“That I was drunk with the taste of you.”
That he answered at all took Jasmine by surprise. She hesitated, key in hand, then shook her head. “Stop it. Don’t confuse me.”
“For whatever reason, we’ve been thrown together. We might as well enjoy it while it lasts.”
“It doesn’t work that way. Please step aside.”
With a frustrated sigh, he changed the subject but didn’t move. “What’s up with you and your dad?”
“Nothing. He’s not a subject I wish to address. Ever.”
“Why?”
“That’s addressing it. And right now, we have other things to worry about.”
Like what she might find in her room.
“I’m not as bad as you think, Jaz.”
Jaz? That was the second time he’d used her nickname. Only her close friends called her Jaz.
She took in his lean, powerful build, the hair that was beginning to curl over his ears, the golden skin—and let her imagination add the giant chip on his shoulder.
“I’m afraid you’re worse.”
When he scowled but didn’t argue, Jasmine felt a twinge of regret. But she had to take a stand, or she’d leave herself too vulnerable. And she’d learned from a young age that vulnerable was never good.
“Can we go in now?” she asked.
Romain took the key from her, insisting she wait in the hall while he entered.
A moment later, he called back to her. “It’s safe.”
The room was as she’d seen it from the fire escape, except that the bathroom was in a similar state of disarray. The shower curtain had been ripped from the rod and her makeup had been dumped in the toilet. In the bedroom, her clothes had been strewn all over the floor, and her computer—which was, fortunately, password protected and still working—had been thrown from the desk. The vicious way the intruder had handled her stuff let her know he didn’t like her very much. She was pretty sure he’d ejaculated onto a pair of her underwear, which he’d placed on her pillow like a gift.
“This guy’s sick,” Romain said, clearly not pleased when he noticed it.
Jasmine grimaced at the sight, but there was a bit of hope mingled with her repugnance. “Semen is actually a good thing. He’s left plenty of genetic material with which to develop a DNA profile.”
“A profile isn’t any good without a suspect to match it against.”
“It’s a step in the right direction.”
Romain cocked an eyebrow at her. “Wouldn’t most women be retching about now?”
“I’m not like most women.” The viscous fluid made Jasmine nauseous; she wasn’t any different there. But the thought of using that disgusting memento to catch whoever had left it gave her some objectivity, some way to deal with the creepy sense of violation that had brought on her nausea.
A deep scowl etched lines in Romain’s face. “This guy is really starting to piss me off.”
“We need to find a paper sack. We can’t put those panties in plastic.”
“I’ll get one from the girl downstairs.”
Romain began to leave the room, but Jasmine stopped him. She’d just spotted something that made her very happy: her cell phone was sitting on the desk.
“He can’t be all bad,” she joked. “He brought back my phone.” She grabbed it to see if, by sheer chance or stupidity, he’d made a call or two. But she didn’t get as far as pushing any buttons. The picture on the screen made her drop it.
“What is it?” Romain asked.
Unwilling to come into contact with the sheets on the bed, or even the furniture, Jasmine sank onto the floor. The queasiness was taking over. Whoever had chased her in the alley hadn’t been content with ransacking the room. He’d returned
—to leave her a few surprises.
Romain picked up her cell to see for himself and swore under his breath. “Is this what I think it is?”
She nodded. The picture on her screen had been changed. Instead of her and Sheridan on vacation in Mexico, there was a picture of an erect penis.
The writing above it said, “You’re dead.”
“We’re dealing with two very different men,” Jasmine said.
She’d put her cell phone on the restaurant table beside her because she was waiting for a call from the police. Seeing the intruder’s genitalia every time she glanced down wasn’t pleasant, but she wasn’t willing to change that picture, to change anything at all, until whoever put it there had been caught.
The panties were in a brown paper sack in her suitcase, and her suitcase was in the back of Romain’s pickup. Occasionally, she checked the truck through the restaurant window to make sure it was still there. She didn’t want to lose that piece of evidence—or her clothes. If anything happened to her suitcase, she’d be stuck halfway across the country with a barely working computer and the cash she’d picked up at Western Union, but nothing more.
With one hand on her chin, Romain turned her head to face him. “Eat,” he prodded, pointing to her food.
He’d taken her to a fast-food joint on General DeGaulle Drive in New Orleans and bought her lunch. She felt too haggard to go anywhere nicer. Her burger was mostly untouched, but she was enjoying the French fries.
“Didn’t you hear me?” she demanded, shoving another fry into her mouth.
He swallowed a bite of his own meal. “I heard you. You said we’re dealing with two very different people. I’m waiting for your reasoning.”
“The man who took my purse and broke into my hotel room didn’t write on the wall or the mirror, didn’t leave a note similar to the others, even though there was a pad of paper on the desk. Plus, he had plenty of time, since he came back.”
“People don’t always do the same thing, not if the circumstances are different.” His voice indicated he was playing devil’s advocate.
“True,” she said, “but a crime scene generally reflects the personality of the perpetrator, and the core of a person’s personality doesn’t change. So many factors contribute to it—genetics, culture, environmental influences, common experiences we all have, unique experiences only the individual has. He is who he is and he can’t change any more easily than you or I can. Which means his method of operation should remain the same, too—especially if we’re talking about something he does to fulfill a specific need.”
He took another bite of his burger. “He left a note. He just didn’t write it by hand. I’m guessing that message on your phone fulfilled his need to communicate.”