“A child who was involved in a notorious kidnapping/murder that occurred about four years ago. When you were still in high school,” she said dryly.
He grinned. “You have something against younger men.”
“I have something against murderers.”
“Me, too. But the law says I can’t go in without a search warrant.”
“Then you’ll have to get one,” she said, growing impatient.
“I’d like to help you out.” He tilted his head closer. “In case you can’t tell, I’m trying to win a few points here. But much as I’d love it if you’d go out with me, I still need probable cause for entering this house.”
“And as much as I’d like to use your interest to my advantage, I’m already committed,” Jasmine said.
His eyebrows arched hopefully. “I didn’t see a ring.”
“We’re not married but…” She hesitated. She’d used this kind of polite untruth before, to deflect unwanted attention. It was the gentlest form of rejection.
But she suddenly realized it was true. She was in love with Romain Fornier. She’d come to Louisiana to look for her sister and fallen in love.
“You’re together?” he finished because she couldn’t find the words to describe her current situation.
She nodded, hoping her first heartbreak wouldn’t follow right behind her first love.
He motioned toward the house. “So, when did you see this guy?”
“I haven’t seen him yet. I have his picture.”
“How do you know it’s the same guy?”
“Because I saw him at the door before my sister went missing.”
A neighbor across the street came out to see what was going on; no doubt she’d spotted the cop car. “Something wrong over there?” she called.
“We’d like a word with Mr. Coen,” Officer Ambrose hollered back. “Do you know where he is or when he might return?”
“No. He’s a strange fellow.” She threw up her hands and shook her head. “I try to stay away from him.”
Officer Ambrose shrugged. “Strange isn’t a punishable offense. At least not yet. I’ll keep an eye on this place and get back to you.”
The frustration of coming up against such a mundane obstacle was almost more than Jasmine could bear. “You can’t just…leave.” She wanted to add that this man had murdered a woman only two days ago, but she didn’t dare undermine her credibility by blaming Gruber for too many crimes at once. She knew she was right, but he wouldn’t. Also working against her was the fact that this young cop had probably handed out plenty of speeding tickets, but true evil wasn’t something he’d likely encountered before. Therefore, he’d have little faith in its existence.
“Your phone number’s on the report. I’ll call you.” All business now that he knew he wasn’t going to get a date with her, he started toward his car, but on his way, he bent to pick up a piece of trash lying in the gutter—and then he stopped.
“What is it?” she asked.
He was frowning at the envelope he’d retrieved. “A phone bill.”
“Gruber’s?”
He turned to face her. “It’s addressed to a woman who was reported missing this morning.”
Officer Ambrose drew his weapon. After knocking again, he identified himself as a police officer and warned Coen that he was coming in. Then he used a tool from his car to jimmy the lock on the door. Jasmine doubted many cops would’ve handled the situation so aggressively, but Officer Ambrose had something to prove. He knew she wasn’t interested in him, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to impress her.
He probably had visions of becoming a hero when he found the missing Valerie Stabula.
Unfortunately, if Gruber had Valerie, Jasmine was sure they wouldn’t find her in good condition.
“Stay here,” he said as he went in. But it was difficult to flex one’s power without an audience and, once he felt comfortable that Coen was really gone, he didn’t send her back out when she joined him.
“Anything?” she asked.
He put away his gun. “Nothing.”
The stench was subtle but unmistakable. If there’d been any question in her mind that she had the right place, the smell alone would’ve convinced her. “It stinks in here.”
“I can smell it.”
“You know what it is, don’t you?”
“It could be a lot of things,” he said.
A lot of things beginning with death…
Jasmine gazed around the threadbare living room. An old green sofa that might’ve been dragged away from a dump sat in the middle of the floor, in front of a small television on a scratched-up coffee table. There were no pictures on the walls, just a plain clock.
A leaf blower started next door, drowning out the sound of Officer Ambrose’s voice as he called the station to report where he was and what he was doing. Jasmine thought of the neighbor out cleaning his lawn. Such an ordinary, innocuous chore, in vivid contrast to her own activity—searching for evidence of murder.
Had Kimberly ever been here? she wondered as she went from room to room.
Or had Gruber killed her before he came to New Orleans?
Sexual sadists were often narcissistic. They liked to talk, to brag about their exploits. But Gruber had managed to keep his dark secrets for a long time. Unless Jasmine could uncover some real evidence, chances were good she’d never know.
In the bedroom, the stench of decomposition wasn’t quite as strong, but there were other smells—dust, body odor, cheap cologne. The thought of this man coming into contact with her little sister, or Romain’s daughter, turned Jasmine’s stomach.
The bathroom was worse than any of the other rooms. A toothbrush lay on the counter, crusted with dried toothpaste. The toilet was disgusting. But poor housekeeping and bad hygiene wasn’t incriminating. There had to be something here, something that would indicate Adele had once been in this place, or Kimberly, or Valerie. Jasmine knew a jury wouldn’t convict a man without more evidence than a brief sighting sixteen years ago. Human memory was simply too fallible.
An antique English oak dresser was the nicest piece of furniture Gruber owned, but the mirror above it was losing its silver. It probably didn’t matter, because she doubted he ever used it. He wouldn’t like the image that stared back at him. She suspected it was really himself he was trying to destroy.