“Not at all. Except maybe Francis. They were both outcasts, more or less.
They rode around together once in a while after they got into high school. But they caused trouble wherever they went. One time they put a dead squirrel in a girl’s locker because Francis had asked her out and she’d turned him down.”
Jasmine’s hands were growing numb from the cold. She curled them inside the sleeves of her coat. “What about Pearson?”
Her eyebrows went up. “You know my son?”
“Mrs. Reed mentioned him to me,” she said to avoid a direct answer.
Mrs. Black set her bags on the trunk of the car and took the one Jasmine was holding for her. “Pearson always preferred Phil or Dusty. But he didn’t approve of what happened to Francis a few years ago, I’ll tell you that much.”
“You’re referring to the fact that Francis was tried for the murder of Adele Fornier.”
“That’s exactly what I’m referring to.”
“Pearson believes Francis was innocent?”
“He had some priors for sexual misconduct, and I’m not making light of that.
But he didn’t kill the Fornier girl. Pearson swears up and down Francis was framed.”
“By whom?”
“He doesn’t know. He said Francis was involved with someone named Peccavi.”
“I have sinned,” Jasmine murmured.
Mrs. Black tilted her head. “What?”
“That’s what it means. It’s Latin.”
“If you say so.” She began gathering up her bags.
“Do you believe there’s any chance Gruber could be Peccavi?”
“I’d believe anything of Gruber.”
It was cold, and Jasmine had detained her long enough.
“Thank you for your time.”
“No problem,” she said.
After Mrs. Black had gone inside, Jasmine stood gazing down the neat row of houses. Gruber. Francis. Pearson. Dustin. Phillip. This had been quite a street. It’d yielded two child molesters, one of whom was also a murderer.
But now she knew at least one person who could lead her to Gruber Coen.
Taking out the business card Pearson had given her, she dialed his number.
Huff was waiting for him in the coffee shop at his hotel.
“Jasmine’s not with you?” Huff asked as Romain slid into the seat opposite him.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Huff didn’t look good. He’d lost more of his hair, but it wasn’t the aging process that was getting the best of him. Romain suspected he was working too many hours. Dark circles underscored his eyes, and his face was drawn and pinched. “She had other business to attend to.”
“What could be more important than this?”
“Finding the man who kidnapped and probably murdered her sister.”
“Aren’t we after the same man?”
“Yes, but there was no need for both of us to be here.”
“Did you tell her about the blanket?”
“She knows.” Romain pointed to a paper sack in the seat next to Huff. “Is that it?”
Pulling out part of a fuzzy red blanket stained with mildew, Huff nodded. “I’m going to have it tested for genetic material, but that’ll take a while. The fiber evidence was easier. It required only a microscope.”
“You’re sure it’s a match?”
“Positive.”
Romain sank lower and stared at it. His child had touched the blanket, maybe even comforted herself with it. “How could Adele’s blood have gotten on Moreau’s pants, her barrettes in his cellar?”
“He was living alone, but I’m sure his family came to visit him on occasion, so they would’ve been familiar with the place. Any one of them could’ve put those things in the cellar.”
“Dustin’s been bedridden for years. And Beverly is an unlikely candidate.”
“What about Phillip?”
“He doesn’t seem the type. Besides, it was Francis who was spotted at the school, Francis who carried in something heavy the day Adele went missing.”
Huff stirred more cream into his coffee.
“He bought a new rug that day, remember? The defense brought it up in court.”
“That’s a convenient coincidence. I believed Francis was the murderer then.
And I still believe it now.”
“Me, too. I’m guessing they were in it together. But that’s very rare, isn’t it?
For collusion on this kind of sex crime?”
Huff shrugged. “It’s happened before. Some women have even helped their husbands or lovers imprison and torture sex slaves.”
“We’re talking about crimes against children here. It’d be a lot harder to get someone to go along with that.”
“Harder, maybe. But it’s conceivable.”
The waitress approached and Romain ordered a cup of coffee and some scrambled eggs. “What about Black?” he asked.
“What about him?”
“He was at Francis’s house the night you performed the search. He could easily have tossed that stuff into the cellar for you to find.”
“But he’s the one who claimed it had been planted, who tried to get Francis off, remember?”
“Are you sure it was Black?”
“Positive. I trust all the others who were there during the search.”
Romain toyed with the salt and pepper shakers. “Have you ever heard of Better Life Adoption Agency?”
A strange expression appeared on Huff’s sallow face. “Where’d you come up with that name?”
“It’s where Mrs. Moreau works.”
“She doesn’t work. She lives on SSI.”
“According to her son Dustin, she works nights at this adoption agency.”
Frown lines etched deep grooves in Huff’s forehead. “When did you talk to Dustin?”
“I paid him a visit the other night.”
“Was he lucid?” he asked, turning his cup around and around in its saucer.
“More lucid than he wanted to be. I think he was in a great deal of pain.”
“He must not’ve known what he was talking about. What he said can’t be right.”
The waitress brought Romain’s coffee, and he stirred a spoonful of sugar into it. “Why not?”
“Because that orphanage doesn’t exist. Years ago, a pregnant woman came into the station and filed a complaint saying a man offered her a large sum of money for her baby. She claimed he represented a place called Better Life Adoption Agency and promised that her child would go to a very wealthy couple.” Huff took a sip of his own coffee. “So we looked into it,” he went on after swallowing. “But we couldn’t find any proof of such a place. And because she was a prostitute and a drug addict, and her claims were uncorroborated, we finally figured she was hallucinating or out to get someone who’d wronged her.”