. For now, Internet is only available in the lobby, anyway.”

“That isn’t what I was told over the phone.”

He finally gave her his full attention. “Someone told you we have Internet service in the rooms?”

She couldn’t exactly make that claim. She’d said, “Do you have Internet service?” and the person on the other end had said, “Yes.” It wasn’t a lie, but it would’ve helped had that person expanded on his answer.

“Maybe not. So, can I use what you’ve got in the lobby?”

“Of course. There’s a dedicated line opposite the reception desk. Just plug in and away you go.”

She imagined herself trying to concentrate amid the activity she’d witnessed last night—and the noise that rumbled through the whole place—and decided she’d get on the Internet in the early morning. “Thank you.” She started toward the stairs, then hesitated. “Do you watch the news every morning?” she asked, turning back.

“For the most part.” He’d finished the first rack of glasses and was halfway through the second.

“I was wondering if you’ve heard any reports recently about young girls being abducted.”

This got his attention. “Why do you want to know?”

“Someone took my sister a long time ago. I think he might’ve moved here, that he’s still active.”

24

He pursed his lips as he thought it over. Most kidnappings ended within twenty-four hours so they rarely hit the news. But there were instances where the child couldn’t be located—or was found dead.

“Nothing that I can remember,” he said at length. “Not since the uproar over the Fornier girl, which was…what…four years ago? It was definitely before the hurricane.”

“The Fornier girl?”

“You didn’t hear about that?”

“I’m from California. If it made the national news, it doesn’t sound familiar.”

“A pervert named Moreau kidnapped her while she was riding her bike. She was only ten.”

According to estimates provided by the U.S. Department of Justice, 354,100

children were abducted by a family member each year. Strangers, or nonfamily members, attempted to abduct another 114,600 children but were successful in kidnapping only 3,200 to 4,600. Of those cases, 100 ended in murder. Jasmine could’ve recited the statistics in her sleep. Most victims of nonfamily abductions were average children leading normal lives. Seventy-six percent were girls, with a median age slightly over eleven. In eight percent of the cases, initial contact occurred within a quarter mile of the victim’s home, and in the majority of cases—nearly sixty percent—the abduction was a matter of opportunity. But Jasmine knew that anyone out there looking for an opportunity would eventually find it.

In any event, it sounded as if this little girl fit the profile. “Was she ever found?”

“Not before Moreau killed her.”

Almost half the victims abducted by a stranger were murdered. Of those, the vast majority—seventy-four percent—were dead within three hours. Considering the fact that most parents or caregivers spent two hours searching before notifying police, authorities typically didn’t have much chance of saving the child. “How sad.” He grimaced. “You don’t want to know what he did to that little girl.” No, she didn’t. She could guess easily enough. “The primary motivation in any child-abduction murder is generally sexual assault.”

“Yeah, well, he did that and more.” Mr. Cabanis straightened. “He’d still be out there, victimizing other children, if it wasn’t for Adele Fornier’s father.” Adele. That personalized the story too much for Jasmine. She pushed the name away, refused to connect emotionally with the poor victim, choosing to focus instead on other, more positive aspects of the story. Like the father’s success. Jasmine had become invisible because of her own father’s complete absorption. At least in this case, Mr. Fornier’s dedication seemed to have made a difference. “What did the little girl’s father do?”

25

“Helped hunt him down. My own daughter was fourteen at the time, so I followed the story pretty closely.”

“Moreau’s in prison, then?”

“Nope. Got off on a technicality.” With a sigh, the hotel owner shook his head.

“Damnedest thing you ever heard of.”

Even if Jasmine found whoever had sent her sister’s bracelet, she’d face other challenges. If the prosecutors didn’t build a solid case, if they made a single misstep, Kimberly’s kidnapper could walk, just as Adele’s had. It was one of those harsh realities that often burned out the sympathetic souls who gravitated to her line of work. “What sort of technicality?”

“The detective in charge messed up the way he gathered the evidence or something.”

“How?”

“I forget. The case went to trial. Seemed like a slam dunk. Then everything went to hell.”

Sometimes it all seemed so futile, and stories like this one, where a case should’ve come together but didn’t, made it worse. “If he didn’t go to prison, where is he?”

The man’s eyes lit with a sense of justice and the joy of telling of a good story.

“Romain shot him.”

Jasmine felt her jaw drop. “You’re kidding. Moreau’s dead?”

“As dead as a man can get. When he walked out of the courthouse…pow.” Cabanis made a gun with his finger and thumb, pulling the trigger as he imitated the sound.

It took a moment for the finality of Fornier’s action to sink in, but certain questions soon pushed to the forefront of Jasmine’s brain. “Did Fornier go to prison?”

His work forgotten, Cabanis rested his elbows on the bar. “Of course. Didn’t even bother to resist. He dropped the gun on the courthouse steps and let them arrest him. I saw it on TV. The networks were there. They got it on tape.”

“Really. How long was his sentence?”

“Due to the situation, the judge went easy on him. He got two years and served about—” Cabanis’s whiskers rasped as he rubbed his chin “—eighteen months or so.

I saw a news piece on his release a couple years back.” Jasmine wondered if her father would’ve shot Kimberly’s kidnapper if he’d had the chance and thought it was a definite possibility. Then she put herself in Fornier’s place.

Would she ever take the law into her own hands? Demand justice at any cost?

What kind of person would she be after something like that? She was no advocate of 26

vigilantism, but if she was sure—as sure as Fornier seemed to be—that she had the man who’d brutally murdered her sister, and that man was about to walk…

“Fornier’s not your average fellow,” the hotel owner was saying. “Used to be Special Forces.”

“I wonder if he regretted firing that shot.” She was asking herself more than him, but Cabanis answered.

“I don’t think so. Prison made him even tougher than he already was. He appealed to the public for help when his daughter was first missing. But he didn’t want anything to do with publicity after he got out. In the clip I saw, he kept turning away from the camera, refusing to comment, until a reporter cornered him as he was getting into a car. Then he looked right into the camera and said, ‘I’d do it again.’” Jasmine rubbed away the goose bumps that rose on her skin. “Do you know how Fornier managed to track down Moreau?”

“I couldn’t give you the details, no.”

“Thanks.” She smiled as if Fornier’s story was merely one of those horrific tales that fascinated the casual listener, but there was nothing casual about the impact it’d had on her. She’d once feared her father would follow a similar path; now she felt her own thirst for vengeance.

Stop me. How far would she go in order to accomplish that?

27

There was a sketch artist listed in the Yellow Pages under Forensic Consultants, but Jasmine wasn’t convinced she could rely on the talents of a woman named Rayne Gulley. She was pretty sure the listing had to be a misprint or maybe a joke—until she called. Then she spoke with Ms. Gulley, who sounded surprisingly capable and experienced.

“I’ve been drawing for nearly forty years,” she said. “Completed more than two thousand composite sketches and, boy, have I met a lot of interesting people during that time.”

“I’d be describing a man I haven’t seen for sixteen years,” Jasmine admitted.

“So we’re talking about age progression.”

“Yes. And you should probably know that I was only twelve when he came to the door.”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

“I think I will.” It was a relief just to be able to say that, to feel confident that she could finally describe the bearded man’s features in enough detail to walk away with a good likeness. In the first few years after Kimberly’s abduction, her parents and the police had her meet with several sketch artists. But no matter how hard she tried, each session resulted in a picture that didn’t resemble him in the least. The constant failure created so much frustration and stress that, at sixteen, Jasmine had been hospitalized for anxiety disorders. At that point, her doctor forbade her parents to speak about the abduction in front of her. He told them to accept what had happened and go on with their lives, and to take better care of the daughter they had left. It was as if they’d all but forgotten her. But nothing he said made any difference.

Her parents were mere shells of the people they’d once been. Her mother had started sniping that she should never have married outside her race and religion. Her father had started suggesting she go back to “her people.” After her stint in the hospital, Jasmine couldn’t picture her sister’s kidnapper anymore. He’d become an out-of-focus face with a beard. That was all. And the drugs she took in her late teens made the image even fuzzier. She’d thought she’d lost those details—until three days ago, when she’d seen him in her mind’s eye.

“I have company for the holidays,” Ms. Gulley said, “but I’d be happy to set up an appointment with you for after they leave.” 28

The holidays. Jasmine felt none of the festivity or excitement. Christmas had become an irritant to her, an obstacle that made what she was trying to accomplish more difficult. “When will that be?” she asked, unable to conceal her disappointment.

“Tuesday?”

That was a whole week away! “Is there anyone else in the area who could help me sooner?”

“Frank West might be available. He just moved here, but he’s done a lot of work for various police departments in Tennessee.” She spoke politely, but Jasmine sensed an underlying vein of annoyance. Ms.

Gulley felt she had the right to enjoy Christmas without interruption, and she did—

but Jasmine couldn’t sit and do nothing until the world was ready to turn again. “Is he any good?”

“I’m better. Especially if you want age progression. That requires a certain knack.”

Jasmine wished she didn’t believe Ms. Gulley’s frank appraisal of her own ability, but the woman’s confident manner and decades of experience had convinced her. Torn and impatient, she hesitated, but ultimately conceded. “Fine. Where’s your office?”

“I work out of my house. In Kenner. Where are you staying?”

“The Quarter.”

“I’m about fifteen miles away. Do you have a car?”

“Not yet, but I can get one.”

“Shall we say two o’clock?”

Jasmine swallowed a sigh. “That’s fine. I’ll see you after Christmas.”

“Ms. Stratford?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t let this get the best of you,” she said and hung up.

Jasmine sat in her small chair at her small desk in her small room and slowly set the phone in its cradle. Ms. Gulley’s advice came far too late. The abduction had gotten the best of her sixteen years ago. She’d lived beneath the crushing weight of it ever since.

Suddenly yearning for the Christmases that once were, before Kimberly was taken, she picked up the phone and dialed her father. These days he lived with a woman and her two kids whom she’d met only once in Mobile, Alabama, which wasn’t far from New Orleans. But imagining how the call might go—the stiff formal reception, the underlying current that led her to believe her father would rather not hear from her, even during the holidays—she hung up before it could ring. Then she went to the library.

29

The New Orleans Public Library, located only a mile from Maison du Soleil, was too quiet. Like the call to Rayne Gulley, it reminded Jasmine that it was Christmastime and everyone else was out shopping, trimming trees, baking, celebrating. But at least the solitude meant she probably wouldn’t be interrupted.

She sat on the third floor in the microfilm section, with only the male librarian at the desk for company, poring over past issues of the Times Picayune, New Orleans’ biggest paper. She was searching for anything that stood out or brought to mind the man who’d taken Kimberly. Mr. Cabanis didn’t recall hearing about any stranger abductions since the Fornier case, but that didn’t mean there hadn’t been any. Hurricane Katrina had dominated the news for so long, a case involving a young girl or early teen found murdered could have turned into one more statistic, especially if there were no leads in the case, no parents screaming for action. If the man with the beard had begun targeting easier victims, victims whose absence wasn’t so quickly noticed, he could be here, indulging his sick impulses just as his note suggested.