Midnight Caller (21 page)

R
ain had cloistered herself in the upstairs study. She sat on the couch, cradling a cup of herbal tea between her palms as she attempted to distract herself with a late-night television talk show. But the host's opening monologue failed to make much of an impression. Two minutes into his discussion with his first guest, a vapid blonde with collagen-enhanced lips, she clicked off the remote.

She hadn't heard from Trevor since the previous evening when they'd had dinner together. After Dante's taunting phone call, he'd waited in tense silence for an officer to relieve him and then he'd gotten into his car and headed to Coliseum Square. Rain had watched his taillights recede into darkness as the wail of police sirens shattered the neighborhood's quiet. A few hours later, the local news confirmed Dante's vicious claim.

Another girl dead. Rain had to wonder if it was all because of her.

Picking at the fringe on the couch's embroidered pillows, she silently urged Trevor to call and let her know what was going on. The cop downstairs in her kitchen seemed to know little beyond his assignment of keeping guard. Either that or he was being deliberately closemouthed. Despite his run-in
with Oliver, Rain much preferred the young and talkative Officer Arseneau over the silver-haired, flat-eyed cop manning the evening shifts.

She set the cup down and walked to the recessed bookshelves that lined the room's far wall. Restless, she ran her fingers over the bound volumes. Academic tomes on psychology mingled with the Victorian novels and books on gardening that had belonged to Celeste. She pulled out
Jane Eyre,
which had been among her aunt's favorites, but paused when she saw the slim paperback tucked behind the others, out of view. Rain stood on tiptoe to reach its worn spine. The lurid illustration on its cover surprised her. Carrying the book to the couch, she opened it at a random spot and began to read.

The content was clearly sadomasochistic in nature, the story about a female submissive engaged in role-playing with a dangerously handsome man.

The rest of the passage was extremely sexually graphic. Rain flipped forward to the front pages and sought out the copyright date. As its yellowed appearance suggested, the paperback was old, printed thirty-five years earlier. Certainly, she knew such S&M erotica existed then. Had it belonged to Desiree?

Twin beams flashed through the room's fan-shaped window. A car made the turn onto Prytania, its headlights creating a sweeping pattern across the beadboard-paneled walls and high ceiling before fading away. Rain felt a twinge of nerves. Dante had been on her doorstep last night, then
vanished as quickly as the car's silvered lights. She thought of the
Blue Moon
photos, which had served as inspiration for the twisted fantasy he was bent on repeatedly bringing to life.

She closed the paperback. What things didn't she know about her mother? How much had Celeste protected her?

Returning to the bookcase, Rain replaced the literature in its hiding place, using
Jane Eyre
to seal it back inside its dark tomb.

 

The Royal Street precinct was as busy as a French Quarter bar on Fat Tuesday. Chalky-faced goths were shuffled through to booking, while surly teens waited in a holding pen until their parents or Juvenile Corrections picked them up. DEA agents and police mingled, trying to sort through the crowd who'd been hauled in from the club on a variety of charges.

Trevor headed to where McGrath and Thibodeaux stood in line at the equipment cage, waiting to turn in their radios and Kevlars. While he'd been at the Ascension with Reyes's team, the detectives had taken part in the synchronized raid of Baptiste's antiques business and warehouse.

“Any sign of Baptiste?” Trevor asked as he approached. “He wasn't at the Ascension, although the undercover DEA agent placed him there just prior to the bust.”

“Slippery bastard's in the wind,” Thibodeaux remarked. “His residence in the Quarter's staked out, but I doubt he's stupid enough to show up there.”

The detectives filled him in on their segment of the raid. Although it was nothing like the find at the Ascension, trace amounts of raw Ecstasy powder and a tablet press had been found at the warehouse.

“Baptiste was using both businesses as channels for his real moneymaker,” McGrath theorized. “The antiques firm gave him a way to import drugs into the country without
casting too much suspicion, and the club provided a method of distribution.”

“Tonight's bust put a stop to that.” The statement came from Reyes, who'd joined them after conferring with the station lieutenant. “Sixty kilos of MDMA won't be stimulating the local economy.”

He looked at Trevor. “Of course, distribution charges would be nothing compared to seven counts of murder one. That'll get you death row in the great state of Louisiana. Looks like your tagalong paid off, Agent Rivette.”

McGrath grunted in agreement. “At the least, the rosaries make Baptiste a person of interest.”

“Forget this person-of-interest horseshit. If you ask me, he practically has
killer
stamped on his forehead.” Thibodeaux slung his vest onto the counter for check-in. “It all adds up. Two of the vics frequented his club prior to their disappearance, and now we find reproductions of the rosaries in his possession—what more do you want?”

McGrath answered his partner's rhetorical question. “I want Baptiste, sitting in my interrogation room.”

“Any way you look at it, Baptiste is knee deep in alligators. We're putting out a fat reward for him. If we don't find him ourselves, some lowlife will turn him in.” Reyes walked into the briefing room.

“With that, I'm going outside for a celebratory smoke.” Thibodeaux extracted his Marlboro Lights from his shirt pocket. “Buck up, Rivette. Tonight's one of the good ones.”

He ambled off in the direction of the precinct's back lot. But McGrath remained rooted in place. He peered at Trevor. “Tibbs is right. You don't look pleased. I thought you liked Baptiste for this.”

“I do think he's involved,” Trevor said. “But I don't buy that one man is the top dog in a drug-distribution ring
and
a serial killer. The Ascension factors into the murders, but I don't see Baptiste as the unsub.”

McGrath shrugged. “Maybe he's a multitasker. He wouldn't be the first drug lord with a kinky sexual sideline. Besides, Tibbs has a point. Baptiste had the rosaries right there in his personal goth hidey-hole, and I'll bet you my next paycheck his prints turn up on the case. Either way, this is gonna get the D.A. off our backs—and your boss at the VCU off yours—now that there's a bona fide suspect. Ever heard about looking a gift horse in the mouth, Rivette?”

“I'll feel better when the horse is in custody.”

Their conversation paused as a teen with a ratty T-shirt that read I'm So Goth, I'm Dead was hustled past by a female officer. Trevor forced his mind to shift gears. “What about the kid—Oliver Carteris? I never got a call from you letting me know you'd picked him up.”

“That's because we didn't,” McGrath replied. “We went to the residence, a big-ass Victorian number. Dr. Carteris claimed his son wasn't home, and he didn't seem too thrilled to see us. In fact, he recommended we go through his attorney prior to any future attempts at conversation.”

The detective laid his equipment from the raid on the counter. He pushed it through an opening in the cage to a uniformed sergeant. “Get this, though. The surgeon had himself a shiner, and he wouldn't state how he got it. You sure Junior doesn't have a history of violent behavior?”

Trevor recounted what Rain had told him.

“Call it a cop's instinct,” McGrath said, “but I'd warn Dr. Sommers to watch herself around this kid.”

 

“All I see is black eyeliner and black hair. If this goth crap is about expressing your individualism, how come these clowns all look the same?” Thibodeaux made the observation as he stood in front of a cell crowded with detainees. He
jerked his head toward a goateed man in a velvet frock coat who was loudly demanding his lawyer.

“At least that one's got style,” he said to Trevor. The man yelled again, and Thibodeaux stepped up to the bars. “Calm the fuck down, Lestat. How about taking that right-to-remain-silent speech a little more seriously?”

“Rivette.” Trevor saw McGrath walking toward him. “Reyes wants to pull out some of these knuckleheads for questioning. I figured we'd start with your two friends. Since they're facing charges of assaulting a federal officer, we can use that as leverage to see what they know about Baptiste's whereabouts.”

“Let's do it.” Trevor shifted his gaze to Girard, who glared at him from inside the cage. He reminded Trevor of a rabid dog. They'd also picked up Girard's accomplice in the attack, a hulking giant with a shaved head who sat on one of the cell's benches. Trevor easily recalled him from the shadowed storage room.

McGrath rapped on a Plexiglas window to get the guard's attention. He pointed to the men in question. “Put those two beauty queens in rooms three and four.”

As the officer extracted the prisoners, he bumped shoulders with a wiry-looking male who paced nervously within the confined space. Despite the heat generated by the tight press of bodies, he huddled inside a worn denim jacket.

Trevor nudged McGrath. “The tweaker over there. What's the charge?”

McGrath consulted the clipboard. “Collared for drug possession, Class C amphetamines. Not enough for resale, so it's probably for his own use. You recognize him?”

The man turned to pace in the other direction, raking his hands through his unwashed hair. A set of scabbed scratch marks trailed down the right side of his neck before disappearing under the jacket's turned-up collar. Trevor felt a black
anger grab hold. Stalking in through the cell door, he dragged the man out.

“Take off your jacket!”

McGrath moved forward. “Rivette—”

“Take it off!” When the man cowered in confusion, Trevor tore the garment from him and slung it to the concrete floor. A thorny barbed-wire tattoo was wrapped around the addict's right forearm.

“Rivette!”

It took both McGrath and Thibodeaux to pull him off.

M
allory's was a dive in every sense of the word. The place was shabby, with air that hung heavy with cigarette smoke and smelled like stale beer. James Rivette had a regular perch he used whenever he wasn't tending bar. Tonight was one of his nights off, so he sat on the last vinyl-covered stool near the alcove that held the restrooms. His right hand clutched a whiskey glass. A cloudy oblong mirror ran the length of the wall behind the bar, and in front of it was the usual lineup of bottles in various shapes and sizes.

Looking up, James caught his own reflection. He barely recognized the thick, hunched shoulders and graying hair. The sagging jowls. At one point, he'd been a damn fine-looking man. But all his life he'd gotten the short end of the stick. The disappointments had eventually caught up to him, deepening the lines in his face. He'd given his best years to the NOPD, and for what? The higher-ups had used their first opportunity to cheat him out of his pension.

Coughing, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. A man should have a small nest egg, or at least someone to care for him in his advancing years. James hung his head, feeling intensely sorry for himself.

His thoughts settled on his oldest son. He'd been ruminating
on him a lot lately, ever since seeing him on the street outside the bar and making the 911 call. Trevor was a man now, a cocky FBI agent who carried a badge and a gun. He'd always hated those federal sons of bitches, with their fancy suits and superior attitude.
But it fit,
James reflected sourly. Trevor always did think he was better than everyone else.

You think I won't do it, Trev?

Go to hell.

He swallowed the remainder of his whiskey. Trevor hadn't wanted to listen to reason. There hadn't been an ounce of forgiveness in his heart.

It wasn't his fault. The boy had antagonized him, forced his hand. He was just a kid—how the fuck did he know what he saw? James rapped the empty glass on the sticky bar top and growled for a refill.

He'd lost everything because of his son.

CNN blared from a TV set hanging over the bar. But the crowd tonight was too boisterous for him to hear much of what the female news anchor said. Instead, he watched the slow crawl of text across the bottom of the screen. Someone started up the jukebox, adding the Neville Brothers to the cacophony.

“Glenlivet, single malt,” a man announced to the bartender as he slid onto the stool next to James. “And I'll pay for my friend here. Whatever he's having.”

A hundred-dollar bill dropped onto the bar.

James mumbled a gruff thanks. Shifting his eyes to the mirror, he glimpsed the man's dark sunglasses that were out of place at night in the dimly lit establishment. Maybe he was a rich celebrity hiding from those—what did you call them? Paparazzi.

The bartender served them. As the man lifted the scotch to his lips, James noticed his ring. Made of white gold, it resembled a coiled serpent that wrapped halfway up his index
finger. Sharp fangs protruded from the snake's open jaws and its eyes were green emeralds. James had never seen anything like it.

“Careful you don't put someone's eye out with that, pal.”

The man laughed, a rich melody that fell an octave below the barroom noise. James sipped his whiskey, still not looking directly at the man, and felt slightly unnerved.

“Do I know you?”

“I have a business proposition for you, Mr. Rivette.”

He laid a stack of bills in front of him.

A neon sign in the window advertised Budweiser beer. James watched it blink on and off several times. Then he returned his gaze to the proffered cash. Despite the wetness of the whiskey, his mouth had gone dry. He estimated the cash was more than he'd make in two months tending bar.

“A business proposition? You talking about a job?”

“It's quite simple, actually. And if you don't mind me saying so, I think it's something you're going to enjoy.”

The man explained what he wanted James to do.