Until Romain shot him, everything was going as planned.
The whole mess was Romain’s fault, and now he had Jasmine working with him.
Maybe she was sleeping with him, too. They’d been together all night, hadn’t they? No doubt she’d spread her legs for a Reconnaissance Marine.
But Fornier wouldn’t get to enjoy her for long. Gruber would feed Adele’s father to the alligators along with Valerie.
Jasmine he might want to keep alive….
It took forever to get the sheriff’s department to the house. Then they had to wait until the deputies had finished writing up a report on the break-in. Romain had followed the proper procedure for notification, but he had no hope it’d do any good.
No one had been killed; nothing had been stolen. Sure, there was blood on the wall, but there weren’t any words this time, nothing that would link this incident with the recent murder in New Orleans. And with Moreau dead, and both Huff and Black gone from the force, no one was particularly eager to delve into the past.
Jasmine tried calling the NOPD, had even spoken to the chief of police while they were driving back to New Orleans, but her outlook was no more optimistic after she hung up. “He doesn’t want anyone else to believe Moreau might’ve been innocent,” Jasmine said. “That would raise even more questions about how the case was handled, and how he could’ve allowed such misconduct.”
Romain switched lanes. “But if we’re right and Adele’s real killer is still free
—”
“Chances are good Chief Ryder will find out eventually,” she said. “A man like the one who killed Adele doesn’t stop on his own. That type of killing is a compulsion, a hunger. It only grows stronger.”
“So you think your sister’s dead.” To Romain, it seemed pretty obvious that Kimberly Stratford had been killed long before Adele’s kidnapping. But he was curious to see if Jasmine was still holding out hope.
She avoided his gaze. “Probably.”
Romain had refused to let himself dwell on Jasmine’s pain. He’d been too consumed by his own, searching for any way to avoid more of the same helplessness and regret. If he refused to care about Jasmine, he wouldn’t have to share her suffering. He could sidestep the whole issue, go on living an existence numbed by solitude and anger. That’d been his plan—until now. It’d only been a few days and already he couldn’t avoid her pain any more than he could avoid his own. Because he did care about her, far more than he wanted to. “It’s got to be tough not knowing,” he said.
“I want to bring her home, even if it’s only her body.”
At least he had the satisfaction of knowing that Adele was laid to rest next to Pam. That knowledge came with a price, but being left to wonder and question, to keep searching, would be worse. Jasmine had been clinging to nothing but hope for sixteen years. “If this guy is really the guy—” he motioned to the photograph in the seat between them “—he killed Adele within a few weeks and dumped her body in a very public place. Why do you think he didn’t do the same with Kimberly?”
“He took Kimberly a long time ago. Maybe it was still early in his career and he was being cautious. Or he didn’t feel the need to make such a public statement.”
“But he didn’t send you anything written in blood, either. Not until recently.”
“No,” she said. “For some reason, he suddenly wants to let us know what he’s been able to get away with.”
“Why do you think he’s taunting us instead of the police?”
“Too many years have passed. There isn’t anyone on the police force anymore who’s really invested in these cases, at least no one he feels is competent enough to catch him. Who’ll give him more attention than we will? He’s all about getting a reaction, and these notes make us sit up and take notice.”
“So he’s baiting us because we’re the most likely to care, most likely to try and stop him.”
“That would be my guess.”
“But he’s still being careful. Other than Adele’s necklace, he didn’t leave much for us at the house. That deputy made a mess dusting for prints, but I’m willing to bet he’ll soon find out that they all belong to me, you or Mem.”
“Part of our killer wants to be caught, at least subconsciously. The other part doesn’t. Self-preservation is a strong instinct. He’s got what he knows is ‘normal behavior’ warring with his unacceptable desires, and we’re seeing proof of that conflict.”
Jasmine’s cell phone interrupted them. Romain fell silent as she answered it, mildly surprised when she handed it over to him. “It’s Huff.”
A lot had changed since he’d worked so closely with Huff, but Romain still had a difficult time believing such a dedicated cop would purposely ignore clues and evidence he should’ve investigated. But maybe Romain hadn’t seen the situation clearly. He’d been so shocked by everything that was happening, he’d had to rely on someone, and Huff had been the obvious choice, one of the good guys. Now Romain realized he should’ve kept an eye on even the cops. “Hello?”
“There you are.” Huff sounded impatient, almost irritated. “You’re a difficult man to get hold of.”
“What’s going on? Why are you in New Orleans?”
There was a long pause, then he said, “Why do you think?”
Something was different; something significant had changed.
“You know it wasn’t him, don’t you?” Romain said.
Huff muttered a curse, all the agreement Romain needed.
“What changed your mind?”
At the bitterness in his voice, Jasmine reached over, and Romain took her hand. It was becoming easier to accept her comfort. But he wouldn’t think about that, either; wouldn’t question it. Not now, anyway. What she gave him simply was. And somehow it made life better, especially when her arms went around him and, for a time, he could lose himself in the sensations she evoked.
“I received a note like the one you called me about. It was written in blood, using that odd mix of capitals and lowercase letters,” Huff explained.
“You didn’t seem to care about the note Jasmine received when I talked to you before,” Romain said. “You told me it had to be some sort of coincidence.”
“I would’ve ignored this, too. Believe me, resurrecting this case is the last thing on earth I want to do.”