Midnight Caller (3 page)

“D
r. Patel, he's waking up again.”

Trevor felt someone squeeze his hand. Slowly, he opened his eyes and squinted into the room's severe brightness, finding it hard to focus.

His sister leaned over him. She stood next to a white-coated man who appeared to be of Indian descent. Trevor flinched as the man flashed a penlight into his eyes, holding first one of his eyelids open and then the other as he waved the torturous beam back and forth.

“Pupil response is still a bit sluggish.” The doctor flipped off the light. “Can you tell me your name, sir?”

Trevor uttered his name. His throat felt as if it had been scrubbed with sandpaper.

“And what is today's date?”

He attempted to swallow before speaking again. “May eighteenth.”

The doctor smiled. “We'll let that one pass. But it's after midnight already, so you're a day off. You've been down for the count, as they say.”

Trevor tried to sit up, but a firm hand on his shoulder held him back.

“Not so quickly. You've got a head laceration and a
probable concussion, although your CAT scan rules out intracranial bleeding. You're lucky you didn't break any bones. Regardless, you're going to be our guest for the next twenty-four hours.” The doctor scribbled on a clipboard, then hung it in a compartment at the foot of the gurney. To Annabelle he said, “We'll be moving him to a private room shortly.”

Pushing back the curtain to leave, he added, “In the future, Agent, I recommend looking both ways before crossing the street.”

Once they were alone, Annabelle poured water from a plastic pitcher into a cup. She put a straw into the liquid and helped him take a sip. The water felt cool against his dry throat.

“You're at All Saints Hospital, in case you were wondering.”

Trevor touched the small bandage near his hairline. He felt sluggish and sore. “How long have I been here?”

“An hour, maybe. You've been in and out of consciousness. You were dehydrated, too.” She frowned at the IV line attached to his forearm. “Do you even remember what happened?”

Trevor fell silent. He'd been running in the darkened French Quarter. But it was as if the rest of his memory was cloaked in heavy fog.

“You ran out in front of a car,” Annabelle supplied, a faint tremor in her voice. “You were in front of Dad's bar, at Mallory's. Trevor, what were you doing there?”

The staccato bursts of pain in his head intensified. He closed his eyes and tried to stop thinking.

 

Sleep was broken into intervals by the night nurse. Routine procedure for a head injury, she came by to check his pupils and assess how easily he awakened. Each time Trevor was prompted to open his eyes, he saw Annabelle in the vinyl
recliner next to the bed. At one point when she shifted uncomfortably, he recalled mumbling something to her about going home, that Haley needed her. When he awoke again to the early-morning sky outside the room's window, she was gone.

The acetaminophen had only slightly eased his headache, but at least his double vision had cleared. He located the button that raised the top of the hospital bed. As he sat up, Trevor realized he was being observed from the doorway. True to Annabelle's words, Brian looked clean and sober. Although he was still thin, he'd lost his formerly gaunt appearance.

“How's the patient?” he asked, sounding uncertain.

“The patient wants the hell out of here.” Trevor couldn't remove his gaze from his younger brother. Brian came into the room and sat in the recliner Annabelle had vacated, his expression serious.

“You didn't have any identification on you. If the accident hadn't happened outside of Mallory's, no one would've known who you were.”

Bits of Trevor's memory clicked together. He recalled the neon beer sign in the bar's window, its orange glow casting a reflection on the sidewalk below. Then seconds later, headlights blinding him as he started across the street.

“Dad was there last night, at the bar,” Brian continued. “There were people gathered and he came out to see what was going on. He recognized you.”

Trevor said nothing. He didn't like to think of James Rivette standing over him on the filthy French Quarter street.

“He called the loft. I wasn't home, so Alex talked to him. Alex went to stay with Haley so Annabelle could come to the E.R.” Brian's lips thinned and he studied his hands before speaking again. “He called Alex a faggot, of course. He also said he wanted a hundred dollars for making the 911 call to report your accident.”

Trevor nearly laughed at Brian's statement. He'd think it incredulous if he didn't know his father. Still, his hands tightened on the sheets.

“Were you going to the bar to see him?”

“No,” he lied. The truth didn't make much sense, either.

“Trevor—”

“You wouldn't understand.”

“I wouldn't understand,” Brian echoed softly, his voice edged with disbelief.

Brian hadn't even attended their mother's funeral, too high to show up. The last time they'd seen one another, it had been a few months before Sarah Rivette's death. Since then, loving, forgiving Annabelle had been the only connection between them.

“I'm sorry about rehab,” Brian said, as if he could sense the direction of Trevor's thoughts. “I know that place cost you a lot of money. I guess I just wasn't ready.”

Trevor didn't reply. An orderly in green scrubs and Air Jordan sneakers entered, carrying a food tray that he deposited on a mobile table before leaving.

“You want some breakfast?” Brian stood and moved the table closer.

“Annabelle says you're clean.”

His gaze didn't waver. “Almost two years.”

“You're working again?”

He nodded. A space of silence hung between them. After a few moments, Trevor said, “I'm glad you came by, Brian.”

Brian walked a few steps from the bed. He looked out the window, its metal blinds bending under his fingers. “I didn't just
come by.
I've been here most of the night, like Annabelle. I came straight from the airport.”

Had he been so out of it he hadn't noticed Brian's presence? Trevor remembered seeing Annabelle and the night nurse. But at times he'd been vaguely aware of others in the
room, disembodied voices and shifting gray shapes against the monochrome walls.

“You've been here?”

“Does it surprise you that much?” Brian shook his head. “You got hit by a car last night, Trev. Knocked out cold. You could've been roadkill.”

“Well, I'm not.”

“Your radio wasn't so lucky. The paramedics wanted me to tell you it's toast. They didn't even bother turning it in.”

Another piece of the puzzle snapped into place. Trevor had been wearing a slim silver radio on his bicep, attached with a Velcro strap. He'd been listening to a talk show, and one of the callers had put his senses on high alert.

You could say I'm a little older.

How much?

Older than you can possibly imagine.

The man had called himself Dante. The name fit with the goth undertones of the killings. Perhaps even more significant, the taunting notes Trevor had received over the last several months were signed with the letter
D.
It was a distinct possibility he was grasping at straws, but he was driven by the need to find out what else the caller had said. Pushing back the sheets, he lowered his legs over the side of the bed.

“What are you doing?”

“I have to go talk to someone.” Wincing, he pulled the IV needle from his arm. A drop of blood splashed onto the tile floor. He stood, feeling shaky, but Brian blocked his path.

“You haven't been discharged. You're not going anywhere.”

“I have to. It's important.” Trevor sidestepped him and found the running clothes and sneakers he'd been wearing the night before inside a closet next to the sink. “Are you going to help me or not?”

“Only if I want Annabelle to flatten me. What's so important?”

Trevor ripped off the hospital gown and began getting dressed. “Not what. Who. A radio-show host. I was listening to her last night when I ran in front of that car.”

He searched his slowly returning memory. “Her name was weird—something like Storm Showers.”

Brian suppressed a smile. “You mean Rain Sommers.”

“You know who she is?”

“Yeah, I do. But why can't this wait?”

“Because I think she might've been talking to my unsub.”

S
unlight spilled across the four-poster bed. Rain groaned and buried her face against the pillow, then raised her head to squint at the clock through a haze of red-gold hair: 7:45 a.m.

Shit.

She threw back the covers, causing Dahlia to scurry from the mattress. Oliver Carteris was her standing Friday-morning appointment, and Rain wanted to be dressed and have had her coffee by the time the teenager arrived. With Oliver, she'd learned it was crucial to be on her toes.

An empty wineglass sat on the nightstand. After the phone rang in the middle of the night, Rain had been unable to go back to sleep. Unnerved by the silence on the other end of the line, she'd gone to the kitchen and poured another glass, then stayed up watching late-night television.
Some psychologist,
she thought.
Trying to solve the jitters with an expensive Pinot Noir.

She'd just stepped from the shower when she thought she heard the faint creak of a floorboard.

“Is anyone there?” Rain was aware of the sounds old houses made. Feeling foolish, she wrapped a towel around herself, then opened the bathroom door and peered into the
bedroom. It was unoccupied except for Dahlia, who'd returned to the rumpled coverlet and was basking in a fat streak of sunlight. The door to her bedroom that led into the hallway was half-open, but Rain couldn't remember if she'd left it that way. A drawer in her dresser bureau hung agape as well, with silk undergarments in various shades draped over its edge like strands of Mardi Gras beads.

Get a grip,
she told herself, and went back into the bathroom to dress.

Standing on the staircase twenty minutes later, she realized it hadn't been her imagination. Oliver Carteris lounged on the chintz sofa in her parlor, sipping from one of her Wedgwood cups.

“I made coffee.” His voice held a faint British accent, and his dark eyes reflected intelligence. “I needed the caffeine.”

“You're early,” Rain pointed out.
A half hour early.
It unnerved her greatly that Oliver had managed not only to get through a locked door but also to bypass her home security system. She gave him a hard look as she came the rest of the way downstairs, then walked to the sideboard in the dining area, where she poured a cup of chicory-laced coffee from the thermal French press.

“You don't wait to be let in?” She sounded tense as she came back into the room.

Oliver gave a practiced shrug. His longish hair was glossy black, and today, shot through with streaks of red. Despite the New Orleans heat, he had on dark jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt that advertised an industrial-metal band. Scuffed leather boots were on his feet. Since he didn't seem interested in moving from the sofa, Rain sat in the armchair across from him.

“Want to tell me how you got in here?”

“Old houses.” He nodded toward the glass-paneled door. “Piece of cake to snap the locks.”

Rain knew about Oliver's background of B and Es that were part of his sealed juvenile record. Now that he was eighteen, however, the predilection was causing considerable concern for his father, a respected cardiac surgeon.

“And my security system?” she asked.

“You keep the pass code taped inside a cabinet door in the kitchen.”

“You've been going through my cabinets, too?”

“Just looking around.”

Despite the casual discussion, she felt furious that Oliver had sneaked into her house and had been snooping. But she'd spent months trying to build a rapport with him, and she was hesitant to lose the progress they'd made.

“We need to have a discussion about boundaries, particularly when it comes to my home, Oliver. Did you take anything from my bedroom?”

“I wasn't in your bedroom.” Avoiding her gaze, he picked at the black polish on his fingernails.

“If you were, just tell me—”

“I
said
I wasn't there.” He glowered at the chandelier that hung from the parlor's high ceiling. “This is bullshit.”

“What is?”

“These lame counseling sessions.”

“I'm sorry you feel that way.” Rain placed her cup on the end table. “I was under the impression our sessions were helpful. Regardless, your attendance is court-ordered—”

“Who's David?”

The question came from out of the blue. “Why?”

“Go look for yourself.” Oliver pointed to the kitchen. Rain stood and walked through the arched entrance. On the counter, under the iron pot rack that held Celeste's prized copper
cookware, was a bouquet of lavender roses. It lay on its side, wrapped in tissue and tied with a large bow.

“They were on the doorstep.” He stood closely behind her, watching as she took a crystal vase from a shelf and filled it with water from the sink. “Don't you want the note?”

Rain turned to see the opened envelope he waggled.

“He wants you to forgive him. What did the bugger do?”

She felt her anger flare again as she reached for the note. “That was personal correspondence.”

“So?”

Rain sighed heavily. “It's an invasion of my privacy. Just like coming into my home without my knowledge or permission. And it needs to stop.”

“I'd say it's fair exchange. Your job is to invade
my
privacy. You ask me questions so you can report back to my father.”

“We've been through this before, Oliver.” Untying the bow, she removed the flowers from the tissue and plunked them in the vase, which she'd moved onto the counter. “Anything you say here is confidential. It's between us alone.”

“Is anything that happens here confidential, too?” he asked in a low voice most likely meant to be seductive. He towered over her, and Rain had already noticed his eyes were red and glassy.

“I could send flowers, if that's what you want.”

“What I want is for us to get started on our session,” she said calmly. “I'd also like to know if you're high.”

His smiled slipped. Muttering under his breath, he started to walk away, but Rain laid a hand on his arm. Oliver's behavior was irrational this morning, even for him. “Something's clearly bothering you. Why don't we go into my office—”

“And talk?” He let out a bitter laugh. “Do you really think I tell you anything that matters?”

She looked him in the eye. “I hope you do, yes.”

“Then you're the one who's high.”

“Oliver—”

He jerked his arm away from her with such force that he knocked the vase with the flowers onto the floor. It shattered into pieces. Oliver stood with his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he stared at the mess. Rain's stomach turned a small somersault, but she held her ground.

“It's okay. It's just an accident.” She took a step closer. “Whatever's going on, let me help you.”

The broken glass made a minefield of the floor. It crunched under Oliver's boots as he left the kitchen. A moment later, she heard the front door slam.

 

The doorbell rang as she finished cleaning up the glass. Rain assumed it was Oliver returning to apologize, but when she opened the door there were two men standing on her veranda. One she recognized immediately as Alex's partner, Brian Rivette. But the other, a dark-haired man with a small bandage on his right temple, she'd never seen before.

“Brian, it's good to see you.” Rain greeted him with a warm embrace. “But what brings you here on a Friday morning?”

“I better let him explain.” Brian indicated the other man. He was dressed in slacks, a dress shirt and tie, although his jacket had apparently been discarded in deference to the heat. A holstered gun sat on his hip.

“This is my brother, Trevor Rivette. He's with the FBI.”

Rain knew Brian had a sister, but she'd never heard mention of a third Rivette sibling. Especially not one who was a federal agent.

His expression was earnest. “Dr. Sommers, I'd like to have a word with you about your show.”

She opened the door wider. “Please, come in.”

As they followed her inside, she glanced at her wristwatch. “I have a therapy session with a patient at ten.”

“I'll try not to take up too much of your time.”

Rain gauged Trevor Rivette to be three or four years older than his brother. She'd noticed that unlike Brian, he didn't speak with the slower, lengthened vowels of a Deep Southerner. There was, however, a family resemblance in the strong cheekbones and slightly squared jawline.

“Could I get either of you some coffee?” she asked.

“No, thank you.”

“I'll have some,” Brian spoke up. “But I'll get it myself so you two can talk.” He headed off toward the dining room.

“Why don't we go into my office.” Rain led the agent through a set of French doors that separated her workplace from the rest of the downstairs. In addition to a desk, there was a barrister's bookcase in the room, as well as two matching wing chairs with a small table between them. Hanging above the desk was a black-and-white photograph of an ornate gate in an aboveground cemetery, a stunning image of one of New Orleans's famed Cities of the Dead.

“I wasn't aware my brother knew you so well,” he said once Rain closed the doors behind them.

“Alex Santos, Brian's partner, is one of my oldest friends,” she explained. “That's one of his photos on the wall. It's a fairly well-known print.”

He regarded it briefly before moving his blue-gray gaze back to her. As curious as she was about Trevor Rivette, she was more perplexed as to the reason for his arrival. She wondered if
Midnight Confessions
had broken some sort of on-air indecency rule.

“If this is about the subject matter of my show, you really should take it up with David D'Alba, my producer. I know we walk a fine line regarding regulations.”

“I'm with the FBI, Dr. Sommers. Not the FCC.”

Rain sat in one of the wing chairs, and she studied him as he stood in front of the window. He'd loosened his tie, and
she noticed how the smooth cotton of his dress shirt fit his chest. He appeared extremely physically fit. But his face was pale, and his right temple looked abraded and bruised under the bandage. She wondered what had happened.

“You had a caller on your show last night,” he said. “A man who called himself Dante?”

The name caused Rain's heart to jump a little. “Yes?”

“I'm looking into the murder of a teenage female here in New Orleans. The killing has similarities to murders committed in other cities over the past eighteen months.”

“And you think this Dante person is linked somehow?”

“I don't have anything to go on but my instincts, but I believe it's a possibility. Would you mind taking a look at a snapshot from the M.E.'s office?” he asked. “The victim's currently a Jane Doe. Brian says you specialize in adolescents and young adults—”

“So I might recognize her?”

“Maybe.” When she nodded her consent, he reached into his back pocket and retrieved the snapshot. Rain looked at the grim photo, a close-up of the dead girl's face. She was obviously lying on an autopsy table, her skin waxen and eyes closed. A sheet covered her shoulders and neck, concealing her nearly up to the chin.

Rain gave a faint headshake. “I don't know her.”

Taking the snapshot back, he walked to her desk, indicating the framed cemetery photograph she'd pointed out earlier. “That's a rather gothic image, don't you think?”

Rain looked at him. “I think that's open to inter pretation.”

“One of your callers last night was talking about an ankh tattoo. Would you consider your show to have a special appeal to the goth community?”

“May I ask where you're going with this?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Several of the victims
have been associated with a goth lifestyle, or were known to have frequented goth clubs in their areas.”

“And the girl here in New Orleans?”

“We're not sure yet.”

Rain rose from the chair, aware he was watching her intently.

“You haven't answered my question, Dr. Sommers.”

Brian's avoided gossiping about me to his brother,
she thought. “Some of my listeners consider themselves goth. Speaking of which, how did it happen you were listening to my show last night, Agent? You're hardly our demographic.”

“I went for a run, and needed something to listen to on my radio.”

“And you chose a talk show that caters to teens and young adults and features alternative music?”

He shrugged. “If you're asking if I'd have preferred some classic rock, the answer is yes. Yours was the only station I could pick up in the Quarter.”

Rain accepted his honesty with a slight smile. He closed his eyes and rubbed his right hand over his face.

“Are you all right?”

He disregarded her question, although discomfort was evident on his features. “I need to know exactly what the caller said to you last night.”

“I thought you were listening.”

“Not to all of it.”

She reached for the phone on her desk. “Our shows are digitally recorded. I'll call the studio and have them make you a dub—”

Rain stopped speaking as his hand covered hers, keeping her from picking up the handset. Up close, she could see the scar that ran across his chin, the only detraction from an otherwise nearly perfect masculine face.

Although his tone was gentle, it carried an urgency. “I will
need that recording. But right now, just tell me what he said to you.”

Rain hesitated.

“He asked if I enjoyed being tied up during sex.” The slight quaver in her voice belied her directness, but she didn't look away. “He said he wanted to watch me bleed. I hung up on him.”

Something darkened in the depths of his eyes. “Your show airs again tonight?”