“Your sister was kidnapped?”
“Yes. And I’m fairly certain this man had something to do with it.”
“How terrible!” She took the photograph and peered closely at it. “That’s Milo Moreau on the left. He used to live next door, but he’s not around anymore. He died a couple of years after I moved in.”
“And the young man beside him?”
“I don’t know. Once Francis Moreau did what he did—you heard about that, right? About that girl he killed?”
Jasmine nodded.
“This isn’t connected, is it?”
“I think it is.”
“Oh. Wow. I always thought he was weird. Mrs. Moreau was a little weird, too.”
“In what way?”
“Just…super private, I guess. The last time I saw her was at a gas station right before Katrina. We were both evacuating. She’d already moved, sold the house to pay for Francis’s attorneys’ fees, which is why I remember running into her. It was quite a coincidence. But if you could find her, she should be able to identify the guy in your picture.”
Jasmine didn’t mention that she knew where the Moreaus lived or that Beverly was probably the last person who’d help her. “Were the Moreaus friendly with anyone on the street? Maybe someone else might remember this person.”
The woman nibbled on her lip. “So many people have moved away. With the hurricane and the economy…” Her face suddenly brightened. “Ila Jane Reed on the corner might be able to help you. She’s been here going on fifty years, I bet. She’s old now, but her mind’s as sharp as ever.”
“I’ll try her,” Jasmine said. “Thank you.”
“Good luck. I hope you find your sister.” The woman closed the door and Jasmine made her way down the street.
Response at the Reed house was slow, but the door finally swung inward and a white-haired woman pulling an oxygen tank stepped into the opening. “Yes?”
Once again, Jasmine described the reason for her visit and held out the picture.
“He’s not one of the Moreau boys, is he?” Mrs. Reed asked above the rhythmic hiss of her oxygen.
“No.”
“It’s my vision,” she explained. “It’s not what it used to be.” Bending closer, she studied the photograph but ultimately shook her head. “I’m sorry. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him.”
Jasmine swallowed a sigh of disappointment. Someone had to know his name.
“Thanks for trying. Can you think of anyone else who might be able to help me?
Maybe someone who was particularly close to the Moreaus while they lived here?”
“There’s the Blacks,” she said. “Their boys ran around with the Moreau boys when they were growing up.”
Jasmine’s pulse leapt at the name. “The Blacks?”
“Charmaine and Doug. The Moreaus used to live across the street from them.
Their kids are all grown and gone now, but Doug and Charmaine are still around.”
Jasmine held the picture to her chest. “Do you happen to remember the names of their boys?”
“Dirk and…” Mrs. Reed squeezed her eyes shut as if that might jog her memory. A moment later, they popped open. “Pearson! Pearson Bailey Black. He was the youngest. What a little hellion,” she added, but Jasmine scarcely heard her trailing comment.
That couldn’t be a coincidence, she was thinking. Pearson was too unusual a name. “Do you know where I can find Pearson?” she asked, hoping to clarify that what her instincts told her was true.
“He was a cop. One of NOPD’s finest. Until there was some mix-up down at the station and Pearson got blamed for something he didn’t do. Lost his job over it.
Really upset his parents. It was so unfair.”
Unfair? Jasmine believed the exact opposite, but she didn’t say so. “What does he do now?”
“He’s a security guard. But that’s temporary. He’s planning to become a private investigator.”
“I’m sure he’ll make a good one,” she said politely.
“There’s Charmaine now.” Mrs. Reed motioned toward a car turning into the drive closest to Jasmine’s rental car. “You should talk to her. I’ll bet she can tell you who’s in that picture.”
With a quick thank-you, Jasmine hurried down the street. She could hear Mrs.
Black getting out of her car. The telltale crackle of sacks indicated she’d been shopping.
“Hello?” she called before Mrs. Black could go in through the garage door.
The crackling grew louder as Pearson’s mother came to the garage opening and peered out at her. “Hi, there. What can I do for you?”
“Looks like you’ve been busy.”
Soft and round and dark-haired, she smiled with unabashed glee. “I love the after-Christmas sales, don’t you? I’ve already finished most of my gift-buying for next year.”
Jasmine came closer and held out the picture. “I was just talking to Mrs. Reed.
She thought you might know the name of the teenager in this photograph.”
“That’s Milo Moreau.” She pointed to the man whose identity Jasmine already knew.
“And the other one?”
“Gruber Coen.”
“Coen? How do you spell that?”
“C-O-E-N.”
Jasmine could scarcely breathe. At long last, she had the name of the man who’d taken her sister. The thought alone made her oddly exultant. But who was this Gruber that he could walk away with an eight-year-old girl? “Do you know where he lives now?” Her nails bit into the palm of her free hand as she silently prayed for some clue to his location.
“No. I didn’t keep track of him. I never liked him, to tell you the truth. Neither did my sons. He came from an unfortunate situation, but—” she shifted her bags to her other arm and Jasmine reached out to take the heaviest one from her “—he was odd, for lack of a better word.”
“In what way?”
“A loner. Always sullen. Always staring at you as if there was more going on behind those eyes than he wanted you to know. Mr. Moreau volunteered with some church group and used to bring him home. He tried to make the boys include him, but Gruber would stand off to the side with his hands in his pockets while they did normal boy things.”
“Like…”
“Like playing basketball or roller hockey.”
“They never got to like him?”