Stop Me

by Brenda Novak

  “Mom? Where are you? The pain’s coming back! Mom?”

  Dustin…Beverly’s heart sank. He was so miserable. And there was so little she could do to help him.

  “I’ll be right with you, honey,” she called, but at the top of the stairs, she went into the room she used as an office, where she’d dumped the contents of Jasmine Stratford’s purse.

  “Hang on,” she told Peccavi. “I might be able to help….”

  Shoving one of her cats off the chair—another stray she’d picked up at the transfer house a few months ago—she sat at her desk and shuffled through the wallet, address book, gum, candy and papers she’d examined earlier. She’d found a confirmation notice from a hotel in the French Quarter just as Tattie showed up at the door….

  There it was. Plucking it from the pile, she held it up to the sunlight streaming through the window so she could read what it said. She hated to pass this information along to Peccavi. She was so tired of the violence, the secrets, the fear of discovery. But the police would soon be at her door. Again. If she didn’t take preemptive measures, the situation could escalate, could get even worse than it had with Francis.

  “She’s staying at La Maison du Soleil in the French Quarter,” she said. “And I’ve got her room key.”

  “You do?”

  “It was in her purse.”

  “They’ll rekey it,” he said.

  “Not if you get there before she does.” Then she hung up and swallowed some more antacids.

  * * *

  It was one of the worst days of Jasmine’s life. Not only had she been locked in a cellar and discovered a corpse, she’d lost her purse and everything in it—her cell phone, her wallet, the address book she relied on so heavily, her camera. Being stripped of those things made being away from home on Christmas Eve that much worse. She felt like a turtle that’d been turned on its back and couldn’t right itself.

  She sat in her rental car, watching the police officers going in and out of the Moreau residence across the street. They’d been working the crime scene for quite a while. She didn’t know how long. It’d taken her three hours to get a new set of keys and to have someone from the car rental company drive her out here. By the time she’d arrived, the police were engrossed in their work, and no one wanted to tell her anything.

  She’d stopped one young officer, asking him to look for her camera while he was in the cellar. He’d agreed but hadn’t come out for over an hour, and when he did he told her he hadn’t seen it—in a voice that indicated it definitely wasn’t a priority. Before he walked away, however, he mentioned that she should check with the home owner. Evidently, Mrs. Moreau was cooperating with the search, which surprised Jasmine almost as much as it relieved the police. They were in a hurry. Some were due to get off soon and wanted to go home to their families.

  Spotting another man in uniform heading to one of the vehicles in front of Tattie’s place, Jasmine got out of her car. “Have you identified the body?” she asked.

  The officer gave her a blank expression. “We don’t know anything yet.”

  “When might that change?”

  “I can’t say.”

  Of course not. In his mind, she wasn’t anyone who needed to know. And she doubted it’d be different with any of the other cops. She was a civilian from a different state. She had no power here.

  With a sigh, Jasmine got back into her car. Kozlowski had been off today, so there was no one she could ask for more information. The desk sergeant she’d spoken to when she’d called to report her discovery had said a detective would want her to come in to make a statement. She could talk to someone then. But, thanks to the holidays, it’d be Monday or Tuesday before anyone got around to her. This was obviously a very old killing and nothing would likely change over the course of three or four days.

  Regardless of what the police would or wouldn’t do, she was wasting her time here. Even Tattie wasn’t out and about. Jasmine guessed she was inside the house with Mrs. Moreau; she hadn’t seen the neighbor since her return.

  After putting on her seat belt, Jasmine started the engine. Earlier, she’d cleaned up as best she could in Tattie’s bathroom, but she was hungry and tired and wanted to get back to the hotel. Without cash or credit cards, she didn’t have any way to purchase a meal, but she figured she might be able to order from the bar downstairs and put it on her room bill. Even if she couldn’t, she’d have a hot shower and then a comfortable bed to sleep in until Skye could wire some money to the closest Western Union. While she waited at the car rental place, she’d canceled her credit cards and called her friends. But she hadn’t told them the whole truth about the reason she needed help. She saw no reason to ruin their Christmas by telling them she’d run into trouble. It was easier to say she’d simply lost her purse.

  She was just pulling away when she noticed an old Camaro coming from the opposite direction. With all the police vehicles clogging the street, the driver had to angle to the side to make room for her to pass, but his eye held hers a little too long—long enough to let her know he recognized her.

  Stomping on the brakes, she quickly shoved the transmission into Park and got out. A red flush to his cheeks gave him a flustered air, as if he was tempted to drive away, but she had him cornered.

  She knocked on his window and he finally cracked it open a few inches.

  “What do you want?” he demanded, wearing a dark scowl.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “None of your business.”

  But Jasmine could guess. He looked almost identical to the picture of Francis Moreau she’d seen on the microfilm in the library: short and stocky with dark wavy hair, small dark eyes and a Roman nose. This had to be a close relative—most likely his brother.

  “You’re Phillip,” she said.

  The furrow between his eyebrows deepened, but he didn’t contradict her. He waved at his house. “What’s going on?”

  She noticed a pack of cigarettes on his dashboard. “You can’t guess?”

  “If I could, I wouldn’t have asked.”

  Right. Was this the man who’d locked her in the cellar? Who’d left those butts? Or had the spark of recognition she’d witnessed come from having seen her on TV? “There was a body in your cellar.”

  He didn’t react. “Who told you that?”

  “I’m the one who found it.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Jasmine didn’t read much surprise in that comment, or in his expression. “Did you know it was there?”

  “No.”

  A lie. She could tell by the whitening of his knuckles on the steering wheel. “Who was he?” she pressed. “What happened?”

  He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, his mother called his name. Jasmine glanced up to find Mrs. Moreau standing out on the front lawn, watching them with her hands propped on her hips.

  “Phillip! There you are. Get in here. The nightmare we went through with Francis isn’t over yet.”

  He didn’t move right away. He looked at Jasmine almost as if he was pleading for something. Then the line of his mouth turned grim and his attention shifted resolutely toward his mother. “It doesn’t exactly come as a shock. My brother was a murderer,” he told her. Then he nearly drove over her toes as he forced her out of his path, squeezing between her car and a cruiser.

  * * *

  Gruber Coen flicked his TV remote to replay the America’s Most Wanted episode he’d recorded on his satellite system’s hard drive. He’d just spoken to Peccavi. Peccavi had called to tell him Jasmine Stratford had come to New Orleans, but that wasn’t unexpected. Gruber had invited her here.

  What did astonish him was the fact that she’d already connected the note he’d sent her with what he’d written on the wall when he dumped Adele’s body.

  He whistled as he watched the way she used her hands when she talked and the emotion flitting across her face. He was especially interested in the sadness she exhibited when she talked about her li
ttle sister. He wished it roused some pity in him, some vestige of conscience. But it didn’t. His head told him he should feel sorry for her, be ashamed, stop his behavior, but the only thing he really felt was a stirring of the desire that made him do what he did—and a trace of admiration. He’d assumed Jasmine would connect her sister’s disappearance to Adele’s murder at some point—but not so fast. She was quick, much quicker than he’d expected.

  The thought both excited and terrified him. Would she be able to stop him? Had he finally met his match?

  God, she looked like her sister. Except she was missing that fearful expression he’d liked so well in Kimberly. Jasmine wasn’t scared of anyone. She was shrewd, determined, strong.

  Turning up the volume, Gruber listened once again as she described the personality characteristics of a recent sex offender who’d been victimizing little boys.

  Fucking pervert. What kind of man wanted to have sex with a boy?

  He pressed the volume button on the remote. This was the part where Jasmine talked about her sister, and he didn’t want to miss it. He didn’t have to worry about the neighbors. No one was going to hear anything in the cement bunker he’d built. That was the beauty of it. He could do anything down here.

  “I was twelve years old when my sister went missing. A bearded stranger came to the door and asked for my father.”

  Gruber smiled. He no longer wore a beard. According to his sister, who constantly pointed out his every flaw, he had a weak chin and needed the facial hair to camouflage the defect. But he knew it was important to periodically change his appearance. Maybe Jasmine was smart, but he was smarter. Even vanity couldn’t get in the way of survival.

  “After he left, I realized my sister was gone, too,” she was saying.

  He remembered that day as if it was yesterday. Peccavi had sent him to Cleveland to pick up another kid Jack had scouted the previous week, and he’d bumped into Peter Stratford in line at a fast-food joint. They’d struck up a conversation, and Peter had offered him a temporary job.

  Gruber still wasn’t sure why he’d ever gone to the address Peter had given him. Except that he’d been bored and looking for something to interest him. Then there she was. So easy. A gift. He’d promised her an ice cream cone for showing him such a nice cartwheel, told her they’d bring one for her sister, too, and she’d climbed right into his truck.

  The phone rang. With a curse, he stopped the program and returned it to the beginning, planning to watch it all over again as soon as he was off the phone. He enjoyed studying Jasmine, enjoyed fantasizing about finally meeting her, looking into her eyes and telling her he was the one she’d been searching for these past sixteen years.

  “Hello?”

  It was Roger, or someone he called Roger. Gruber had no idea what his real name was. He only knew that he wasn’t as good a scout as Jack had been.

  “What is it?”

  “I have one for you.”

  “Where?” he asked.

  “Right here in the city.”

  “Are you crazy? That’s too close.”

  “This is a contract baby.”

  Meaning Roger had found a prostitute or some other woman desperate enough to give up her baby for money or drugs. They acquired the children who went through their little company in a variety of ways. Buying them from crack addicts and prostitutes was the least dangerous—at least for him as the pickup man—because they paid for what they took.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Gruber insisted. Because of a close call years ago, and because they based their entire enterprise out of New Orleans, they didn’t usually take children, via any method, from their home area. Peccavi constantly stressed how important it was to keep all illegal activity as far away from the transfer house as possible.

  “Peccavi’s making an exception,” Roger said. “He’s not happy with the money we’ve got coming in right now.”

  And because babies were hard to come by and always sold for a premium, Peccavi occasionally relented on this rule. “Then why can’t you pick it up?”

  “I’m in Detroit, looking for something a little more specific.”

  Gruber frowned and rubbed his bare chin as he stared at the frozen picture of John Walsh on his TV screen. “She’s giving it up on Christmas?” he said. Apparently she was even more hard-hearted than his bitch of a mother had been.

  “She wants to be able to buy herself a few things. Do you mind?”

  “Some kids don’t have a chance,” he grumbled.

  “That’s our business, isn’t it? Giving them a chance.”

  Gruber had to laugh. Roger’s self-delusions sometimes boggled his mind. “You really believe that shit? That we’re angels in disguise?”

  Defensiveness infiltrated Roger’s response. Obviously, he didn’t want to face reality today. “I believe that Peccavi’s got his hands full right now, and he wants you to take care of this. Do you need him to call you?”

  Gruber almost said yes. Without some intervention, some distraction, he feared Peccavi would kill Jasmine before Gruber had the chance to confront her. But if Peccavi could stop Jasmine that easily, she wasn’t a worthy adversary. And Gruber couldn’t threaten his own livelihood—possibly his life—by doing anything to make Peccavi suspicious. Like her sister before her, Jasmine was an indulgence, a risk. He had to play it smart or the man he worked for would turn on him the way he’d turned on Jack….

  “You gonna answer me? You there?” Roger asked.

  “I’m here. Go ahead and give me the details.”

  Roger spouted off a set of directions, which Gruber copied on the back cover of Sports Illustrated, a magazine he sometimes read to make himself feel like an everyday guy. He bought SI or even Playboy occasionally, although he knew it wouldn’t really work. He wanted to be an everyday guy. But he’d never been like other men. “Got it,” he said when he was finished.

  “At least you don’t have to travel for this one, eh?” Roger said.

  Gruber tossed the pen aside. “I guess.” The mother was home from the hospital and staying in a motel room courtesy of Peccavi. All he had to do was pick up the baby and take it to Beverly Moreau at the bungalow that served as their transfer house.

  But leaving his bunker took him away from the pleasure of watching Kimberly’s sister talk about him on national television, and he hated Peccavi and Roger for that.

  CHAPTER 11

  Returning to her hotel for a meal and a shower sounded better in theory than it actually turned out to be. By the time Jasmine reached Maison du Soleil, it was nearly six o’clock and dark. The businesses along St. Philip Street—and everywhere else—were already closed for Christmas Eve.

  Jasmine pulled to the curb and stared up at the building. With its festive lights glowing eerily through the fog, she felt as if she’d entered a Christmas ghost town. The fact that the French Quarter was normally so lively and boisterous made the loneliness seem more intense. And the weather didn’t help. Even the high-powered streetlights cast only a dim glow on wet, shiny streets.

  “Some Christmas this is,” she grumbled. Even The Moody Blues was closed, leaving her with little hope of a meal. And the person who’d stolen her purse had the key to her room. He didn’t have her room number, but that didn’t reassure her. It was such a small hotel he could easily have gone door to door until the key worked.

  Was he in her room, waiting for her?

  The letdown after the adrenaline rush of the afternoon had left her exhausted but not relieved. She still felt apprehensive, although she couldn’t say why. If the person who’d pushed her into the cellar had wanted to harm her, he’d already had the chance. At this point, she was pretty convinced that was Phillip, who didn’t strike her as all that dangerous. Besides, even bad guys celebrated Christmas. If she’d learned anything in profiling, it was how normal—at least on the surface—criminals could be.

  Hopefully, the man who’d taken her purse had a family and all the usual Christmas obligations. She’d simply get
her room rekeyed and hole up until morning, when the money would arrive and she’d be able to move to a different hotel.

  Her decision made, she drove a few blocks to the public lot, where she’d already paid for a week in advance. She parked the sedan and got out.

  Her footsteps echoed on the pavement as she walked through the fog. She felt strangely bereft without the security offered by the contents of her purse and wished she had her Mace. But maybe she was being paranoid. She could buy another can tomorrow, after the money showed up.

  As she reached the entrance to the alley, she glanced up at her hotel—and froze. The fog was so thick she couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw a light shining in her room. Had she left it on herself?

  The fears and doubts she’d battled only moments before descended again as she wondered what to do. She couldn’t return to her room alone, not without a weapon. She could call the police or ask Mr. Cabanis or his wife or daughter to accompany her. But chances were she was jumping at shadows. And even if one of the Cabanises walked her to her room, there was no guarantee someone wouldn’t be hurt.

  Then she remembered the fire escape. She could use it to take a quick peek, see whether it was safe to go back.

  Grazing her fingertips along the gritty brick surface of the building, Jasmine walked slowly. She didn’t want to twist an ankle or fall over a pile of garbage or worse. She might be risking more by coming into this dark alley than by returning to her room, but her curiosity about that light coaxed her on.

  A rock skittered across the ground, and she halted abruptly. She was pretty sure she’d dislodged it with her own feet, but the noise heightened the foreboding that’d settled over her when the wind died down and the fog rolled in. It took her a few minutes to recover the nerve to press forward, but the closer she got the more certain she was that the light was coming from her room.

  The metal of the fire escape felt cold and clammy beneath her hand. It shook as she stepped on it, and she wondered if it’d bear her weight without pulling away from the building. The metal squeaked loudly as she gave it a strong jerk, but when it held fast, she managed to summon the confidence to climb it. If everything was okay, she’d be able to enter her room, at which point she’d pack up her belongings and ask to switch rooms.