Midnight Caller

by Leslie Tentler

  Now or never, she thought. It was time to tell him the truth.

  “We need to talk about the show, David. I’m not sure I want to renew my contract when it runs out.”

  He set the glass down on the table in front of him and wiped his hand over his mouth. Unable to bear the silence, Rain got up and walked across the parlor’s floral rug. His voice made her turn back around.

  “Listen to me.” He’d risen in front of the sofa, and he gestured with his hands, throwing them wide before dropping them back down to his sides. “Now is not the time for you to run out on Midnight Confessions.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “I haven’t told you yet, but they’re considering us for syndication. The show would have to expand to a full five nights a week, but we could be airing in six major markets by fall.”

  He walked toward her and clasped her arms. “We could go national, Rain. Do you know what that means?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

  “I’m telling you now. I’ve been shopping dubs of the show around for a while. Our Arbitrons are solid. I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “We should’ve discussed this.”

  He let go of her. “Christ. I need another drink.”

  Snatching up the tumbler, David stalked back to the kitchen. She found him with his palms planted on the granite counter, a fresh glass of bourbon in front of him.

  “I need this syndication deal.” He lifted the glass and swallowed. “I’m behind on some loans. I could lose everything.”

  Rain fell into stunned silence. She thought of his luxurious French Quarter apartment, his expensive car and the beach home on St. George Island. David was known as a successful entrepreneur. She’d assumed producing Midnight Confessions was merely a complement to his partial ownership in the radio station. And that the radio station, in turn, was just one of several other business ventures. She’d had no idea things weren’t going well.

  “What about the restaurant?”

  David’s was a Creole-style dinner spot tucked into the Shops at Canal Place, an upscale mall on the edge of the Quarter near the four-star Wyndham Hotel.

  “It’s bleeding money,” he confessed. “Everything’s going to shit.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Of course you didn’t. Do you think I wanted you to know what a mess I’ve made?”

  “If there’s anything I can do—”

  “You can renew your contract,” he said tightly. “You can forgive me for fucking Ella.”

  There was desperation in his eyes as he waited for a response. Hearing none, he drained his glass again. As he did so, Rain searched his face for some glimpse of the charming man she’d imagined herself in love with only a few months earlier, but he’d all but disappeared. After a short while, he reached for the decanter and splashed in another drink.

  “You’re pleased with yourself, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  David’s eyes glinted like a knife blade. “You shut me out of your bed, and now you’re holding my financial future in your hands.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “National syndication means a lot of money.” The tumbler hit the counter with a sharp rap. “If the show takes off, it could mean a publicity tour, maybe a book deal, guest spots on TV talk shows—”

  “You certainly have this all figured out.”

  “I do. At least I did.” His face suddenly loomed near hers. “Damn it, Rain! How could you not want this? How could you not want us?”

  He pulled her to him, his hands cupping her bottom so that she was drawn fully against his hips.

  “Tell me we weren’t good,” he challenged huskily.

  “Stop it.” Rain tore herself from his arms and took several steps back. Normally she could handle David, but she wasn’t used to him drinking so much. “I think you should go.”

  “I’m staying,” he stated flatly. “You shouldn’t be here alone tonight.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Rain walked to the wireless phone that hung on the kitchen wall. “You shouldn’t be driving, either. I’m going to call you a taxi.”

  He bridged the distance between them and yanked the phone from her hand, replacing it roughly in its cradle. “I don’t need a goddamn taxi.”

  She trailed him to the front of the house. David stared onto the darkened street. The cicadas’ chant from the garden had grown louder with the door open, and the moist heat of the New Orleans night filtered in and clashed with the house’s air-conditioning.

  “Just tell me you’ll think about Midnight Confessions,” he said.

  “David.” Rain’s voice was soft. “I’m pretty sure my mind’s made up.”

  His eyes carried the weight of his words. “Whatever happens between you and me, Rain, I can deal with it. But the show is my last hope. I won’t let it go. I’ll do whatever I have to.”

  He walked to the Jaguar and drove away. Rain continued standing at the window long after she’d closed the door and locked it. Outside, a squad car rolled past. Its spotlight swept over the lawn as it conducted a safety check, ensuring nothing looked amiss.

  I won’t let it go. I’ll do whatever I have to.

  Whether David’s words were a threat, she wasn’t sure.

  9

  The ringing cell phone shattered Trevor’s sleep. He fumbled on the nightstand for the offending device and managed to flip open its cover.

  “Rivette,” he mumbled hoarsely.

  “It’s McGrath. Thought you’d want to know we got an ID on the Jane Doe.”

  Trevor scrubbed a hand over his face at the sound of the detective’s voice and sat up. “Who is she?”

  “Her name’s Cara Seagreen. She was a sophomore at St. Vincent Catholic in Jefferson Parish.” He paused, and Trevor heard a young girl talking in the room with the detective. “Hold on…”

  There was a muffled sound that Trevor assumed was McGrath covering the mouthpiece with his hand.

  “Tell Momma I’ll be down in a minute. I’m making a call.” His voice became clear again. “Sorry about that. I’m at home. Anyway, it turns out the vic’s parents were out of town and thought Cara was staying at a friend’s house, a classmate named Simone Bausell. This friend, and I use the term loosely, never told anyone Cara had disappeared while they were out clubbing. Both girls are underage and Simone didn’t want to get into trouble. So she lied to her mother, told her Cara’s parents were back and the girl had gone home. Meanwhile, the vic’s parents return from one of those ocean cruises last night to find out their daughter’s disappeared. They called the police.”

  “Which explains why no one was looking for a missing teen.” Trevor looked at the clock next to the bed. It was just past 7:00 a.m. Light leaked into the hotel room under the drawn curtains.

  “I got the M.E.’s toxicology report in my e-mail this morning, too,” McGrath continued. “The vic had a shitload of Ecstasy in her bloodstream.”

  “Did the friend say which club Cara disappeared from?”

  “Apparently, Simone was pretty baked herself that night. Says she visited a string of clubs, as well as an illegal rave in one of the old mansions upriver. Really gettin’ her party on, if you know what I mean. She can’t seem to recall at what point she and Cara were split up, or where.”

  “You believe that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A creaking sound came through the phone and Trevor envisioned McGrath shifting his large frame in his chair. “I’ve got three girls myself, Rivette. My oldest is almost the same age as the vic. It scares the hell out of me what kids are into these days.”

  “I’d like to interview the friend myself.”

  “Thought you would. The mother’s bringing her into the precinct this afternoon. They’ve lawyered up, so they won’t be alone.”

  Trevor wasn’t surprised. “What about the vic’s parents?”

  “They’re pretty upset, as expected. I met them at the morgue
at five-thirty this morning for the ID.”

  “You should’ve called me.”

  “We’re working on this together, right? No point in nobody getting any sleep. I didn’t call Tibbs, either. He’s positively cranky without his beauty rest,” McGrath replied. “By the way, the cross left in your car belongs to Simone Bausell. She let the Seagreen girl borrow it, along with the trampy clothing found at the crime scene.”

  “Nice friend.”

  McGrath snorted. “Wait till you see her. She’s what Courtney Love probably looked like as a kid.”

  The roar of the room’s air conditioner kicked up, forcing Trevor to press the phone harder against his ear to hear the detective.

  “Has this been a pattern with the other vics?” McGrath was asking. “This lunatic leaving you trophies from the kill?”

  Trevor pinched the bridge of his nose. When his cell phone rang, he’d been dreaming, more a nightmare, really, and it was beginning to return to him in pieces. He worked to shut out the familiar images so he could concentrate. “Rivette?”

  “I’m still here. And no, it’s not the first time. I work with a partner sometimes, but the letters and packages have all been addressed to me. We’re lucky all he left behind last night was a necklace. The last time I got a ring through the U.S. Postal Service. It was still on the vic’s finger.”

  “Jesus.” There was a brief silence before the detective spoke again. “Look, it’s Saturday. My youngest has a soccer game this morning at City Park, but I’ll meet you at the precinct this afternoon. Around one.”

  “Yeah. Thanks, McGrath.” The phone went dead. Trevor peered into the shadows. The adage “No rest for the wicked” ran through his mind, and he wondered what Dante was doing right now. Stalking his next victim? If he was a resident of New Orleans as the note suggested, was he at home in one of the quiet suburbs? Trevor thought of him mowing his Bermuda lawn while his wife and children looked on, unaware Daddy liked to cut up women for kicks. Whatever his current activity, the multijurisdictional aspect of the crimes suggested the unsub was someone who traveled frequently, such as a salesman or business executive. But what did it mean that he was now playing on his home court?

  Not to mention, the note meant the unsub had done his homework. He knew Trevor was from New Orleans, too.

  Dragging a hand through his hair, Trevor felt the need for coffee to push away the residue of sleep. He stared at the darkened screen of his laptop that sat on the small desk. At the least, he needed to get his report filed with the VCU before meeting up with McGrath to interview the Bausell girl that afternoon.

  After pulling on jeans and a T-shirt, he walked to the coffee shop across the street to purchase a cup and a copy of the Times-Picayune. Trevor was returning when he saw him, loitering by the line of vending machines inside the hotel’s breezeway.

  “Hello, son.”

  For a man approaching sixty, James Rivette was sturdy-looking. He was an inch taller than Trevor and heavier by thirty pounds. Although his thick hair had grayed and deep lines bracketed his mouth, he still cut an imposing figure. His presence had served him well as a police officer working some of New Orleans’s toughest neighborhoods. The last time the two men had seen one another had been three years ago, across Sarah Rivette’s casket. There had been no words exchanged then, only glares that were thick with challenge and meaning. Trevor realized his entire body had tensed, an ingrained fight-or-flight reaction that not even his years of training as a federal agent could alter.

  “I came by to see you, Trev.”

  Trevor kept his voice flat. “You’ve seen me.”

  “Seems like you wanted to see me, too.” James indicated the cut on Trevor’s forehead. “I called 911, you know. What the hell, boy? Don’t they teach you to watch for cars at that fancy training academy in Quantico?”

  Trevor looked away, squinting at the sunlight that reflected off the courtyard’s pool as he tried to regain his equilibrium.

  “What were you doing outside my bar the other night?” James had been leaning against the breezeway wall. Now he straightened and walked closer. He took a drag from his cigarette as he waited for a response.

  “I was out for a run.”

  “Got to keep in shape for the FBI.” His tone mocking, James’s gaze roved over his son. Trevor noticed his eyes were bloodshot, his nose mottled where the spiderlike vessels had ruptured from years of alcohol abuse.

  “Guess you’ve been to see our Annabelle,” he commented.

  Trevor’s jaw tightened. “You don’t have the right to say her name.”

  James merely smiled at the fierce statement, revealing strong-looking teeth that had yellowed only slightly despite the heavy use of nicotine.

  “Always the protector, ain’t you, Trev? Too good to be a beat cop like your old man, though.” His eyes broke away to follow a swimsuit-clad young woman headed toward the chaise lounges alongside the pool. “You don’t even sound like a Southerner no more. Guess I can thank your aunt Susan for that, uppity bitch.”

  Trevor’s grip tightened on the disposable cup, causing its plastic lid to buckle. He barely felt the trickle of hot liquid as it made contact with his skin.

  “So,” James said. “You here for business or pleasure?”

  When Trevor didn’t answer, his father chuckled. “I’m just trying to make small talk. I know why you’re here. I’ve still got a few friends left at the NOPD.”

  “I doubt that.”

  James moved toward him, and Trevor caught the odor of whiskey on his breath. “That smart mouth used to get you into trouble—”

  “The playing field’s more level now, Dad.”

  “You think you’re something, don’t you? With your big-time law degree and your Department of Justice badge to shove in people’s faces—”

  “I’m better than you. I know that much.”

  “You don’t know shit.” James flicked the cigarette to the ground at Trevor’s feet. Turning to saunter away, he tossed off one last statement. “Tell Annabelle to make you some of her biscuits while you’re in town. That gal’s a better cook than your momma ever was.”

  Trevor remained rooted in place until James had rounded the corner and disappeared. Then he went up the stairs and let himself into his room, hating the tremor in his hands as he swiped the security card to open the door. Leaving the coffee and newspaper on the desk next to the laptop, he grabbed his gun and left the hotel.

  It was still relatively early, but the temperature had already begun to build, sending up heat from the concrete in rolling waves. He’d watched her leave her house that morning, making her way on foot and then taking one of the St. Charles streetcars to the French Market on Decatur Street.

  He knew her destination, based on her routine and the wicker basket she carried. He found her again easily once she’d departed the streetcar. She was browsing through the market stalls and picking out goods. Her selection consisted of fruit, cinnamon-dusted pecans, cheese and large olives—the good Italian kind marinated with herbs. She picked up a loaf of rustic-looking bread, lifting it to her nose and sniffing its freshly baked scent before dropping it into her basket, as well.

  She wore denim shorts and a green tank top with thin spaghetti straps. Braless, her nipples were faintly visible through the tank’s material. He rarely saw her dressed like this, and the unintentionally provocative outfit left him transfixed by her simple beauty. She wore no makeup and her red-gold hair had been pulled up into a loose twist, a few tendrils escaping to frame her face.

  She looked so much like Desiree. He felt something dark and hot move in his veins.

  After she made her purchases, she sat at a café table protected from the sun by a brightly colored umbrella. She drank coffee and leafed through the pages of a psychology magazine she’d brought with her from home. He was close enough to make out the details—the silver bangle bracelet on her wrist, the graceful curve of her slender neck, the frosted pink of her painted toenails in the flat sandals. Her skin wa
s pale, as if it rarely saw the sun, and he could see the faint sprinkle of freckles across her creamy shoulders.

  A man in blue running shorts and white T-shirt stopped at her table. Smiling, she stood and embraced him, her small hand threading through his salt-and-pepper hair. He wondered who the intruder was. It wasn’t the Creole bastard he’d been certain she was bedding. Another lover? He didn’t like the thought of that because it made her seem less worthy of his devotion. He wanted—no, needed—to believe that while she possessed her mother’s looks, she didn’t share her lack of morals.

  She conversed with the man a while longer, then lifted on tiptoe and hugged him again before he went on his way. As she returned to her magazine, a breeze ruffled her hair so that she had to push it out of her eyes.

  Once they were together, he’d have her grow it out long, nearly down to her hips the way her mother’s had been. He imagined his fingers slipping through the strands that were the color of fire and felt like spun silk. He’d run her baths that smelled of lavender, and in their bed, he’d leave a scattering of rose petals on which they’d make love.

  A barking dog being dragged on a leash interrupted his fantasy. Rain looked up at the intrusion as well, and he stepped back behind a stall filled with canary melons. He watched as she bent to pet the dog. The homely mongrel was as thin as its owner was fat. It lapped up the attention she gave, its scraggly excuse for a tail wagging furiously.

  He reminded himself that he had to be careful. It was still too soon to reveal himself.

  He had a schedule to keep.

  10

  The sound of the sidewalk jazz band rose to the loft apartment in New Orleans’s revitalized Warehouse District. Standing at the window, Brian Rivette took in the bustling scene below him. Tourists tossed change into the musicians’ open instrument cases while a little farther down, a man in a flowing white tunic and dreadlocks paced the street, carrying a bible and a hand-painted sign. The man raised the sign over his head, and Brian had to squint to read the words: