“Go look for yourself.” Oliver pointed to the kitchen. Rain stood and walked through the arched entrance. On the counter, under the iron pot rack that held Celeste’s prized copper cookware, was a bouquet of lavender roses. It lay on its side, wrapped in tissue and tied with a large bow.
“They were on the doorstep.” He stood closely behind her, watching as she took a crystal vase from a shelf and filled it with water from the sink. “Don’t you want the note?”
Rain turned to see the opened envelope he waggled.
“He wants you to forgive him. What did the bugger do?”
She felt her anger flare again as she reached for the note. “That was personal correspondence.”
“So?”
Rain sighed heavily. “It’s an invasion of my privacy. Just like coming into my home without my knowledge or permission. And it needs to stop.”
“I’d say it’s fair exchange. Your job is to invade my privacy. You ask me questions so you can report back to my father.”
“We’ve been through this before, Oliver.” Untying the bow, she removed the flowers from the tissue and plunked them in the vase, which she’d moved onto the counter. “Anything you say here is confidential. It’s between us alone.”
“Is anything that happens here confidential, too?” he asked in a low voice most likely meant to be seductive. He towered over her, and Rain had already noticed his eyes were red and glassy.
“I could send flowers, if that’s what you want.”
“What I want is for us to get started on our session,” she said calmly. “I’d also like to know if you’re high.”
His smiled slipped. Muttering under his breath, he started to walk away, but Rain laid a hand on his arm. Oliver’s behavior was irrational this morning, even for him. “Something’s clearly bothering you. Why don’t we go into my office—”
“And talk?” He let out a bitter laugh. “Do you really think I tell you anything that matters?”
She looked him in the eye. “I hope you do, yes.”
“Then you’re the one who’s high.”
“Oliver—”
He jerked his arm away from her with such force that he knocked the vase with the flowers onto the floor. It shattered into pieces. Oliver stood with his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he stared at the mess. Rain’s stomach turned a small somersault, but she held her ground.
“It’s okay. It’s just an accident.” She took a step closer. “Whatever’s going on, let me help you.”
The broken glass made a minefield of the floor. It crunched under Oliver’s boots as he left the kitchen. A moment later, she heard the front door slam.
The doorbell rang as she finished cleaning up the glass. Rain assumed it was Oliver returning to apologize, but when she opened the door there were two men standing on her veranda. One she recognized immediately as Alex’s partner, Brian Rivette. But the other, a dark-haired man with a small bandage on his right temple, she’d never seen before.
“Brian, it’s good to see you.” Rain greeted him with a warm embrace. “But what brings you here on a Friday morning?”
“I better let him explain.” Brian indicated the other man. He was dressed in slacks, a dress shirt and tie, although his jacket had apparently been discarded in deference to the heat. A holstered gun sat on his hip.
“This is my brother, Trevor Rivette. He’s with the FBI.”
Rain knew Brian had a sister, but she’d never heard mention of a third Rivette sibling. Especially not one who was a federal agent.
His expression was earnest. “Dr. Sommers, I’d like to have a word with you about your show.”
She opened the door wider. “Please, come in.”
As they followed her inside, she glanced at her wristwatch. “I have a therapy session with a patient at ten.”
“I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”
Rain gauged Trevor Rivette to be three or four years older than his brother. She’d noticed that unlike Brian, he didn’t speak with the slower, lengthened vowels of a Deep Southerner. There was, however, a family resemblance in the strong cheekbones and slightly squared jawline.
“Could I get either of you some coffee?” she asked.
“No, thank you.”
“I’ll have some,” Brian spoke up. “But I’ll get it myself so you two can talk.” He headed off toward the dining room.
“Why don’t we go into my office.” Rain led the agent through a set of French doors that separated her workplace from the rest of the downstairs. In addition to a desk, there was a barrister’s bookcase in the room, as well as two matching wing chairs with a small table between them. Hanging above the desk was a black-and-white photograph of an ornate gate in an aboveground cemetery, a stunning image of one of New Orleans’s famed Cities of the Dead.
“I wasn’t aware my brother knew you so well,” he said once Rain closed the doors behind them.
“Alex Santos, Brian’s partner, is one of my oldest friends,” she explained. “That’s one of his photos on the wall. It’s a fairly well-known print.”
He regarded it briefly before moving his blue-gray gaze back to her. As curious as she was about Trevor Rivette, she was more perplexed as to the reason for his arrival. She wondered if Midnight Confessions had broken some sort of on-air indecency rule.
“If this is about the subject matter of my show, you really should take it up with David D’Alba, my producer. I know we walk a fine line regarding regulations.”
“I’m with the FBI, Dr. Sommers. Not the FCC.”
Rain sat in one of the wing chairs, and she studied him as he stood in front of the window. He’d loosened his tie, and she noticed how the smooth cotton of his dress shirt fit his chest. He appeared extremely physically fit. But his face was pale, and his right temple looked abraded and bruised under the bandage. She wondered what had happened.
“You had a caller on your show last night,” he said. “A man who called himself Dante?”
The name caused Rain’s heart to jump a little. “Yes?”
“I’m looking into the murder of a teenage female here in New Orleans. The killing has similarities to murders committed in other cities over the past eighteen months.”
“And you think this Dante person is linked somehow?”
“I don’t have anything to go on but my instincts, but I believe it’s a possibility. Would you mind taking a look at a snapshot from the M.E.’s office?” he asked. “The victim’s currently a Jane Doe. Brian says you specialize in adolescents and young adults—”
“So I might recognize her?”
“Maybe.” When she nodded her consent, he reached into his back pocket and retrieved the snapshot. Rain looked at the grim photo, a close-up of the dead girl’s face. She was obviously lying on an autopsy table, her skin waxen and eyes closed. A sheet covered her shoulders and neck, concealing her nearly up to the chin.
Rain gave a faint headshake. “I don’t know her.”
Taking the snapshot back, he walked to her desk, indicating the framed cemetery photograph she’d pointed out earlier. “That’s a rather gothic image, don’t you think?”
Rain looked at him. “I think that’s open to inter pretation.”
“One of your callers last night was talking about an ankh tattoo. Would you consider your show to have a special appeal to the goth community?”
“May I ask where you’re going with this?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Several of the victims have been associated with a goth lifestyle, or were known to have frequented goth clubs in their areas.”
“And the girl here in New Orleans?”
“We’re not sure yet.”
Rain rose from the chair, aware he was watching her intently.
“You haven’t answered my question, Dr. Sommers.”
Brian’s avoided gossiping about me to his brother, she thought. “Some of my listeners consider themselves goth. Speaking of which, how did it happen you were listen
ing to my show last night, Agent? You’re hardly our demographic.”
“I went for a run, and needed something to listen to on my radio.”
“And you chose a talk show that caters to teens and young adults and features alternative music?”
He shrugged. “If you’re asking if I’d have preferred some classic rock, the answer is yes. Yours was the only station I could pick up in the Quarter.”
Rain accepted his honesty with a slight smile. He closed his eyes and rubbed his right hand over his face.
“Are you all right?”
He disregarded her question, although discomfort was evident on his features. “I need to know exactly what the caller said to you last night.”
“I thought you were listening.”
“Not to all of it.”
She reached for the phone on her desk. “Our shows are digitally recorded. I’ll call the studio and have them make you a dub—”
Rain stopped speaking as his hand covered hers, keeping her from picking up the handset. Up close, she could see the scar that ran across his chin, the only detraction from an otherwise nearly perfect masculine face.
Although his tone was gentle, it carried an urgency. “I will need that recording. But right now, just tell me what he said to you.”
Rain hesitated.
“He asked if I enjoyed being tied up during sex.” The slight quaver in her voice belied her directness, but she didn’t look away. “He said he wanted to watch me bleed. I hung up on him.”
Something darkened in the depths of his eyes. “Your show airs again tonight?”
“Tuesdays through Fridays. Tonight’s the last one for the week.”
“I’d like to be at the radio station, in the studio with you. If he calls again, I can try to have the line traced.”
A car alarm went off nearby, its electronic shriek causing Rain to turn her head toward the window. Then she looked at him again and slowly nodded her agreement. “I’ll speak to my producer and let him know.”
“Thank you.”
Unable to stop herself, she raised her hand and gently touched the bandage at his temple.
“You should get some rest,” she said softly. Her eyes held his for several moments, and then she walked to the French doors. Through their glass panes, she could see Brian waiting in the parlor. Dahlia had found him and was perched in his lap.
“How does he kill the victims?” Rain asked, aware her question was born of morbid curiosity. When he didn’t answer, she turned back to him, her hand remaining on the door handle. “I’m a trained psychologist, Agent Rivette. I’m familiar with psychotic criminal behavior.”
His voice was impassive. “He ties them up, tortures them and then he cuts their throats. The killer considers himself a sanguine vampire, although in reality he’s more likely a sado-erotic blood fetishist who’s spiraled out of control.”
Her grip on the handle tightened. “You think he drinks their blood?”
“It’s possible, yes.”
Rain swallowed hard. “Are these instincts of yours ever wrong, Agent?”
“Sometimes.”
“Then maybe the man who called my show isn’t who you’re looking for.”
His gaze was direct. “This psychopath has already killed five women. Are you sure you’re willing to take that chance?”
6
“You could’ve told me you knew her,” Trevor said from the passenger side of the silver Audi. He studied Brian’s profile as his brother shifted gears and accelerated the sports car.
“I did tell you.”
“You said she was an acquaintance. Not someone you know well enough to rummage through her refrigerator looking for milk for your coffee. Even her cat knew you, Brian.”
“Rain’s really more Alex’s friend than mine,” he replied. “Back in his starving-artist days, he rented a room over the carriage house. Celeste sort of adopted him.”
“Celeste?”
“Rain’s aunt. She died of cancer last year.”
The Audi approached Coliseum Square, the focal point of the Lower Garden District. People were walking their dogs on the lush grass or jogging on the pathways under the shade of moss-draped live oaks. A teenage boy stood alone at the edge of the park, capturing Trevor’s attention. Garbed in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt too hot for the season, he glared at their car as it passed.
Dante had said he wanted to watch her bleed. Trevor felt it in his gut—the caller to Midnight Confessions wasn’t just some garden-variety pervert. He leaned his head against the headrest and tried to ease the throbbing behind his eyes. The headache had worsened since he’d left the hospital, but there was little time to recuperate.
“You’re going to get a ticket,” he warned as Brian accelerated again. They were outside the residential area now, and Brian had chosen to take the business 90 in lieu of the quieter side streets.
“Relax.” Brian looked over at Trevor, although it was hard to see his eyes through the dark tint of his sunglasses. “I’m a pro at avoiding cops.”
For Brian, there had always been an attraction to speed. It was evident in the car he drove, the small plane he’d learned to fly, and not so long ago, in an even faster, potentially more dangerous lifestyle of drugs and random sexual partners. Trevor’s gaze traveled to the gold band his brother now wore on his left hand, symbolic of a monogamous commitment.
Annabelle had said Brian was painting again. She’d shown Trevor some early reviews that had appeared in the local arts paper. He wanted badly to believe in the transformation and forget about those years of Brian at his worst.
Brian turned his head under the weight of his brother’s stare. “What?”
“Nothing.” Trevor shrugged, not wanting to ruin their companionship. Instead, he shifted his thoughts to Rain Sommers. The petite redhead was nothing like he’d expected. She was polished and feminine, with delicate features and striking amber eyes. Not to mention, he’d noted the Ph.D. after her name on her business card. It confirmed the title doctor had been earned and wasn’t just some affectation for the show’s benefit.
“What the hell kind of name is Rain, anyway?” Trevor massaged his forehead. “What were her parents, hippies?”
“You really don’t know.”
“Know what?”
“Ever heard of Desiree Sommers?”
A small, slender woman with a mass of coppery hair and eyes rimmed in dark makeup flashed in Trevor’s mind. “The singer? That’s her mother?”
Brian nodded. “They’re dead ringers, aren’t they?”
Desiree Sommers had been part of the avant-garde music scene in the late seventies and early eighties. Half whiskey-voiced torch singer and half rock diva, she’d only begun to receive national attention when she’d been murdered in her New Orleans home. The tragedy had become a rock legend, a True Hollywood Story that made Desiree larger in death than she’d been in life.
“That’s the house where she was killed, isn’t it?”
“Rain’s father murdered her mother and then killed himself,” Brian recounted. “Rain was asleep in the next room. She was two years old. Celeste, Desiree’s sister, moved in and raised her.”
They rode in silence while Trevor digested the information, not speaking again until they turned off the freeway and entered the Marigny neighborhood where Trevor’s hotel was located. Brian parked on the street across from the building with black-shuttered windows and geranium baskets hanging in the breezeway. He left the car idling so the air conditioner remained on, and removed his sunglasses.
“You okay? I saw you rubbing your forehead.”
“I’m fine.”
“Signing out against medical advice wasn’t a good idea. You look like hell, Trevor.”
“I just need something for my headache, that’s all.”
“I should take you back to All Saints.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Trevor released the seat belt. “You’ve done enough, driving me here from the hospital to shower and
change, then taking me to meet Dr. Sommers.”
“She’s going to want you to call her Rain,” Brian commented. “And I drove you because you shouldn’t be driving yourself. If you were listening, the doctor said someone needs to stay with you. Why don’t you come back with me to the loft. Just for the afternoon.”
“I’ve got a lot to do. Some calls to make, for starters.”
The car filled with quiet tension. “You don’t even want to meet him, do you?”
He looked at Brian. “That’s not true.”
From a young age, Trevor had understood Brian was somehow different, in a way their cop father would have only raged against. As the older brother, he’d made it his job to deflect and buffer, for as long as he could.
“I know I made things harder for you,” Brian said quietly. “But I never asked you to fight my battles.”
“I wanted to protect you.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“Yes, I did,” Trevor countered almost angrily. “He would’ve destroyed you.”
“Christ, Trevor. What do you think he did to you?”
Silence lingered between the two men, creating a chasm filled with painful memories. Trevor opened the door, allowing a wave of oppressive heat to enter the vehicle’s interior. He got out and stood there for a moment before leaning back inside, one hand on the car’s roof. “I will meet Alex,” he promised. “At your art reception Sunday night. Annabelle already told me about it.”
“You’ll be there?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
Brian’s eyes searched his brother’s. Then he nodded in acceptance. “Just take it easy, okay?”
Trevor closed the door and watched Brian drive away, the car a blur of silver metallic on the narrow street. Once it disappeared, he ground the heels of his hands against his eyes. His entire body was feeling the impact with the Cadillac.
Inside his hotel room, Trevor went into the bathroom, ran some water into a tumbler that sat on the counter and downed two Tylenol tablets. When he looked in the mirror, his own pale reflection stared back. The bruising around the cut on his forehead was the only wash of color in his face.
Midnight Caller Page 4