Trevor still knelt next to the body as the two detectives walked away.
“Trevor Rivette?”
He looked up to see a tall, solidly built man in khakis and a golf shirt. Sawyer Compton’s blond hair was cut so short it nearly stood up on top of his head. Even in the bright lights of the crime scene his skin held a golden tone that suggested California surfer dude, not assistant district attorney for the Orleans Parish. After all these years, Trevor still recognized him immediately. He stood, and despite the latex gloves, shook Sawyer’s hand warmly.
“Annabelle said you were in town, but I didn’t realize it had anything to do with business.” Sawyer grinned at his childhood friend. “Been here long?”
“A few days.”
He surveyed the dead girl’s body. “So, what’s going on here, Trev? And more specifically, why does it interest the FBI?”
Trevor answered with a question of his own. “The ADA always show up at crime scenes in the middle of the night?”
“Only when I get calls from reporters, fishing for information.”
It wasn’t unusual for a beat cop working a scene to make a few bucks by tipping off the media. “How much do they know?”
Sawyer shielded his eyes from the portable lights set up around the area. “The reporter asked about a connection between the murder tonight and one that took place last week. A female teen found in a crack house on Tchoupitoulas? The murders were similar.”
Trevor looked at a drain in the center of the concrete floor. Its metal grate was rusted. From somewhere outside the building, he heard male laughter. A response to a crude joke being told by one of the uniforms, he guessed.
“You still working serial murders with the VCU?” Sawyer inquired.
“I’ve been following this guy state to state for a year and a half now. New Orleans is his latest stop.”
Or his ultimate destination.
“It’s not that I’m not glad to see you, Trev.” Sawyer scrubbed a hand over his wheat-colored hair. “But hell, you’re like having a van from the Weather Channel pull up in hurricane season. You know it’s gonna be bad news.”
Heather Credo sat in Rain’s office and picked sullenly at the dark polish on her nails. Dressed in black jeans and a cropped top, her arms displayed faded scars and new, fresher scabs that were angry horizontal stripes against her skin.
“I’m a cutter.” Her tone was defiant as she glared at Rain, who sat in the armchair beside her. “So fucking what?”
Rain offered no reaction to the girl’s outburst. “Well, your parents are worried about why you’re doing this to yourself. That’s why they sent you to see me. They thought maybe you’d like to talk about what’s bothering you.”
Heather tossed her dark hair over one shoulder. Her Cupid’s-bow mouth twisted. “Mom’s just worried my arms are going to be scarred up at my sister’s wedding in September.”
“Do you care how you look for your sister’s wedding?”
“I’m ugly. Who cares if my arms are cut? They’re just scared I’m going to embarrass them and ruin perfect Lauren’s perfect day.”
“You’re not ugly, Heather.” The girl was tall and willowy, and underneath the pinched, churlish expression were delicate features and large brown eyes. “And I think you know that.”
When she shrugged, Rain added, “Do you think you might be depressed? Because a lot of times hurting yourself goes with being sad or anxious about something.”
Rain peered at the teen. Cutting was often a way of coping with feelings that otherwise couldn’t be easily expressed. Heather had been through a lot recently, including her parents’ divorce, brought on by a very public affair her father had engaged in with a much younger woman.
“Anything you say stays right here between us.”
Heather bit her bottom lip. “What if I don’t want to say anything?”
“That’s okay, too.” There was a long silence. Heather bounced one knee as she looked out the office window and into the house’s courtyard garden. Her breath hitched. Rain reached out and covered the girl’s hand with her own, feeling a small victory when she didn’t pull away.
The session was hardly a breakthrough, but it was the closest Rain had come in getting Heather to talk. Their previous appointment had been spent with the teen staring at a spot on the wall, her responses to Rain’s questions terse, if they were given at all. But this time Heather had actually shown an emotion besides anger, even if she still hadn’t divulged much about what was going on inside her. Rain thought of the girl’s self-inflicted wounds and was aware of the pain she must be internalizing. At least she’d begun to establish some trust between them. It was a slow process, but eventually Heather would open up to her.
She was entering her notes into the computer when the phone rang.
“Rain Sommers.” She spoke into the receiver, her fingers slowing on the keyboard long enough to tuck the handset between her shoulder and ear.
“It’s Trevor Rivette. Can we speak for a moment?”
She stopped typing and looked at the clock on her screen. “I’m expecting a patient in fifteen minutes—”
“This won’t take long. Another girl was murdered last night. The body was dumped a few blocks from Synapse.”
Rain took off the glasses she wore for computer work and laid them on the desk, momentarily shocked into silence. “The Times-Picayune broke the story online this morning, including the possible link to the serial-murder investigation,” he continued. “It’ll probably make it into the evening print edition. I didn’t want you to be surprised.”
She could hear the tense edge to his voice. Now that the media was onto the story, she guessed the pressure to make an arrest would increase, as well. “What about Midnight Confessions?”
“There’s no mention of it at this point. No one in the media has made any connection between the caller to your show and the murders. I’m hoping to keep it that way as long as possible.” Trevor paused before speaking again. “Rain, I need you to go to a dance club with me.”
“A dance club?”
“A place called the Ascension.”
The Ascension was located on a derelict portion of Claiborne Avenue in Mid-City. The converted cathedral lent itself to the club’s heavy goth vibe, although the dance floor was just as likely to be inhabited by thrill-seeking tourists or students from the universities. But it was infamous for its private rooms, including the basement, which those who considered themselves true goths preferred to frequent.
“I’m familiar with it,” Rain said softly.
“The victim hasn’t been identified yet. Our only lead is an ink stamp on her hand that came from that club. I’d like to check the place out.”
Rain had seen the stamp on more than one of her patients. “You can get into the main area of the club if you’re eighteen. But they stamp anyone under the age of twenty-one so they can’t buy alcohol. Unfortunately, it doesn’t keep them from sampling the illegal drugs that get passed around.”
“So I’ve heard,” Trevor replied. “The homicide detectives I’ve been working with checked with the club’s management already. They don’t have any security cameras or closed-circuit-TV monitoring. We were hoping to catch the girl on tape, see who she might’ve been talking to.”
Rain pressed her fingers against her temple as she listened, not surprised the club was lacking in security measures. “Trevor, what do I have to do with this?”
“You’re accepted by this group. If I’m with you, I’ll have more credibility than if I go in there alone, looking for information.” He lowered his voice. “It would just be the two of us. The NOPD detectives would stick out even worse than me, and the same goes for any of the local FBI field agents. You said you wanted to help, and I know you have contacts. I need to use them.”
Rain thought of Trevor with his conservative haircut and suit, flashing his shield and attempting to get cooperation in a place like the Ascension. The goth community was a closed group. He was rig
ht—without her he didn’t stand a chance. “When do you want to go?”
“Tonight. Around ten o’clock. I’ll pick you up.”
After he’d hung up, Rain held the phone for several moments before placing it back in its console. Then she used her computer to access the Times-Picayune Web site. News of the second murder was listed in the headlines, and she clicked on the link for the brief article.
Discovery of Second Victim Suggests Serial Killer May Be New Orleans’s Latest Tourist
An unidentified female was found by police in a maintenance building on the Canal Street Wharf early this morning. Apparent cause of death is stabbing, although an autopsy has yet to be conducted. The murder is similar to that of another New Orleans female last week, and an NOPD spokesperson confirmed that a member of the FBI’s Violent Crimes Unit is involved in the case, investigating ties to killings in other cities, including, most recently, Raleigh and Atlanta…
Rain read the rest of the article, relieved at least there was no mention of her or her show.
The Ascension. She’d been there several months earlier, for a publicity appearance David had set up for Midnight Confessions. Much about the club had disturbed her, from the barely lit back hallways to some of the clientele who’d seemed overly fascinated by her presence. One of them had gotten close enough behind her to cut away a lock of her hair. She’d felt the man’s presence, recognized the faint tug on her head and the snip of scissors near her ear. But she’d seen only his broad shoulders retreating into the roiling sea of dancers before David had pulled her toward the cordoned-off VIP area near the bar.
Rain touched her hair, recalling that David had merely laughed about her off-kilter fan base. A thread of unease wrapped around her. If it was true the latest victim had been at the Ascension, couldn’t Dante be there tonight, as well?
13
“You’re lucky you haven’t been around,” Nate Fincher, Trevor’s partner at the VCU, told him over the phone. He was referring to the child-murder case in Maryland to which he’d been assigned. “The parents are high-profile—the father’s some megamillionaire software entrepreneur and the mother’s a former model. The media’s all over it and Johnston’s getting heat from the Bureau’s higher-ups to find the unsub.”
Trevor knew the drill. “Which means you’re getting heat, too.”
“The kid was just four years old.” Despite his normally professional demeanor, anger tinged Nate’s words. “The nanny took him to the playground, turned her back for a minute, and claims he was gone. There was no ransom demand. His body turned up twelve hours later in a drainage ditch off the highway. Strangled to death.”
“Are you looking at the parents?”
“We haven’t ruled it out.”
As Nate filled him in on his case, Trevor stared at the television, the sound on low. It was dark outside, and he’d brought a fast-food meal back to his hotel room so he could eat and shower before picking up Rain Sommers to go to the Ascension. The day had been a long one, spent canvassing the area around the Canal Street Wharf, trying to find someone who might have seen anything remotely suspicious in the hours leading up to the body’s discovery. He had also been back to the morgue at All Saints Hospital to witness the autopsy firsthand.
“Sorry you’re down there working this alone—”
“Not a problem.”
“You getting any help?”
“I’ve been working with the two local homicide detectives who initially caught the case,” Trevor said. “The Bureau field office is providing some help, too. More, now that the body count here is at two. A couple of agents helped with the canvas.”
“Has the unsub made contact with you again?”
Trevor told him about the necklace that had been left in his car, and the note from the pay phone near Armstrong Park indicating the killer might be a resident of the city.
“Maybe that’s why he’s fixated on you,” Nate ventured. “You’re both from New Orleans. He thinks you have the Big Easy in common.”
The problem was, Trevor thought after the call had ended, his New Orleans heritage wasn’t something most people knew about. For all intents and purposes, he was from Bethesda, Maryland—he’d relocated there as a teenager out of necessity. Few people outside his own family knew much about Trevor’s past. Even Nate had been told only the bare, unemotional facts and not the full story.
And that was the way he wanted to keep it.
He had a little time before leaving, so he got out the photos from the M.E.’s office taken that afternoon. Trevor flipped through the grim, sterile shots to find one he might be able to use at the club to hopefully get an ID.
Another Jane Doe. The Vampire investigation was a special VCU project, but it wasn’t high on the priority list of cases since a single victim in a single city didn’t attract a lot of attention. Trevor wondered how that might change, especially if a third body turned up in New Orleans.
He hoped he didn’t have to find out.
Rain had styled her hair so that it was sleek and glossy. She’d also taken a more liberal hand with her makeup, accentuating her eyes with a kohl pencil and black mascara, painting her mouth a deep red. The low-cut, black halter top wasn’t exactly goth attire, but she knew the look was dramatic. In the mirror, it was Desiree who stared back at her. Rain’s expression was composed, but inside she felt as fragile as glass.
She jumped at the chime of the doorbell. Extinguishing the lavender aromatherapy candle she’d lit in a vain attempt to calm her nerves, Rain went downstairs.
Trevor stood on the veranda. Opening the door to him, her gaze traveled over his jeans and dark T-shirt. “You look like a college student.”
He offered a faint smile. “Hardly, but it’s the best I could do. Black leather isn’t exactly part of my wardrobe.”
“Where’s your gun?”
“In an ankle holster. Less conspicuous.”
As he followed her into the parlor, Dahlia darted past them and up the staircase. Rain started to make a comment about a black cat crossing one’s path, but thought better of it and remained silent. She stood by as Trevor stared up at the elegant, crystal chandelier, dimmed so that it gave off a murky glow.
“Is that the original?”
“Restoring the house was my mother’s dream,” Rain told him. “After she died, my aunt Celeste took over the renovation. She preserved as much of the original house as possible, including the light fixtures.”
He nodded, and she wondered how much he already knew about the house and its dark past. If she had him pegged right, Trevor had already done his homework on Desiree, the house on Prytania and her. He’d probably read the horrific details of her parents’ murder-suicide right down to the thirty-year-old police report.
“It happened in the first room upstairs on the right,” she said quietly. “In case you were wondering.”
He gazed at her. “I wasn’t.”
Rain felt instantly contrite. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’m just used to people being curious—”
“The way you’re dressed tonight. Are you trying to look like her?” he interrupted her, his blue-gray eyes as direct as his voice. Rain stared down at her hands. Although she normally left her nails bare, tonight she’d painted them blood red. Only now did she realize the irony.
“I thought I might be able to help you,” she explained awkwardly. “At the club, I mean. Some of the people there are really into Desiree.”
Trevor took a step closer. He studied her necklace, which rested in the delicate space where her collarbone dipped in at the base of her throat. It was the same amethyst pendant she’d worn to Brian’s reception. He touched it with his fingertip, causing her heart to beat harder.
“Help me get into the Ascension, or use you as bait for Dante?” Apparently, he hadn’t forgotten the comment she’d made the previous evening.
“I trust you,” Rain said simply.
A weighted silence fell between them, until Trevor dug into his ba
ck pocket and handed her a photograph, warning her first. “This was taken by the M.E. at the autopsy this afternoon. It’s the second victim.”
Rain looked at the snapshot. Once again, the girl was covered nearly up to her chin by a sheet, and she lay on a stainless-steel table with her eyes closed. She was waif thin, and her hair was a bold shade of red that looked as if it had been dyed in raspberry Kool-Aid.
“She’s so young.” Disturbed, Rain handed back the photo.
He replaced it in his pocket. “What do you know about vampire goths?”
“Well, they do exist. They’re a small subculture within the goth community. But most of them limit their involvement to role-playing.”
“That’s all?”
“Some of them take it a step or two further,” she admitted. “A few claim to drink blood from animals, or willing human donors.”
“What about not-so-willing donors?”
“I’d prefer not to think about that.” She went to the end table and picked up the small purse she planned to carry with her. It contained lipstick, her cell phone and a few other personal items. When she turned back around, she found Trevor watching her.
“There’s a possibility Dante will be there tonight. If he is, he’s going to be interested in getting close to you.” His eyes remained on her as she walked back to him. “You need to be careful.”
“I will.”
“You do look like her, you know,” he said softly.
He waited while she set the house’s security system, and then he led her outside to a waiting sedan. The scent of night-blooming jasmine hung in the warm air as Trevor opened the car’s passenger-side door and she slid inside. Across the street, an NOPD squad car sat in the shadow of a gnarled pecan tree. Although Rain couldn’t see the occupants inside, they were another reminder that she was a woman who needed protection.
The Ascension was like a blasphemous fantasy come to life. Housed within the structure of a large stone-and-brick-work church, its dance floor thrummed with a synthesized beat as bodies flailed under a two-story-high vaulted ceiling. Massive iron chandeliers hung from heavy chains, and spotlights swung around the cavernous space, illuminating arched, stained-glass windows. An ornate cross hung over the cathedral’s pulpit, now in use as a live-performance stage.
Midnight Caller Page 10