Midnight Caller (20 page)

The phone went dead.

“The park's two blocks from here,” Rain said. “Trevor—”

She followed as he strode into the foyer. Gun in hand, Trevor threw open the front door. But it was quiet outside. For once, there wasn't even a patrol car on the street.

A sturdy chain with an antique, silver finish lay on the welcome mat. The pendant on the necklace was a small glass vial.

“You know who it belongs to, don't you?” she asked.

Picking up the necklace, Trevor looked around in the darkness. When he turned to her, his eyes were solemn. “So do you.”

T
revor remained at the crime scene until nearly midnight when the forensics team had completed its job. Now early morning, he stood at a table in the Royal Street police precinct, photos of Marcy Cupich's body spread out in front of him like a losing hand of cards. The images made his chest ache.

She had been dumped in a remote corner of the park, her mutilated, partially nude corpse hidden under a honeysuckle bush. The moment he'd spotted the glass vial with the crimson liquid inside it abandoned on Rain's doorstep, he'd known.

“Hard to believe she was in here a couple of days ago.” Holding a coffee mug, Thibodeaux came up to the table and studied the photos. “You think the killer considered her a liability?”

“It's likely he saw me talking to her at the Ascension.” Trevor felt a wash of guilt. “He wouldn't know without her glasses she made a poor witness.”

“How old was this one?”

“Seventeen.”

“Damn.” Thibodeaux shook his head. “Did you get what you need?”

“Yeah.” Trevor had come by the precinct on his way to
meet SAC Johnston at the FBI field office, to get copies of some of the police files.

He picked up one of the displayed photos, unable to stop punishing himself. The rosary had been wrapped tightly around Marcy's wrists. Like the other victims, she'd suffered slashes on her thighs, stomach and breasts before the final cut that severed the main arteries in her neck. While there were no indications of rape on any of the victims, the FBI profile suggested the killer masturbated during the torture. Trevor wondered how long the madman had drawn out Marcy's torment before ending her life.

Scrubbing a hand over his tired eyes, he focused again on the youth of the victims in New Orleans. Was the age regression coincidental, or did it have some significance he had yet to figure out?

“You talked to the parents?” Thibodeaux broke into Trevor's thoughts.

“A little while ago.” He'd felt the need to deliver the bad news himself. “Marcy was a foster kid. She went into the system a year ago when her mother died. She'd been with this latest family for only a few months.”

McGrath lumbered into the bullpen. He peeled off his sports coat and draped it over the back of his desk chair before heading for the coffeemaker. “Next time,
you
park the car, Tibbs. The lot out back's full. I had to walk four blocks over.”

“A little exercise won't hurt you, Eddie.”

“In this heat, it might. Damned if it wasn't ninety by sunrise this morning.” McGrath dumped two plastic tubs of nondairy creamer into his coffee, then stirred it with a minuscule red straw until the liquid turned the color of delta sand. “You get any sleep, Rivette? You're looking a little gothlike yourself.”

“I got a few hours.”
Very few.
Trevor glanced at his
wristwatch. His briefing with Johnston and the local SAC was in a little over a half hour. Johnston wouldn't be pleased another girl had turned up dead, especially one connected to the investigation. He'd probably heard about it already on the early-morning news.

“I've got to go.” Gathering the files, Trevor shoved them into his briefcase. “I'll be at the autopsy at noon. I'm also going to want to talk to some of those kids at the Ascension again.”

“Good luck with that.” McGrath adjusted the window blinds in an attempt to shut out the sunlight. “Anything we can do while you're getting your ass chewed?”

“If you're serious, you can pick up a kid for me.” He wrote Oliver Carteris's name and address on a piece of paper and handed it over. “The residence is in the Upper Garden District, right on St. Charles Avenue. He isn't in any trouble as far as I know. But he's a patient of Dr. Sommers and he caused a scene at her place yesterday. I'd like to ask him a few questions.”

“Swanky address.”

“Give me a call when you bring him in and I'll swing by, okay?”

Trevor left the detectives. Exiting through the back doors to avoid the press out front, he had to agree with McGrath's appraisal. Despite the early hour, the humidity created a sharp contrast to the building's cool interior. It felt as if a steamed towel had been dropped over the Quarter.

“Agent Rivette?” A dark-haired male jogged toward him. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, and a shield hung from a chain around his neck.

“Thought that was you—this will save me a call,” he said as he caught up. “I recognized you from the press conference yesterday. I'm Danny Reyes with the DEA. I'm the lead agent
over a local drug investigation, and I need to talk to you about the Ascension.”

The men shook hands. “I'm headed to a meeting, Reyes. Want to walk me to my car?”

Reyes fell in step beside him. “You're looking at the club in relationship to the Vampire Murders?”

“Who told you that?”

“We've got an agent working undercover. He saw you there a few nights ago. Said you were asking a lot of questions, generally kicking up dirt.”

Trevor squinted against the sun. “Two of the three victims frequented the club, including the one who turned up dead in Coliseum Square last night.”

“I heard about that. What about the club owner, Armand Baptiste? You been able to link him to any of the homicides?”

“Not so far.”

“You should know the DEA has its sights on Baptiste.” Reyes tucked his shield under his T-shirt. “We've been following a distribution ring working out of the club for a while now, and we think he's a big part of it. We're conducting a raid tonight, and we also just got matching warrants for his antiques business and warehouse that we plan to enforce at the same time. Our agent says the time is right, so this can't wait. I wanted to check with you first and make sure we didn't get in each other's way.”

“I understand. Do the police know about this yet?” Trevor fished in his pocket for the keys as they neared the Taurus.

“Not yet. This has been under pretty deep cover. That's why I'm here—we're going to need some NOPD assistance for crowd control and arrestee processing, among other things.”

Trevor considered an opportunity. It wasn't his warrant, but he wondered what the raid might reveal that could be of
interest to him. “Do you see a problem with me and a few friends tagging along tonight?”

“A few friends? I don't want the legality of the warrants challenged—”

“Don't worry. I'm not suggesting a league of FBI agents. Just me at the Ascension and a couple of NOPD detectives at the other locations.” He shrugged. “We know what we're looking for, so if your agents happen to stumble across anything relevant to our investigation…”

Reyes nodded thoughtfully. “I'm all for interagency cooperation. I'll set up a meeting to coordinate for this afternoon.”

Once they'd exchanged business cards, Trevor stared after the agent's retreating figure, then opened the car door. Heat escaped from the interior like a dry sauna. Tossing his briefcase onto the seat, he slid inside and started the engine. He took a small measure of satisfaction in knowing Baptiste was about to get his comeuppance.

 

Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at the redbrick building housing the FBI field offices near Lake Pontchartrain. Trevor presented his shield and was escorted by a receptionist to a windowed conference room with a long table and swivel chairs. Sweating pitchers of ice water and a row of glasses were in the table's center, although only one other person was already there. SAC Johnston stood with his arms crossed over his barrel-like chest, the fluorescent lights glinting off his smooth, bald head.

“Well, Agent Rivette. I'd say this pimple you've been picking at is coming to a head right here in New Orleans.”

“Yes, sir.” Trevor laid his briefcase on the table.

“This is beyond a special VCU project now,” he said, referring to the task force.

“I'd like to stay here in New Orleans to see this to its
culmination,” Trevor emphasized. He had no intention of turning leads over to the local FBI team and walking away. There was too much at stake and he'd followed Dante's trail for too long. “I'm from here, sir, and I'm very familiar with the area. As you know, I've also established a relationship with the unsub—”

“Has he made contact with you about this latest victim?” Johnston asked. He still hadn't sat down at the table, his bearing military straight. Trevor remained standing, as well.

“Last night by cell phone, informing me of the body he'd left in Coliseum Park. He referred to the dead girl as a
gift
for me.”

Trevor told him about the planned DEA drug raid on the Ascension that night. He lowered his voice in case anyone was within earshot outside the room. “It's not our warrant and we can't have a dozen FBI agents storming in there, but I can go in informally and see what stands out.”

Taking off his wire-rimmed glasses, Johnston used a tissue to wipe the lenses. “This case has become personal to you, Agent Rivette?”

Trevor felt his shoulders tense, but he didn't break his gaze. “I want to get this guy. I've invested eighteen months.”

“Agent Fincher won't be able to join you. Another child abduction and murder occurred yesterday near Arlington. We think they're related.” He cleared his throat, his gaze remaining stoic. “But you have the local FBI and police.”

Footsteps and the murmur of conversation came from down the hallway, letting them know the others attending the meeting were on their way.

“Make no mistake, Agent. I want this case closed before another body turns up.”

 

Just before midnight, revelers poured from the doors of the Ascension like ants escaping a flattened anthill. Inside, DEA and police swarmed the converted sanctuary.

Wearing a Kevlar vest like the other law enforcement roving the club, Trevor worked his way through the chaos and into the shadowed passage that led to the basement. When he reached the bottom of the stone stairwell, his eyes swept over the private playroom of Armand Baptiste and his goth kindred. With the lights on, the gaping room no longer looked eerie, simply bare and dingy. The bar area was deserted except for a half-dozen leather-clad males who were lined up and facing the windowless wall. Their legs were spread and their hands clasped behind their heads as DEA agents and police patted them down.

“How many cows you figure had to die to outfit these losers?” Reyes had come down the stairs, his own Kevlar unstrapped and hanging at his sides. “It looks like the biker convention from hell down here.”

“What's the count?” Trevor asked, holstering his gun.

“So far, we've got five for narcotics possession, one for carrying a concealed weapon. There's also an NOPD wagon full of underage drinkers.”

Trevor suspected the wagon contained some of the kids he wanted to talk to again, this time about Marcy Cupich's murder. “What about Baptiste?”

Reyes shook his head. “No sign of him here or at the other locales.”

Scuffling sounds came from the hallway behind the bar. A stringy-haired male burst through the door with two policemen in pursuit. Blocking the man's exit, Trevor seized him by the shirt and shoved him face-first against the wall.

“I've been looking for you,
Girard.
” He pinned the struggling man's arms behind his back.

Girard snarled over his shoulder, flashing pointed teeth. One of the officers stepped in with handcuffs and took over.

“You know this asshole?” Reyes asked Trevor.

“Only socially. He tried to gut me with a six-inch hunting knife.”

“Agent Reyes,” a muscular African-American in a DEA jacket called from the hallway's threshold. “I think we found something.”

Trevor followed Reyes and the agent down the corridor and past the storeroom that had been the site of the knife attack a few days earlier. That room was also now brightly lit, and DEA men were rummaging through the shelving units and cardboard boxes stacked against the walls.

“There's another room at the end of the hallway,” the agent commented, pointing ahead. “Some kind of private office.”

A second slant of light indicated the other room. As they approached, Trevor noticed the awkward angle of the door, which suggested it had been previously closed and locked until force was applied. It yawned open, hanging gingerly by its top hinge. Trevor and Reyes stepped inside. The room contained only a desk, a chair and a tall metal cabinet, its front padlocked. A bare bulb hung from a cord in the room's center. If this was Baptiste's personal office, it was a far cry from his elegant work space at the antiques firm.

Another agent stood nearby with bolt cutters.

“Do the honors,” Reyes told him.

The cabinet's padlock was cut through in seconds. The man swung the doors open.

“Bingo,” Reyes intoned under his breath. On the cabinet's shelves sat a half-dozen packages wrapped in brown butcher paper. One was partially ripped open, and pills tumbled from its insides like candy from a piñata.

“This a nightclub or a pharmacy?” the agent with the bolt cutters asked, grinning.

But Trevor wasn't looking at the drugs. His gaze had shifted to the slim rectangular case on the cabinet's lower shelf.

“You want to remove that?” he said to Reyes.

Reyes donned gloves and placed the case on the desk, then opened its lid.

Trevor felt a jolt at what he saw. “Can we get a photographer in here?”

“You bet,” Reyes said, calling for one.

Black crystal beads with mother-of-pearl and a Celtic silver cross.
His mouth dry, Trevor stared at the pair of identical rosaries inside the velvet-lined case, their glimmering ropes entwined like lovers' arms.