“Only once, a long time ago. Aunt Celeste was very protective of me. But I was curious and…”
There wasn’t a need to state the obvious. The photos inexplicably connected Dante to Desiree and by extension, to Rain herself. She walked to the French door that led onto the balcony and stared out. Trevor traced her footsteps until he stood directly behind her, and he felt her flinch as lightning lit the black sky. It was followed by a roar of thunder, and the room’s light dimmed before brightening again. Jewel-like beads of water ran down the door’s glass panes.
“Rain.” At the sound of his voice she turned to him. Her head and narrow shoulders were framed by the light emitted from the swimming pool below.
“I’ve tried to respect your wishes.” Reaching out, Trevor touched her face. “But it’s time you started taking more serious precautions.”
“There’s a patrol car outside my house practically around the clock—”
“With two apparently inept cops sitting in it. Were they asleep when you took off in the middle of the night?”
“They didn’t know,” she confessed. “I went out the back and met the taxi a couple of blocks over, at Coliseum Square.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because of what happened between us last night.” Rain looked at the worn carpet. “You were so concerned about protocol, about me being part of the investigation. I didn’t think you’d want those officers knowing I was going to your hotel.”
“I want a post in your house, Rain. The only reason I didn’t push the issue in the first place was because D’Alba told me he was staying with you.”
“I didn’t think that would be a good idea,” she countered. “David and I haven’t been together as a couple for a while now.”
“But he wants you back.”
She didn’t answer, but her eyes told him it was true. She walked to the nightstand and picked up the baggie containing the note and emerald ring.
“It belonged to Rebecca Belknap,” Trevor said. “Dante sent it to me through the mail.”
Blanching, Rain laid it back down. She thoughtfully bit her lower lip before speaking again. “The victims in New Orleans were just teenagers. But the ones in the other cities—they all looked older in the photos, maybe by ten or fifteen years. Do you know why?”
He shook his head. “There’s a lot I don’t know.”
“What about Marcy Cupich?” she asked, hopeful. “The girl who saw Rebecca talking to someone at the Ascension?”
“She came to the precinct to meet with the sketch artist. Unfortunately, it was a waste of time. It turns out Marcy wears glasses, but she’s vain and doesn’t bring them with her when she’s clubbing. Other than a dark-haired male, her description was pretty vague.”
Thunder vibrated the room, and Rain looked as if she might jump out of her skin. Trevor approached her.
“I’m going to drive you home. And the cops outside your house are going to come inside. They’ll stay downstairs. You won’t even know they’re there.”
“It’s only a few hours until morning. Could I stay here?” She must have anticipated his refusal because she added quietly, “We won’t do anything, just sleep.”
He looked at her in the lamplight. “Rain…”
She bowed her head. “The truth is, I’d really like you nearby.”
The storm was in full force outside. Rain’s eyes remained downcast, hidden beneath a veil of thick lashes. At least this way he’d know she was safe, Trevor rationalized. She wouldn’t be out roaming the streets, by taxi or on foot.
“Starting tomorrow night, there’s going to be a muscle-bound cop standing guard in your foyer. Agreed?”
Rain nodded. Gathering the soft cotton of his T-shirt in her fingers, she anchored him to her briefly before letting go.
He went into the bathroom. When he came out, she was wearing one of his shirts she’d taken from the armoire. Its sleeves were turned up and its hem skimmed the tops of her slender thighs. The ponytail was gone and her coppery hair hung around her face. Shaking his gaze from her, Trevor walked across the room to peer out the window from behind the curtain. But the downfall obscured his vision so that only a circle of light from a street lamp below was visible.
“Which side of the bed do you want?” she asked almost shyly.
“The one near the door.” He waited until she climbed under the covers. Then Trevor went to the bed and turned off the lamp on the nightstand. Still dressed, he lay down but stayed on top of the sheets. The hard beat of the rain outside slowly lulled him to sleep.
When he awoke later, the downpour had receded. The sky, visible through a gap in the curtains, appeared iron gray and barely tinged with light. Rain was snuggled against him, her body warm, soft. Trevor was holding her, a realization that caused his heart to beat harder. Every part of him was touching her, it seemed. Rain’s small, soft breasts pressed into his chest, and she’d kicked the sheets away in her sleep, her slender legs now wound with his. His hand had found its way under the shirt she wore, and his fingers splayed over the silken skin of her lower back. He swallowed hard. Trevor thanked God he was wearing his jeans. Still, his male response to her closeness must have awakened her.
Rain’s face lifted to his. Her eyes were sensual, heavy-lidded with sleep.
Unable to fight the impulse, Trevor bent his head, his lips touching hers. He felt her hand thread through the hair at his nape, and his stomach somersaulted at the way Rain’s mouth parted so willingly under his. His tongue mingled with hers, exploring, his body weight shifting so that he lay partially on top of her. Trevor’s hand stroked over the gentle curves of her body as their mouths remained joined, tasting one another. Rain’s bare thighs were incredibly soft, and invitingly open.
He could get used to this, he realized. The feel of her, having her near.
And it was that one thought that stopped him. He broke the kiss with reluctance, breathing heavily as he stared into her face. Rain’s lips appeared full and slightly swollen from their kisses. Her eyes shimmered with desire. He was attracted to her so very much, but it wasn’t what he’d been sent down here to do.
“That shouldn’t have happened,” Trevor said softly. He rose and sat on the edge of the bed facing away from her. “It’s light enough now. I’m taking you home.”
As morning revealed itself in a misty hush, he angrily paced the parlor. He’d been outside the hotel last night, watching from his vehicle as the light faded from the second-floor room.
He had followed her there—in fact, he’d watched the taxi pick her up—and all along he’d had the sickening suspicion she was going to him. Like mother, like daughter, he thought bitterly.
Whore.
Staring out from between heavy velvet drapes onto the rain-wet street, he wondered what crack in the universe occurred when one’s lover and one’s enemy united. His hands clenched into fists as he envisioned what they’d been doing together in the darkened room, their bodies writhing, their sweat slick and glistening. She was his. He wouldn’t allow anyone else to have her. Agent Rivette’s energy was strong—his heightened senses told him so—but he would still pay for his thievery, and pay hard.
Slowly, he shook his head, his need for revenge nearly as strong as his bloodlust. He could have taken her last night as she waited alone on the barely lit sidewalk near Coliseum Square. The little fool. It would have been so simple and so satisfying. He felt a tightening in his belly at the prospect of finally possessing her. But he’d always been one to delay gratification.
He reminded himself he wouldn’t have to wait much longer.
19
Baptiste Antiques was located on Royal Street, within walking distance to Jackson Square and St. Louis Cathedral. Trevor entered the lavish showroom filled with hand-tooled mahogany furniture and paintings in gilded frames. The interior smelled of wood oil, and the sound of his dress shoes was absorbed by the deep pile of Aubusson carpets.
An exotic-looking woman with black hair pulled in
to a chignon appeared from behind an Oriental screen. “May I help you?”
“I’m here to see Armand Baptiste.”
She eyed him as if trying to determine his buying power. “I’m afraid Mr. Baptiste is occupied. Perhaps I can be of service?”
Trevor held his shield out for inspection. “Let him know Agent Rivette with the FBI is here.”
The woman went to a lacquered table and picked up a telephone handset. Looking at Trevor suspiciously, she spoke into the receiver. A moment later she indicated a door in back of the showroom. “He’ll see you now.”
Trevor crossed the room to the closed door. He didn’t knock but went directly inside. The office was furnished with the same if-you-have-to-ask-the-price-you-can’t-afford-it decor as the showroom. Baptiste sat behind an enormous mahogany desk with an inlaid-teak design. The financial section of the Wall Street Journal lay spread across its top.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Agent Rivette?”
“I have a few questions.”
“Ah.” Baptiste paused to sip a dark espresso. “But do I have the answers?”
He wore a tailored suit and solid-color silk tie, and his hair was slicked back into a neat ponytail behind his head. Rimless bifocals sat on his nose. Baptiste bore none of the theatrical makeup he’d been wearing at the Ascension, making his transformation from goth elder to New Orleans businessman complete.
Trevor slid Maurice Girard’s mug shot across the desk. “This is one of the men who attacked me at your club two nights ago. His parole officer confirmed he works for you.”
“That’s possible.” Baptiste regarded the photo. “I have interests in several businesses, and dozens of employees. I can’t be expected to know all of them personally.”
“Interesting, because the P.O. says Girard was hired specifically by you. I’m wondering whether his job description extends to assault on a federal officer.”
Baptiste removed his bifocals and laid them on the desk. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “What’s the man’s name?”
“Maurice Girard. His fingerprints matched the partials from the knife recovered in the supply room at the Ascension.”
“You’re welcome to check with Human Resources,” he offered. “Even if this Girard does work for me, I didn’t order him to attack you. If you don’t believe me, why don’t you pick him up and ask him yourself.”
“Good idea. Only, Girard didn’t make his parole meeting this morning. His apartment also appears to be vacated.”
“Then what can I do for you? I’m a busy man.”
Acting as if he had all the time in the world, Trevor examined a paperweight on Baptiste’s desk. He turned the cobalt-blue orb around in his palm a few times before tossing it into the air and catching it in one hand. Baptiste followed the movement with his eyes.
“That’s very expensive. It’s centuries old, imported from Budapest.”
“No kidding.” Trevor gave it another casual toss. “What other things do you import?”
“Baptiste Antiques has specialized in fine European artwork and furnishings, as well as major estate sales in the southern United States, for three generations. If you’re interested in something in particular, Miss Takura in the showroom—”
“As a matter of fact, I am interested in something.” Replacing the paperweight, Trevor dug into the pocket of his suit coat and withdrew the black prayer beads and silver cross. He laid them on the desk.
“A lovely piece.” Baptiste picked up the rosary and examined it. “Excellent craftsmanship. The semiprecious stones make it somewhat valuable. But I hadn’t figured you for a religious man, Agent.”
“Ever import anything like that?”
“I’m sorry, but no.”
“Ever seen anything like it before?”
“Perhaps…where did you run across this item?”
“It belonged to Desiree Sommers. Rain gave it to me this morning.”
“Is she interested in selling it?” he inquired. “I can make her a generous offer.”
“That’s nice to know, since I have a half dozen more identical to it. They were used in the commission of six murders.”
Recoiling, Baptiste put down the beads. “I wouldn’t know anything about that. I only want it for my memorabilia collection.”
“So you recognize the rosary?”
“I do,” he admitted. “I believe it’s from the Blue Moon photos, circa 1978. If you look at the images carefully, you’ll notice a voluptuousness to Desiree’s figure. She was twelve weeks pregnant with Rain at the time.”
Trevor returned the rosary to his pocket. He’d hoped the religious object would rattle the other man somehow, but so far he remained unflustered. “Rain tells me you’re on the parish council, Baptiste.”
“As were my father and grandfather,” he said proudly. “One might say civic leadership is in my blood.”
“What about dressing up like Marilyn Manson and hanging out with pretend vampires all night? That kind of thing run in the family, too?”
Baptiste picked up a silver letter opener from his desk. He tested the sharpness of its pointed end against the pad of his index finger. “What makes you so certain these vampires are pretend, Agent Rivette?”
“I don’t believe in vampires. Delusional psychotics are a different matter.”
Chuckling, Baptiste stood from behind the desk. He went to look out the office window, which provided a view of the cathedral’s Spanish facade and rounded spires. Outside, the clouds were burning away to reveal blue sky.
“There are plenty of role-players in the goth community,” he said. “But make no mistake. There are real sanguinarians among us. However, those I’ve become acquainted with use willing donors. These donors are erotic masochists who are as excited by giving blood as those who take it. There’s nothing illegal about that.”
“What about the drugs and underage drinking in your club? I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”
Baptiste turned from the window. “Is that a threat? Because you should know I have some very important friends—”
“I don’t care if you play golf with the mayor, Baptiste. All I’m saying is that the Ascension puts you in a position to know things. If you’re hiding something—or someone—now would be a good time to come clean.”
“You’re quite certain of yourself, aren’t you?”
Although he said nothing, Trevor’s gaze soaked into the other man’s. Baptiste paused as he brushed several imaginary specks from his lapels.
“I suppose you are to be admired, considering your family situation.” He shook his head in mock sympathy. “Very troubling past.”
Trevor felt his guard rise. “My family’s none of your business.”
Baptiste smiled at the sharp response. “Your father really was the worst kind of bastard, wasn’t he? And as one of New Orleans’s finest, he was virtually untouchable. It must bother you that he never paid for what he did to you.”
His pale eyes gleamed with knowledge. “Tell me, Agent Rivette, how many days were you comatose? They say one’s mind is never the same after an event like that. Yet here you are, and looking quite virile if you don’t mind me saying so.”
Trevor walked to where Baptiste stood. Surprise and anger reverberated through him. “Don’t fuck with me.”
Baptiste held his hands out in an innocent gesture. “I’m only expressing admiration for your resilience—”
“If you’re involved in these murders in any way, I will take you down.”
“I can only assure you I’m not,” he replied mildly. “Now, if we’re done here, I’m expecting a client. You’ll give Rain my warmest regards?”
For several seconds, Trevor met the man’s self-satisfied stare. Then he turned and left the room.
20
“Uncle Trevor!”
Haley darted toward Trevor when she saw him standing inside the main gallery at Synapse, her shoes squeaking on the polished wood floor that reflected the late-afternoon sun. Trevor’s n
iece had warmed up to him quickly, and her grin was enough to temporarily distract him from the thoughts that had been crowding his head for most of the day. After leaving the antiques firm, he’d sat in on a VCU conference call, then met with two other task force members to look into what had turned out to be a cold lead. But he still couldn’t shake the revelation that Armand Baptiste had somehow known about his difficult past. For the past half hour he’d driven around the city, trying to make some sense of it.
“What’re you doing here, kiddo?” he asked, scooping Haley up for a hug before returning her to the floor.
“I’m painting.” Her small hands went to the paint-splattered smock she wore over her T-shirt and shorts. “Uncle Brian and Uncle Alex have a pretzel and paints for me.”
“Not a pretzel. An easel,” Annabelle corrected, trailing Haley from the hallway. “It keeps her out of my hair while I’m working on the books.”
Embracing Trevor, she added, “I’m surprised to see you. Are you done for the day?”
“Is Brian here?”
“He’s just finishing up with a client—”
“Is that your gun?” Haley interrupted, staring wide-eyed at the holstered firearm Trevor wore. “Do you shoot people?”
“Not unless I have to,” he answered honestly. “And only bad people.”
“Is everything okay?” Annabelle asked, frowning as she peered at him. She looked pretty in a floral-print dress, her dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail.
“I’m fine,” Trevor replied, although it wasn’t how he felt. There was no denying Baptiste had thrown him.
How many days were you comatose? They say one’s mind is never the same after an event like that.
Haley tugged at his pants pocket. “Uncle Trevor, do you wanna see my painting?”
“Haley, let him be.”
“It’s all right,” Trevor said. Haley reached for his hand and led him from the gallery to Alex’s office. A child-size easel had been set up near the desk where Trevor presumed Annabelle was working.
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