Midnight Caller (15 page)

“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.

B
aptiste 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 into 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.

“U
ncle 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 niece 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.

“I'm impressed.” He studied Haley's artwork with a serious eye. She'd painted a square house with bright flowers in front of it and a smiling yellow sun overhead. The drop cloth under the easel was even more colorful, protecting the floor from a kaleidoscope of splatters and drips. “You're as talented as Uncle Brian.”

“It's the house where Mommy and I live.”

“I recognize it.” He looked up, his eyes meeting Annabelle's as Haley chattered about the finer details of the painting. His sister's face appeared hopeful. The cheerful interpretation of their family home seemed to declare the darkness was gone from it now, the bad times faded and replaced
with better ones. Memories pulling at him, Trevor glanced away and nodded at the arrangement of spring blossoms next to the computer.

“Nice flowers.”

“They're for Mommy,” Haley said. “They're from—”

“A friend,” Annabelle interjected. She blushed and looked on the verge of saying something more, when Brian appeared. He stood in the doorway with one hand braced casually on its frame as he greeted Trevor.

“Alex is cooking dinner for everyone,” he said. “He's making a half ton of paella. Why don't you eat with us, Trev.”

Trevor hesitated. “I'd like that. Thanks.”

“I'm almost finished with these guys. As soon as they're gone, we'll go upstairs.”

Brian left the office, and Trevor slid his hands into his pockets and turned around. The photograph of Rain hung over Alex's desk. It had an artistic style, as if a special lens had been used to soften the focus and give it a dreamlike quality. Rain's eyes in the photo were alluring, their color like sunlight filtered through a jar of honey.

“I saw you watching her at Brian's reception,” Annabelle said as she stood beside him.

“I thought we were talking about who sent you flowers.”

“I saw her watching you, too, whenever she thought you weren't looking.”

Trevor glanced at Haley, who'd picked up her brush and was humming to herself as she placed the finishing touches on her painting.

“She's directly involved in the case,” he said, as if that fact was all that was required to negate his feelings.

“I just want you to be happy, Trevor.” Annabelle's blue eyes stared into his. “What's wrong? I can see it in your face.”

“Nothing's wrong.”

“Is it why you came to see Brian?”

He shrugged. “I just thought I'd come by, that's all.”

Annabelle looked skeptical. From the gallery, they heard the front door shut. Brian called to them, announcing he was closing up for the night. Trevor went with Annabelle and Haley back out to the front, where Brian was lowering the recessed lighting that illuminated the artwork around the room.

“We're all set,” he announced. “Let's go.”

With an exaggerated grunt, Brian hauled a giggling Haley up in his grasp, holding her like a football while he set the security system with his free hand.

“If you don't want to talk to me, talk to Brian, okay?” Annabelle urged quietly. She slipped her arm inside Trevor's as they walked to the building's interior lobby to take the elevator upstairs.

 

Rain lay on the padded mat, attempting to focus on the relaxation pose of
savasana.
But her thoughts remained elsewhere. Not even the monkish chants playing over the yoga studio's intercom could deter her from thinking about what had happened between Trevor and her that morning. Waking up in his arms, being kissed by him like that—the thought of it still sent a spiraling sensation through her. It was a memory she carried with her throughout the day, long after Trevor had driven her home and taken Desiree's rosary with him.

They'd nearly made love. She didn't want to cause more trouble for him, but the passion between them had been undeniable.

Unfortunately, Trevor had left her with her own problems to deal with, including the fact that Oliver Carteris had failed to show up for his scheduled appointment that morning. The yoga class ended, and she rolled up her mat and retrieved her personal belongings from the studio's shelved wall. Rain
noticed the blinking light on her cell phone. Had Oliver returned her call?

She checked her messages. But it was from Trevor, reminding her of their bargain. No more watches on the street outside—he'd arranged for a policeman to be stationed directly inside her home beginning that evening. The message was disappointing, since she'd hoped he might take on the task himself. She didn't want a stranger guarding her. But she also understood the heavy responsibility he had, and that her convenience wasn't his first priority.

Rain said goodbye to the regulars in the class. Then she placed the strap of her mat bag over her shoulder and began the short trek home through the Lower Garden District. The sun's intensity had faded as the day turned into evening and a faint breeze stirred the warm air. The broad leaves of banana trees peeped over the houses' private courtyards, and lively zydeco music played from someone's patio.

As she turned the corner onto Prytania, a squad car drove slowly up beside her. The driver's-side window rolled down.

“Everything okay, Dr. Sommers?”

Rain nodded. “Are you the officers staying in the house tonight?”

The young policeman who was driving had auburn hair with long sideburns and a Cajun accent. He shook his head. “No, ma'am. Officer Dumas will be staying with you. He'll be here when you get back from your show.”

Rain recognized the two policemen. They were the ones who watched her house during the afternoon. Their cruiser was usually parked underneath the pecan tree on the opposite side of the street.

“Would you like something to drink? Some iced tea or lemonade?”

Both men lifted their cans of soda simultaneously.

“We just made a run to the market around the corner, but thanks,” the young man said. “We're gettin' ready to head out for shift change, anyhow.”

The second officer who sat on the passenger side was gray-haired, with a mustache and a slight paunch. He touched the bill of his uniform cap in a cordial nod before the vehicle rolled forward.

Rain walked up the short set of stairs to the house's white-columned veranda. As she unlocked the beveled-glass front door, an unfamiliar object caught her eye. An elegantly wrapped box sat against the wrought-iron railing, hidden from street view by an azalea bush. Rain recognized the signature silver wrap and blue satin bow of Mélange, a gift boutique tucked into an exclusive area of the Quarter.

Taking the box inside, she set it on the Queen Anne table in the foyer and removed the bow. The lid lifted off easily. Underneath a lining of tissue paper was a beautiful crystal Lalique vase. A card was also inside—a note from Dr. Carteris offering the vase as a replacement for the one his son had shattered. If Oliver had told his father about the vase, then at least the two were talking, Rain surmised. She hoped Oliver would contact her soon to reschedule his missed appointment before she was forced to report him.

Carrying the vase into the kitchen, Rain set it on the counter and went about making a simple dinner. She took a copper pot from the hanging rack and placed it in the basin, then turned on the faucet to fill it with water for cooking pasta. She clicked on the small kitchen television set to catch the evening news.

Rain didn't hear the creak of the floorboard behind her until it was too late. Her heart lurched as a gloved hand clamped over her mouth and yanked her back against a hard chest. A sinewy forearm locked around her waist, practically lifting her off the ground.

Frantic, she tried to pry the leather-clad fingers from her lips as she was dragged through the arched opening that led from the kitchen. Rain clutched at the doorway, but the man easily broke her hold. In the foyer, she kicked at the Queen Anne table, hoping to knock it over and make some noise the officers might hear, if they were still outside. But the table merely wobbled at her efforts.

He headed with her toward the staircase. To the bedrooms? Cold terror tore at her insides.

As they reached the first step, Rain grabbed onto the banister, gaining enough leverage to wrench free of the man's grip. She bolted, but only got a step away before he was on her again. Her cry for help died abruptly as he fell with her to the parlor's hardwood floor, knocking the air from her lungs.

He flipped her onto her back. Through glazed eyes, she saw a male figure wearing a ski mask so only his eyes and mouth were visible. His irises glowed red through the slits in the mask. Rain stared in disbelief. Images of the dead women in the photos, their necks brutally gouged and their bodies slashed, flashed in her mind. She imagined her own throat filling with blood.

This can't be happening.

She was pinned to the floor under his weight, her shoulder wedged painfully against the door frame at the foot of the stairs.

“Scream again and I'll kill you.” His fingers tightened around her neck. He straddled her, his breathing shallow and harsh. He smelled of sweat. Rain knew only one thing—he was going to kill her anyway.

His free hand moved to her yoga pants. The leather gloves were cold against the damp skin of her stomach as he got a strong hold on the waistband and began to tug hard. Sucking in a weak breath, she clawed at him like a trapped animal.
He swore viciously as her nails left angry lines down the side of his neck.

“You fucking bitch!”

He backhanded her across the face. Her vision dimmed and she feared she was about to lose consciousness, then wondered if that might be a blessing, after all. He put a finger to his lips, warning her to be quiet, then went back to work on her clothing. Rain lay stunned as she heard the stretch fabric of her halter top tear.

God, please. No.

Helpless, she turned her head, hot tears leaking from her eyes. Her watery gaze fell on the cast-iron doorstop that kept the mudroom open where Dahlia's litter box was located.

Slowly, Rain inched her hand toward the heavy object shaped in the silhouette of a reclining black cat. The man grunted as he groped her breasts, obviously aroused. She stretched farther, her fingers clumsy with fear before finally closing over the feline's curled tail.

Rain swung the object at the man's head. He must have seen it coming, because he raised his arm to deflect the blow at nearly the same second. He howled as the weight hit his elbow and fell sideways, giving Rain opportunity to push him off and crawl away. Her scream pierced the air as he leaped on her again, slamming her back down to the floor. The man spat a stream of curses. Putrid saliva flowed from his mouth onto her skin. The gloved hand was back around her throat, ending her cries for help.

Rain struggled for breath as his fingers squeezed like iron bands.
She was going to be the next victim. Her house would be the next crime scene.

Darkness reached out to her, and she went into its arms.