Midnight Caller (4 page)

“Tuesdays through Fridays. Tonight's the last one for the week.”

“I'd like to be at the radio station, in the studio with you. If he calls again, I can try to have the line traced.”

A car alarm went off nearby, its electronic shriek causing Rain to turn her head toward the window. Then she looked at him again and slowly nodded her agreement. “I'll speak to my producer and let him know.”

“Thank you.”

Unable to stop herself, she raised her hand and gently touched the bandage at his temple.

“You should get some rest,” she said softly. Her eyes held his for several moments, and then she walked to the French doors. Through their glass panes, she could see Brian waiting in the parlor. Dahlia had found him and was perched in his lap.

“How does he kill the victims?” Rain asked, aware her question was born of morbid curiosity. When he didn't answer, she turned back to him, her hand remaining on the door handle. “I'm a trained psychologist, Agent Rivette. I'm familiar with psychotic criminal behavior.”

His voice was impassive. “He ties them up, tortures them and then he cuts their throats. The killer considers himself a sanguine vampire, although in reality he's more likely a sado-erotic blood fetishist who's spiraled out of control.”

Her grip on the handle tightened. “You think he drinks their blood?”

“It's possible, yes.”

Rain swallowed hard. “Are these instincts of yours ever wrong, Agent?”

“Sometimes.”

“Then maybe the man who called my show isn't who you're looking for.”

His gaze was direct. “This psychopath has already killed five women. Are you sure you're willing to take that chance?”

“Y
ou could've told me you knew her,” Trevor said from the passenger side of the silver Audi. He studied Brian's profile as his brother shifted gears and accelerated the sports car.

“I did tell you.”

“You said she was an
acquaintance.
Not someone you know well enough to rummage through her refrigerator looking for milk for your coffee. Even her cat knew you, Brian.”

“Rain's really more Alex's friend than mine,” he replied. “Back in his starving-artist days, he rented a room over the carriage house. Celeste sort of adopted him.”

“Celeste?”

“Rain's aunt. She died of cancer last year.”

The Audi approached Coliseum Square, the focal point of the Lower Garden District. People were walking their dogs on the lush grass or jogging on the pathways under the shade of moss-draped live oaks. A teenage boy stood alone at the edge of the park, capturing Trevor's attention. Garbed in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt too hot for the season, he glared at their car as it passed.

Dante had said he wanted to watch her bleed.
Trevor felt it in his gut—the caller to
Midnight Confessions
wasn't just
some garden-variety pervert. He leaned his head against the headrest and tried to ease the throbbing behind his eyes. The headache had worsened since he'd left the hospital, but there was little time to recuperate.

“You're going to get a ticket,” he warned as Brian accelerated again. They were outside the residential area now, and Brian had chosen to take the business 90 in lieu of the quieter side streets.

“Relax.” Brian looked over at Trevor, although it was hard to see his eyes through the dark tint of his sunglasses. “I'm a pro at avoiding cops.”

For Brian, there had always been an attraction to speed. It was evident in the car he drove, the small plane he'd learned to fly, and not so long ago, in an even faster, potentially more dangerous lifestyle of drugs and random sexual partners. Trevor's gaze traveled to the gold band his brother now wore on his left hand, symbolic of a monogamous commitment.

Annabelle had said Brian was painting again. She'd shown Trevor some early reviews that had appeared in the local arts paper. He wanted badly to believe in the transformation and forget about those years of Brian at his worst.

Brian turned his head under the weight of his brother's stare. “What?”

“Nothing.” Trevor shrugged, not wanting to ruin their companionship. Instead, he shifted his thoughts to Rain Sommers. The petite redhead was nothing like he'd expected. She was polished and feminine, with delicate features and striking amber eyes. Not to mention, he'd noted the Ph.D. after her name on her business card. It confirmed the title
doctor
had been earned and wasn't just some affectation for the show's benefit.

“What the hell kind of name is Rain, anyway?” Trevor massaged his forehead. “What were her parents, hippies?”

“You really don't know.”

“Know what?”

“Ever heard of Desiree Sommers?”

A small, slender woman with a mass of coppery hair and eyes rimmed in dark makeup flashed in Trevor's mind. “The singer? That's her mother?”

Brian nodded. “They're dead ringers, aren't they?”

Desiree Sommers had been part of the avant-garde music scene in the late seventies and early eighties. Half whiskey-voiced torch singer and half rock diva, she'd only begun to receive national attention when she'd been murdered in her New Orleans home. The tragedy had become a rock legend, a
True Hollywood Story
that made Desiree larger in death than she'd been in life.

“That's the house where she was killed, isn't it?”

“Rain's father murdered her mother and then killed himself,” Brian recounted. “Rain was asleep in the next room. She was two years old. Celeste, Desiree's sister, moved in and raised her.”

They rode in silence while Trevor digested the information, not speaking again until they turned off the freeway and entered the Marigny neighborhood where Trevor's hotel was located. Brian parked on the street across from the building with black-shuttered windows and geranium baskets hanging in the breezeway. He left the car idling so the air conditioner remained on, and removed his sunglasses.

“You okay? I saw you rubbing your forehead.”

“I'm fine.”

“Signing out against medical advice wasn't a good idea. You look like hell, Trevor.”

“I just need something for my headache, that's all.”

“I should take you back to All Saints.”

“Don't worry about it.” Trevor released the seat belt. “You've done enough, driving me here from the hospital to shower and change, then taking me to meet Dr. Sommers.”

“She's going to want you to call her Rain,” Brian commented. “And I drove you because you shouldn't be driving yourself. If you were listening, the doctor said someone needs to stay with you. Why don't you come back with me to the loft. Just for the afternoon.”

“I've got a lot to do. Some calls to make, for starters.”

The car filled with quiet tension. “You don't even want to meet him, do you?”

He looked at Brian. “That's not true.”

From a young age, Trevor had understood Brian was somehow different, in a way their cop father would have only raged against. As the older brother, he'd made it his job to deflect and buffer, for as long as he could.

“I know I made things harder for you,” Brian said quietly. “But I never asked you to fight my battles.”

“I wanted to protect you.”

“You didn't have to—”

“Yes,
I did,
” Trevor countered almost angrily. “He would've destroyed you.”

“Christ, Trevor. What do you think he did to you?”

Silence lingered between the two men, creating a chasm filled with painful memories. Trevor opened the door, allowing a wave of oppressive heat to enter the vehicle's interior. He got out and stood there for a moment before leaning back inside, one hand on the car's roof. “I
will
meet Alex,” he promised. “At your art reception Sunday night. Annabelle already told me about it.”

“You'll be there?”

“I wouldn't miss it.”

Brian's eyes searched his brother's. Then he nodded in acceptance. “Just take it easy, okay?”

Trevor closed the door and watched Brian drive away, the car a blur of silver metallic on the narrow street. Once it dis
appeared, he ground the heels of his hands against his eyes. His entire body was feeling the impact with the Cadillac.

Inside his hotel room, Trevor went into the bathroom, ran some water into a tumbler that sat on the counter and downed two Tylenol tablets. When he looked in the mirror, his own pale reflection stared back. The bruising around the cut on his forehead was the only wash of color in his face.

Christ, Trevor. What do you think he did to you?

Brian's pointed question came back to him, and he wondered again at the impulsiveness that had led him to Mallory's bar. Maybe the Cadillac was some kind of cosmic warning to stay the hell away from his past.

He turned off the bathroom light and went back into the bedroom. He placed several calls, including one to the local FBI field office to check in, and another to Eddie McGrath at the NOPD. There was still no ID on the Jane Doe found in the shotgun house on Tchoupitoulas, the detective told him. In turn, Trevor informed McGrath of the possible lead he had at the radio station, and his plan to sit in on the talk show that night. His final call was to SAC Johnston at the VCU offices in D.C. Johnston was a gruff character, bald and built like a brick shithouse, with the hard glint of a former military man.

“Resources are spread thin right now—I've got your partner working on a child-murder case in Maryland,” Johnston said over the phone, referring to Special Agent Nate Fincher. “He's not going to be able to make it down there.”

He thought of the type of investigation Nate was handling. “Tough case.”

“Aren't they all.”

Trevor filled Johnston in on the Jane Doe autopsy and the caller to
Midnight Confessions.

“Desiree Sommers's daughter, huh?” Johnston's deep voice held a hint of nostalgia. “I used to listen to her as a teenager.
Keep me posted, Rivette. I think the caller's a long shot, but it's worth looking into. Some of these guys are so full of self-importance, it's impossible for them not to brag about their accomplishments. Who knows—maybe this asshole's looking for a forum.”

Afterward, Trevor removed his firearm still inside its holster and placed it on the nightstand. He had a lot to do, but he lay down and waited for the Tylenol to kick in. Squeezing his eyes shut against the light that filtered through the window, he thought again of Rain Sommers. Although she'd done her best to hide it, he'd seen the flicker of fear in her hazel eyes.

She had reason to be afraid, he realized.

 

The sign on the window advertised a blue-plate special along with the city's best shrimp étouffée. It was early evening, the dinner rush ended, and only a few tables in the small diner on Frenchmen Street were occupied. Trevor entered with the strap of a computer case over his shoulder. He'd just completed a meeting at the FBI field office with the local SAC and had a little time left before heading to WNOR.

“Take a seat anywhere you want, chère,” a platinum blonde called from behind the counter. Her eyes gave him the once-over.

He selected a booth in back and the waitress followed him over, placing a glass of ice water on the table while he powered up the laptop. He ordered the étouffée along with a cup of coffee and handed back the laminated menu.

While he waited for his food, Trevor ran an Internet search on Desiree Sommers, his curiosity piqued. The query returned dozens of hits, so he began working his way down the list. The first was a fan-operated Web site with a distinct gothic theme, and it included a gallery of photos of the singer. He clicked through the images, lingering on a scanned reproduction of
Desiree's debut album. The cover was a scratchy black-and-white photo, of Desiree wearing a revealing cocktail dress and torn fishnet stockings. Her porcelain complexion had been made to appear even paler with makeup, and her eyes were rimmed in dark liner. She stood alone in a room surrounded by candles.

The album's title was
Decadent Soul.
Trevor read in the caption beneath the image that it had been released in 1979, two years prior to her death.

Trevor sipped the coffee the waitress had brought him and continued to study the image. The resemblance between Desiree and her daughter was evident. Both women were beautiful, although Rain Sommers had an understated elegance compared to her mother's overt sexuality. He clicked through several more Web sites, reading sensationalized accounts of the murder-suicide that ended Desiree's life.

“I can't figure out if you're a businessman, a cop or a tourist.” The waitress broke into his thoughts as she set a plate of the Creole stew and rice in front of him. He pulled his gaze from the laptop's screen and glanced up at her.

“Pardon me?”

“Well, you're wearing a suit and you've got a laptop, so I thought maybe you're catching up on some work from the office.” Her eyes traveled to the bandage on Trevor's forehead. “But most businessmen don't look like they came off the losing end of a bar fight.”

Trevor scooped a mound of the étouffée onto his fork and took a bite. Although his headache had eased, he'd eaten little since the previous night at Annabelle's. He felt almost instantly better as the food hit his stomach.

“The sign don't lie, best in New Orleans,” the waitress proclaimed. She took some extra napkins from her apron pocket and laid them on the table.

“Anyway, when you took off your jacket, I saw that.” She
nodded toward the gun on Trevor's hip. “So I figured you were a plainclothes detective. Only thing is, you're dressed too nice for the NOPD. They usually favor short-sleeved dress shirts and polyester clip-on ties.”

Trevor swallowed more food. “Why'd you think I could be a tourist?”

The waitress slid onto the bench across from him. He estimated her to be only in her late thirties, and although not unattractive, she looked as though she'd already lived a hard life. But her penny-brown eyes sparkled.

“You're looking up Desiree on the Web. I thought you might be sightseeing. Of course, you're not the type usually looking for her place.”

Trevor wiped his mouth with his napkin. “What type is that?”

“You know, ghouls. We get them spooky kids in here all the time, the ones with the dyed black hair and eyeliner. After Anne Rice's old house and Trent Reznor's place, Desiree's is next on the freak-show tour.”

Leaning forward, she tapped a lacquered nail on the table. “Here's one thing they don't tell you in the tabloids. After that British guitarist cut Desiree's throat, he wrote the word
whore
on the wall in her own blood. They say the wall's been painted over a dozen times, but it still shows through. How's that for a bedtime story?”

“Or an urban legend.”

“Maybe.” Her hand curling under her chin, she changed topics. “Anyone ever tell you that you've got beautiful eyes, chère?”

From the open kitchen, a man sporting a stained T-shirt cleared his throat and gave her a warning stare. The waitress slid from the booth. “So, you gonna tell me? Businessman, cop or tourist?”

Trevor reached for his wallet in the back pocket of his suit pants. “Let's just go with someone needing his check.”

“I love a man of mystery.” The waitress grinned as she rummaged in her apron pocket for his bill. Scribbling on the paper, she laid it on the table.

“That's your lagniappe. Your little something extra.” She winked and pointed at the name Crystal with her telephone number scrawled next to it. “You come back anytime.”