“I said I forgot. I’m sorry.”
Heaving a sigh, Brian relented. “So you identified the body. That must be good, right?”
“It’d be a hell of a lot better if I caught this psycho before another one turns up.” Trevor stared onto Royal Street, where a television-news van had arrived. The Times-Picayune article the previous day had kicked off media activity, making the likely presence of a serial killer a top story on the local news. In response, Trevor had been put in charge of formalizing a task force between the FBI, NOPD and the district attorney’s office. He was aware the media attention would only increase when the identity of the second victim was released that afternoon.
“Have you eaten yet?” Brian asked.
“No.”
“Spare me a half hour, then. It’s not the fried catfish at Zombo’s, but there’s a deli near Riverfront Park that makes a good muffuletta.”
Trevor shook his head. “I can’t—”
“Half an hour,” Brian urged. “We can watch for paddle wheelers like we did when we were kids.”
A short while later, seated on a bench next to a waxy-leafed magnolia, Trevor and Brian dug into their sandwiches. The river stretched in front of them like a sea of butterscotch under a cerulean-blue sky. People strolled on the park’s brick promenade, most of them tourists, judging by the shopping bags and cameras. Trevor watched as, farther down, several small children waded in a public fountain. He checked his watch—he was expected at the FBI field office near Lake Pontchartrain at one-thirty.
“Sorry I gave you hell for forgetting about lunch.” Brian took a sip from a sweating bottle of root beer. “I know you’ve got a lot on your mind.”
Trevor merely nodded. He didn’t want to ruin Brian’s meal with the grim details of the case. Instead, he took another bite from his sandwich.
“The truth is I wanted to talk to you,” Brian said.
“About what?”
“Annabelle. She’s worried about you.” Brian squinted against the sunlight. “Actually, so am I.”
Trevor said nothing. He returned his gaze to the group of children. A young mother supervised them from the fountain’s edge. She squealed as one of them kicked out a spray of water, dousing the front of her sundress.
“Annabelle told me she found you outside her old room. She said you were upset.” Brian paused. “She thinks you were having some kind of flashback.”
Trevor wadded up the wax paper holding the remains of his sandwich. He tossed it into a receptacle next to the bench.
“Have you ever talked to anyone, Trevor? About what happened?”
“It was a long time ago. Let’s leave it in the past.”
There was a lapse of silence and then Brian said, “The past is never dead. It’s not even the past.”
Trevor laughed faintly. “Now you’re quoting William Faulkner? There’s a guy who knew something about tragic Southern families.”
“Trevor.” Brian’s voice was soft.
“Let it go, Brian. I’m already on overload with the case. I got about three hours’ sleep last night. I can’t handle a conversation like this right now.”
Looking out over the park, Trevor’s vision was drawn to a row of crepe myrtle trees, their limbs weighed down with pink blossoms. Heat shimmied up from the brick walkway, and he felt a drop of sweat roll down his back underneath his dress shirt.
A child’s wail came from the fountain. Trevor saw the mother wading in after one of her charges. It was then that he noticed the man on the pavilion’s periphery. Despite the heat, he wore a long black trench coat. His hair looked unwashed and stringy, and his pale face held mocking dark eyes. He’d been watching them have lunch, of that much Trevor was certain.
He barely heard Brian still talking beside him. He stood and began winding his way through the tourists. But the man was moving as well, shrinking farther from his line of sight as he slipped between the trees at the edge of the promenade and headed back toward the French Quarter. Trevor broke into a run after him, barely aware of Brian calling after him. He cut through a chain of shrubs and sprinted across the street at the edge of the park. A car blew its horn, but he kept going, his eyes on the figure’s flapping dark coat a block in front of him.
The man went around the corner, disappearing behind a crumbling stone wall nearly obscured by primrose jasmine. Trevor followed his path into a gated courtyard.
He turned around once, twice. There was no other way out.
Where the hell had he gone?
The air in the courtyard felt heated and sluggish. Trevor’s hair was damp with perspiration, and the pain in his side from the previous evening seemed to radiate through his body. Overhead, the tops of the courtyard’s banana trees ruffled in the breeze brought in by the river.
Trevor was unaware as to exactly when he’d pulled his gun, but he whirled when he heard someone approach and pointed the weapon. Brian took a step back, raising his hands in front of him.
“Whoa! Take it easy, Trev! What’s going on?”
He lowered the gun and used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe his forehead. “You saw him.”
Brian’s face was flushed as he attempted to catch his breath. “I ran after you all the way from the park. I didn’t see anyone.”
“He came in here!”
Concern filled Brian’s eyes. “Trevor, there’s no one here.”
Trevor looked around again, refusing to believe it had only been his imagination.
16
The patio at Jezzabel’s was cool, thanks to overhanging shade trees and several outdoor fans. Rain followed the maître d’ to a table next to a display of ferns and potted ivy, then took a seat in the cushioned rattan chair he pulled out for her.
“Will you be dining alone this afternoon, ma’am?” he inquired.
“Someone’s joining me.” She unfolded the cloth napkin and placed it on her lap. “I left his name with the hostess.”
The maître d’ nodded. “I’ll direct him this way as soon as he arrives.”
Alex had called Rain the morning after Brian’s art showing, and they’d agreed to meet that Tuesday for lunch at the popular restaurant on Magazine Street. Acquainted with Alex’s tendency to run late, she settled into the comfortable chair and ordered an iced tea with mint while she waited. But it didn’t take long for her thoughts to travel to the previous evening and the kiss she’d shared with Trevor Rivette.
She was thirty-two years old and not once in her life did Rain recall making the first move. Not until last night. Still, she recalled Trevor’s reaction. His lips had been warm and firm as they explored hers. When he’d finally pulled away, she was certain it was sexual attraction that had darkened his eyes to a stunning midnight blue.
You’re part of this investigation, Rain. His words echoed in her memory. Lost in reflection, she ran her fingers through the condensation on her water glass. “Dr. Sommers?”
Rain looked up at the man standing next to her table. Although Dr. Christian Carteris had never attended a counseling session with his son, she recognized him from the portrait of the board of directors in the lobby of All Saints Hospital, as well as the photos that appeared regularly in the society column of the Times-Picayune. Dr. Carteris appeared to be in his early to mid-forties and, like Oliver, he was tall and dark-haired. His steel-framed spectacles glinted in the sunlight.
“Dr. Carteris.” Rain offered her hand in greeting. “So nice to finally meet you in person.”
“I hope I’m not disturbing you. I just finished lunch and saw you being seated. Could I have a word? It’s about my son.”
“I’m sure you understand I can’t discuss what’s said in therapy—”
The surgeon patted the air as if to ward off her concern. “I appreciate the need for confidentiality, and I’d never expect you to divulge anything Oliver might have told you during his sessions. The truth is, there are some things I feel compelled to share with you. It might be pertinent to his treatment.”
His eyes
fell to the unoccupied chair. “May I? At least until your guest arrives?”
“I think that would be all right.”
Pinching up the knees of his tailored suit pants, he sat across from her. “I’ll get right to the point. Oliver’s conduct at home has become increasingly erratic. So much so that I searched his room last night after he’d gone out.”
He adjusted his eyeglasses, his expression grave. “I found marijuana, as well as a white powder the hospital’s pharmacist informs me is crystal methamphetamine. I’m particularly concerned about the latter.”
He had good reason to be worried. Rain recalled Oliver’s behavior during his last therapy session—the crystal meth would explain his paranoia and hostility.
“Have you talked to Oliver about what you found?”
“I tried to this morning, but he shoved me against the wall and stormed out. He was furious I’d gone through his things.” He hesitated briefly, appearing sheepish. “I was actually a bit fearful of him. My own son.”
There was a break in conversation as the iced tea Rain ordered arrived. Once the waiter retreated, the surgeon continued. “I worry Oliver’s problems are my fault. I tried to compensate for the loss of his mother at such a young age, and I realize now I overindulged him. I looked the other way when the behavioral problems started.”
Rain was privy to Oliver’s records. Although Dr. Carteris was American, Oliver’s mother was European. She’d been killed in a car accident in a Pacific Rim country where the surgeon was conducting private research. Oliver had been nine years old.
“As you know, I returned to the States two years ago to accept the position of chief of cardiac medicine. My hope was for Oliver to complete his education here.”
Rain felt a tug of sympathy. Christian Carteris was at the top of his field. She could imagine the high expectations he must have had for his son.
“Oliver’s very intelligent.” A note of pride entered his voice. “Did you know he’s fluent in three languages? He also has a gift for the violin. He was on a music scholarship at Loyola before he was expelled.”
Rain nodded solemnly. “Yes, I’m aware of that.”
“Now he works at a video store in Bywater, earning minimum wage. Just enough to pay for his recreational drugs, apparently. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed.”
“You’re a very successful man, Dr. Carteris. Perhaps Oliver feels an undue amount of pressure to achieve and he’s rebelling against it?”
“I expect only what my son is capable of, nothing more.” He looked pensive and shook his head. “Regardless, I only wanted to let you know about the drugs, as well as the change in behavior. I thought it might be important.”
“It is,” Rain agreed. “I wish there was something I could say to alleviate your concern. But if his drug use is escalating, as the crystal meth suggests, there might be a need to consider in-patient rehabilitation. There are some excellent programs. I could make recommendations.”
“Oliver despises me already,” he replied sadly. “Can you imagine if I put him in a facility? But I’ll do what I have to, of course.”
“It’s a difficult decision, but Oliver might eventually thank you for caring enough to do what’s best for him.”
The surgeon’s gaze was direct. “I have to be honest with you, Dr. Sommers. You came highly recommended. I’m discouraged Oliver’s therapy sessions haven’t resulted in a better outcome.”
“Psychotherapy is a long process. I’ve only been seeing Oliver for a few months.”
“You’re right,” he conceded. He laced his fingers together on the table in front of him. “And I’m trying to be patient. But I love my son. It’s the reason I’ve tried to overlook, even defend, his behavior. At least until now. He’s getting mixed up in a lifestyle that could destroy him.”
“Talk to him,” Rain urged. “Without accusations or judgment. You’re his father and it’s important you keep a line of communication open.”
“The last thing he wants is to talk to me.”
She reached across the table and touched his hand. “Just let him know you’re there if he needs you.”
“Yes, I’ll try.”
Her eyes shifted to the patio’s entrance. The maître d’ was leading Alex toward their table. He waved at her with an apologetic grin on his face. Dr. Carteris pushed his chair back and stood.
“I see your guest has arrived, and I’ve taken enough of your time. Thank you. I’d be grateful if you’d forward me information on the treatment programs.”
“Of course. Whatever I can do to help.”
He gave a cordial greeting to Alex as they passed one another.
“Look what happens,” Alex teased as he slipped into the chair. “I’m a few minutes late, and you’re picking up men in the middle of the afternoon.”
“He’s the father of one of my patients.”
“He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.” He unfolded his napkin with a flourish. “And I thought you only had eyes for Trevor Rivette.”
Rain felt color rise in her face, which only made Alex’s grin broaden. “Oh, my. You do like Brian’s brother, don’t you?”
She managed a small laugh, although she evaded his stare. “We’re not in grade school, Alex. What should I do, pass him a note?”
“That depends on what the note says,” he replied wickedly, then glanced at Rain’s beverage. “Please tell me that’s a Long Island.”
“Sorry. Just regular iced tea. I have another patient session in a few hours and the radio show tonight.”
“Spoilsport.” With an exasperated sigh, Alex signaled the waiter.
Thoughts about Oliver continued to plague Rain after she’d left the restaurant and taken the St. Charles Streetcar to its stop near her home. The marijuana Dr. Carteris had found was hardly a surprise to her, although she was taken aback by the crystal meth. Oliver’s drug use was more hardcore than she had suspected.
His next therapy session was scheduled for the following morning. Rain wondered whether he’d show up after his outburst the previous week. If he missed an appointment, she’d have no choice but to report his absence to the courts. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that, since Oliver would view the action as a betrayal. Trust was key to her relationships with her patients—with anyone in her life, Rain realized. Once that trust was broken it was nearly impossible to regain. Which brought her thoughts to David. They’d had no communication since she’d told him of her intention not to renew her contract, but she’d have to face him at the radio station that night. Rain considered this inevitability as she climbed the steps onto the veranda of her house. She nodded politely to the officers who sat in the squad car across the street, their presence becoming as certain as the humid New Orleans climate.
Her cell phone began ringing while she entered her pass code into the security system. She retrieved it from her purse and answered it.
“You were talking to him.”
“Oliver?”
“I saw you. You were touching him.”
Rain felt a tingle of nerves. He must have been spying on them from somewhere in the restaurant.
“It’s not what you think. We ran into each other by accident,” she stated calmly. When he said nothing, she added, “I didn’t tell him anything about our sessions. I only listened to what he had to say. He’s very concerned about you.”
She ignored his bitter curse, her desire to reach out to him overcoming any trepidation she felt. “I’m at my house, Oliver. Do you need to talk? I have another appointment scheduled this afternoon, but I’ll cancel it if you want to come over.”
For a few moments, she could hear his breathing, harsh and tinny sounding through the phone. Rain ran her hand through her hair, her nape damp from the time spent outdoors. She tried to think of what else she could say to convince him.
“I didn’t break our therapist-patient confidence. I need for you to believe that—”
Rain exhaled as the phone went dead. Oliver was gone.
The door to David’s office at the radio station was closed. Rain passed it quietly, grateful for the temporary reprieve. Oliver’s accusatory phone call that afternoon had left her drained, a feeling that had only increased as daylight faded into evening and she prepared herself to deal with another live show.
She slipped into the small studio and kept her mind occupied with selecting the recorded voice tracks that would be used between the live advice segments. A few minutes later, however, it wasn’t David but Trevor who knocked on the door. Rain removed her headset as he came inside.
He laid the morgue photo on the console in front of her. “We got an ID this morning. The victim’s name is Rebecca Belknap.”
Rain’s mouth went dry as she studied the photo of the dead girl again, mentally changing the hair color from siren red to honey blond. My God. The image fused with her faint recollection of the girl who’d sat in her office months earlier. Becca Belknap had made it to only two sessions before switching to a different therapist. She’d had an eating disorder. The girl’s pale skin in the photo stretched tightly across her cheekbones. She looked as though she’d lost another ten to fifteen pounds off her already thin frame in the time since Rain had seen her.
“She was one of your patients?”
Still looking at the photo, Rain tugged at her lower lip. “I can’t believe I didn’t recognize her. She looks…different…”
“Different how?”
“She had blond hair before. She’s thinner, too.” Reflectively, she touched the delicate bridge of her own nose. “I think she might’ve had some cosmetic surgery. I’m pretty sure there was a bump right here before.”
Although he remained silent, Trevor studied her. Rain pressed a hand against her stomach as she rose from the chair. “You think I knew who this girl was and didn’t tell you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Moving away from him, she stopped in front of a cork message board on the studio wall. Rain stared at the random photos tucked between the station’s daypart schedule and office memos. What kind of therapist didn’t know her own patient?
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