Midnight Caller (26 page)

Christian Carteris removed his glasses and laid them on the desk. “You never asked because it was none of your business. I'm your client, and you received a substantial commission for your services. Discretion is key to your trade, is it not?”

Armand exploded. “The rosaries are what linked me to the murders, goddammit! Let me tell you something—they catch me, they catch you! I'll exchange what I know to get out of the drug charges!”

“You're playing a risky game. What if the FBI isn't in the mood to make deals? Especially with a loathsome drug dealer.”

“That's why I'm giving you the first option to buy my silence.”

After a long pause, Carteris opened a drawer and withdrew a roll of bills. He tossed it onto the desk. Picking up the money, Armand flipped through it. But his bloodshot eyes quickly narrowed into slits.

“Ten thousand dollars? That's not even a down payment.” He thumped his chest in self-importance. “
I'm the link.
I'm all the FBI needs to make the connection between those dead girls, the rosaries and you.”

Pressing his lips together, Carteris stood to his full height. As he went around to the front of the desk, Armand took an involuntary step backward.

“I'm disheartened you'd use our friendship in this manner, Armand. But I'm going to overlook it since I understand your current distress. I'm also going to fulfill your request, since it's in both our interests for you to disappear. Come with me.”

Armand's heart pulsed harder. “Where are we going?”

“To my safe.” Irritation laced Carteris's words as he walked toward the wood-carved door that led from his office to the hallway. “Lucky for you, I keep a tidy sum in the house.”

Armand fell in step behind his brisk gait, aware of the solid build of his shoulders under the starched dress shirt. It was well after midnight, and yet Carteris had greeted him at the door, fully awake and impeccably dressed. He'd observed the bruise around the socket of his right eye and wondered how the surgeon had gotten it. Subduing one of his victims? The thought gave Armand a chill. The goth community's inner circles had whispered of Carteris's sanguinary activities for some time. But with the murders, it was clear he'd lost control.

“Where's Oliver?” Armand asked.

“He's not home.”

His morbid curiosity wanted to know the extent of Oliver's involvement. Did he partake in the goods he spirited from the clubs, or was he merely the delivery boy? Oliver was an overprivileged punk, but Armand didn't see him as a murderer. Carteris's stony silence, however, warned him to keep his questions to himself.

They traveled down a wainscoted corridor lit by porcelain wall sconces. An Oriental carpet runner covered the polished wood floor. Every so often, there was another expensive piece of artwork, a rich oil painting or an antique vase on a mahogany stand. The place practically reeked of money.

“Where's your safe, Bayou St. John?” Armand's joke fell flat. He was growing jumpier by the minute. His high had
begun to falter, and he wanted to be gone from this place before it abandoned him completely.

“Patience,” Carteris snapped. “Trust me, I want you out of here quickly.”

They finally stopped at a set of wide doors. Carteris pushed them open and Armand followed him into a cavernous space with a three-tiered trey ceiling. A built-in bookcase ran the room's perimeter, and a rolling ladder on a brass railing system had been installed to reach the uppermost shelves. But the furniture and carpeting were covered in canvas drop cloths and sheets of white plastic, giving the area a ghostly appearance. Even the chandelier in the room's center was robed in white like some sort of floating apparition. Carteris pointed up to the ceiling, and Armand noticed the crumbling plaster that hung down like globs of cottage cheese.

“One of the responsibilities of fine old houses is their continual upkeep,” Carteris lectured. As he walked across the room, bits of fallen plaster crunched under his shoes. “Something's always under renovation.”

Ripping down a plastic sheet, he tugged at the edge of a gold-framed painting. It swung outward on hinges, revealing a wall safe. Armand stepped closer as Carteris twirled the dial on its door.

“I want a million.”

Carteris laughed. “You'll get one hundred thousand. And I expect you out of New Orleans by daybreak, and out of the country by tomorrow night. I have a connection who can arrange a fake passport for your travel.”

The tumblers clicked into place and Carteris pulled open the safe's door. Armand said nothing, deciding to take what he was offered, for now. He'd do his blackmailing from a safe distance, once the money he was given ran out.

“Cardiology must pay well.” He gaped at the stacks of bills being extracted.

“My research pays better. I still have ties to a private European firm, you know.” Carteris dropped the cash onto a canvas-sheathed table. “Very top-secret stuff.”

Probably tax free, too,
Armand thought. He'd definitely be getting his full million in the near future.

“I understand you sent some of your minions on an errand tonight?” Carteris's voice was muffled, his head and shoulders back inside the safe as he dug out more cash. For a second, Armand considered scooping up what was already on the table and making a run for it while the surgeon was occupied. But his greed won out and he waited, his nerves sizzling like exposed electrical wire.

“I asked you a question, Armand.”

Armand recalled the greasy-haired druggie coming back to him, moaning about the truck being scrap metal. The imbecile had still expected a handful of pills in exchange for his failed attempt. “Oh, yeah. It didn't work out. Look, could we hurry this up? It's going to be light in a few hours.”

Carteris placed several more stacks on the table. “What was your intent? To injure Agent Rivette?”

“Why do you care?”

“Rain Sommers was with him in the car.”

Armand shrugged, having lost all admiration for Desiree's daughter. She'd started this disaster by bringing her new boyfriend into the club's private sanctum. “What's the saying? You're no better than the company you keep.”

“Indeed.”

The blade was so sharp, Armand felt nothing as it slid across his throat. Grasping his neck, he stared in horrified surprise at the bright crimson spurting between his fingers and washing down his shirt. Blood splattered onto the sheeting protecting the floor. He tried to speak, but only gurgling noises emerged.

“You could've ruined everything.” Carteris ran his thumb
across the wet surface of the knife, then raised the digit to his mouth for a taste.

“I'm very disappointed in you, Armand. I paid you well for your services. I even gave you information on Agent Rivette. And you thank me by threatening to pull me into your mess?”

Armand fell to his knees. He could feel energy rushing out of him, and his vision began to recede. His body hit the floor. His last sensation was of Carteris on top of him, lapping at his throat like a hungry dog.

S
hallow morning light filtered through the gossamer curtains. Drowsily, Rain opened her eyes as Trevor got out of bed. She watched him pull on his sweatpants and T-shirt, then rummage in his duffel bag that sat on the floor.

“Rain?” His voice was low. “Are you awake?”

“No.” With a soft sigh, she rolled onto her stomach. The sheets against her naked skin felt pleasurable. They'd made love again during the night, their bodies still new to one another and the temptation of warm-silk flesh too strong not to give in. Even now, she wanted nothing more than to linger in bed with him, tucked away from the world.

“Will you get up?”

Rain lifted her head from the pillow as Trevor laced up his tennis shoes.

“You can't be serious,” she mumbled, looking at the clock. “It's Sunday and barely six-thirty. I don't
do
six-thirty.”

“I need to go for a run before it heats up outside. I haven't had the time to go for days and my legs need it. Which means you're going with me. I can't leave you here alone.”

Her response was to snuggle in more deeply. She'd just begun to doze when he pulled the sheets away, causing Dahlia to leap from the foot of the bed. Sitting up with a squeak of
surprise, Rain made a fruitless grab for the covers that were held just out of her reach. Trevor's lips curved into a soft smile. “Tempting, but we need to get going.”

“I
need
coffee.”

“Run first, coffee later. C'mon. I have a lot to do.”

“It's
Sunday,
” she repeated.

“I know, but I need to file some reports before I attend a status meeting this afternoon. My laptop's downstairs, so I can do it from here when we get back.”

She blinked at him. “I'm not going to be able to keep up with you.”

“I'll take it slow.”

With a longing glance at her pillow, Rain climbed out of bed and began to get dressed. She struggled into a sports bra, a blue tank top and running shorts, and secured her hair with an elastic band. Turning, she noticed Trevor sliding a small gun into an ankle holster concealed underneath his sweatpants. His eyes met hers in the room's retreating shadows, and she tugged self-consciously on her ponytail.

“I must look horrible. I haven't even brushed my teeth yet.”

“You look beautiful.” He stood and touched her cheek. Rain curled her fingers around his wrist as she gazed at him.

“I'm not a morning person.”

“Really? I didn't notice.”

He kissed her well enough to lift her mood. Despite the continuing search for Armand Baptiste, despite the grisly accident scene at the canal, Trevor seemed somehow more at peace this morning. If she'd managed to provide a distraction for him, however brief, she was grateful. At least she'd awakened with him next to her, instead of alone, with a uniformed police officer in her kitchen downstairs. She would
be glad for the few hours she had with him before duty called him away.

“You're not sore from last night, are you?” he asked after she came out of the bathroom. Seeing her small grin, he clarified his question. “From playing bumper cars with the truck. Not from…us.”

“I feel fine,” Rain answered truthfully. Trevor took her hand and led her from the bedroom and down the stairs. He disarmed the security system using the keypad near the front door. Outside, the sun was just beginning to rise over the roofline of the houses across the street, and the scent of gardenias drifted over from a neighboring yard.

“I do yoga in a studio,” Rain remarked. “An air-conditioned one.”

“There's nothing wrong with a little cross training.”

“I expect beignets with my coffee.” She stifled a yawn as Trevor braced his hands on the veranda's wrought-iron railing. Stealing a look at her, he bent his head and began to stretch out his calves.

“Sure, but that's going to cost you an extra mile.”

 

The maroon leaves of the Japanese maple concealed the rusted Chevrolet, which sat at the end of the street in the quiet Marigny neighborhood. James Rivette slouched in the driver's seat as he stared at the West Indies-style cottage. He gripped a waxy paper cup filled with coffee, its heat diluted by the whiskey he'd poured into it from a bottle he kept in the glove box.

At one time, the house had been his home. He'd made the down payment and handled the monthly mortgage for more years than he cared to remember. James took a long sip. He'd lost the place in the divorce. It was barely recognizable these days, painted in a god-awful shade that was somewhere between a faggoty pink and a violet.

He rolled down the window and let the warm morning air into the car's stale interior. The aroma of bacon and eggs wafted from one of the brightly hued houses, making his stomach growl. For several seconds, he considered driving to the nearest diner. But he thought of the money he'd been given and decided to stay put.

James sat there until the coffee was gone and he was left drinking straight from the bottle. One thing was certain—whoever his mystery benefactor was, it was clear Trevor had stepped on the wrong toes this time.

He'd been given to reminiscence lately, and for some reason the cold and rainy day of Sarah's funeral popped into his head like a floodlight being turned on. James hadn't seen his elder son in years, but he'd recognized him immediately among the mourners. Trevor had stood with his arm wrapped around Annabelle as she cried, the two of them under the Mercier Brothers Funeral Home tarp that had been hoisted up next to their mother's crypt. Somber-faced and handsome in a black suit and trench coat, Trevor briefly met James's stare. Then he'd callously dismissed him, instead looking out over the aboveground tombs and statuary as if his own father was no more than a ghost. Ostracized, James had been left shivering at the crowd's edge, rain dripping off him like a stray mongrel.

Later that day, he'd followed Trevor to Louis Armstrong Airport in the same beat-up Chevy he sat in right now. The holier-than-thou FBI agent hadn't realized he was being tailed. James had considered confronting his son and reminding him who was the better lawman. Instead, he'd ended up drinking alone in one of the airport bars. He took another gulp from the bottle, upending it and draining it dry.

Who was he to keep someone from bringing Trevor down a peg?

The stranger had been well dressed, with hoity-toity
manners that smacked of money and privilege. Yet despite the dark sunglasses, there was an aura about him that James recalled from his days as a beat cop working the rough streets of Storyville and Treme. The thugs there had the same disingenuous smile, which concealed an innate desire to cut out your heart if you turned your back on them. Similarly, his gut told him the stranger was someone he wouldn't want to cross.

Besides, a deal was a deal. They'd shook hands on it, shared another drink, and James had taken the money.

He belched and tossed the empty bottle out the window. Then he sat up straight as, like clockwork, the house's door creaked open. Still wearing pajamas, the little girl carried a carton of milk against her chest. Taking in the tangle of dark curls, James felt a sense of nostalgia. She looked just like his sweet Annabelle at that age.

He struggled to remember the child's name. What was it?
Haley.

James put his hand on the Chevy's door handle and heard its soft snick as he opened it. He got out, taking care not to create too much noise. She was on her way to a toolshed in a neighbor's backyard, behind which a litter of kittens waited for their milk. The man told him she came out every morning to make sure the strays got their breakfast. He'd called James late last night, announcing the time to earn his money had arrived.

He wasn't doing any real harm. Didn't he want to get to know his only grandbaby, anyway?

Picking his way past a butterfly bush that hung heavy with cone-shaped flowers, he followed the same path the little girl had taken.