“The man who found Adele’s body has been running his mouth, that’s all.
Someone’s heard the details, and now they’re using them. She’s probably dealing with some kind of Moreau copycat. Or a prank.”
Maybe that explained the note. But there was more. “Jasmine said Adele’s killer took a necklace of hers before the actual kidnap.”
No response.
“Huff?”
“I’m here.” He sounded weary, but Romain plunged on. He had to put this to rest. Trying to escape, to ignore the loose ends, wasn’t working.
“She’s right,” he said. “Adele had a necklace that went missing just days before she did. I didn’t think anything about it at the time, didn’t connect the two incidents.”
“Until Jasmine Stratford arrived.”
“That’s right.”
“Romain, children are always losing things. You don’t know that anyone took Adele’s necklace.”
But Jasmine could describe the necklace even though she’d never seen it. If she could do that, why wouldn’t the rest of what she said be true? “Adele didn’t lose it. It was stolen,” he insisted.
“Fine. Believe Ms. Stratford. I guess it’s possible. Moreau had Adele’s barrettes, didn’t he?”
“She was wearing those the day she was kidnapped.”
“What’s your point?”
“Moreau was out of town the week prior to the kidnapping, remember? He was in Tennessee, delivering those warehouse lights. We had to establish that he’d been home in time to have taken her.”
“And we proved that easily,” Huff argued. “Moreau was spotted at the school that morning, watching her on the playground. Where are you going with this?”
“He wasn’t in New Orleans when the necklace disappeared.”
“How do you know exactly when that was?”
“Because it happened at the club.” Jasmine had said Adele’s murderer stole it from a locker. The only lockers Adele ever came into contact with were the pool lockers at the club, which was how he’d established the timing. “We went swimming there the Saturday before she disappeared.”
“You think someone got into your locker and took her necklace.”
“Why not?”
“Presumably because it was locked.”
“We never locked it because it required a quarter to get into it again, and the only things we ever took with us, besides a couple of sodas, were an extra pair of goggles and some sunblock. She forgot to take off her necklace before we left home that day, which is why it was in our locker.”
“So you’re saying Moreau didn’t take her. You’re saying that whoever did it had to be a member of your club.”
“Not necessarily. They were having a special promotion that day, and the place was open to the public. Free ice cream and swimming for the kids, providing Mom and Dad sat through a sales presentation.”
“Oh, that narrows it down.” Huff sighed. “Don’t you realize that you have nothing to connect these two incidents except Jasmine Stratford’s claim that Adele’s abductor also took her necklace? Maybe someone else took it. Another kid who admired it or…whatever. Anyway, how would Jasmine know anything about it?”
Romain didn’t want to get into that. “She just does.”
“I’ve read up on her, Romain. She’s not psychic. She’s a fraud.”
“I found nothing online to suggest that.”
“Because no one wants to risk a slander suit. But I called the Sacramento PD
and talked to some of the cops there. One guy told me he brought her in on a case where she insisted the victim was still alive, and they found her dead a week later.
She’d been dead for three months. Don’t fall for the act.”
Jasmine had already admitted that it wasn’t an exact science. And no one could’ve told her about that cut on his thigh. He sure as hell knew she’d never really touched it—or him. That he would’ve remembered. “She knows things about me no one else does.”
“She’s trying to use you. She thinks you might be able to help find her sister.
But you can’t. So leave the past alone. Trust me, you’ll be better off.”
“I can’t leave it alone,” he snapped.
“Yes, you can. If what she says is true, you killed the wrong man. Do you really want to live with that knowledge?” he nearly shouted.
No, but he couldn’t care more about himself than the children who might be harmed, probably had been harmed, if Adele’s killer was still out there. “You don’t understand.”
“No, I don’t,” Huff agreed. “Because if you did kill the wrong man, I’m equally responsible. I told you it was him. I still believe it was him.”
“We have to face the possibility that we were wrong. We can’t let any more children be hurt!”
“We weren’t wrong, damn it! We couldn’t be wrong. I saw that tape. I know what Moreau did!”
Romain clenched his jaw against the image that flashed through his mind—his daughter crying for him while Moreau forced her to do unspeakable things. “You’re right,” he finally said. “I don’t know what the hell I’m thinking.”
“You have more guts than anybody I’ve ever met. I admire you for that. But I’m done with the case, Romain. I don’t want anything more to do with it. What happened is behind us. We’ve both moved on, right?”
Romain glanced around at the two-bit town that provided the basic necessities he hauled to his shack in the swamp. “Yeah, we’ve moved on,” he said.
Jasmine held her breath as she listened to someone cross the floor above her.
Who was it? Were those footsteps heavy or light? She wanted to at least ascertain whether it was a man or woman. But she had no idea. Not really. She hoped it was Moreau’s mom. If it came to a physical confrontation, she’d have a better chance against a woman.
So…should she yell? Jasmine couldn’t decide. She felt as much negative energy coming from above as she did everywhere else. It seemed as if the whole place was overrun with evil intent. She’d been trying to convince Romain that Moreau couldn’t have killed his daughter, that the child’s murderer must still be alive. She couldn’t figure out any other explanation for the note she’d received. But she sensed that someone had been killed here. She was getting odd, violent impressions. A struggle. A gun. Blood.