Midnight Caller (5 page)

As Trevor finished his food, he sent an e-mail to the NOPD records office, using his federal badge number to request the files on the murder of Desiree Sommers, if they even still existed. Leaving cash to cover his meal and a tip, he returned the laptop to its case and walked outside.

The sun was beginning to set over the tops of the ancient, pressed-together buildings. Although it was outside the Quarter, Frenchmen Street was nearly as commercial, lined with smoky bars and casual restaurants. The vibration of a bass guitar came from one of the music clubs, the instrument sounding as if it was being tuned for the night. Trevor checked his watch and estimated the time he needed to get to the WNOR studios in the Central Business District.

His car, a rented Ford Taurus, was parked in an alleyway behind the diner. As Trevor turned the corner, he noticed its interior light was on and the driver's-side door ajar. He slowed, setting the computer case down and withdrawing his gun as he looked around the isolated alley.

Nothing.
He appeared to be alone.

Approaching the vehicle, he slid cautiously into the front seat and removed the black cross that hung on a leather cord from the rearview mirror. Studded with rhinestones, the gothic, fleur-de-lis pendant glimmered dully. Trevor felt his heart speed up. His guess was that it belonged to the Jane Doe.

It wasn't the first time the man he was searching for had
given him a trophy, just to remind him that he was one step ahead. But it was the first one delivered personally.

It also meant the killer was still in New Orleans.

“W
here were you tonight?” David wanted to know as Rain entered through the doors of the radio station. He stood at the chrome-and-glass reception desk, going over the evening's playlist. “I came by to give you a lift.”

“I'm sorry. I had some errands to run.” Rain hoped he wouldn't ask for details. The truth was, she'd avoided him when he'd come by her house earlier that evening. She'd hidden as David knocked on the front door and then peered inside through the parlor windows. Finally, he'd returned to his Jaguar and driven away.

Admittedly, it wasn't adult behavior on her part. But the past twenty-four hours had unsettled her, beginning with last night's caller to
Midnight Confessions.
Then Trevor Rivette had appeared on her veranda with a gun on his hip and a grim theory about the caller's identity. She didn't need David stepping on her already frayed nerves.

Rain attempted to walk past him, but he blocked her path. “Did you like the flowers?”

His face bore the look of a hopeful puppy. When she'd called him that afternoon to let him know about the FBI's interest in the show, she'd forgotten to even mention the bouquet.

“Yes, thank you. They're lovely.”

David's eyes traveled over her, taking in her ivory raw-silk blouse and tailored black slacks. “I meant what I said in the note—”

He stopped midsentence as Ella appeared from the hallway.

“David, I've got the dub of last night's show.” She glided into the reception area with a compact disc and pretended not to notice Rain's presence.

“Please take it to Agent Rivette,” he replied dismissively. Rain didn't miss the annoyance that shone in Ella's eyes. She pivoted on one high heel, the heavy scent of perfume accompanying her retreat into the studio's interiors.

“Where is he?” Rain inquired once Ella was gone.

“The FBI agent? Waiting in the production room. Why does the name Rivette sound familiar?”

“He's Brian Rivette's brother. You remember meeting Alex's partner?”

“Ah, Alex.” He bobbed his head. Rain pursed her lips, aware of the mutual dislike between David and her friend Alex Santos.

“I see the resemblance, now that you mention it. So, is this Agent Rivette a homosexual, too?”

“Why don't you ask him?” Rain suggested. “Worst case, he'd think you were coming on to him and shoot you.”

Ignoring her sarcasm, he went to adjust the lighting on the WNOR logo that hung on the wall behind the reception desk. “Well, it looks like your concerns about this Dante character were on target. You must feel some vindication in that.”

Rain would have preferred to be off base. She was reminded that in less than an hour, she might be talking to Dante again over the airwaves. Although she'd studied criminal behavior during her doctoral program, her exposure had
been mostly academic. Dante added an element of realism she'd neither expected, nor wanted, to experience firsthand.

“This could work to our advantage, you know.”

She realized David was still speaking, and she'd missed whatever else he'd just said. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged his shoulders under his Hugo Boss shirt. “All I'm saying is that if this lunatic calls back, don't worry about how risqué the conversation gets. We're cooperating with a federal investigation. Surely that gives us leeway in what's being said on air.”

He patted his shirt and trouser pockets. “I wrote some barbs and double entendres that might be interesting. Maybe you can work them into the conversation, if I can remember where the hell I put them—”

“They're on your desk.” Ella had returned, holding a WNOR mug brimming with caramel-colored coffee. She smiled at David. “Just the way you like it, with lots of steamed milk.”

Ella even made the words
steamed milk
sound suggestive. She pressed the mug into David's hands, which was so full, hot liquid sloshed over its rim.

“Damn it, Ella!”

As Ella snatched tissues from the desk and brushed at the spot on David's trousers, Rain slipped from the reception area. She found Trevor in the production room, finishing up a call on his cell phone with his back to her. When he closed the phone and turned around, his eyes met hers. Like earlier that day, his tie had been loosened, and the sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to reveal the lean muscles of his forearms. Although the bandage remained on his temple, much of his color had returned.

“Dr. Sommers.”

“Rain,” she corrected.

“Rain.” There was a brief silence as he looked at her. “I
have an FBI field technician standing by to help with the trace. If the call's made from a landline, it should be an immediate process.”

“What if he uses a cell phone?”

“We can triangulate the call using cell towers to pinpoint its origin. The process takes longer, but if the call is made from an urban area with multiple towers, it's possible to narrow the caller's location to a few hundred feet.” He placed his hands on his hips, wedging his right one above his holstered gun. “Are you going to be able to do this?”

Rain let go of a nervous breath. “I'm going to try.”

“I'll be sitting across from you, right here in the production room. You'll be able to see me through the window. Your producer's run an additional feed into your headset so I can talk to you while you're on air without the caller being able to hear me. Do you want to try it out?”

Going into the broadcast booth, Rain picked up the headset and put it on. She could see Trevor, who'd remained in the production room and wore a similar device. “Agent Rivette—”

“It's Trevor,” he replied, his voice coming through clearly. He must have sensed her anxiety, because he added, “Remember, this might not be the guy. He might not even call back.”

“But you don't believe that, do you?”

He gazed at her through the window. “No.”

 

A promotional poster for the goth band Raven was pinned to the wall inside the booth. Rain stared at the grainy image of a stone staircase with a winged female descending the shadowed steps. Was the ethereal figure a vampire or an angel? She'd never paid much attention to the poster before, but tonight she found it nearly as unsettling as the clock on her desk announcing the time in bold green digits. It was a
quarter to ten, fifteen minutes before
Midnight Confessions
went on air.

Rain paced the booth, the space feeling suddenly confining and cagelike. Then she walked briskly down the hall and into the ladies' restroom. Avoiding her reflection in the mirror, she ran some water in the basin and wished she could follow it down the drain. The smell of pine-scented cleanser caused her stomach to roll. Could she do this? What if she said something that tipped off the caller about the trace?

She wasn't certain how long she'd stood there trying to get her bearings, but a knock sounded against the door. Trevor's voice was uncertain.

“Rain? Are you all right?”

She opened the door halfway.

“There's something you should know about me,” Rain said quietly. She let several beats of silence pass before making her confession, but it was something he had to be told. She sighed and felt a sense of shame. “I can't drive.”

His forehead creased. “I don't understand.”

“It's a phobia. I'm a therapist with a completely ridiculous, unmanageable fear. Does that give you confidence in me?”

“What does that have to do—”

Rain shook her head, frustrated he was unable to follow her logic. “If I can't do something as basic as drive a car, how am I supposed to keep a possible serial killer on the line long enough to trace his location?”

“You talked to him last night, Rain. Nothing's changed.”

“I hung up on him,” she reminded. “And that was
before
I knew who he might be.”

Trevor studied her face. “Are you coming out of there or am I coming in?”

She hesitated before stepping back and allowing him inside. Once she'd closed the door behind them, she leaned against the wall's cool porcelain tiles.

“I don't even have a driver's license,” she admitted. “Counseling sessions, hypnotherapy, nothing's helped. Thank heaven for the St. Charles Streetcar Line or all my money would be spent on taxis.”

“Rain—”

“I don't think my patients respect me, but why should they?” She frowned at the stall's metal door. “Just this morning, one of my teenage patients broke into my house. I think he stole my underwear. He denied it, of course, but there's a pair of blue silk panties missing from my lingerie drawer. I don't even want to know what he might be doing with them…”

Realizing she was babbling, Rain felt a flush creep onto her cheekbones. She closed her eyes. “God. That was TMI, wasn't it?”

“It's okay.”

“I just thought you should know I might screw up your investigation.”

“You won't.” Trevor held her gaze. “Try to remember that he can't touch you through the airwaves. It's just a voice.”

“But that's not really true. That it's just a voice?”

He bent his head closer to hers, his voice low. His hand touched her arm. “I've heard you on the radio, Rain. Just treat him like a normal caller. You can do this.”

He started to say more, but the click of the door handle drew their attention. David gawked at the two of them together in the intimate space. “What's going on? Why aren't you in the booth?”

“I needed a moment to pull myself together.” Rain tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and evaded his stare.

“You're on air in three minutes.” He left the door open and headed back down the hall.

Trevor looked at Rain. “You okay?”

“Do you mean am I done freaking out?” She nodded, still
mortified. “Thanks for not laughing about the car thing. Or the stolen underwear. I can't believe I told you that. You must think I'm nuts.”

“You've got a case of the jitters, that's all. You didn't ask for any of this.”

“If the caller is who you think he is, why would he call
me?
”

“Maybe he needs a medium to share his fantasies, and your show fits the bill.” He paused, his eyes somber. “It's also possible he feels some connection to you through your mother.”

So he knew about Desiree, after all.

Rain felt the butterflies in her stomach kick up again.

 

More than two hours had passed. Rain had taken a half-dozen calls, none of them from Dante. One caller was a teenage female seeking advice about an unplanned pregnancy. Another, a male in his early twenties, was pondering dropping out of his senior year of college to play in a rock band. Several others had called in to discuss various sexual topics. The last one, a female, mostly wanted advice on losing weight.

Rain looked at Trevor through the window separating them. If he was concerned Dante might not make an appearance, he gave no indication of it. Instead, he sat quietly in the production room, listening to the on-air conversations.

“We've got less than an hour. He's not going to call,” she said once a spot for Dixie Voodoo beer began running in the commercial break.

“There's still time,” Trevor replied.

Uncertain if he was offering hope or a warning, she glanced away.

A few minutes later, as the last strains of a song track played over the airwaves, David stood from the console where
he'd been screening calls. The excitement on his face caused Rain's pulse to spike.

“This is it. We've got Dante on line two.”

Trevor extracted his cell phone and pressed it to his ear. Through her headset, Rain heard him request the trace. At nearly the same time, the on-air sign in the broadcast studio sprang to life.

Keep it together, Rain.
She pressed the blinking button on her own console.

“We're back with
Midnight Confessions.
” Tamping down her fear, she added, “I'm Dr. Rain Sommers, and our next caller is Dante from the Quarter.”

His words settled over the airwaves like heavy velvet. “Do you remember me from last night, Rain?”

“You're not someone I'd forget,” she admitted.

“You hung up on me.”

“Well, you're back on the air now.”

“So all is forgiven? Perhaps my choice of topic was too provocative?”

Rain took in a tight breath. “Refresh the audience on your topic, Dante.”

“We were talking about bondage and bloodplay, and whether you found the idea of it erotic. I merely offered to induct you, to show you the ropes?” He chuckled softly. “No pun intended.”

Trevor's voice came through her headset. “You're doing fine, Rain. The call's being made from a cell phone. It's being triangulated now, but you're going to need to keep him on the line.”

Rain steeled her nerves as she returned her attention to the caller. “You'll have to forgive me, but the words
blood
and
play
don't go together in my dictionary. Care to elaborate?”

“I'm surprised you're claiming ignorance, my dear. After
all, you have your own link to the goth community. Blood games are hardly a novelty in those circles.”

“Are you part of the goth scene?”

“When it suits my needs,” he replied. “For the most part, I find their gloomy atmosphere tiresome. All those dour wannabes walking around in black clothing.”

“So you
don't
identify yourself as goth?”

“Do
you?
Your mother was the prototype, Rain. She was goth before there was such a thing. A pity she died while you were so young, and in such a brutal manner. But then, her death has made you a bit famous, hasn't it?”

Rain wanted to tell him to go to hell, but she was mindful of the need to keep him talking.