“He doesn’t like me, either,” Huff pointed out.
And Romain knew Chief Ryder wouldn’t look any more kindly on him. By taking the law into his own hands, Romain had contributed to the department’s bad publicity, since he wouldn’t have shot Moreau if Huff hadn’t screwed up the search.
“It’d be smarter to set Black up,” Huff proposed. “Once we have him, we should be able to get the man who killed Adele. Black will give him up if he knows it’s over.”
“How are we going to do that?”
“We can have someone, maybe Cathy, a female officer who left the NOPD
before Black was ever hired, call him up and pretend to be a potential client, a rich woman who’s dying to adopt a baby. Cathy could record the call and arrange a meeting. She’d wear a wire, and once we have him on tape making the deal, he’s done for.”
Romain checked his watch. He’d already been at the coffee shop longer than he’d wanted to be. He hated the thought of Jasmine out there alone, asking questions that could draw the attention of someone as dangerous as the man who’d murdered Adele. But they were finally onto something that might bring an end to it all.
“What’s the matter?” Huff asked.
“I’m worried about Jasmine,” he said.
“Call her.” Huff handed him a cell phone. “Have her meet us, and we’ll bait the trap.”
Chapter 22
“What’s wrong?”
Beverly pulled herself out of her thoughts and focused on the card game she was playing with Dustin. “Nothing, why?”
“It’s your turn.” He rested his head on his pillow while waiting for her to play.
Beverly drew two cards, made a pair with one and tossed the other into the center. She was losing; she hadn’t been able to concentrate. She generally enjoyed playing canasta, but today she was doing it strictly to entertain Dusty.
“Now it’s your turn,” she said.
He studied what she’d thrown him, laid down a pair of aces and scooped the stack of discards toward him. “I’m taking the pile.”
That certainly wouldn’t help her comeback, she thought, but winning a card game was nothing that really concerned her.
“When do you think Phillip will be home?” Dustin asked as he played what he could and put the extras in his hand.
Beverly didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth. Hiding behind her cards, she said, “Who knows? With Phillip, you see him when you see him, right?”
She glanced up in time to see an odd expression flit across Dustin’s face. He’d been sick so long his eyes sat deep in their sockets and his skin had taken on a waxy sheen. The changes in him testified to the fact that he was sliding further and further downhill, but worrying about Dustin was an everyday occurrence. Today, Bev had something new to agonize over. Peccavi hadn’t reacted the way she’d expected when he’d called for Phillip and she’d had to tell him she didn’t know where he was or when he’d be back. There’d been no bitter recriminations. Peccavi had accepted the news with a cool resolve she’d found more chilling than any amount of cursing would’ve been—the kind of resolve he’d exhibited before he’d shot Jack in her living room.
Help Phil disappear, she prayed. Help him get away for good….
Painfully aware that she didn’t deserve the blessings of heaven, she rarely appealed to God. She considered Him mostly deaf, anyway. But guilt didn’t stop her from pleading for her children. She figured that was a mother’s prerogative, no matter how bad a person that mother was.
“Mom?”
It was her turn. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
He watched her play. “Phil’s always been here when we’ve exchanged Christmas gifts before. That’s why we waited this year, so we could all be together.”
The painting Dustin had created for Phil was still standing in the corner, wrapped. She couldn’t help glancing toward it. Dustin didn’t have a lot of talent, but it was the best he could do, all he had to give, so his efforts meant a great deal to her.
His brother liked his work even better than she did. If life hadn’t been so crazy, Phillip would’ve remembered to take it with him.
On second thought, Bev knew he’d left it behind on purpose. Birds, flying free in the sky, were the subject of almost every one of Dustin’s paintings. Keeping one would only make Phil’s new life more difficult, because he’d broken away while Dustin never could. Dustin would remain trapped in a feeble body until he died.
“He’s got a girlfriend,” she lied. “He’ll come when he’s ready.” In another day or two, she’d get rid of the painting and say she’d shipped it to him. “How do you like the books I brought you?”
“I love them. Especially the one on the Renaissance painters.” Her gifts sat on his rolling tray, the paper he’d torn off still crumpled beside them.
“Good. I’m thrilled with the bird you painted for me, too.”
“The one I did for Phil is a little different.”
“But I’m sure it’s just as beautiful.”
“I’d like to see him open it.”
She winced at the burning in her stomach. “Okay. When he gets home. It’s your turn.”
He didn’t move.
“Dustin?”
“I think you should go to the police,” he said, tossing his cards aside.
Lowering her hand, Beverly gaped at him. “About what?”
“About everything.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Yes, I do.” His words were softly spoken. “You’ve done something terrible, for my sake, and you’re caught in a situation from which there seems to be no escape. If you don’t free yourself you may never get out.”
“No.” She shook her head. If she went to the police, they’d put her in prison.
Then what would happen to him? He wouldn’t have anyone to take care of him.
“You can’t go on like this,” he insisted.
His words, solemn and heartfelt, shook Beverly to the core. She was so weary inside, so sick of all she’d done and all she’d hidden. She’d burn in hell for sure. But what really plagued her were memories of the little children she’d helped Peccavi uproot and transplant. She’d tried to delude herself into thinking they’d all gone to good families. But she knew that wasn’t true. Peccavi was a businessman. He used them just as he would any other kind of product—he sold them to the highest bidder.