Midnight Caller

by Leslie Tentler

  “I’m not a celebrity,” Rain protested, although she knew Alex was like a runaway train she was unlikely to derail.

  As he made introductions, Rain smiled and engaged in small talk, but her thoughts remained on Trevor Rivette. She’d thought about him for most of the weekend, although she realized it was probably due to the anxiety she felt about the caller to Midnight Confessions. Her psychologist’s mind reasoned that as a federal agent, he represented security and protection, and she’d been feeling vulnerable.

  You’re a case number to him. A file he needs to close, that’s all.

  She reminded herself of David’s words, and tried to push Trevor Rivette from her head.

  As the night wore on, it became clear Alex had invited the entire Orleans Parish to Brian’s opening. Despite the gallery’s impressive square footage, it was overflowing. For Alex and Brian, however, it meant the show was a success. Already, nearly a dozen of Brian’s pieces had gilt-edged cards beneath them, subtly announcing them as sold.

  Rain worked her way through the crowd, trying not to make eye contact. She’d never gotten used to the attention that came with her job as host of Midnight Confessions. Several people had asked for her autograph, which she’d given, and another had inquired what it was like to be Desiree Sommers’s daughter. There was an obvious interest, and Rain did her best to answer such questions as politely but as vaguely as possible. Worse, only a short time ago, she’d found herself cornered by a writer for New Orleans Trends magazine. The man was eager to do a profile on her and was ignoring her request not to be interviewed during the reception. When they’d been momentarily interrupted by another guest, she’d taken the opportunity to slip away.

  Her purse and wrap were in Alex’s office. She’d retrieve her things and then discreetly make her way outside to hail a cab.

  Rain let herself into the office. It was furnished in dark cherry wood and burgundy leather. A desk lamp cast the space in a golden glow, and framed art in various sizes leaned against the walls, having been removed from the main exhibit area to make more room for Brian’s work.

  But the photograph was there, as always.

  Alex had the ability to work magic with the camera, and it still surprised Rain that the image hanging over his desk was actually her. Years earlier, before Brian even, she’d joined Alex at a restaurant in the trendy Bywater neighborhood. They’d gotten buzzed on rum hurricanes and Rain had finally agreed to be photographed. Afraid she’d change her mind when she sobered up, Alex hadn’t wasted any time. He’d walked her to the gravel path atop the levee overlooking the Mississippi, where he’d pulled his camera from his ever-present shoulder bag, and started snapping photos. Rain wore jeans and a lace camisole, and the winds coming in from the river had blown strands of hair across her face. Even she had to admit the effect was evocative, her resemblance to Desiree made clear through Alex’s lens.

  Rain heard the door open behind her. It was Trevor, another refugee from the din inside the gallery. Their eyes met in the room’s soft lighting.

  “Art showings really aren’t your scene, are they?” Rain asked as he closed the door behind him. She felt her heart flutter at the realization they were alone.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “I’m not much for crowds, either,” she admitted. “But I wanted to be here for Alex and Brian. It’s a big night for them.”

  “I thought celebrities loved this kind of thing.”

  “I’m hardly a celebrity,” Rain clarified for the second time that night.

  “Your fans out there say otherwise. You’ve had people milling around you for most of the evening.”

  She followed his gaze to the image of herself over Alex’s desk.

  “Not to mention, regular people don’t have posters made of them,” he added, walking to her.

  “That’s not a poster. It’s an original photograph.”

  The arch of his eyebrows indicated he didn’t see the difference. Rain picked up her purse from the desk, attempting to make light of their situation. “I was going to come by and say hello earlier, but I decided not to, considering the circumstances. I mean, what would I say? ‘Nice to see you, and how’s that hunt for a serial killer going?’ Conversation like that tends to ruin the party atmosphere.”

  “With all the noise out there, I doubt anyone would have heard you, anyway.” He glanced at the clutch purse she held. “Are you leaving?”

  “In a little while.”

  Trevor’s sweater was a deep slate color that set off his eyes, and she noticed the injury to his temple had faded a bit and was covered only by a small butterfly bandage. Rain had the urge to reach up and gently touch the tender area as she had two days ago in her office. But instead, she simply smoothed her hands over the fragile silk of her dress.

  “I’ve been wondering about the trace on the call. Were you able to find out anything?”

  He shook his head. “The caller was gone by the time we got units into the area. No one claimed to have seen anyone matching the profile.”

  Rain peered at him, aware of something in his guarded expression that told her he knew more than he was willing to divulge. “Is there something else I should be concerned about?”

  “Anything you need to know about the investigation, Rain, I’ll tell you.”

  She tilted her head speculatively. “Is this the part where you do your Jack Nicholson impression and tell me I can’t handle the truth?”

  He swallowed a sigh, his hand rising to massage the back of his neck.

  “If you’re expecting my cooperation, Agent Rivette—”

  “It’s Trevor,” he reminded. “And some aspects of the case need to remain confidential.”

  “If it relates to me in any way, I have a right to know.” Rain added softly, “After all, you’re using me to get to this man, aren’t you?”

  His jaw tensed, letting her know she’d hit a nerve.

  “Dante left me a note at the location where the call was made, welcoming me back to New Orleans,” he said. “We also found the disposable cell phone he used in a trash can. It was wiped clean of fingerprints, and any DNA residue won’t match previous offenders in our databases—or at least that’s been my experience so far.”

  It took only seconds for Rain to connect the dots. “If he left you a note, then he knew you’d be out there looking for him. He knew about the trace?”

  “My guess is that he’s been watching you. Or me. Maybe since the moment I got into town.” He gazed at the amethyst that hung around Rain’s neck. “He left a necklace in my car the same night I came to your radio station. He took it from the victim.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “He wants me to know he’s one step ahead.”

  Realization settled over her. Until now, she’d held on to the possibility that Trevor was somehow mistaken, that Dante wasn’t the man he was looking for but was just another pervert who’d gotten onto the airwaves. The note he’d left at the location on North Rampart proved otherwise.

  “I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want to frighten you further.” Trevor studied her face. “I left your producer a voice message yesterday morning, alerting him to keep a close eye on you.”

  Absently, Rain ran her hands over the gooseflesh that had risen on her arms.

  “You’re cold.” He went to the couch and retrieved her wrap. But instead of handing it to her, he stepped closer, leaving little distance between them. Trevor slid the silk around her bare shoulders, his fingers warm and lingering on her skin. His touch caused a delicious shiver to run through her.

  “I could get D’Alba for you,” he offered, voice low. He’d let his hands fall but hadn’t yet moved away. “Tell him you’re ready to go.”

  Rain stared up at him, her breathing made shallow by his nearness. “He isn’t here.”

  Trevor scowled. “He let you come alone?”

  “David doesn’t let me do anything. He’s my producer, that’s all. Besides, I doubt that Dante
is milling about somewhere in Synapse, waiting to snatch me from the crowd.”

  “It’s after you leave here that concerns me more.” He finally took a reluctant step back. “The NOPD’s in on this. There’s a squad car conducting drive-bys on your street as a minimal precaution. I wanted to have a uniform stationed inside the house, but D’Alba said he was staying with you.”

  “David’s not staying with me,” Rain replied.

  “Then I’ll have someone over there tonight.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “I really think—”

  “No,” she stated firmly. It was true Dante had unsettled her, but what Trevor couldn’t possibly understand was how much she valued her privacy, due to the intrusions she’d dealt with over the years as Desiree’s daughter. There’d been fans of her mother’s who’d invaded the wrought-iron fencing around her home, attempting to snap photos through the windows. They’d even pried bricks from the garden walkway to take as souvenirs. Despite her apprehension, she didn’t want a stranger taking up armed guard in her house. In fact, she didn’t want a firearm in her home at all. The house on Prytania had seen enough violence. Considering Trevor’s career choice, if she told him that, he’d probably accuse her of staunch liberalism. Which wouldn’t actually be too far off the mark.

  “I have a home-security system. I’ll keep it engaged,” she said, sounding braver than she felt.

  Trevor rubbed a hand over his jaw, the action making it clear he didn’t agree with her decision. “I’ll have a unit swing by here and take you home, at least. An officer can escort you to the door and check out the house before you go inside.”

  Rain nodded, relenting to that one suggestion. Trevor went to Alex’s desk and picked up the phone. She listened as he called the precinct, giving his federal badge number and requesting a squad car. He hung up after providing the gallery’s address.

  “They’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  Rain touched his arm, which was all hard sinew under warm skin. “Thank you.”

  As he looked at her, she felt an almost magnetic pull between them. Finally, she let her hand fall away and he moved to the door.

  “Trevor?” Her voice caused him to turn around. He’d opened the door slightly, and a thin slant of light from the hallway spilled across the floor.

  “What I said about you using me to get to Dante. What I meant was—”

  “I didn’t lead Dante to Midnight Confessions. He came there all by himself. He’d still be listening to your show even if I’d never heard him call in that night.”

  Rain realized he was right. “I want to help the investigation in any way I can. But I have to know the truth about what’s going on.”

  Trevor shifted his weight in the doorway and she saw the same internal struggle as earlier appear in his eyes.

  “We got an ID on the victim,” he said. “Her name is Cara Seagreen. She was a fifteen-year-old from Kenner, out clubbing with a fake driver’s license. I spent most of yesterday afternoon interviewing the girl Cara was with that night.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “Nothing more than the general vicinity of the Quarter the two girls started off in. Cara’s friend admits to taking Ecstasy, and as you’re probably aware, a common side effect is memory loss. She isn’t even sure at what point of the evening Cara disappeared, or which club they were in when she saw her last. But they’d definitely been to several of the goth hangouts in the city.”

  Trevor opened the door wider, letting the rumble of conversation from the gallery filter inside.

  “You’ve got my card, Rain. If you need anything, or if you change your mind about having a guard inside your home, just call. In the meantime, I’m going to put a unit on the street outside your house permanently. If you’re alone, the drive-bys aren’t nearly adequate.”

  He bid her good-night and left the office, but Rain remained inside a while longer, still struck by the physical attraction she’d felt to Trevor. She also collected her thoughts. Dante had known about the trace. She considered the possibility that he’d seen Trevor arrive at her house that morning, and put two and two together.

  Which also meant he’d been outside somewhere, watching her all along.

  12

  As the Taurus turned onto the Canal Street Wharf, Trevor saw a half-dozen patrol units, their blue lights cutting through the mist rising from the Mississippi River. He shifted the vehicle into park, then turned off the engine and glanced at the illuminated clock on the dashboard: 2:52 a.m.

  McGrath had called Trevor’s cell phone a half hour ago, letting him know another victim had been found in a storage facility near the water. He calculated the distance between the wharf and where Brian’s art reception had been held just a few hours earlier.

  It was less than five city blocks.

  Flashing his shield at the uniforms, he lifted the yellow crime scene tape and stepped under it. The officers who nodded him through were drinking coffee from disposable cups and speculating on the upcoming season for the New Orleans Saints. As Trevor approached, bursts of light came from inside the metal warehouse, indicating a forensics photographer was on the scene. Frustration washed over him, and he stared out at the moored ferry that traveled back and forth to Algiers Point during the day. Water lapped rhythmically against the boat’s sides as it floated in wait for the dawn.

  It occurred to him the victim inside the building would never see another sunrise.

  It was the first time the unsub had struck twice in the same city. In each location previously, there’d been only one murder. Then weeks or even months would pass before another body was discovered, and in another city altogether. But this latest victim had turned up only a few days after Cara Seagreen, in the same general locale, suggesting the killer’s M.O. was changing, his bloodlust escalating. Trevor would call SAC Johnston in the morning, let him know his stay here would be extended.

  Welcome back to New Orleans, Agent Rivette. Looks like we’ve both finally come home.

  The message penned in blood two nights earlier, directed to him, gave him a chill. Trevor wondered if all the time he’d been following the killer’s trail of bodies, the ultimate destination had always been here.

  A warm breeze swept in from the river, carrying the water’s rich, fecund smell. The low blare of a foghorn came from somewhere in the distance. He entered the building, the hard soles of his shoes echoing off the concrete floor. The victim had been left just inside the structure, in front of a section of worn-looking passenger seats that had been removed from the ferry for repair. Like Cara Seagreen, it appeared to be a female teenager.

  Detectives McGrath and Thibodeaux were already there, along with the photographer and several technicians wearing bright yellow overalls with N.O. Crime Scene Unit emblazoned on the back.

  “Thanks for the call,” Trevor said, approaching the group.

  McGrath was down on his haunches examining the body. “Same M.O. as last week, including the approximate age of the victim.”

  The scene was another variation of the one he’d grown to know too well. Duct tape covered the victim’s mouth and her wrists were bound in front of her with the beaded rosary. Pulling on latex gloves, Trevor dropped down next to McGrath and looked at the girl more fully. She was thin, so much so that her hip bones protruded and her ribs were clearly visible. Her small breasts were almost nonexistent. The girl’s eyes, now staring blankly toward the ceiling, were rimmed in dark makeup. The mascara had run in black rivulets and dried on her cheeks. A gash to her throat indicated rapid exsanguination, and her nude body revealed a dozen or more additional cuts. While the corpse was streaked with blood, there wasn’t enough of it staining the concrete underneath. Its dearth pointed to the likelihood that the killing had occurred elsewhere.

  “The M.E.’s office rolled her over earlier. There’s lividity. Decedent’s body temperature also indicates postmortem of about three to five hours.” McGrath scratched the bridge of his nose. “Oh, yeah.
She’s got a tattoo at the base of her spine. Some kind of fancy cross.”

  “One thing’s for sure.” Thibodeaux jotted notes into a spiral pad. “Curtains don’t come close to matching the carpet.”

  Gently, Trevor brushed the vibrant, too-red hair back from the girl’s forehead. The color was unnatural looking and definitely a dye job, but its hue still reminded him of Rain. He looked over the body, finally focusing on the back of the victim’s right hand.

  “Anybody recognize this?” The lucent skin covering the fine bones bore an ink mark, an outline of a bird in flight, although the image was smeared and barely visible.

  “Forensics already got a photo of that,” Thibodeaux said. “I’m pretty sure it’s an ink stamp from the Ascension. I recognize it because we had some problems with drugs there when I was in Vice.”

  “Ecstasy?”

  “Among other stuff. That’s probably where our vic met up with the Count.”

  “Goth club?” Trevor studied the blurred ink.

  “Yeah, but it’s not one of the places Simone Bausell thinks she visited with the Seagreen girl.” With a grunt, McGrath forced his girth to a standing position. “Which puts yet another nightspot on the radar.”

  Trevor asked one of the technicians for an evidence bag, then carefully covered and sealed the hand. “Who called in the body?”

  Thibodeaux withdrew a pack of Marlboros and a lighter from his pocket. He tapped a cigarette from the carton. “A security guard was cruising the area in one of those tricked-out golf carts and saw the door cracked open. He decided to have a look inside—”

  “Tibbs, you always gotta smoke around me?” McGrath interjected. “You know I quit.”

  “And you’ve got no willpower.” Lighting the cigarette, Thibodeaux inhaled nicotine into his lungs with a show of satisfaction. “Consider me an example of behavior not to emulate.”

  McGrath ignored his partner’s antics. “Anyway, this rent-a-cop was puking by the edge of the docks when we got here. We’re gonna go talk to him now.”