“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.”
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?”
“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 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.