Stop Me

by Brenda Novak

  “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.

  Even Gruber’s drawers had been left hanging open, the clothes spilling out. Why would he bother to shut his closet door?

  Moving toward it, Jasmine used a finger to slide the door to one side. At first she saw nothing unusual. A few pairs of pants hanging sloppily on hangers. Some dirty clothes and several shoes on the floor. She almost headed back to the living room to see what Ambrose was doing. But then she noticed something that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. There were drops of a dark substance, so dark it was almost black, on a pair of tennis shoes.

  Holding her breath, she knelt to take a better look.

  It was blood. She was sure of it.

  She was about to call out to Ambrose when she saw something else. There was more blood on the floor, and the floor had a line in it, a line that…

  Carefully, her heart racing, she shoved the shoes and clothes into one corner and discovered a trapdoor.

  “Officer Ambrose?”

  There was no response. She couldn’t hear him anymore, either. Not over the noise of that leaf blower.

  Determined to show him what she’d found, she started for the door. But someone blocked her path just as she stepped into the hallway.

  “I’m afraid the police officer you brought here is…indisposed,” Gruber Coen said. Then he laughed and the light pouring through the windows of the spare bedroom revealed the barrel of a gun pointed at her chest.

  * * *

  Jasmine wasn’t answering. Romain had tried her at least ten times. So he left Huff at the coffee shop to go out and search for her. But when he took a quick drive through the neighborhood she’d been planning to visit, he saw no sign of her car. And when he canvassed the neighbors, one lady sent him down to the corner to another woman, who directed him across the street from where the Moreaus had once lived. But the owner of that house, someone named Charmaine, wasn’t home.

  Where had Jasmine disappeared? Had she learned the name she’d been looking for and gone searching for the man who’d taken her sister?

  Surely, she wouldn’t do that on her own! But the feeling in the pit of Romain’s stomach told him otherwise. She was so obsessed with tracking down her sister he wasn’t convinced she’d be as cautious as she should be.

  He remembered coming out of the Moreau house to find the truck empty….

  “Son of a bitch!” His hands curled into fists, but there was nothing he could do to fight the fear slamming into him. He should never have allowed her to come here alone. Like letting Adele ride her bike around the block, it hadn’t seemed dangerous at the time. The Moreaus weren’t even living here anymore! But the sense of déjà vu that crept over him was terrifying.

  Climbing into his truck, Romain called Huff. The ex-detective had lent Romain a cell phone paid for by the marshals’ office in Colorado, since he had a personal one, as well.

  “You got her?” Huff said.

  “No. She’s gone.”

  Silence. Then Huff barked, “What do you mean?”

  “I mean a few people saw her here earlier, but they don’t know where she went.”

  “Have you notified the police?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’ll do it. I have some friends down there who’ll get on it right away.”

  But if Romain couldn’t tell them where to look, how were they going to find her? When Adele went missing, they’d chased one lead after another—leads generated by Romain’s own media appeals—but found nothing until that picnicker stumbled upon her body at the park. Too late. Far too late.

  “You don’t think she’d contact Black, do you?” Huff asked.

  Romain kicked a pebble off the drive and into the street. “She might’ve gone to him with that picture.”

  “A dangerous idea.”

  “We don’t know he’s Peccavi,” Romain said, trying to bolster his flagging hope.

  “Yes, we do.”

  Romain’s hand tightened on the phone. “What? How—”

  “Like I said, I have friends down at the station. Beverly Moreau just called in. She fingered Black. She has proof, and she’s ready to talk.”

  “You’re kidding! So…we were right?”

  “About everything. Black used to live across the street from the Moreaus. He grew up with Francis, Dustin and Phillip. Makes sense that they’d go into business together, doesn’t it?”

  It did. It also made sense that Jasmine would go to Black to help her determine the identity of the youth in that picture. She’d probably figured out that he used to live in the neighborhood—but she didn’t know he was Peccavi.

  “I can’t lose another one,” Romain muttered.

  “What was that?” Huff asked.

  “Nothing.” Romain walked to the mailbox, then reached in and pulled out a stack of bills that had been delivered that day. Sure enough, they were addressed to a Mr. Doug Black. This was the home of Pearson Black’s parents. This was where Jasmine had last been seen. “Where does Pearson live now?”

  “Don’t go there, Romain. Don’t risk it. You know what happened last time, what you did to Moreau. Let me do the job I should’ve done in the first place,” he said. Then he hung up and he wouldn’t answer again.

  * * *

  The six-foot-by-nine-foot cement cell was freezing. Jasmine couldn’t stop her teeth from chattering. But the low temperature was actually a good thing, or the dead woman on the couch beside her would be in a more advanced stage of decomposition. As it was, she made a gruesome sight. Stiff with rigor mortis, she didn’t sag onto the couch as Hollywood might’ve depicted. Her face was contorted, her hands curled in on themselves and her arms were bent like a Barbie d
oll’s. Her red blood cells had already settled at maximum lividity, which meant she’d been dead for eight to twelve hours, and the putrefaction of her internal organs gave off the worst odor Jasmine had ever smelled. She would’ve scrambled to the far reaches of her dungeon—anything to get away from her couch partner—except that Gruber Coen had chained one of her feet to a metal ring in the floor and tied her hand to the corpse’s so tightly Jasmine’s fingers were tingling for want of blood. “Meet my sister,” he’d said with a laugh.

  If this woman, who had to be Valerie Stabula, was really his sister, Jasmine saw no family resemblance. But it wasn’t easy to imagine what she’d once looked like.

  After making sure Jasmine couldn’t get free, Gruber had turned on the television resting on a small table, pointed to a closet with a portable toilet and told her to make herself at home while he went to take care of “a few details.” But even if she needed to use the bathroom, Jasmine couldn’t reach it. The chain on her leg was long enough, but she’d have to drag Valerie with her, and she had no intention of even trying.

  A clock on the wall ticked more loudly than the TV. Or maybe that was Jasmine’s imagination. She was hyper-aware of the passing minutes, which seemed to keep time with the thoughts that ran in one continuous circle: He’ll be back soon. He’ll be back and kill me. Or do unspeakable things. He’ll be back soon. He’ll be back and kill me. Or do unspeakable things…

  Waiting for his return was even more unnerving than knowing she was tied to a corpse and would probably rot here. She couldn’t get loose. She’d already worn her ankle raw trying.

  “What am I going to do?” she muttered as one program turned into another and another. Since Gruber had taken her keys, she knew he planned to move her rental car. He had to get rid of the police cruiser, too, before someone came searching for it. And he had to dispose of young Officer Ambrose’s body. She’d caught a brief glimpse of Ambrose as Gruber had dragged her by the hair to see what she’d “caused.” Ambrose had been stabbed in the back of the neck. He hadn’t even seen it coming. And the gun that’d made him so confident was now in Gruber’s hands.

  Although Gruber clearly had a fascination with dead bodies, he didn’t try to take Ambrose to his cement dungeon as he had Jasmine. His attitude toward Ambrose’s corpse made it clear that he considered it mere garbage, something that would have to be removed. She and Valerie, on the other hand, were somehow more important to him.

  Jasmine stared at the walls, wondering how thick they were. Was there any chance someone would hear her if she screamed? She’d been afraid to try until she was sure Gruber had left the house, but it’d been an hour since he’d closed the trapdoor above her. Long enough to get Ambrose out of the house. Long enough to clean up the blood.

  If she didn’t get help, she was going to die, anyway.

  Jasmine’s throat grew hoarse as she screamed. Then she listened carefully, hoping to hear a reply. But there was nothing. Just the monotonous voices coming from the TV and the disturbing sound of air escaping Valerie’s body as her tissues broke down.

  Turning her face from the worsening smell, Jasmine fought the tears that began to roll down her cheeks. She couldn’t give up hope. Yet her situation seemed hopeless. Even if Romain came to the house looking for her, he’d never suspect a hidey-hole as elaborate and horrible as this.

  * * *

  Romain couldn’t believe it when someone finally answered Jasmine’s phone. He’d been pacing the porch of the Blacks’ house, waiting for them to come home so they could provide him with some way of reaching Pearson, because Pearson was his only link to Jasmine. All he’d been able to do in the meantime was call her cell. Again and again and again.

  “Obviously, you’re not going to give up,” said a male voice on the other end.

  Romain didn’t recognize the person he was talking to. “Where’s Jasmine?”

  “Maybe you’d like to identify yourself before you start making demands.”

  “Romain Fornier.”

  “Romain. I guessed as much.” The man had stated his name with the familiarity of a friend. “You’ve caused me more trouble….”

  “I’ve caused you trouble?” Romain echoed.

  “You’re a stubborn man, a fighter. I have to respect that, even if it does make you a pain in the ass. Nice work, what you did to Francis, by the way. Made it so much more convenient for me.”

  He’d said “Francis,” not “Moreau.” Whoever it was knew Moreau well. But it wasn’t Black. Romain felt certain he would’ve recognized Black’s voice. “I can’t take credit for that,” he said. “You’re the one who set him up, right?”

  He was fishing, but it paid off with an immediate confirmation. “That part wasn’t so hard.”

  “Because Peccavi helped you?”

  The jovial spirit seemed to drain out of him. “Who told you about Peccavi?”

  “I’ve never been one to reveal my sources.”

  “You’re a dead man, you know that?” he cried. “You don’t have twenty-four hours!”

  “Then why don’t you come and get me?” Romain said, trying to draw his attention away from Jasmine.

  A knowing snicker met his response. “Nice try. I have what I want. I have what you want, too. I’ll leave you to Peccavi.”

  “Come on,” Romain said. “This is between you and me, right? This is about Adele.” And Jasmine. Payment for the past, hope for the future. “I’ll give you an address. We’ll meet. It’ll just be you and me. You have my word.”

  “And let you do your Rambo bullshit? I know you were a Reconnaissance Marine, Romain. I’m not stupid.”

  “Feel free to bring a weapon.”

  There was no answer—but Romain could tell he was tempted. “Come on,” he said softly. “Show me what you got.”

  “I’ve got Jasmine,” the other man said and the phone went dead.

  “Shit.” Romain’s hand shook as he called again, but the effort was pointless. Whoever had answered Jasmine’s phone wouldn’t pick up a second time. And another call was coming in.

  “Hello?”

  “Black doesn’t have Jasmine,” Huff said.

  “You found him?”

  “Yes. I’ve got a couple of detectives questioning him right now. Thanks to Beverly Moreau’s testimony, I think we can crack the adoption ring.”

  “What about Jasmine?” Images of the blood on his wall at home floated through Romain’s consciousness, adding to the fear and tension already coursing through him.

  “He says he hasn’t seen her, doesn’t know anything about her.”

  “That’s a lie! Make him tell you more.”

  “Come on down and you can talk to him yourself.”

  “Where are you?”

  Huff rattled off an address that surprised him. “What are you doing in the warehouse district?”

  “Black has a second job down by the docks. That’s where we finally located him.”

  No wonder he hadn’t been answering. Romain jogged toward his truck. “Do whatever you can to get him to talk. If we don’t find her soon, I’m afraid it’ll be too late.”

  * * *

  You little chickenshit. I knew you’d back down.

  Valerie wasn’t anywhere close, yet Gruber still heard her voice—and chafed at the way he envisioned her looking at him after that conversation with Fornier. She thought he was weak, but he was man enough to kill Romain. He just didn’t need to. Peccavi would take care of it.

  You’re nothing compared to Romain.

  “That isn’t true,” he spat. He’d gone to Romain’s place, intending to kill him, hadn’t he?

  That was when you thought you could surprise him. And stab him in the back, like you did that poor bastard cop.

  “Shut up!”

  He’d raised his voice so loudly a solitary woman wearing a yellow rain slicker shortened the leash on her poodle in order to give him a wide berth. He had the impulse to push her and her dog in the river, where he’d dumped the cop’s body
an hour ago. With the cold, drizzly weather and the late hour, there was no one else around to stop him. But he had too much riding on tonight to take any further risks. He’d abandoned the cruiser across town, caught a bus home and driven Jasmine’s rental car here, with the cop’s body in the trunk. Now that he’d dragged the corpse to the water and shoved it beneath the pilings of the wharf, all he had to do was ditch Jasmine’s car and get another bus home. He was nearly done; there was no need to jeopardize all his hard work.

  Curbing his impulse to follow the dog owner and make her pay for her haughty attitude, he tossed Jasmine’s cell phone in the water. He didn’t want to hear it ring again, didn’t want to be bothered. Especially by Romain Fornier.

  But that didn’t prevent other calls. His own phone jingled a moment later.

  The screen indicated No Caller ID.

  “Hello?”

  “Do you have her?”

  It was Peccavi. Gruber hesitated. If he said yes, Peccavi would get involved, and Gruber wanted to avoid that. He wanted Peccavi to punish Romain for belittling him, for making him feel the lesser man. And he wanted Jasmine to himself. “Not anymore. She’s history.”

  “Permanently?” Peccavi clarified. “You’re sure?”

  “That’s not easy to mistake.” The last time he’d lied to Peccavi, he’d gone too far with Adele, done some things even he couldn’t believe. But she’d been so defiant, so much like her father. It’d be different with Jasmine. Kimberly had been docile and sweet. He’d spent two weeks with her, hadn’t even touched her, not in the way he’d wanted to, and yet he’d fallen in love. He’d often regretted that he hadn’t found some way to keep her for himself. The older sister wasn’t half as sweet.

  “What’d you do with the…remains?” Peccavi asked.

  Finally able to forget the woman with the dog, Gruber headed up the embankment, away from the path that wound close to the river. “Alligator bait.”

  He expected Peccavi to be grateful but, if he was, he didn’t show it. Where was his gratitude? God, he was getting tired of Peccavi, tired of his demands and conceit.

  “We have another problem,” Peccavi said.