Christ, Trevor. What do you think he did to you?
Brian’s pointed question came back to him, and he wondered again at the impulsiveness that had led him to Mallory’s bar. Maybe the Cadillac was some kind of cosmic warning to stay the hell away from his past.
He turned off the bathroom light and went back into the bedroom. He placed several calls, including one to the local FBI field office to check in, and another to Eddie McGrath at the NOPD. There was still no ID on the Jane Doe found in the shotgun house on Tchoupitoulas, the detective told him. In turn, Trevor informed McGrath of the possible lead he had at the radio station, and his plan to sit in on the talk show that night. His final call was to SAC Johnston at the VCU offices in D.C. Johnston was a gruff character, bald and built like a brick shithouse, with the hard glint of a former military man.
“Resources are spread thin right now—I’ve got your partner working on a child-murder case in Maryland,” Johnston said over the phone, referring to Special Agent Nate Fincher. “He’s not going to be able to make it down there.”
He thought of the type of investigation Nate was handling. “Tough case.”
“Aren’t they all.”
Trevor filled Johnston in on the Jane Doe autopsy and the caller to Midnight Confessions.
“Desiree Sommers’s daughter, huh?” Johnston’s deep voice held a hint of nostalgia. “I used to listen to her as a teenager. Keep me posted, Rivette. I think the caller’s a long shot, but it’s worth looking into. Some of these guys are so full of self-importance, it’s impossible for them not to brag about their accomplishments. Who knows—maybe this asshole’s looking for a forum.”
Afterward, Trevor removed his firearm still inside its holster and placed it on the nightstand. He had a lot to do, but he lay down and waited for the Tylenol to kick in. Squeezing his eyes shut against the light that filtered through the window, he thought again of Rain Sommers. Although she’d done her best to hide it, he’d seen the flicker of fear in her hazel eyes.
She had reason to be afraid, he realized.
The sign on the window advertised a blue-plate special along with the city’s best shrimp étouffée. It was early evening, the dinner rush ended, and only a few tables in the small diner on Frenchmen Street were occupied. Trevor entered with the strap of a computer case over his shoulder. He’d just completed a meeting at the FBI field office with the local SAC and had a little time left before heading to WNOR.
“Take a seat anywhere you want, chère,” a platinum blonde called from behind the counter. Her eyes gave him the once-over.
He selected a booth in back and the waitress followed him over, placing a glass of ice water on the table while he powered up the laptop. He ordered the étouffée along with a cup of coffee and handed back the laminated menu.
While he waited for his food, Trevor ran an Internet search on Desiree Sommers, his curiosity piqued. The query returned dozens of hits, so he began working his way down the list. The first was a fan-operated Web site with a distinct gothic theme, and it included a gallery of photos of the singer. He clicked through the images, lingering on a scanned reproduction of Desiree’s debut album. The cover was a scratchy black-and-white photo, of Desiree wearing a revealing cocktail dress and torn fishnet stockings. Her porcelain complexion had been made to appear even paler with makeup, and her eyes were rimmed in dark liner. She stood alone in a room surrounded by candles.
The album’s title was Decadent Soul. Trevor read in the caption beneath the image that it had been released in 1979, two years prior to her death.
Trevor sipped the coffee the waitress had brought him and continued to study the image. The resemblance between Desiree and her daughter was evident. Both women were beautiful, although Rain Sommers had an understated elegance compared to her mother’s overt sexuality. He clicked through several more Web sites, reading sensationalized accounts of the murder-suicide that ended Desiree’s life.
“I can’t figure out if you’re a businessman, a cop or a tourist.” The waitress broke into his thoughts as she set a plate of the Creole stew and rice in front of him. He pulled his gaze from the laptop’s screen and glanced up at her.
“Pardon me?”
“Well, you’re wearing a suit and you’ve got a laptop, so I thought maybe you’re catching up on some work from the office.” Her eyes traveled to the bandage on Trevor’s forehead. “But most businessmen don’t look like they came off the losing end of a bar fight.”
Trevor scooped a mound of the étouffée onto his fork and took a bite. Although his headache had eased, he’d eaten little since the previous night at Annabelle’s. He felt almost instantly better as the food hit his stomach.
“The sign don’t lie, best in New Orleans,” the waitress proclaimed. She took some extra napkins from her apron pocket and laid them on the table.
“Anyway, when you took off your jacket, I saw that.” She nodded toward the gun on Trevor’s hip. “So I figured you were a plainclothes detective. Only thing is, you’re dressed too nice for the NOPD. They usually favor short-sleeved dress shirts and polyester clip-on ties.”
Trevor swallowed more food. “Why’d you think I could be a tourist?”
The waitress slid onto the bench across from him. He estimated her to be only in her late thirties, and although not unattractive, she looked as though she’d already lived a hard life. But her penny-brown eyes sparkled.
“You’re looking up Desiree on the Web. I thought you might be sightseeing. Of course, you’re not the type usually looking for her place.”
Trevor wiped his mouth with his napkin. “What type is that?”
“You know, ghouls. We get them spooky kids in here all the time, the ones with the dyed black hair and eyeliner. After Anne Rice’s old house and Trent Reznor’s place, Desiree’s is next on the freak-show tour.”
Leaning forward, she tapped a lacquered nail on the table. “Here’s one thing they don’t tell you in the tabloids. After that British guitarist cut Desiree’s throat, he wrote the word whore on the wall in her own blood. They say the wall’s been painted over a dozen times, but it still shows through. How’s that for a bedtime story?”
“Or an urban legend.”
“Maybe.” Her hand curling under her chin, she changed topics. “Anyone ever tell you that you’ve got beautiful eyes, chère?”
From the open kitchen, a man sporting a stained T-shirt cleared his throat and gave her a warning stare. The waitress slid from the booth. “So, you gonna tell me? Businessman, cop or tourist?”
Trevor reached for his wallet in the back pocket of his suit pants. “Let’s just go with someone needing his check.”
“I love a man of mystery.” The waitress grinned as she rummaged in her apron pocket for his bill. Scribbling on the paper, she laid it on the table.
“That’s your lagniappe. Your little something extra.” She winked and pointed at the name Crystal with her telephone number scrawled next to it. “You come back anytime.”
As Trevor finished his food, he sent an e-mail to the NOPD records office, using his federal badge number to request the files on the murder of Desiree Sommers, if they even still existed. Leaving cash to cover his meal and a tip, he returned the laptop to its case and walked outside.
The sun was beginning to set over the tops of the ancient, pressed-together buildings. Although it was outside the Quarter, Frenchmen Street was nearly as commercial, lined with smoky bars and casual restaurants. The vibration of a bass guitar came from one of the music clubs, the instrument sounding as if it was being tuned for the night. Trevor checked his watch and estimated the time he needed to get to the WNOR studios in the Central Business District.
His car, a rented Ford Taurus, was parked in an alleyway behind the diner. As Trevor turned the corner, he noticed its interior light was on and the driver’s-side door ajar. He slowed, setting the computer case down and withdrawing his gun as he looked around the isolated alley.
Nothing. He appeared to be alone.
Approaching the vehicle, he slid cautiously into the front seat and removed the black cross that hung on a leather cord from the rearview mirror. Studded with rhinestones, the gothic, fleur-de-lis pendant glimmered dully. Trevor felt his heart speed up. His guess was that it belonged to the Jane Doe.
It wasn’t the first time the man he was searching for had given him a trophy, just to remind him that he was one step ahead. But it was the first one delivered personally.
It also meant the killer was still in New Orleans.
7
“Where were you tonight?” David wanted to know as Rain entered through the doors of the radio station. He stood at the chrome-and-glass reception desk, going over the evening’s playlist. “I came by to give you a lift.”
“I’m sorry. I had some errands to run.” Rain hoped he wouldn’t ask for details. The truth was, she’d avoided him when he’d come by her house earlier that evening. She’d hidden as David knocked on the front door and then peered inside through the parlor windows. Finally, he’d returned to his Jaguar and driven away.
Admittedly, it wasn’t adult behavior on her part. But the past twenty-four hours had unsettled her, beginning with last night’s caller to Midnight Confessions. Then Trevor Rivette had appeared on her veranda with a gun on his hip and a grim theory about the caller’s identity. She didn’t need David stepping on her already frayed nerves.
Rain attempted to walk past him, but he blocked her path. “Did you like the flowers?”
His face bore the look of a hopeful puppy. When she’d called him that afternoon to let him know about the FBI’s interest in the show, she’d forgotten to even mention the bouquet.
“Yes, thank you. They’re lovely.”
David’s eyes traveled over her, taking in her ivory raw-silk blouse and tailored black slacks. “I meant what I said in the note—”
He stopped midsentence as Ella appeared from the hallway.
“David, I’ve got the dub of last night’s show.” She glided into the reception area with a compact disc and pretended not to notice Rain’s presence.
“Please take it to Agent Rivette,” he replied dismissively. Rain didn’t miss the annoyance that shone in Ella’s eyes. She pivoted on one high heel, the heavy scent of perfume accompanying her retreat into the studio’s interiors.
“Where is he?” Rain inquired once Ella was gone.
“The FBI agent? Waiting in the production room. Why does the name Rivette sound familiar?”
“He’s Brian Rivette’s brother. You remember meeting Alex’s partner?”
“Ah, Alex.” He bobbed his head. Rain pursed her lips, aware of the mutual dislike between David and her friend Alex Santos.
“I see the resemblance, now that you mention it. So, is this Agent Rivette a homosexual, too?”
“Why don’t you ask him?” Rain suggested. “Worst case, he’d think you were coming on to him and shoot you.”
Ignoring her sarcasm, he went to adjust the lighting on the WNOR logo that hung on the wall behind the reception desk. “Well, it looks like your concerns about this Dante character were on target. You must feel some vindication in that.”
Rain would have preferred to be off base. She was reminded that in less than an hour, she might be talking to Dante again over the airwaves. Although she’d studied criminal behavior during her doctoral program, her exposure had been mostly academic. Dante added an element of realism she’d neither expected, nor wanted, to experience firsthand.
“This could work to our advantage, you know.”
She realized David was still speaking, and she’d missed whatever else he’d just said. “Excuse me?”
He shrugged his shoulders under his Hugo Boss shirt. “All I’m saying is that if this lunatic calls back, don’t worry about how risqué the conversation gets. We’re cooperating with a federal investigation. Surely that gives us leeway in what’s being said on air.”
He patted his shirt and trouser pockets. “I wrote some barbs and double entendres that might be interesting. Maybe you can work them into the conversation, if I can remember where the hell I put them—”
“They’re on your desk.” Ella had returned, holding a WNOR mug brimming with caramel-colored coffee. She smiled at David. “Just the way you like it, with lots of steamed milk.”
Ella even made the words steamed milk sound suggestive. She pressed the mug into David’s hands, which was so full, hot liquid sloshed over its rim.
“Damn it, Ella!”
As Ella snatched tissues from the desk and brushed at the spot on David’s trousers, Rain slipped from the reception area. She found Trevor in the production room, finishing up a call on his cell phone with his back to her. When he closed the phone and turned around, his eyes met hers. Like earlier that day, his tie had been loosened, and the sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to reveal the lean muscles of his forearms. Although the bandage remained on his temple, much of his color had returned.
“Dr. Sommers.”
“Rain,” she corrected.
“Rain.” There was a brief silence as he looked at her. “I have an FBI field technician standing by to help with the trace. If the call’s made from a landline, it should be an immediate process.”
“What if he uses a cell phone?”
“We can triangulate the call using cell towers to pinpoint its origin. The process takes longer, but if the call is made from an urban area with multiple towers, it’s possible to narrow the caller’s location to a few hundred feet.” He placed his hands on his hips, wedging his right one above his holstered gun. “Are you going to be able to do this?”
Rain let go of a nervous breath. “I’m going to try.”
“I’ll be sitting across from you, right here in the production room. You’ll be able to see me through the window. Your producer’s run an additional feed into your headset so I can talk to you while you’re on air without the caller being able to hear me. Do you want to try it out?”
Going into the broadcast booth, Rain picked up the headset and put it on. She could see Trevor, who’d remained in the production room and wore a similar device. “Agent Rivette—”
“It’s Trevor,” he replied, his voice coming through clearly. He must have sensed her anxiety, because he added, “Remember, this might not be the guy. He might not even call back.”
“But you don’t believe that, do you?”
He gazed at her through the window. “No.”
A promotional poster for the goth band Raven was pinned to the wall inside the booth. Rain stared at the grainy image of a stone staircase with a winged female descending the shadowed steps. Was the ethereal figure a vampire or an angel? She’d never paid much attention to the poster before, but tonight she found it nearly as unsettling as the clock on her desk announcing the time in bold green digits. It was a quarter to ten, fifteen minutes before Midnight Confessions went on air.
Rain paced the booth, the space feeling suddenly confining and cagelike. Then she walked briskly down the hall and into the ladies’ restroom. Avoiding her reflection in the mirror, she ran some water in the basin and wished she could follow it down the drain. The smell of pine-scented cleanser caused her stomach to roll. Could she do this? What if she said something that tipped off the caller about the trace?
She wasn’t certain how long she’d stood there trying to get her bearings, but a knock sounded against the door. Trevor’s voice was uncertain.
“Rain? Are you all right?”
She opened the door halfway.
“There’s something you should know about me,” Rain said quietly. She let several beats of silence pass before making her confession, but it was something he had to be told. She sighed and felt a sense of shame. “I can’t drive.”
His forehead creased. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s a phobia. I’m a therapist with a completely ridiculous, unmanageable fear. Does that give you confidence in me?”
“What does that have to do—”
Rain shook her head, frustrated he was unable to follow her logic. “If I can’t do something as basic as drive a car, how am I supposed to keep a possible serial killer on the line long enough to trace his location?”
“You talked to him last night, Rain. Nothing’s changed.”
“I hung up on him,” she reminded. “And that was before I knew who he might be.”
Trevor studied her face. “Are you coming out of there or am I coming in?”
She hesitated before stepping back and allowing him inside. Once she’d closed the door behind them, she leaned against the wall’s cool porcelain tiles.
“I don’t even have a driver’s license,” she admitted. “Counseling sessions, hypnotherapy, nothing’s helped. Thank heaven for the St. Charles Streetcar Line or all my money would be spent on taxis.”
“Rain—”
“I don’t think my patients respect me, but why should they?” She frowned at the stall’s metal door. “Just this morning, one of my teenage patients broke into my house. I think he stole my underwear. He denied it, of course, but there’s a pair of blue silk panties missing from my lingerie drawer. I don’t even want to know what he might be doing with them…”
Realizing she was babbling, Rain felt a flush creep onto her cheekbones. She closed her eyes. “God. That was TMI, wasn’t it?”
“It’s okay.”
“I just thought you should know I might screw up your investigation.”
“You won’t.” Trevor held her gaze. “Try to remember that he can’t touch you through the airwaves. It’s just a voice.”
“But that’s not really true. That it’s just a voice?”
He bent his head closer to hers, his voice low. His hand touched her arm. “I’ve heard you on the radio, Rain. Just treat him like a normal caller. You can do this.”
He started to say more, but the click of the door handle drew their attention. David gawked at the two of them together in the intimate space. “What’s going on? Why aren’t you in the booth?”
Midnight Caller Page 5