Stop Me (41 page)

“I love them. Especially the one on the Renaissance painters.” Her gifts sat on his rolling tray, the paper he’d torn off still crumpled beside them.

“Good. I’m thrilled with the bird you painted for me, too.”

“The one I did for Phil is a little different.”

“But I’m sure it’s just as beautiful.”

“I’d like to see him open it.”

She winced at the burning in her stomach. “Okay. When he gets home. It’s your turn.”

He didn’t move.

“Dustin?”

“I think you should go to the police,” he said, tossing his cards aside.

Lowering her hand, Beverly gaped at him. “About what?”

“About everything.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Yes, I do.” His words were softly spoken. “You’ve done something terrible, for my sake, and you’re caught in a situation from which there seems to be no escape. If you don’t free yourself you may never get out.”

“No.” She shook her head. If she went to the police, they’d put her in prison.

Then what would happen to him? He wouldn’t have anyone to take care of him.

“You can’t go on like this,” he insisted.

His words, solemn and heartfelt, shook Beverly to the core. She was so weary inside, so sick of all she’d done and all she’d hidden. She’d burn in hell for sure. But what really plagued her were memories of the little children she’d helped Peccavi uproot and transplant. She’d tried to delude herself into thinking they’d all gone to 245

good families. But she knew that wasn’t true. Peccavi was a businessman. He used them just as he would any other kind of product—he sold them to the highest bidder.

A tear slipped down her cheek and dropped onto the table before she even realized she was crying. Milo had to be rolling over in his grave. He’d tried to do so much good in his life. But he hadn’t faced Dustin’s illness, hadn’t experienced the desperation that’d delivered her into the hands of a man who, after the initial agreement, would hold her in his power forever.

If she let him…

“Mom.” Dustin squeezed her arm. When she looked up, he continued. “I don’t have much longer. I want to die knowing you’re free of whatever he holds over you.”

“Even if it means I’m sitting in prison?” she whispered, more honest with him in this moment than she’d been in years.

“Will it help these children?” He waved at the pictures taped on his walls.

She imagined the joy all the families who’d lost a son or daughter would feel at finding that missing child and her heart began to beat faster. “Yes.”

“Then whatever price we pay will be worth it.”

When he picked up the handset, Beverly almost reached out to stop him. The police had been “the enemy” for so long. But they were Peccavi’s enemy, too.

“Do the right thing,” Dustin whispered. “Stop what’s going on—for their sake.” He pulled Billy’s Santa Claus off the wall behind him. “If you testify against Peccavi, I’ll bet you won’t serve any time. You’ll get probation, but then it’ll be over and no more children will be hurt.”

As it happened, he’d chosen Billy’s artwork, and that took Beverly aback.

She’d never actually admitted to Dustin what she was doing; she was too ashamed.

And yet, on some level, he knew.

“Mom?” he prompted when she didn’t move.

It wasn’t too late for Billy. When Beverly had left work this morning, Billy was still at the transfer house.

Maybe she couldn’t save Dustin. As painful as it was going to be to lose her most endearing child, Dustin’s disease would win in the end. They had very little time. But she could save the boy who reminded her so much of him.

Setting down her cards, she took another antacid and accepted the phone he handed her.

Pearson Black hadn’t answered when Jasmine tried to reach him. She’d called him at least six times, left messages, had even tried him at the security company for which he worked. No one seemed to know where he was. Fortunately, amid her frustration, she’d thought of checking the phone book for Gruber Coen’s address. It seemed too easy, but there was only one Gruber Coen listed for New Orleans. And once she actually saw the house, she knew she’d found the right place. She could feel it.

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She slowed as she drove past Coen’s address. The house appeared to be empty and even more neglected than the Moreaus’ current residence. And his yard was the only one on the block without some sort of Christmas decoration. But it appeared safe.

Still, Jasmine wasn’t about to stop, wasn’t about to risk coming into contact with Gruber without some kind of help. She knew what he was capable of. She’d seen him kill a woman, watched him murder her without compunction, just because that woman looked like her.

Finally, the squad car she’d been expecting turned the corner. Breathing a sigh of relief, she parked in front and waited for the officer to get out. He left his car directly across from hers, and they met in the middle of the quiet street.

“Are you the one who called?” Young, clean-cut and not unattractive, he was probably new to the force.

“Yes, I’m Jasmine Stratford.”

“Officer Ambrose.” He offered his hand as he glanced at the house. “You claim the man who lives here kidnapped your sister sixteen years ago?”

“Yes. I remember his face as if it were yesterday.” He studied her for several seconds, a little too disbelieving—and inexperienced—for her comfort. Did he realize what he was getting into? She’d tried to tell them when she called, but Kozlowski hadn’t been there, although he was scheduled to come in later. They’d sent her this rookie instead.

“How long have you been on the force?” she asked.

He was obviously unhappy with the doubt underlying that question. His eyebrows lowered over his clear blue eyes. “Long enough to handle this.” He started toward the door, his walk brisk, cocky.

“This man is very dangerous,” she warned, trailing after him. “I’m a profiler, so I’ve met a few criminals in my day, and he’s one of the worst I’ve ever come across.”

“In your day?” He smiled, apparently finding her statement humorous. “That makes you sound like my mother. But you can’t be that much older than me.” God, he found her attractive and was flirting with her! “Listen.” Jasmine stopped him. “This is serious. If your ego’s going to get in the way, we’re in trouble here.”

“I don’t have an ego.” He tapped his hip. “I have a gun, and I know how to use it.”

Sometimes confidence was a good thing, she told herself, as long as it was tempered by caution. And she’d certainly warned him.

When she didn’t respond, he nodded at the door. “Let’s talk to him. See what he has to say. With any luck he’ll confess and give himself up without a fight.” 247

The flippant statement bothered Jasmine more than anything else, but Officer Ambrose had already knocked.

Memories of the day her sister went missing, all the years of searching since, the rift with her parents, and that dream of another woman’s murder—it all rushed through her mind like a river. What would Gruber say when he opened the door?

Would he lie? Make a run for it? Have a weapon?

She squinted toward the largest of the front windows. He could be watching them right now. If he was, she couldn’t tell. The blinds were down and everything seemed quiet, static.

“He’s not here,” Officer Ambrose said.

“Then we have to wait.”

He stared at her as if he thought she might be crazy. “Waiting isn’t the answer.

We don’t even know if he’s coming back. Or if he’s really dangerous. I’ll swing by again in a few hours, keep an eye on the place.” Jasmine wasn’t budging. She’d waited sixteen years for this. “No. We have to go in and take a look around. He’s the one who killed Adele Fornier. It wasn’t Francis Moreau.”

“Who’s Adele Fornier?”

“A child who was involved in a notorious kidnapping/murder that occurred about four years ago. When you were still in high school,” she said dryly.

He grinned. “You have something against younger men.”

“I have something against murderers.”

“Me, too. But the law says I can’t go in without a search warrant.”

“Then you’ll have to get one,” she said, growing impatient.

“I’d like to help you out.” He tilted his head closer. “In case you can’t tell, I’m trying to win a few points here. But much as I’d love it if you’d go out with me, I still need probable cause for entering this house.”

“And as much as I’d like to use your interest to my advantage, I’m already committed,” Jasmine said.

His eyebrows arched hopefully. “I didn’t see a ring.”

“We’re not married but…” She hesitated. She’d used this kind of polite untruth before, to deflect unwanted attention. It was the gentlest form of rejection.

But she suddenly realized it was true. She was in love with Romain Fornier. She’d come to Louisiana to look for her sister and fallen in love.

“You’re together?” he finished because she couldn’t find the words to describe her current situation.

She nodded, hoping her first heartbreak wouldn’t follow right behind her first love.

He motioned toward the house. “So, when did you see this guy?”

“I haven’t seen him yet. I have his picture.”

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“How do you know it’s the same guy?”

“Because I saw him at the door before my sister went missing.” A neighbor across the street came out to see what was going on; no doubt she’d spotted the cop car. “Something wrong over there?” she called.

“We’d like a word with Mr. Coen,” Officer Ambrose hollered back. “Do you know where he is or when he might return?”

“No. He’s a strange fellow.” She threw up her hands and shook her head. “I try to stay away from him.”

Officer Ambrose shrugged. “Strange isn’t a punishable offense. At least not yet. I’ll keep an eye on this place and get back to you.” The frustration of coming up against such a mundane obstacle was almost more than Jasmine could bear. “You can’t just…leave.” She wanted to add that this man had murdered a woman only two days ago, but she didn’t dare undermine her credibility by blaming Gruber for too many crimes at once. She knew she was right, but he wouldn’t. Also working against her was the fact that this young cop had probably handed out plenty of speeding tickets, but true evil wasn’t something he’d likely encountered before. Therefore, he’d have little faith in its existence.

“Your phone number’s on the report. I’ll call you.” All business now that he knew he wasn’t going to get a date with her, he started toward his car, but on his way, he bent to pick up a piece of trash lying in the gutter—and then he stopped.

“What is it?” she asked.

He was frowning at the envelope he’d retrieved. “A phone bill.”

“Gruber’s?”

He turned to face her. “It’s addressed to a woman who was reported missing this morning.”

Officer Ambrose drew his weapon. After knocking again, he identified himself as a police officer and warned Coen that he was coming in. Then he used a tool from his car to jimmy the lock on the door. Jasmine doubted many cops would’ve handled the situation so aggressively, but Officer Ambrose had something to prove. He knew she wasn’t interested in him, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to impress her.

He probably had visions of becoming a hero when he found the missing Valerie Stabula.

Unfortunately, if Gruber had Valerie, Jasmine was sure they wouldn’t find her in good condition.

“Stay here,” he said as he went in. But it was difficult to flex one’s power without an audience and, once he felt comfortable that Coen was really gone, he didn’t send her back out when she joined him.

“Anything?” she asked.

He put away his gun. “Nothing.”

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The stench was subtle but unmistakable. If there’d been any question in her mind that she had the right place, the smell alone would’ve convinced her. “It stinks in here.”

“I can smell it.”

“You know what it is, don’t you?”

“It could be a lot of things,” he said.

A lot of things beginning with death…

Jasmine gazed around the threadbare living room. An old green sofa that might’ve been dragged away from a dump sat in the middle of the floor, in front of a small television on a scratched-up coffee table. There were no pictures on the walls, just a plain clock.

A leaf blower started next door, drowning out the sound of Officer Ambrose’s voice as he called the station to report where he was and what he was doing. Jasmine thought of the neighbor out cleaning his lawn. Such an ordinary, innocuous chore, in vivid contrast to her own activity—searching for evidence of murder.

Had Kimberly ever been here? she wondered as she went from room to room.

Or had Gruber killed her before he came to New Orleans?

Sexual sadists were often narcissistic. They liked to talk, to brag about their exploits. But Gruber had managed to keep his dark secrets for a long time. Unless Jasmine could uncover some real evidence, chances were good she’d never know.

In the bedroom, the stench of decomposition wasn’t quite as strong, but there were other smells—dust, body odor, cheap cologne. The thought of this man coming into contact with her little sister, or Romain’s daughter, turned Jasmine’s stomach.

The bathroom was worse than any of the other rooms. A toothbrush lay on the counter, crusted with dried toothpaste. The toilet was disgusting. But poor housekeeping and bad hygiene wasn’t incriminating. There had to be something here, something that would indicate Adele had once been in this place, or Kimberly, or Valerie. Jasmine knew a jury wouldn’t convict a man without more evidence than a brief sighting sixteen years ago. Human memory was simply too fallible.

An antique English oak dresser was the nicest piece of furniture Gruber owned, but the mirror above it was losing its silver. It probably didn’t matter, because she doubted he ever used it. He wouldn’t like the image that stared back at him. She suspected it was really himself he was trying to destroy.

As Jasmine stared in that blotchy mirror, trying to figure out how to take advantage of the few minutes she had before Ambrose ushered her out, her eyes landed on the reflection of Coen’s closet. There was nothing in particular to draw her attention. Except…it was closed.