A tear slipped down her cheek and dropped onto the table before she even realized she was crying. Milo had to be rolling over in his grave. He’d tried to do so much good in his life. But he hadn’t faced Dustin’s illness, hadn’t experienced the desperation that’d delivered her into the hands of a man who, after the initial agreement, would hold her in his power forever.
If she let him…
“Mom.” Dustin squeezed her arm. When she looked up, he continued. “I don’t have much longer. I want to die knowing you’re free of whatever he holds over you.”
“Even if it means I’m sitting in prison?” she whispered, more honest with him in this moment than she’d been in years.
“Will it help these children?” He waved at the pictures taped on his walls.
She imagined the joy all the families who’d lost a son or daughter would feel at finding that missing child and her heart began to beat faster. “Yes.”
“Then whatever price we pay will be worth it.”
When he picked up the handset, Beverly almost reached out to stop him. The police had been “the enemy” for so long. But they were Peccavi’s enemy, too.
“Do the right thing,” Dustin whispered. “Stop what’s going on—for their sake.” He pulled Billy’s Santa Claus off the wall behind him. “If you testify against Peccavi, I’ll bet you won’t serve any time. You’ll get probation, but then it’ll be over and no more children will be hurt.”
As it happened, he’d chosen Billy’s artwork, and that took Beverly aback.
She’d never actually admitted to Dustin what she was doing; she was too ashamed.
And yet, on some level, he knew.
“Mom?” he prompted when she didn’t move.
It wasn’t too late for Billy. When Beverly had left work this morning, Billy was still at the transfer house.
Maybe she couldn’t save Dustin. As painful as it was going to be to lose her most endearing child, Dustin’s disease would win in the end. They had very little time. But she could save the boy who reminded her so much of him.
Setting down her cards, she took another antacid and accepted the phone he handed her.
Pearson Black hadn’t answered when Jasmine tried to reach him. She’d called him at least six times, left messages, had even tried him at the security company for which he worked. No one seemed to know where he was. Fortunately, amid her frustration, she’d thought of checking the phone book for Gruber Coen’s address. It seemed too easy, but there was only one Gruber Coen listed for New Orleans. And once she actually saw the house, she knew she’d found the right place. She could feel it.
She slowed as she drove past Coen’s address. The house appeared to be empty and even more neglected than the Moreaus’ current residence. And his yard was the only one on the block without some sort of Christmas decoration. But it appeared safe.
Still, Jasmine wasn’t about to stop, wasn’t about to risk coming into contact with Gruber without some kind of help. She knew what he was capable of. She’d seen him kill a woman, watched him murder her without compunction, just because that woman looked like her.
Finally, the squad car she’d been expecting turned the corner. Breathing a sigh of relief, she parked in front and waited for the officer to get out. He left his car directly across from hers, and they met in the middle of the quiet street.
“Are you the one who called?” Young, clean-cut and not unattractive, he was probably new to the force.
“Yes, I’m Jasmine Stratford.”
“Officer Ambrose.” He offered his hand as he glanced at the house. “You claim the man who lives here kidnapped your sister sixteen years ago?”
“Yes. I remember his face as if it were yesterday.”
He studied her for several seconds, a little too disbelieving—and inexperienced—for her comfort. Did he realize what he was getting into? She’d tried to tell them when she called, but Kozlowski hadn’t been there, although he was scheduled to come in later. They’d sent her this rookie instead.
“How long have you been on the force?” she asked.
He was obviously unhappy with the doubt underlying that question. His eyebrows lowered over his clear blue eyes. “Long enough to handle this.” He started toward the door, his walk brisk, cocky.
“This man is very dangerous,” she warned, trailing after him. “I’m a profiler, so I’ve met a few criminals in my day, and he’s one of the worst I’ve ever come across.”
“In your day?” He smiled, apparently finding her statement humorous. “That makes you sound like my mother. But you can’t be that much older than me.”
God, he found her attractive and was flirting with her! “Listen.” Jasmine stopped him. “This is serious. If your ego’s going to get in the way, we’re in trouble here.”
“I don’t have an ego.” He tapped his hip. “I have a gun, and I know how to use it.”
Sometimes confidence was a good thing, she told herself, as long as it was tempered by caution. And she’d certainly warned him.
When she didn’t respond, he nodded at the door. “Let’s talk to him. See what he has to say. With any luck he’ll confess and give himself up without a fight.”
The flippant statement bothered Jasmine more than anything else, but Officer Ambrose had already knocked.
Memories of the day her sister went missing, all the years of searching since, the rift with her parents, and that dream of another woman’s murder—it all rushed through her mind like a river. What would Gruber say when he opened the door?
Would he lie? Make a run for it? Have a weapon?
She squinted toward the largest of the front windows. He could be watching them right now. If he was, she couldn’t tell. The blinds were down and everything seemed quiet, static.
“He’s not here,” Officer Ambrose said.
“Then we have to wait.”
He stared at her as if he thought she might be crazy. “Waiting isn’t the answer.
We don’t even know if he’s coming back. Or if he’s really dangerous. I’ll swing by again in a few hours, keep an eye on the place.”
Jasmine wasn’t budging. She’d waited sixteen years for this. “No. We have to go in and take a look around. He’s the one who killed Adele Fornier. It wasn’t Francis Moreau.”
“Who’s Adele Fornier?”