Midnight Caller

by Leslie Tentler

  “You’ve done a great job with it.”

  “Brian and Alex have been a big help. They painted the house, put in the new kitchen floor and rebuilt the porch.”

  “Anna, the bread.”

  Using a dish towel as an oven mitt, she withdrew the plump loaf and dropped it on top of the stove. “One-third of the house belongs to you, you know. With the prices they’re getting in Marigny these days…”

  “I don’t want anything. It’s enough for me if you and Haley are happy here. I’ll sign my share of the house over to you, if that’s what you want.”

  “Brian said the same thing, but I’d prefer it if we all still owned a piece of it.” She paused, running her hands along the top of her jeans. “You don’t have to keep sending me checks, Trevor. I’m back on my feet now, and I’m working at the gallery four days a week, handling the bookkeeping. In fact, I want to pay you back when I can.”

  He shrugged. It had been only a few hundred dollars a month, but he thought his sister could use the money, with Haley to care for. He knew the child-support payments arrived sporadically at best. “Don’t pay me back. Just put the money in my niece’s college fund, okay?”

  Annabelle’s eyes filled with emotion. She walked to Trevor and hugged him.

  “It’s good to see you,” she whispered. He held his sister in his arms.

  When they pulled apart, she tried to hide the glimmer of tears. “Dinner’s ready. I’ll go get Haley. She doesn’t wash her hands if you don’t stand over her.”

  Trevor’s gaze moved to the table. He’d already noticed it had been set for only three.

  “Brian flew Alex’s Cessna down to Naples,” she explained. “Some pain-in-the-ass client keeps changing his mind about the artwork for his beach house and Alex couldn’t go in his place. He said to tell you he’s sorry, and that he’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “I hope they’re giving drug tests to private pilots these days, too.”

  Annabelle looked at him. “He’s been clean for nearly two years now. And he really does want to see you.”

  He merely nodded, watching as his sister left the room. He thought of the last time he’d seen Brian and the hurtful things they’d said to one another. Trevor hadn’t meant a word of it, but he’d been frustrated and angry. He’d also been terrified Brian’s problems were his fault.

  He’s been clean for nearly two years now.

  More than anything, Trevor realized, he wanted Annabelle’s declaration to be true.

  2

  Despite her urging, Trevor didn’t stay with Annabelle, preferring to sleep somewhere that didn’t hold his history within its walls. Instead, he’d booked himself at a nearby inn on Esplanade Avenue, at the edge of Marigny bridging the French Quarter.

  Annabelle was right, he conceded as he unpacked his clothing from his travel bag. If his job hadn’t demanded his return, he wouldn’t be here, save for a family emergency. Trevor thought of the house his sister now inhabited and wondered how she managed to commune in seeming comfort with the ghosts of their shared past. The scars on her wrists proved the ability hadn’t always come so easily.

  He looked around the room, which was clean and affordable enough to be on the FBI’s approved-expenditures list. It had worn dark carpet and a television that sat on the dresser across from the double bed. A single French door led to a balcony overlooking the inn’s courtyard and pool. Trevor walked out onto it and stared into the gently lapping waters below.

  Five females, tied up and tortured, their throats methodically cut. He rubbed his hands over his face, knowing his failure to catch this psychopath had resulted in another death. Special Agent in Charge Johnston, head of the FBI’s Violent Crimes Unit, had assigned Trevor to look into the so-called Vampire Murders occurring in different states as a special VCU project. The protocol had become almost routine: sometimes with or without a partner, Trevor went to the city where a murder fitting the pattern was found, gathered information and worked the case, then passed it on to the local FBI field office in each respective city when the leads ran cold.

  And so far, that was pretty much all he had—cold leads. There had been no witnesses, no DNA match in the ViCAP database, and the widely dispersed locales meant the deaths were considered by local authorities to be isolated cases. Only the VCU had noted a unifying modus operandi, which was why it had gotten involved.

  In the meantime, while Trevor still didn’t know the unsub, the unsub had gotten to know him. The perpetrator had established contact—hand-written notes, souvenirs from kills sent through the mail—so far all of it untraceable and meant to prove the Vampire was far superior to his hunter.

  Unable to shake off his frustration, Trevor went inside and changed into running shorts, a gray T-shirt and tennis shoes. His iPod was on the fritz, so he’d brought a small transistor radio with earphones to accompany him on his regular five-mile run. Trevor picked it up from the dresser, hoping the device could drown out his inner monologue of doubt and self-recrimination. Closing the door to the room behind him, he went down the stairs, stretched in the faint glow of the swimming pool and took off toward the French Quarter. As he ran, he kept a steady pace despite the city’s humidity that lingered well after dark. The music from the radio strapped to his upper arm was the only sound he heard.

  Inside the Quarter, the throngs of tourists had thinned from earlier in the day. But there were still people out on the narrow streets, many of them with go-cups in their hands as they strolled between the bars and strip clubs in the timeworn buildings. As he turned the corner of Chartres onto Dumaine, Trevor toggled the radio’s dial without breaking his stride. The classic-rock station he’d located at the inn was becoming static filled, the Rolling Stones’s “Sympathy for the Devil” fading in and out of white noise. He skipped over jazz, blues and Cajun zydeco stations that weren’t coming in much better, then stopped dialing when a teenage female voice emerged clearly over the airwaves.

  “Who is he to tell me what I can or can’t do with my body? He’s not even my real dad.”

  “How old are you, Shayla?”

  “I’m fourteen, almost fifteen.”

  “I see.” The other voice was that of a woman, laced with a soft Southern drawl. “What kind of tat did you have in mind?”

  “I wanted an ankh, not too big, on my shoulder.” Trevor knew what the symbol was, a cross topped by an oval loop, an Egyptian symbol for eternal life popular within the goth subculture.

  “Well, that sounds pretty tame. What does your mom think?”

  “She doesn’t care about me or what I do.”

  There was a lull in the conversation, as if the woman was actually considering the caller’s dilemma. Of course, she was too young to have a tattoo, Trevor thought, ignoring the sweat that stung his eyes. Why doesn’t the woman just tell her that? People on the street looked like blurred watercolor images as he ran past.

  “Here’s what you could do. You could get one anyway, without your stepfather’s permission.”

  Great idea. Trevor shook his head, sprinting in front of a horse-drawn carriage carrying a group of cup-sloshing revelers.

  “But if you do,” the woman continued, “you’re going to deal with some major grief when he finds out.”

  “Tell me about it.” He could almost hear the teen rolling her eyes.

  “There’s one thing I want to mention. You said your mom doesn’t care about you. I have no idea if that’s really the case, but maybe your stepfather is saying no because he doesn’t want you to do something you’d regret later in life. Tattoos are permanent, and he wants to be sure you’re ready for a commitment like that. Misguided or not, it sounds like he cares.”

  The girl was quiet for a moment. “Maybe.”

  “Take my advice, Shayla. Take the money you’d spend on a tattoo and get an ankh pendant, an expensive one. Consider it a wardrobe investment. Wear it, and when you’re eighteen, if you still want the tattoo, go for it.”

  The call ended, and the woman sai
d, “You’re listening to Midnight Confessions with Dr. Rain Sommers on WNOR, New Orleans’s alternative radio.”

  The station switched to a jingle for low-carb beer. With a sickening jolt, Trevor became aware of where his subconscious had guided him. Dauphine Street. Mallory’s was only a short distance away, where his father was either pouring liquor behind the bar or drinking away his paycheck on the other side of it. He stopped running, bending at the waist with his hands on his thighs as he caught his breath. He closed his eyes, his indecision frustrating him, but the magnetic pull of the bar finally won out.

  I won’t go in, he vowed. All he needed was to see the bastard through the window and confirm for himself that God in all his injustice hadn’t yet seen fit to strike him down. The talk-show host returned to the air as Trevor wiped his face with the damp cotton of his T-shirt and set back out.

  “Our next caller is Daniel from the French Quarter. What do you want to talk about tonight, Daniel?”

  “I want to talk about you, Rain. About your legacy.”

  There was a moment of dead air. “Sorry. We don’t talk about me, that’s one of the rules. Do you have a problem I can help with tonight?”

  “You’re my problem, Rain. I can’t get you out of my mind.”

  “That sounds like a pick-up line. A clichéd one.”

  Just as the woman’s voice was sultry, the caller’s was deep and hypnotic. Trevor forced his muscles to work harder. The street seemed to be giving off waves of heat, the air around him heavy, and any hint of a breeze had disappeared.

  “It’s true, Rain. I’ve become quite interested in you.”

  “My star must be rising. I have my first bona fide stalker.” Her tone was edged with sarcasm. “Look, Daniel. We’re busy people around here, so worship me on your own time. Now, do you have something to talk about or not?”

  When the caller merely laughed, she added, “So, how old are you, Dan? You sound a little more mature than our regular callers.”

  “You could say I’m a little older.”

  “How much?”

  “Older than you can possibly imagine.”

  Trevor was lost in the conversation, oblivious to the speed at which he was running. The bar, a shabby dive where James Rivette worked, sat across the street. A Budweiser sign blinked in its darkened window.

  “And Rain? My name isn’t Daniel. It’s Dante.”

  Trevor ran into the street just as the speeding Cadillac turned the corner against a red light. The car slammed on its brakes and screeched as it tried to stop. His body contacted with the fender, spun once and thudded on the car’s hood before dropping onto the oily street. Pain shot through his skull as the black Louisiana sky closed in around him.

  3

  “Why the hell did you hang up on him?”

  Rain glanced up as David D’Alba’s voice came over the intercom at WNOR. She could see him through the window that separated the production room from the on-air studio where she sat. He stared at her, his headphones around his neck and his hands on his lean hips. When she didn’t answer, he tossed the headphones onto the console and strode toward her.

  “The guy was a creep, David.”

  “Which is why you should’ve kept him on the line.” He went to the monitor to check the playtime left on a song track being used during the show’s break. Then, moving her microphone out of the way, he parked himself on the desk’s edge and stretched out his long legs on either side of her chair.

  “So his questions were a little out of line,” he remarked. “It was making for a good show.”

  “He asked me about Desiree.”

  David shrugged. “Everyone asks you about Desiree.”

  “He wanted to know if I liked rough sex, among some more perverse things I’d prefer not to repeat.”

  “What can I say? We’ve got some sick puppies out there.”

  “I’m a psychologist, David. I’m used to all types of topics, but the rule is that we discuss the caller’s problem. I don’t talk about my personal life, especially my sex life, on the air.”

  “Maybe you should.” He reached out to toy with a strand of her red-gold hair. “It could boost our Arbitron ratings.”

  Rain pushed away from the desk. She stood and paced the small studio. “It wasn’t so much what the guy was saying. It was just—”

  “The way he said it?”

  She ignored the smirk on David’s handsome face.

  “Okay, the guy was a jerk. We’ve established that.” Growing serious, he shifted his weight on the desk and folded his arms across his chest.

  Rain stopped pacing and leaned against the wall’s soundproof padding. In the production room, David’s assistant, Ella LaRue, was tidying up. She wore a tight, cropped T-shirt with D’Alba Enterprises printed across its front and an even tighter pair of denim shorts. Seeing Rain’s gaze on her, Ella offered a smile that was syrupy sweet, but her espresso eyes were cold. She leaned forward, her raven hair spilling over one shoulder as she pressed the intercom button.

  Ella’s honeyed voice flooded the room. “Thirty seconds and counting, David.”

  “Run an ad spot. We’re not done in here.” He looked at Rain pointedly.

  “My listeners are primarily teens and young adults,” Rain said. “And yes, at times they say things for shock effect. But that man sounded much older.”

  “Now you’re an ageist?”

  “That’s not what I mean and you know it.” She shook her head, unsure of how to explain the feelings the caller had provoked. Normally, she had the ability to blow off the freaks who occasionally got onto the airwaves, but Daniel or Dante or whatever he’d called himself had rattled her.

  “There was just something insidious about him,” she said quietly.

  “I still haven’t heard a reason for disconnecting a caller during a live show.” David rubbed a hand over the stubble on his jaw, a sign of his increasing impatience. “You left me with dead air, and that’s unacceptable.”

  “Then you need to do a better job screening callers.”

  “Hold on.” Rising from the desk, he closed the small distance between them. “I’m the producer and you’re the talent, remember? Who gets through to you is my decision.”

  Rain kept her words controlled. “This show is supposed to offer advice, not pander to the lowest common denominator. This isn’t what I had in mind, David. You convinced me nine months ago that if I did this show I could reach more kids than I ever could through private counseling. And I believed you.”

  Her eyes slid closed. And I did this for you.

  She wanted to add that she’d agreed to the show to help out the career of the man she thought she’d loved. Until Midnight Confessions, Rain had managed to live her life in relative anonymity. She’d never sought out the spotlight that was in many ways her birthright as Desiree Sommers’s daughter. But she had no one to blame except herself. She’d compromised her principles because she’d been too infatuated with David to deny him, or to think rationally about what he wanted her to do. “You are reaching them, Rain.” David put his fingers under her chin and lifted her gaze to his. “They’re listening to you.”

  Before she could react, his thumb brushed her bottom lip. His head dipped lower, his intent clear. Rain stiffened and placed her hand against his chest.

  “Don’t,” she whispered. In her peripheral vision, she saw Ella storm from the production room. David took a step back, acknowledging her rebuff with a few sharp nods of his head.

  “I know I screwed up with you,” he admitted. “But I won’t have you damaging this show.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you need to get the stick out of your ass, Dr. Sommers. So this guy wasn’t some spoiled teenager, whining because Mommy doesn’t love him enough to buy him a sports car. That’s good. It means we’re broadening the audience. And if it takes some kinky-sex talk to get listeners tuning in, so be it.”

  David raked a hand through his hair, which shone nearly blue-bl
ack under the studio’s recessed lighting. “Was this guy a nutcase? Absolutely. But this show’s about ratings, and it’s your job to keep guys like him on the line. I’ve got a lot riding on this, Rain.”

  He looked up as the on-air sign began to blink above them. “We’re back in thirty seconds.”

  “David—”

  He turned at the doorway. “There’s another caller waiting in the queue. A sweet fifteen-year-old whose boyfriend is pressuring her to have unprotected sex.”

  A flicker of indignation remained in his dark eyes. “See if you can handle this one without a meltdown.”

  He drove her home once the show had ended. David’s Jaguar stopped in front of the Greek Revival house in the Lower Garden District, its powerful engine idling as Rain searched on the floorboard for her handbag.

  “I could come in for a while,” he suggested. The rest of the show had gone off without a hitch, and David’s foul mood had given way to his usual charm. “Just to talk?”

  Rain shook her head and reached for the door handle. “It’s late and I have a private counseling session early tomorrow morning.”

  “I’m sorry about tonight. The guy spooked you. I should’ve been more understanding.” He stared out the windshield before speaking again. “I’ve been under some pressure lately.”

  “It’s okay.” She gave him a vague smile. “Good night, David.”

  His hand returned to the leather curve of the steering wheel. “I want you back, Rain. I’m not giving up on that.”

  Their eyes met before she closed the door and walked the short distance from the sidewalk to the house’s veranda. The Jaguar remained out front until she was inside. She watched from the foyer as David made a sharp turn in the street, the car’s headlights briefly illuminating the scaffolding on a neighboring house that was under renovation.

  As David drove away, Rain wondered if he would go to his own French Quarter apartment, or whether he’d seek out some other female companionship. David was a sexual creature, she’d always known that. It was part of his attraction. But she hadn’t expected him to cheat on her.