“Maybe.” Or something worse. Especially since a vast, largely uninhabited swamp would be an ideal place to dump a body. Although Jasmine knew that wasn’t something most people would consider, for her, it was an automatic reaction, one of the negatives of her job.
“They won’t bother you if you don’t bother them,” Mrs. Cabanis said, preoccupied with running a finger down the listings in the Yellow Pages.
Jasmine wished she could say the same for human predators. “I can’t bother them if I keep my distance, right?”
“True. But a swamp tour would be better than going to Mamou. Other than Fred’s Lounge, I doubt there’s much to see.”
Jasmine had stumbled on a Web site for Fred’s Lounge—the famous bar that’d sparked renewed interest in Cajun music, language and culture after World War II—while searching for information on Fornier’s hometown, so she recognized the reference. “I’m actually not interested in going to the lounge.”
“What’s the attraction, then?”
“Do you know anything about Romain Fornier?” she asked.
Mrs. Cabanis was already reaching for the phone, but she hesitated. “Oh, I wondered if you were the one. My husband told me why you’re visiting New Orleans.” She frowned sympathetically. “I’m sorry about your sister.”
“Thank you. About Mr. Fornier—”
“You don’t think there’s any connection between his daughter and what happened to your sister, do you?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“Well, you don’t want to bother him.”
“Why not?”
“He might be handsome as the devil, but he’s also angry…and dangerous.”
“What makes you think so?”
“I saw him on TV, too.” She brought the phone to her ear and started to dial the car rental place. “Bothering him would be like baiting that alligator you’re so afraid of.”
Jasmine thought it might be smart to pay the New Orleans police a visit the next morning. She wanted to tell them her sister had been abducted sixteen years ago and that Kimberly’s kidnapper might’ve brought her to Louisiana. She also wanted to ask about their cold cases. Maybe they were working on something that would provide a connection between the man who’d sent Kimberly’s bracelet and an incident in New Orleans.
The station on Loyola was farther from the hotel than the car rental place, so Jasmine picked up the compact car Mrs. Cabanis had reserved, then stopped by the homicide division on her way out of town. But her visit didn’t go as well as she’d hoped. Huff had quit the department and moved away only a few months after Fornier went to prison. And because there was no indication that the man who’d sent that package had committed a crime here, the other detectives weren’t particularly interested in talking to her.
The two detectives who did take a few minutes to chat assured her that there’d been no stranger abductions in recent months and that they couldn’t remember any cases, cold or otherwise, similar to Kimberly’s. They promised to ask around and contact her if they found anything of potential value, but as she was leaving, one suggested, for the third time, that she get in touch with the Cleveland police and turn over the evidence in her possession. When she finally admitted she wasn’t willing to do that, he shrugged and said, “You either want police help or you don’t.” Then they both walked away, and Jasmine was fairly sure they wouldn’t trouble themselves further. They didn’t care about a cold case in Cleveland. Her sister’s disappearance wasn’t their problem.
But if the bearded man was indeed living in New Orleans, and the note she’d received meant anything at all, that could easily change.
Her cell phone rang as she got into her rental car. “Hello?”
“Jaz? How’s it going?”
It was Sheridan. “Fine, I guess,” she said.
“You find anything yet?”
Jasmine frowned as she put on her seat belt and started the car. “Not really.”
“So what are you going to do?”
She turned down the radio when “Silent Night,” sung by Natalie Cole and her father, blasted through the speakers. “Keep looking.”
“You won’t stay in New Orleans for Christmas, will you?”
For a moment, Jasmine longed to fly back to Sacramento and pretend her sister had never been abducted. She’d built a good life in the West. It felt as though she was making a difference in the lives of other victims, she had close friends, a home.
She didn’t need to risk unraveling all the progress she’d made.
But she couldn’t ignore that bracelet, couldn’t forget her sister. Her only hope of peace was through finding the bearded man. And then…
She didn’t want to consider what she might do then. She kept having visions of pulling a gun as Fornier had done.
“I think I’ll stay,” she said.
“But you don’t know a soul there. Who will you spend Christmas Day with?”
Jasmine wondered about all the holidays Kimberly had spent away from home.
Somewhere. At the mercy of a dangerous man. Or in a cold grave. What’d her life been like? Had it lasted longer than eight years? “This is more important to me than anything else.”
After checking the directions she’d printed out at the hotel, she turned onto South Broad, which quickly became Perdido Street. Then she made a quick right on South White. She had to find I-10 West, which she’d take for seventy-seven miles toward Lafayette. “I want to bring my sister home for Christmas.” Even if it was only Kimberly’s body or the knowledge of where she’d gone and what had happened to her.
The following pause was filled with sadness. “I wish I could be there with you.”
“You already have your plane ticket to Wyoming. Your little sister’s bringing her fiancé for the family to meet. You’ve got to go.”
“But I hate what you’re going through, especially at Christmas. That makes it so much worse.”
“Would you be doing anything different if you’d received some note or trinket from the man who shot Jazon?” she asked, referring to the incident that’d sent Sheridan to the victims’ support group where they’d met each other and Skye.
Sheridan’s voice dropped. “No. I’d give anything for the chance to go back and make things right. Or as right as I can.”