Midnight Caller (14 page)

F
or years, he'd been unable to remember the details. Now it seemed they were returning with breathtaking clarity.

Trevor pushed the sheets back and sat up in bed. He ran a hand over his face and shivered as the cold air being pumped out by the air conditioner made contact with his sweat-dampened skin. This time, the memory had been so vivid his heart still pounded. He'd felt the cold steel of the gun barrel pressing against his forehead, heard the bullet's metallic clink as it dropped into the hollow chamber. Worse, he'd heard Annabelle's breathless sobs as she begged for his life. The badge on James Rivette's uniform glinted in the sunlight squeezing in through the small attic window.

You think I won't do it, Trev?

He'd told his father to go to hell. The images had stopped there, wrenching him awake.

Several days earlier, when he'd stood in the threshold of Annabelle's old room, his brain had allowed him only a small glimpse of that scene before slamming the door shut. Tonight, while he'd existed in the nothingness of sleep, it had returned to him freely.

Trevor slid his feet over the edge of the bed and squinted at the digital clock on the nightstand: 2:00 a.m. In the clock's
glow, he could make out the Glock 9mm handgun he'd left next to it, within easy reach.

Dante's latest gift also lay on the nightstand. That knowledge grounded him back to the present, as surely as the wail of the squad car that roared past the building before fading into the distance. After he'd taken Rain home, he'd gone straight to his hotel, yearning for a hot shower and some badly needed sleep. But a note on the door of his room informed him there was a package waiting for him at the front desk. This time, the token was an emerald ring, mailed to him in a plain white envelope with no return address.

Trevor turned on the lamp and picked up the clear baggie holding the ring, along with a short note written in blood like the last time.

She was a pretty girl. Where were you, Agent Rivette?

He'd tell Rebecca Belknap's parents about the ring tomorrow, confirm with them it had belonged to their daughter. But then it would go into evidence until the investigation was closed. Right now, that day seemed like a long way off.

A knock sounded on the door and Trevor instinctively reached for his gun. Slipping against the wall next to the room's window, he lifted a corner of the curtain and released a breath at the sight of Rain standing alone.

He slid on his jeans and opened the door, still holding the gun in his right hand although he'd reengaged the safety. Rain wore tan shorts and a scoop-necked top, her hair pulled into a ponytail. The fact that she wore no makeup, not even lipstick, made her appear somehow even more vulnerable to him. He scowled as thunder rumbled overhead.

“What the hell, Rain,” he said softly, wondering what she was doing here. They were on the hotel's second floor and across the street below them, he could see a taxi pulling away from the curb.

Trevor took a step back and let her inside. Rain's gaze
moved from the unmade bed and back to him as he stood bare-chested in front of her. Although she didn't remark on it, her eyes drifted to the faint bruise on his abdomen from his run-in with the two men at the Ascension.

“I couldn't sleep,” she admitted. “I have to see the rest of the victims. What if I knew them, as well?”

“So you came here alone in the middle of the night? Did nothing we talked about get through to you?”

“I need to see the other photos. All of them.” The lamplight brought out the gold in her amber eyes, and he thought he saw the glimmer of unshed tears.

Trevor dragged a hand through his hair. Taking in Rain's grief-stricken expression, he didn't have the will to scold her further. The discovery that she'd actually known Rebecca Belknap had obviously upset her, perhaps more than he'd realized.

“You've already seen photos of both victims in New Orleans,” he reasoned. “The chance of you knowing one of the victims in another city—”

“Please.”

Taking the time to pull on a T-shirt, he went to the desk near the window and picked up a thick folder that lay next to his laptop.

“Some of these are disturbing,” he warned, handing it to her.

“How many victims in all?”

“Six. Each in a different city, with the exception of the last two here. We think the unsub has a white-collar job that requires him to travel, which explains why the murders have been geographically dispersed.”

Rain opened the folder. The photo on top of the stack was of a young female lying on the cold steel of an autopsy table. The girl's eyes were open but unseeing, their corneas clouded, and her lips were tinged blue. Cuts made by the
killer covered her breasts and abdomen, and the deep gouge in her neck gaped open.

Trevor heard the waver in Rain's breathing. The previous photos she'd seen had been easier to deal with, he knew, since they'd been taken specifically for the purpose of getting an ID. These photos were raw, the camera concealing nothing.

“This is the same girl you showed me when Brian brought you to my house?”

Trevor nodded. “That's Cara Seagreen, the first victim in New Orleans. She was also the youngest.”

He studied Rain's profile as she sank onto the edge of the bed and concentrated on the photo. She took her time, staring at the snapshot for what seemed like an eternity. Then she shook her head. “She was never one of my patients. I've never seen her before. I'm positive.”

Rain went through the rest of the morgue photos of the other victims, looking at image after image of their bodies postautopsy, the closed Y-incision a shared brand on their skin. When she was halfway through the stack, Trevor sat beside her and placed his hand over hers. He knew the order of the photographs by heart.

“The rest are the crime scene photos. I don't think—”

“I
want
to see them.”

A flash of lightning illuminated the dark edges around the closed curtains. A half second later, thunder exploded and the hard fall of rain outside enveloped the room.

“Maybe you should,” he said finally. “Something might stand out to you.”

He removed his hand and allowed her to continue. The morgue photos were sterile compared to the ones from the crime scenes, the bodies left behind like broken, bloodied dolls. Even after seven years' working with the FBI's Violent Crimes Unit, Trevor was still haunted by the damage inflicted
by the killer's knife. He could only imagine what Rain must be experiencing.

“You okay?” he asked once she'd made it through several of the photos.

She nodded, although her face had paled. “Their wrists. They're bound with a rosary?”

“It's part of the killer's signature, one of the details we've kept from the press,” Trevor explained. “We haven't been able to trace the maker, although we think each of the rosaries is handmade and fairly expensive. A jewelry expert believes they're Italian imports. They're made with—”

“Black crystal beads with mother-of-pearl and a Celtic silver cross.” Rain finished the statement for him, her voice barely audible. “The rosary medal is an image of Saint Agnes, the patron saint of chastity and virgins.”

He looked again at the photo, making sure. It simply wasn't possible to glean that level of detail from the images. “How do you know that?”

“Because I have the same rosary. It belonged to my mother. It was used as part of a photo shoot.”

Electricity ran along his skin. “Photo shoot?”

She took a breath before continuing. “A series of photos ran in
Blue Moon
in which the rosary was used.”

Trevor recalled the defunct publication, which had been likened to
Rolling Stone
but had failed to build a mainstream following. After a decade of operation, the magazine closed its doors in the mid-eighties.

“Desiree used the rosary in provocative ways.” Rain smoothed the rumpled bed linens, avoiding his eyes. “At the time the photos were published, they were considered highly controversial. Some religious leaders labeled them sacrilegious soft-core pornography. The magazine was pulled from shelves all over the country.”

“Are the photos on the Internet?”

“I'm not sure. Copies of the magazine issue are rare.” Rain hesitated. “If not, I know someone who has several as part of his memorabilia collection.”

Trevor had gone to the laptop and was powering it up. “Who?”

“Armand Baptiste.”

He sat in the chair in front of the desk as the computer screen came to life. Clicking the browser icon, Trevor returned to one of the fan-operated Web sites he'd bookmarked earlier. This time he dug deeper into its photo archive using the keywords
Blue Moon.
With Rain watching over his shoulder, he went to two other sites before locating the images.

Although the quality of the scanned photos was poor, they still delivered a sensual impact. Desiree wore a sheer negligee that left little to the imagination. As Rain had described, a rosary was used in each of the darkly dramatic photos—one in which it was worn as a necklace, resting between the well-displayed curves of Desiree's breasts, and another in which she sat in a chair with her legs spread apart, the string of prayer beads dangling suggestively between them. But it was the third photo that caused Trevor to lean toward the computer, his pulse speeding up at what he saw. In what was staged as an obvious bondage scene, Desiree was lying on a stripped mattress, her wrists bound with the glittering black rope of the rosary. Her eyes were wide in mock fright, and her painted, luscious mouth was gagged with a strip of cloth.

Rain's voice came softly from behind him. “God. He's trying to re-create that photo, isn't he?”

“Have you seen these before?”

“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.