She sat in her rental car, watching the police officers going in and out of the Moreau residence across the street. They’d been working the crime scene for quite a while. She didn’t know how long. It’d taken her three hours to get a new set of keys and to have someone from the car rental company drive her out here. By the time she’d arrived, the police were engrossed in their work, and no one wanted to tell her anything.
She’d stopped one young officer, asking him to look for her camera while he was in the cellar. He’d agreed but hadn’t come out for over an hour, and when he did he told her he hadn’t seen it—in a voice that indicated it definitely wasn’t a priority.
Before he walked away, however, he mentioned that she should check with the home owner. Evidently, Mrs. Moreau was cooperating with the search, which surprised Jasmine almost as much as it relieved the police. They were in a hurry. Some were due to get off soon and wanted to go home to their families.
Spotting another man in uniform heading to one of the vehicles in front of Tattie’s place, Jasmine got out of her car. “Have you identified the body?” she asked.
The officer gave her a blank expression. “We don’t know anything yet.”
“When might that change?”
“I can’t say.”
Of course not. In his mind, she wasn’t anyone who needed to know. And she doubted it’d be different with any of the other cops. She was a civilian from a different state. She had no power here.
With a sigh, Jasmine got back into her car. Kozlowski had been off today, so there was no one she could ask for more information. The desk sergeant she’d spoken to when she’d called to report her discovery had said a detective would want her to come in to make a statement. She could talk to someone then. But, thanks to the holidays, it’d be Monday or Tuesday before anyone got around to her. This was obviously a very old killing and nothing would likely change over the course of three or four days.
Regardless of what the police would or wouldn’t do, she was wasting her time here. Even Tattie wasn’t out and about. Jasmine guessed she was inside the house with Mrs. Moreau; she hadn’t seen the neighbor since her return.
After putting on her seat belt, Jasmine started the engine. Earlier, she’d cleaned up as best she could in Tattie’s bathroom, but she was hungry and tired and wanted to get back to the hotel. Without cash or credit cards, she didn’t have any way to purchase a meal, but she figured she might be able to order from the bar downstairs and put it on her room bill. Even if she couldn’t, she’d have a hot shower and then a comfortable bed to sleep in until Skye could wire some money to the closest Western Union. While she waited at the car rental place, she’d canceled her credit cards and called her friends. But she hadn’t told them the whole truth about the reason she needed help. She saw no reason to ruin their Christmas by telling them she’d run into trouble. It was easier to say she’d simply lost her purse.
She was just pulling away when she noticed an old Camaro coming from the opposite direction. With all the police vehicles clogging the street, the driver had to angle to the side to make room for her to pass, but his eye held hers a little too long
—long enough to let her know he recognized her.
Stomping on the brakes, she quickly shoved the transmission into Park and got out. A red flush to his cheeks gave him a flustered air, as if he was tempted to drive away, but she had him cornered.
She knocked on his window and he finally cracked it open a few inches.
“What do you want?” he demanded, wearing a dark scowl.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“None of your business.”
But Jasmine could guess. He looked almost identical to the picture of Francis Moreau she’d seen on the microfilm in the library: short and stocky with dark wavy hair, small dark eyes and a Roman nose. This had to be a close relative—most likely his brother.
“You’re Phillip,” she said.
The furrow between his eyebrows deepened, but he didn’t contradict her. He waved at his house. “What’s going on?”
She noticed a pack of cigarettes on his dashboard. “You can’t guess?”
“If I could, I wouldn’t have asked.”
Right. Was this the man who’d locked her in the cellar? Who’d left those butts? Or had the spark of recognition she’d witnessed come from having seen her on TV? “There was a body in your cellar.”
He didn’t react. “Who told you that?”
“I’m the one who found it.”
“You’re kidding.”
Jasmine didn’t read much surprise in that comment, or in his expression. “Did you know it was there?”
“No.”
A lie. She could tell by the whitening of his knuckles on the steering wheel.
“Who was he?” she pressed. “What happened?”
He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, his mother called his name. Jasmine glanced up to find Mrs. Moreau standing out on the front lawn, watching them with her hands propped on her hips.
“Phillip! There you are. Get in here. The nightmare we went through with Francis isn’t over yet.”
He didn’t move right away. He looked at Jasmine almost as if he was pleading for something. Then the line of his mouth turned grim and his attention shifted resolutely toward his mother. “It doesn’t exactly come as a shock. My brother was a murderer,” he told her. Then he nearly drove over her toes as he forced her out of his path, squeezing between her car and a cruiser.
Gruber Coen flicked his TV remote to replay the America’s Most Wanted episode he’d recorded on his satellite system’s hard drive. He’d just spoken to Peccavi. Peccavi had called to tell him Jasmine Stratford had come to New Orleans, but that wasn’t unexpected. Gruber had invited her here.
What did astonish him was the fact that she’d already connected the note he’d sent her with what he’d written on the wall when he dumped Adele’s body.
He whistled as he watched the way she used her hands when she talked and the emotion flitting across her face. He was especially interested in the sadness she exhibited when she talked about her little sister. He wished it roused some pity in him, some vestige of conscience. But it didn’t. His head told him he should feel sorry for her, be ashamed, stop his behavior, but the only thing he really felt was a stirring of the desire that made him do what he did—and a trace of admiration. He’d assumed Jasmine would connect her sister’s disappearance to Adele’s murder at some point—but not so fast. She was quick, much quicker than he’d expected.