Midnight Caller (9 page)

“David's not staying with me,” Rain replied.

“Then I'll have someone over there tonight.”

“That's not necessary.”

“I really think—”

“No,” she stated firmly. It was true Dante had unsettled her, but what Trevor couldn't possibly understand was how much she valued her privacy, due to the intrusions she'd dealt with over the years as Desiree's daughter. There'd been fans of her mother's who'd invaded the wrought-iron fencing around her home, attempting to snap photos through the windows. They'd even pried bricks from the garden walkway to take as souvenirs. Despite her apprehension, she didn't want a stranger taking up armed guard in her house. In fact, she didn't want a firearm in her home at all. The house on Prytania had seen enough violence. Considering Trevor's career choice, if she told him that, he'd probably accuse her of staunch liberalism. Which wouldn't actually be too far off the mark.

“I have a home-security system. I'll keep it engaged,” she said, sounding braver than she felt.

Trevor rubbed a hand over his jaw, the action making it clear he didn't agree with her decision. “I'll have a unit swing
by here and take you home, at least. An officer can escort you to the door and check out the house before you go inside.”

Rain nodded, relenting to that one suggestion. Trevor went to Alex's desk and picked up the phone. She listened as he called the precinct, giving his federal badge number and requesting a squad car. He hung up after providing the gallery's address.

“They'll be here in a few minutes.”

Rain touched his arm, which was all hard sinew under warm skin. “Thank you.”

As he looked at her, she felt an almost magnetic pull between them. Finally, she let her hand fall away and he moved to the door.

“Trevor?” Her voice caused him to turn around. He'd opened the door slightly, and a thin slant of light from the hallway spilled across the floor.

“What I said about you using me to get to Dante. What I meant was—”

“I didn't lead Dante to
Midnight Confessions.
He came there all by himself. He'd still be listening to your show even if I'd never heard him call in that night.”

Rain realized he was right. “I want to help the investigation in any way I can. But I have to know the truth about what's going on.”

Trevor shifted his weight in the doorway and she saw the same internal struggle as earlier appear in his eyes.

“We got an ID on the victim,” he said. “Her name is Cara Seagreen. She was a fifteen-year-old from Kenner, out clubbing with a fake driver's license. I spent most of yesterday afternoon interviewing the girl Cara was with that night.”

“What did you find out?”

“Nothing more than the general vicinity of the Quarter the two girls started off in. Cara's friend admits to taking Ecstasy, and as you're probably aware, a common side effect
is memory loss. She isn't even sure at what point of the evening Cara disappeared, or which club they were in when she saw her last. But they'd definitely been to several of the goth hangouts in the city.”

Trevor opened the door wider, letting the rumble of conversation from the gallery filter inside.

“You've got my card, Rain. If you need anything, or if you change your mind about having a guard inside your home, just call. In the meantime, I'm going to put a unit on the street outside your house permanently. If you're alone, the drive-bys aren't nearly adequate.”

He bid her good-night and left the office, but Rain remained inside a while longer, still struck by the physical attraction she'd felt to Trevor. She also collected her thoughts. Dante had known about the trace. She considered the possibility that he'd seen Trevor arrive at her house that morning, and put two and two together.

Which also meant he'd been outside somewhere, watching her all along.

A
s the Taurus turned onto the Canal Street Wharf, Trevor saw a half-dozen patrol units, their blue lights cutting through the mist rising from the Mississippi River. He shifted the vehicle into park, then turned off the engine and glanced at the illuminated clock on the dashboard: 2:52 a.m.

McGrath had called Trevor's cell phone a half hour ago, letting him know another victim had been found in a storage facility near the water. He calculated the distance between the wharf and where Brian's art reception had been held just a few hours earlier.

It was less than five city blocks.

Flashing his shield at the uniforms, he lifted the yellow crime scene tape and stepped under it. The officers who nodded him through were drinking coffee from disposable cups and speculating on the upcoming season for the New Orleans Saints. As Trevor approached, bursts of light came from inside the metal warehouse, indicating a forensics photographer was on the scene. Frustration washed over him, and he stared out at the moored ferry that traveled back and forth to Algiers Point during the day. Water lapped rhythmically against the boat's sides as it floated in wait for the dawn.

It occurred to him the victim inside the building would never see another sunrise.

It was the first time the unsub had struck twice in the same city. In each location previously, there'd been only one murder. Then weeks or even months would pass before another body was discovered, and in another city altogether. But this latest victim had turned up only a few days after Cara Seagreen, in the same general locale, suggesting the killer's M.O. was changing, his bloodlust escalating. Trevor would call SAC Johnston in the morning, let him know his stay here would be extended.

Welcome back to New Orleans, Agent Rivette. Looks like we've both finally come home.

The message penned in blood two nights earlier, directed to him, gave him a chill. Trevor wondered if all the time he'd been following the killer's trail of bodies, the ultimate destination had always been here.

A warm breeze swept in from the river, carrying the water's rich, fecund smell. The low blare of a foghorn came from somewhere in the distance. He entered the building, the hard soles of his shoes echoing off the concrete floor. The victim had been left just inside the structure, in front of a section of worn-looking passenger seats that had been removed from the ferry for repair. Like Cara Seagreen, it appeared to be a female teenager.

Detectives McGrath and Thibodeaux were already there, along with the photographer and several technicians wearing bright yellow overalls with N.O. Crime Scene Unit emblazoned on the back.

“Thanks for the call,” Trevor said, approaching the group.

McGrath was down on his haunches examining the body. “Same M.O. as last week, including the approximate age of the victim.”

The scene was another variation of the one he'd grown to know too well. Duct tape covered the victim's mouth and her wrists were bound in front of her with the beaded rosary. Pulling on latex gloves, Trevor dropped down next to McGrath and looked at the girl more fully. She was thin, so much so that her hip bones protruded and her ribs were clearly visible. Her small breasts were almost nonexistent. The girl's eyes, now staring blankly toward the ceiling, were rimmed in dark makeup. The mascara had run in black rivulets and dried on her cheeks. A gash to her throat indicated rapid exsanguination, and her nude body revealed a dozen or more additional cuts. While the corpse was streaked with blood, there wasn't enough of it staining the concrete underneath. Its dearth pointed to the likelihood that the killing had occurred elsewhere.

“The M.E.'s office rolled her over earlier. There's lividity. Decedent's body temperature also indicates postmortem of about three to five hours.” McGrath scratched the bridge of his nose. “Oh, yeah. She's got a tattoo at the base of her spine. Some kind of fancy cross.”

“One thing's for sure.” Thibodeaux jotted notes into a spiral pad. “Curtains don't come close to matching the carpet.”

Gently, Trevor brushed the vibrant, too-red hair back from the girl's forehead. The color was unnatural looking and definitely a dye job, but its hue still reminded him of Rain. He looked over the body, finally focusing on the back of the victim's right hand.

“Anybody recognize this?” The lucent skin covering the fine bones bore an ink mark, an outline of a bird in flight, although the image was smeared and barely visible.

“Forensics already got a photo of that,” Thibodeaux said. “I'm pretty sure it's an ink stamp from the Ascension. I recognize it because we had some problems with drugs there when I was in Vice.”

“Ecstasy?”

“Among other stuff. That's probably where our vic met up with the Count.”

“Goth club?” Trevor studied the blurred ink.

“Yeah, but it's not one of the places Simone Bausell thinks she visited with the Seagreen girl.” With a grunt, McGrath forced his girth to a standing position. “Which puts yet another nightspot on the radar.”

Trevor asked one of the technicians for an evidence bag, then carefully covered and sealed the hand. “Who called in the body?”

Thibodeaux withdrew a pack of Marlboros and a lighter from his pocket. He tapped a cigarette from the carton. “A security guard was cruising the area in one of those tricked-out golf carts and saw the door cracked open. He decided to have a look inside—”

“Tibbs, you always gotta smoke around me?” McGrath interjected. “You know I quit.”

“And you've got no willpower.” Lighting the cigarette, Thibodeaux inhaled nicotine into his lungs with a show of satisfaction. “Consider me an example of behavior not to emulate.”

McGrath ignored his partner's antics. “Anyway, this rent-a-cop was puking by the edge of the docks when we got here. We're gonna go talk to him now.”

Trevor still knelt next to the body as the two detectives walked away.

“Trevor Rivette?”

He looked up to see a tall, solidly built man in khakis and a golf shirt. Sawyer Compton's blond hair was cut so short it nearly stood up on top of his head. Even in the bright lights of the crime scene his skin held a golden tone that suggested California surfer dude, not assistant district attorney for the Orleans Parish. After all these years, Trevor still recognized
him immediately. He stood, and despite the latex gloves, shook Sawyer's hand warmly.

“Annabelle said you were in town, but I didn't realize it had anything to do with business.” Sawyer grinned at his childhood friend. “Been here long?”

“A few days.”

He surveyed the dead girl's body. “So, what's going on here, Trev? And more specifically, why does it interest the FBI?”

Trevor answered with a question of his own. “The ADA always show up at crime scenes in the middle of the night?”

“Only when I get calls from reporters, fishing for information.”

It wasn't unusual for a beat cop working a scene to make a few bucks by tipping off the media. “How much do they know?”

Sawyer shielded his eyes from the portable lights set up around the area. “The reporter asked about a connection between the murder tonight and one that took place last week. A female teen found in a crack house on Tchoupitoulas? The murders were similar.”

Trevor looked at a drain in the center of the concrete floor. Its metal grate was rusted. From somewhere outside the building, he heard male laughter. A response to a crude joke being told by one of the uniforms, he guessed.

“You still working serial murders with the VCU?” Sawyer inquired.

“I've been following this guy state to state for a year and a half now. New Orleans is his latest stop.”

Or his ultimate destination.

“It's not that I'm not glad to see you, Trev.” Sawyer scrubbed a hand over his wheat-colored hair. “But hell,
you're like having a van from the Weather Channel pull up in hurricane season. You know it's gonna be bad news.”

 

Heather Credo sat in Rain's office and picked sullenly at the dark polish on her nails. Dressed in black jeans and a cropped top, her arms displayed faded scars and new, fresher scabs that were angry horizontal stripes against her skin.

“I'm a cutter.” Her tone was defiant as she glared at Rain, who sat in the armchair beside her. “So fucking what?”

Rain offered no reaction to the girl's outburst. “Well, your parents are worried about why you're doing this to yourself. That's why they sent you to see me. They thought maybe you'd like to talk about what's bothering you.”

Heather tossed her dark hair over one shoulder. Her Cupid's-bow mouth twisted. “Mom's just worried my arms are going to be scarred up at my sister's wedding in September.”

“Do you care how you look for your sister's wedding?”

“I'm ugly. Who cares if my arms are cut? They're just scared I'm going to embarrass them and ruin perfect Lauren's perfect day.”

“You're not ugly, Heather.” The girl was tall and willowy, and underneath the pinched, churlish expression were delicate features and large brown eyes. “And I think you know that.”

When she shrugged, Rain added, “Do you think you might be depressed? Because a lot of times hurting yourself goes with being sad or anxious about something.”

Rain peered at the teen. Cutting was often a way of coping with feelings that otherwise couldn't be easily expressed. Heather had been through a lot recently, including her parents' divorce, brought on by a very public affair her father had engaged in with a much younger woman.

“Anything you say stays right here between us.”

Heather bit her bottom lip. “What if I don't want to say anything?”

“That's okay, too.” There was a long silence. Heather bounced one knee as she looked out the office window and into the house's courtyard garden. Her breath hitched. Rain reached out and covered the girl's hand with her own, feeling a small victory when she didn't pull away.

 

The session was hardly a breakthrough, but it was the closest Rain had come in getting Heather to talk. Their previous appointment had been spent with the teen staring at a spot on the wall, her responses to Rain's questions terse, if they were given at all. But this time Heather had actually shown an emotion besides anger, even if she still hadn't divulged much about what was going on inside her. Rain thought of the girl's self-inflicted wounds and was aware of the pain she must be internalizing. At least she'd begun to establish some trust between them. It was a slow process, but eventually Heather would open up to her.

She was entering her notes into the computer when the phone rang.

“Rain Sommers.” She spoke into the receiver, her fingers slowing on the keyboard long enough to tuck the handset between her shoulder and ear.

“It's Trevor Rivette. Can we speak for a moment?”

She stopped typing and looked at the clock on her screen. “I'm expecting a patient in fifteen minutes—”

“This won't take long. Another girl was murdered last night. The body was dumped a few blocks from Synapse.”

Rain took off the glasses she wore for computer work and laid them on the desk, momentarily shocked into silence. “The
Times-Picayune
broke the story online this morning, including the possible link to the serial-murder investigation,”
he continued. “It'll probably make it into the evening print edition. I didn't want you to be surprised.”

She could hear the tense edge to his voice. Now that the media was onto the story, she guessed the pressure to make an arrest would increase, as well. “What about
Midnight Confessions?
”

“There's no mention of it at this point. No one in the media has made any connection between the caller to your show and the murders. I'm hoping to keep it that way as long as possible.” Trevor paused before speaking again. “Rain, I need you to go to a dance club with me.”

“A dance club?”

“A place called the Ascension.”

The Ascension was located on a derelict portion of Claiborne Avenue in Mid-City. The converted cathedral lent itself to the club's heavy goth vibe, although the dance floor was just as likely to be inhabited by thrill-seeking tourists or students from the universities. But it was infamous for its private rooms, including the basement, which those who considered themselves true goths preferred to frequent.

“I'm familiar with it,” Rain said softly.

“The victim hasn't been identified yet. Our only lead is an ink stamp on her hand that came from that club. I'd like to check the place out.”

Rain had seen the stamp on more than one of her patients. “You can get into the main area of the club if you're eighteen. But they stamp anyone under the age of twenty-one so they can't buy alcohol. Unfortunately, it doesn't keep them from sampling the illegal drugs that get passed around.”

“So I've heard,” Trevor replied. “The homicide detectives I've been working with checked with the club's management already. They don't have any security cameras or closed-circuit-TV monitoring. We were hoping to catch the girl on tape, see who she might've been talking to.”

Rain pressed her fingers against her temple as she listened, not surprised the club was lacking in security measures. “Trevor, what do I have to do with this?”

“You're accepted by this group. If I'm with you, I'll have more credibility than if I go in there alone, looking for information.” He lowered his voice. “It would just be the two of us. The NOPD detectives would stick out even worse than me, and the same goes for any of the local FBI field agents. You said you wanted to help, and I know you have contacts. I need to use them.”

Rain thought of Trevor with his conservative haircut and suit, flashing his shield and attempting to get cooperation in a place like the Ascension. The goth community was a closed group. He was right—without her he didn't stand a chance. “When do you want to go?”