“I needed a moment to pull myself together.” Rain tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and evaded his stare.
“You’re on air in three minutes.” He left the door open and headed back down the hall.
Trevor looked at Rain. “You okay?”
“Do you mean am I done freaking out?” She nodded, still mortified. “Thanks for not laughing about the car thing. Or the stolen underwear. I can’t believe I told you that. You must think I’m nuts.”
“You’ve got a case of the jitters, that’s all. You didn’t ask for any of this.”
“If the caller is who you think he is, why would he call me?”
“Maybe he needs a medium to share his fantasies, and your show fits the bill.” He paused, his eyes somber. “It’s also possible he feels some connection to you through your mother.”
So he knew about Desiree, after all.
Rain felt the butterflies in her stomach kick up again.
More than two hours had passed. Rain had taken a half-dozen calls, none of them from Dante. One caller was a teenage female seeking advice about an unplanned pregnancy. Another, a male in his early twenties, was pondering dropping out of his senior year of college to play in a rock band. Several others had called in to discuss various sexual topics. The last one, a female, mostly wanted advice on losing weight.
Rain looked at Trevor through the window separating them. If he was concerned Dante might not make an appearance, he gave no indication of it. Instead, he sat quietly in the production room, listening to the on-air conversations.
“We’ve got less than an hour. He’s not going to call,” she said once a spot for Dixie Voodoo beer began running in the commercial break.
“There’s still time,” Trevor replied.
Uncertain if he was offering hope or a warning, she glanced away.
A few minutes later, as the last strains of a song track played over the airwaves, David stood from the console where he’d been screening calls. The excitement on his face caused Rain’s pulse to spike.
“This is it. We’ve got Dante on line two.”
Trevor extracted his cell phone and pressed it to his ear. Through her headset, Rain heard him request the trace. At nearly the same time, the on-air sign in the broadcast studio sprang to life.
Keep it together, Rain. She pressed the blinking button on her own console.
“We’re back with Midnight Confessions.” Tamping down her fear, she added, “I’m Dr. Rain Sommers, and our next caller is Dante from the Quarter.”
His words settled over the airwaves like heavy velvet. “Do you remember me from last night, Rain?”
“You’re not someone I’d forget,” she admitted.
“You hung up on me.”
“Well, you’re back on the air now.”
“So all is forgiven? Perhaps my choice of topic was too provocative?”
Rain took in a tight breath. “Refresh the audience on your topic, Dante.”
“We were talking about bondage and bloodplay, and whether you found the idea of it erotic. I merely offered to induct you, to show you the ropes?” He chuckled softly. “No pun intended.”
Trevor’s voice came through her headset. “You’re doing fine, Rain. The call’s being made from a cell phone. It’s being triangulated now, but you’re going to need to keep him on the line.”
Rain steeled her nerves as she returned her attention to the caller. “You’ll have to forgive me, but the words blood and play don’t go together in my dictionary. Care to elaborate?”
“I’m surprised you’re claiming ignorance, my dear. After all, you have your own link to the goth community. Blood games are hardly a novelty in those circles.”
“Are you part of the goth scene?”
“When it suits my needs,” he replied. “For the most part, I find their gloomy atmosphere tiresome. All those dour wannabes walking around in black clothing.”
“So you don’t identify yourself as goth?”
“Do you? Your mother was the prototype, Rain. She was goth before there was such a thing. A pity she died while you were so young, and in such a brutal manner. But then, her death has made you a bit famous, hasn’t it?”
Rain wanted to tell him to go to hell, but she was mindful of the need to keep him talking.
“Not all goths are into blood,” she pointed out.
“Not all,” he agreed. “But you’ve failed to answer my original question. Blood, Rain. Does the idea of bleeding for your lover excite you?”
The titillation in his voice made her hands shake. “No, Dante, I can’t say it does.”
“You’re certain?” He went on, undeterred. “Bloodplay is an erotic exploration, one that blurs the boundaries between physical pain and pleasure. I expected you to be more sexually adventurous, considering your lineage. Desiree’s sexual pursuits, well, they’re quite legendary.”
“What you describe not only sounds painful, but dangerous. Have you thought about AIDS or hepatitis?”
“Those are purely mortal concerns.”
Rain was unable to keep the incredulity from her words. “You’re implying by that statement you’re immortal?”
“Blood is a life force. Our ancient civilizations knew that. In many ways, they were much wiser than we are today.” He spoke as if educating a child. “Blood offers the promise of eternal youth.”
“And I thought you had to go to a plastic surgeon for that.”
A hush erupted over the airwaves. For a moment, Rain thought Dante had hung up. But when he spoke again, his tone morphed into something churlish and threatening. “Mocking me can be very dangerous, little one. I’d take great pleasure in disciplining you.”
He can’t touch you through the airwaves. Rain repeated Trevor’s statement in her head like a mantra.
“I meant what I said last night,” he whispered. “You’d be lovely, tied up and bleeding for me.”
“You’re insane.” Her comment was swallowed up in dead air. Dante was gone. David cut to a block of ad spots, and an upbeat jingle for the Clean Cajun car wash began playing over the station’s intercom. Rain felt the last of her courage desert her. She shut off the speakers that fed into the broadcast booth, cutting off the absurdly happy lyrics about clean, shiny cars.
“I think I pissed him off,” she said as Trevor appeared in the booth a few moments later.
“You did fine,” he assured her. “We’ve narrowed the caller’s proximity to a five-block radius. The call came from somewhere on North Rampart, near Armstrong Park. I’m working with the local police on this—they’ve got squad cars en route.”
“He wasn’t in the Quarter?”
“No.” His cell phone rang, and Trevor spoke with whoever was on the other end of the line. She listened as he gave a description—white male, late-thirties to mid-forties, well educated. The image seemed pedestrian to her, as if Dante might be her balding optometrist or the bookish accountant who did her taxes. It didn’t match the freak she’d been conversing with on air, a man who’d clearly had some psychotic break with reality.
“Tell the units to ask around, see if anyone saw a man matching that description in the area,” Trevor instructed. “That’s a predominantly black neighborhood. A white male, probably driving a luxury sedan or SUV, might be remembered.”
He closed the phone and went to where Rain sat at her desk. Dropping down beside her, his eyes sought hers. “I’ve got to get over there. Are you going to be all right?”
“We’re going to have to do this again, aren’t we?”
“This is the guy, I’m even more sure of it. He’s going to call again.”
A chill swept over her, and she realized she was grasping his hand. “You gave a description of the killer. Someone’s seen him?”
Trevor shook his head. “It’s a profile of the unsub—”
Seeing her confusion, he added, “Unknown subject of an investigation. The profilers at the VCU are good at what they do, but there’s a lot about this one that doesn’t add up. Based
on his voice, the race and age sound right, as does the level of education. It’s just…”
His words trailed away. Rain realized he was censoring what he told her, shading and erasing the things he didn’t want her to know. They both became aware of David’s presence in the doorway. Discreetly sliding his fingers from hers, Trevor stood.
“There’s another twenty minutes in the show, but we can play music if you’re not up to it,” David offered, looking at Rain. “You’ll need to queue out at the end of the segment.”
She nodded. “Thanks.”
Trevor spoke to David. “Could we have a word?”
The men went into the hall, but Rain could still hear their voices in fragmented conversation.
Would like to station a uniform in her house… Not necessary. I’ll be staying with her tonight… Then at least have a unit conduct regular drive-bys…
How afraid should she be? Rain was certain Dante had known she was lying when she claimed to be unfamiliar with bloodplay. As a psychologist, she understood the term’s sexual connotation, as well as its categorization as edgeplay due to the high risk involved in participation. Bloodplay, by definition, was the cutting of a consensual partner in order to cause bleeding. If Trevor was right about the caller’s identity, the word consensual had little bearing on Dante’s practices.
She looked up as David reappeared.
“The phone lines are tied up with callers trying to get through,” he said, his expression as giddy as a child at an amusement park. “Not to mention the message board on the WNOR Web site. Everyone wants to talk about the psycho who just called in. The traffic’s going to shut down the server.”
“You sound pleased.”
“Pleased? I’d like to offer Dante his own contract. He’s fucking gold.”
He leaned against the door frame. “I’ve got to admit, you surprised me. After the way he rocked you last night, I didn’t think you’d be able to keep him on the air.”
She decided not to voice the truth. She’d been scared out of her mind.
“I’m spending the night at your place.” He raised a hand to squelch her protest. “This isn’t negotiable. I’ll sleep in the guest room, or downstairs on the sofa, if that’s how you want it.”
“Does Trevor—” Rain corrected herself. “Does Agent Rivette think I’m in danger?”
Although David’s voice was soft, his dark eyes pinned hers. “You need to understand something, Rain. You’re a case number to him. A file he needs to close, that’s all.”
His Bruno Maglis echoed down the hall as he walked back to his office.
8
The guidebooks to New Orleans encouraged tourists to avoid North Rampart after dark. Looking down the shadowed street, it was easy for Trevor to understand why. He stood in front of a closed pawnshop protected by a drop-down metal cage. Nearby, overflowing trash cans hunkered in front of a faded billboard touting Big King malt liquor. A rat, startled by the beam of Detective McGrath’s flashlight, scurried from the garbage into an alleyway.
Things were odd here, Trevor thought as he walked to the other side of the shop. For starters, the street was mostly deserted. The squad cars dispatched to the area had only served to scare away the junkies and thugs who typically patrolled the locality at night. He glanced at his wristwatch and tried to make out the time in the dark.
“This is a waste of time,” McGrath muttered beside him.
A light flared up ahead as Thibodeaux lit a cigarette. “Wanna know what I think? I think that hit on the head last night rattled your brain, Rivette. The uniforms already covered this area twice over. What do you expect to find out here?”
“I’ll let you know when I find it.” Trevor walked a little farther, uncertain himself as to what he was actually looking for. He stopped in front of a tavern, its neon sign droning on the quiet street. Beyond the grimy windowpane, a stoop-shouldered bartender leaned against the counter, drinking a draft beer and watching ESPN.
“What about that guy? Anybody talk to him?”
McGrath gave an affirmative grunt. “Claims he hasn’t seen a thing all night unless it was on the flat-screen.”
Trevor sidestepped a puddle of water. He wasn’t willing to give up, not yet. He slowed at a line of pay phones on the corner, their metal casings battered and scrawled with graffiti. They were relics, out of place with the current landscape. Everyone right down to street grifters had cell phones these days. There were even prepaid ones bought with cash, popular with drug dealers and others with unscrupulous business to conduct. A short while ago, the wireless carrier had confirmed the caller to Midnight Confessions used one of those phones, making it impossible to trace it back to a subscriber.
So why had he made the call from this area?
The bronze glow of a street lamp lit the corner. Every now and then it flickered and buzzed, as if it had a short circuit and might go dark at any moment. But it still illuminated the flyer taped to the side of the first phone’s hooded exterior.
Give Us Red, We’ll Give You Green. Orleans Parish Blood Bank Pays Donors Cash.
“Bring that light over here, will you?” Trevor asked.
McGrath shone the flashlight over the area as Trevor pulled on a pair of latex gloves. He squatted in front of the first phone and peered under its base as he felt inside the darkened partition intended to hold a phone book. Rising, he dipped his index finger into the coin-return slot and plumbed its hollowed depth. Empty. He continued down the line, repeating the process on each pay phone.
Thibodeaux snickered in the background. “You looking for pocket change, Agent? Thought you feds were paid better than that—”
His taunt died as Trevor made contact with something wedged into the slot of the last phone. He retrieved the piece of paper folded so it was small enough to fit inside the compartment.
“Fuck me,” McGrath intoned, staring over Trevor’s shoulder at the note. It was written on heavy stationery, and Trevor recognized the dull brown of what he’d first thought to be ink.
Welcome back to New Orleans, Agent Rivette. Looks like we’ve both finally come home.
The note was signed with the letter D. McGrath raised the flashlight. “Is that blood?”
All business now, Thibodeaux extracted an evidence bag from his trouser pocket. He held it open so the note could be dropped inside. “Forensics can dust this for fingerprints and see if the blood matches our vic. Not much point in going over the pay phones, though. Every skell in New Orleans has most likely had their hands on ’em.”
“I’ve got something else that needs to go into evidence,” Trevor mentioned. “A necklace that probably belongs to the Jane Doe.”
“Yeah? Where’d you get it?”
“Someone broke into my car earlier and hung it from the rearview mirror.”
“This psycho’s reached out to you twice tonight?” Thibodeaux blew smoke from his nostrils before tossing his cigarette onto the sidewalk and grinding it out with his shoe. “There’s a voodoo shop ’round that corner, Rivette.”
Trevor shrugged. “It’s New Orleans. There’s a voodoo shop around every corner.”
“Well, this one’s the real deal. None of that lame-ass tourist shit. You get over there in the morning and tell the high priestess Hélène I sent you.”
“What for?” He expected another of Thibodeaux’s wise-cracks, but his expression was serious.
“To get you a gris-gris for protection, son. All the cops here carry one—probably some FBI agents, too. Seems to me this vampire’s got a real jonesin’ for you.”
“Drink this.”
David handed Rain a crystal tumbler as they stood in the kitchen of her house in the Lower Garden District. His eyes watchful, he gulped from his own glass and waited while she took a sip.
“I hate bourbon,” she confessed.
She set the drink on the countertop, walked into the parlor and sat on the sofa, placing one of the striped throw pillows onto her lap. Sighing tiredly, she looked around the famil
iar room and tried to distance herself from the night’s events.
It was widely rumored the old house had ghosts. A tour bus, its signage proclaiming it as part of the Official Haunted New Orleans Tour, even drove past several times a week. On more than one occasion, Rain had heard the bus operator over a loudspeaker, recounting Desiree’s murder to photograph-snapping tourists. But whatever spirits inhabited her home, she’d grown comfortable with long ago. She’d never felt unsafe here. At least not until tonight.
“What’s going on with you, Rain?”
She looked up, realizing David had followed her into the parlor.
“I guess this Dante thing has me a little on edge,” she admitted.
“I’m not talking about Dante.” He sat down next to her, contemplating the amber contents of his glass before speaking again. “I’m talking about us.”
She closed her eyes. “David—”
“What was up with you and the FBI agent tonight? Or was that all for my account?”
“Please don’t do this,” she implored. “Not tonight.”
“Don’t do what? Ask you where I stand?”
“Are you still sleeping with her?” Rain interrupted, unable to stop herself. A part of her wanted to know if he’d thrown away their relationship for more than a one-night stand.
“Would it matter to you if I was?”
Rain paused for a long moment. Then she shook her head and replied with honesty, “No. Our relationship is over.”
She’d turned on a single lamp in the parlor, and its muted light silhouetted David’s profile. He had angular, chiseled features, and his olive complexion and black hair hinted at his Creole lineage. Rain knew he’d been linked to several New Orleans socialites in the past, as well as to one internationally famous runway model. In the beginning, she hadn’t understood his fascination with her. She was too small, definitely not leggy and far from exotic. She wasn’t his type, although Ella LaRue certainly was.
“I still want you, Rain.”
“You want Midnight Confessions.”
“I thought that was something you wanted, too.” He tossed down the rest of his bourbon.
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