Midnight Caller (10 page)

“Tonight. Around ten o'clock. I'll pick you up.”

After he'd hung up, Rain held the phone for several moments before placing it back in its console. Then she used her computer to access the
Times-Picayune
Web site. News of the second murder was listed in the headlines, and she clicked on the link for the brief article.

Rain read the rest of the article, relieved at least there was no mention of her or her show.

The Ascension. She'd been there several months earlier, for a publicity appearance David had set up for
Midnight Confessions.
Much about the club had disturbed her, from the barely lit back hallways to some of the clientele who'd seemed overly fascinated by her presence. One of them had gotten close enough behind her to cut away a lock of her hair. She'd felt the man's presence, recognized the faint tug on her head and the snip of scissors near her ear. But she'd seen only his broad shoulders retreating into the roiling sea of dancers before David had pulled her toward the cordoned-off VIP area near the bar.

Rain touched her hair, recalling that David had merely laughed about her off-kilter fan base. A thread of unease wrapped around her. If it was true the latest victim had been at the Ascension, couldn't Dante be there tonight, as well?

“Y
ou're lucky you haven't been around,” Nate Fincher, Trevor's partner at the VCU, told him over the phone. He was referring to the child-murder case in Maryland to which he'd been assigned. “The parents are high-profile—the father's some megamillionaire software entrepreneur and the mother's a former model. The media's all over it and Johnston's getting heat from the Bureau's higher-ups to find the unsub.”

Trevor knew the drill. “Which means you're getting heat, too.”

“The kid was just four years old.” Despite his normally professional demeanor, anger tinged Nate's words. “The nanny took him to the playground, turned her back for a minute, and claims he was gone. There was no ransom demand. His body turned up twelve hours later in a drainage ditch off the highway. Strangled to death.”

“Are you looking at the parents?”

“We haven't ruled it out.”

As Nate filled him in on his case, Trevor stared at the television, the sound on low. It was dark outside, and he'd brought a fast-food meal back to his hotel room so he could eat and shower before picking up Rain Sommers to go to the Ascension. The day had been a long one, spent canvassing the area
around the Canal Street Wharf, trying to find someone who might have seen anything remotely suspicious in the hours leading up to the body's discovery. He had also been back to the morgue at All Saints Hospital to witness the autopsy firsthand.

“Sorry you're down there working this alone—”

“Not a problem.”

“You getting any help?”

“I've been working with the two local homicide detectives who initially caught the case,” Trevor said. “The Bureau field office is providing some help, too. More, now that the body count here is at two. A couple of agents helped with the canvas.”

“Has the unsub made contact with you again?”

Trevor told him about the necklace that had been left in his car, and the note from the pay phone near Armstrong Park indicating the killer might be a resident of the city.

“Maybe that's why he's fixated on you,” Nate ventured. “You're both from New Orleans. He thinks you have the Big Easy in common.”

The problem was, Trevor thought after the call had ended, his New Orleans heritage wasn't something most people knew about. For all intents and purposes, he was from Bethesda, Maryland—he'd relocated there as a teenager out of necessity. Few people outside his own family knew much about Trevor's past. Even Nate had been told only the bare, unemotional facts and not the full story.

And that was the way he wanted to keep it.

He had a little time before leaving, so he got out the photos from the M.E.'s office taken that afternoon. Trevor flipped through the grim, sterile shots to find one he might be able to use at the club to hopefully get an ID.

Another Jane Doe. The Vampire investigation was a special VCU project, but it wasn't high on the priority list of
cases since a single victim in a single city didn't attract a lot of attention. Trevor wondered how that might change, especially if a third body turned up in New Orleans.

He hoped he didn't have to find out.

 

Rain had styled her hair so that it was sleek and glossy. She'd also taken a more liberal hand with her makeup, accentuating her eyes with a kohl pencil and black mascara, painting her mouth a deep red. The low-cut, black halter top wasn't exactly goth attire, but she knew the look was dramatic. In the mirror, it was Desiree who stared back at her. Rain's expression was composed, but inside she felt as fragile as glass.

She jumped at the chime of the doorbell. Extinguishing the lavender aromatherapy candle she'd lit in a vain attempt to calm her nerves, Rain went downstairs.

Trevor stood on the veranda. Opening the door to him, her gaze traveled over his jeans and dark T-shirt. “You look like a college student.”

He offered a faint smile. “Hardly, but it's the best I could do. Black leather isn't exactly part of my wardrobe.”

“Where's your gun?”

“In an ankle holster. Less conspicuous.”

As he followed her into the parlor, Dahlia darted past them and up the staircase. Rain started to make a comment about a black cat crossing one's path, but thought better of it and remained silent. She stood by as Trevor stared up at the elegant, crystal chandelier, dimmed so that it gave off a murky glow.

“Is that the original?”

“Restoring the house was my mother's dream,” Rain told him. “After she died, my aunt Celeste took over the renovation. She preserved as much of the original house as possible, including the light fixtures.”

He nodded, and she wondered how much he already knew about the house and its dark past. If she had him pegged right, Trevor had already done his homework on Desiree, the house on Prytania and her. He'd probably read the horrific details of her parents' murder-suicide right down to the thirty-year-old police report.

“It happened in the first room upstairs on the right,” she said quietly. “In case you were wondering.”

He gazed at her. “I wasn't.”

Rain felt instantly contrite. “I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I'm just used to people being curious—”

“The way you're dressed tonight. Are you trying to look like her?” he interrupted her, his blue-gray eyes as direct as his voice. Rain stared down at her hands. Although she normally left her nails bare, tonight she'd painted them blood red. Only now did she realize the irony.

“I thought I might be able to help you,” she explained awkwardly. “At the club, I mean. Some of the people there are really into Desiree.”

Trevor took a step closer. He studied her necklace, which rested in the delicate space where her collarbone dipped in at the base of her throat. It was the same amethyst pendant she'd worn to Brian's reception. He touched it with his fingertip, causing her heart to beat harder.

“Help me get into the Ascension, or use you as bait for Dante?” Apparently, he hadn't forgotten the comment she'd made the previous evening.

“I trust you,” Rain said simply.

A weighted silence fell between them, until Trevor dug into his back pocket and handed her a photograph, warning her first. “This was taken by the M.E. at the autopsy this afternoon. It's the second victim.”

Rain looked at the snapshot. Once again, the girl was covered nearly up to her chin by a sheet, and she lay on a
stainless-steel table with her eyes closed. She was waif thin, and her hair was a bold shade of red that looked as if it had been dyed in raspberry Kool-Aid.

“She's so young.” Disturbed, Rain handed back the photo.

He replaced it in his pocket. “What do you know about vampire goths?”

“Well, they do exist. They're a small subculture within the goth community. But most of them limit their involvement to role-playing.”

“That's all?”

“Some of them take it a step or two further,” she admitted. “A few claim to drink blood from animals, or willing human donors.”

“What about not-so-willing donors?”

“I'd prefer not to think about that.” She went to the end table and picked up the small purse she planned to carry with her. It contained lipstick, her cell phone and a few other personal items. When she turned back around, she found Trevor watching her.

“There's a possibility Dante will be there tonight. If he is, he's going to be interested in getting close to you.” His eyes remained on her as she walked back to him. “You need to be careful.”

“I will.”

“You do look like her, you know,” he said softly.

He waited while she set the house's security system, and then he led her outside to a waiting sedan. The scent of night-blooming jasmine hung in the warm air as Trevor opened the car's passenger-side door and she slid inside. Across the street, an NOPD squad car sat in the shadow of a gnarled pecan tree. Although Rain couldn't see the occupants inside, they were another reminder that she was a woman who needed protection.

 

The Ascension was like a blasphemous fantasy come to life. Housed within the structure of a large stone-and-brick-work church, its dance floor thrummed with a synthesized beat as bodies flailed under a two-story-high vaulted ceiling. Massive iron chandeliers hung from heavy chains, and spotlights swung around the cavernous space, illuminating arched, stained-glass windows. An ornate cross hung over the cathedral's pulpit, now in use as a live-performance stage.

Rising on tiptoe, Rain leaned close to Trevor. She put her hand on his shoulder and her mouth against his ear so she could be heard above the synth-pop music. “Is it what you expected?”

“I think Sister Clarice, my third-grade teacher, just rolled over in her grave. What are the confessionals used for?”

“You don't want to know.”

While the atmosphere was undeniably gothic, the club's main area catered to an eclectic crowd. Trevor held on to Rain's hand as they worked their way through the revelers. Above them, a balcony indicated a second floor where a lounge area was located. People leaned over the railing, tossing glittering diamonds of black confetti onto the crowd.

Rain pointed to a stone archway veiled with heavy red curtains.

“There's a room in the basement. It might be the best place to start.” A male with spiked wristbands and multiple piercings jostled her in an attempt to get past. Trevor caught her waist and pulled her to him.

“You okay?”

Nodding, she lifted her gaze to his. Her stomach flipped at the sensation of being held against the hard muscles of his chest.

“I don't want you out of my sight,” he reminded. He took her hand again as they headed toward the archway, but a
hulking man in leather pants and a shirtless black vest blocked the entrance. Dark makeup framed his eyes.

“Private club.” He glared at Trevor, who looked poised to pull his shield from his pocket and push his way through. But as the man glimpsed Rain, recognition flared in his eyes. He stepped back and bowed his head with near reverence.

“Forgive me, Dr. Sommers. Please go ahead.”

“We're expected?”

“Armand says you're always welcome.” He continued to regard Trevor with a hostile expression, but he didn't stop him as he followed Rain inside.

“Armand?” Trevor asked as Rain parted the velvet curtains.

“He owns the Ascension,” Rain said. “He's also a huge Desiree fan.”

They walked into a dimly lit, tunnel-like corridor that was degrees cooler than the overheated dance floor. The sounds of the live music faded as they traveled farther, until they reached a stone staircase that appeared to drop directly into hell.

The stairs were steep, ending in a shadowed foyer that opened into a larger room. As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, forms took shape—black-clothed humans with pale faces. Rain had been to the Ascension before, but not into this private area. The furnishings were simple, with couches lining the windowless walls and a wood-paneled bar located in the far corner. The place smelled dank and musty, a reminder they were below street level. She felt eyes turning toward them as the whispered name Desiree floated in the air.

A woman latched onto Rain's arm as she went past. Her black hair hung into mascara-caked eyes. “You're supposed to be dead, sugarplum!”

“I'm not
her,
” Rain said coldly, but the clawlike grip tightened.

“They worship you here, but I know the truth! You're a little whore! You deserved what you got from your old man—”

Trevor disengaged the woman's hold. “Touch her again and deal with me.”

She sneered at him, but sank back into the shadows.

“A fan?” he inquired. His arm slipped protectively around Rain as he moved her toward the bar.

“More like a stalker.” Rain peered at the half-moon imprints the woman's nails had left in her skin. “I've seen her before, outside the WNOR studios.”

“And I thought I only had Dante to worry about.”

At the bar, Trevor ordered a soda for himself, and Rain requested red wine. As he handed her the stemmed glass, he said quietly, “Back in my day, these were just punk rockers.”

She took a sip of wine. “Actually, by most accounts goth
is
an offshoot of the punk movement of the seventies.”

“Was that what Desiree was part of? The punk movement?”

“Desiree defied categorization. She was more of a torch singer, really, but her vibe was goth. She gave off that sort of creepy, sensual New Orleans attitude in buckets.” Rain stared into the burgundy liquid. “My father, however, was definitely on the edges of punk. I think Desiree's association with him, along with the way she died, is the real reason goths have embraced her as an icon of sorts.”

“Gavin Firth was your father,” Trevor recounted. “The British guitarist for the Dreads.”

“Yes.” She grew quiet, realizing he hadn't posed a question but had made the statement as fact. It was confirmation he'd done his research just as she'd expected. She looked at
the soda he held. The previous evening at Brian's reception, she'd seen him only with sparkling water.

“You don't drink, do you? Not even off duty?”

“No.” He didn't elaborate. Instead, he gazed at a tall male garbed in a frilly shirt and black coat who appeared to be squeezing through the crowd toward them.

“Rain!” Armand Baptiste called from a distance. He had flowing black hair and eyes rimmed with dark eyeliner. Although he was older than the others frequenting the goth-only area of the club, his face still held the visage of slightly androgynous good looks.

“Who's that?” Trevor asked in a low voice.

“Armand.” Rain lifted her hand in a slight wave. “In addition to the Ascension, he owns a successful antique business. He's also on the Orleans Parish Council.”

“You're kidding.”