Midnight Caller (6 page)

“Not all goths are into blood,” she pointed out.

“Not all,” he agreed. “But you've failed to answer my original question.
Blood,
Rain. Does the idea of bleeding for your lover excite you?”

The titillation in his voice made her hands shake. “No, Dante, I can't say it does.”

“You're certain?” He went on, undeterred. “Bloodplay is an erotic exploration, one that blurs the boundaries between physical pain and pleasure. I expected you to be more sexually adventurous, considering your lineage. Desiree's sexual pursuits, well, they're quite legendary.”

“What you describe not only sounds painful, but dangerous. Have you thought about AIDS or hepatitis?”

“Those are purely mortal concerns.”

Rain was unable to keep the incredulity from her words. “You're implying by that statement you're immortal?”

“Blood is a life force. Our ancient civilizations knew that. In many ways, they were much wiser than we are today.” He spoke as if educating a child. “Blood offers the promise of eternal youth.”

“And I thought you had to go to a plastic surgeon for that.”

A hush erupted over the airwaves. For a moment, Rain thought Dante had hung up. But when he spoke again, his tone morphed into something churlish and threatening. “Mocking me can be very dangerous, little one. I'd take great pleasure in disciplining you.”

He can't touch you through the airwaves.
Rain repeated Trevor's statement in her head like a mantra.

“I meant what I said last night,” he whispered. “You'd be lovely, tied up and bleeding for me.”

“You're insane.” Her comment was swallowed up in dead air. Dante was gone. David cut to a block of ad spots, and an upbeat jingle for the Clean Cajun car wash began playing over the station's intercom. Rain felt the last of her courage desert her. She shut off the speakers that fed into the broadcast booth, cutting off the absurdly happy lyrics about clean, shiny cars.

“I think I pissed him off,” she said as Trevor appeared in the booth a few moments later.

“You did fine,” he assured her. “We've narrowed the caller's proximity to a five-block radius. The call came from somewhere on North Rampart, near Armstrong Park. I'm working with the local police on this—they've got squad cars en route.”

“He wasn't in the Quarter?”

“No.” His cell phone rang, and Trevor spoke with whoever was on the other end of the line. She listened as he gave a description—white male, late-thirties to mid-forties, well educated. The image seemed pedestrian to her, as if Dante might be her balding optometrist or the bookish accountant who did her taxes. It didn't match the freak she'd been conversing with on air, a man who'd clearly had some psychotic break with reality.

“Tell the units to ask around, see if anyone saw a man matching that description in the area,” Trevor instructed. “That's a predominantly black neighborhood. A white male, probably driving a luxury sedan or SUV, might be remembered.”

He closed the phone and went to where Rain sat at her desk. Dropping down beside her, his eyes sought hers. “I've got to get over there. Are you going to be all right?”

“We're going to have to do this again, aren't we?”

“This is the guy, I'm even more sure of it. He's going to call again.”

A chill swept over her, and she realized she was grasping his hand. “You gave a description of the killer. Someone's seen him?”

Trevor shook his head. “It's a profile of the unsub—”

Seeing her confusion, he added, “Unknown subject of an investigation. The profilers at the VCU are good at what they do, but there's a lot about this one that doesn't add up. Based on his voice, the race and age sound right, as does the level of education. It's just…”

His words trailed away. Rain realized he was censoring what he told her, shading and erasing the things he didn't want her to know. They both became aware of David's presence in the doorway. Discreetly sliding his fingers from hers, Trevor stood.

“There's another twenty minutes in the show, but we can play music if you're not up to it,” David offered, looking at Rain. “You'll need to queue out at the end of the segment.”

She nodded. “Thanks.”

Trevor spoke to David. “Could we have a word?”

The men went into the hall, but Rain could still hear their voices in fragmented conversation.

Would like to station a uniform in her house… Not nec
essary. I'll be staying with her tonight… Then at least have a unit conduct regular drive-bys…

How afraid should she be? Rain was certain Dante had known she was lying when she claimed to be unfamiliar with bloodplay. As a psychologist, she understood the term's sexual connotation, as well as its categorization as edgeplay due to the high risk involved in participation. Bloodplay, by definition, was the cutting of a consensual partner in order to cause bleeding. If Trevor was right about the caller's identity, the word
consensual
had little bearing on Dante's practices.

She looked up as David reappeared.

“The phone lines are tied up with callers trying to get through,” he said, his expression as giddy as a child at an amusement park. “Not to mention the message board on the WNOR Web site. Everyone wants to talk about the psycho who just called in. The traffic's going to shut down the server.”

“You sound pleased.”

“Pleased? I'd like to offer Dante his own contract. He's fucking gold.”

He leaned against the door frame. “I've got to admit, you surprised me. After the way he rocked you last night, I didn't think you'd be able to keep him on the air.”

She decided not to voice the truth. She'd been scared out of her mind.

“I'm spending the night at your place.” He raised a hand to squelch her protest. “This isn't negotiable. I'll sleep in the guest room, or downstairs on the sofa, if that's how you want it.”

“Does Trevor—” Rain corrected herself. “Does Agent Rivette think I'm in danger?”

Although David's voice was soft, his dark eyes pinned
hers. “You need to understand something, Rain. You're a case number to him. A file he needs to close, that's all.”

His Bruno Maglis echoed down the hall as he walked back to his office.

T
he guidebooks to New Orleans encouraged tourists to avoid North Rampart after dark. Looking down the shadowed street, it was easy for Trevor to understand why. He stood in front of a closed pawnshop protected by a drop-down metal cage. Nearby, overflowing trash cans hunkered in front of a faded billboard touting Big King malt liquor. A rat, startled by the beam of Detective McGrath's flashlight, scurried from the garbage into an alleyway.

Things were odd here,
Trevor thought as he walked to the other side of the shop. For starters, the street was mostly deserted. The squad cars dispatched to the area had only served to scare away the junkies and thugs who typically patrolled the locality at night. He glanced at his wristwatch and tried to make out the time in the dark.

“This is a waste of time,” McGrath muttered beside him.

A light flared up ahead as Thibodeaux lit a cigarette. “Wanna know what I think? I think that hit on the head last night rattled your brain, Rivette. The uniforms already covered this area twice over. What do you expect to find out here?”

“I'll let you know when I find it.” Trevor walked a little
farther, uncertain himself as to what he was actually looking for. He stopped in front of a tavern, its neon sign droning on the quiet street. Beyond the grimy windowpane, a stoop-shouldered bartender leaned against the counter, drinking a draft beer and watching ESPN.

“What about that guy? Anybody talk to him?”

McGrath gave an affirmative grunt. “Claims he hasn't seen a thing all night unless it was on the flat-screen.”

Trevor sidestepped a puddle of water. He wasn't willing to give up, not yet. He slowed at a line of pay phones on the corner, their metal casings battered and scrawled with graffiti. They were relics, out of place with the current landscape. Everyone right down to street grifters had cell phones these days. There were even prepaid ones bought with cash, popular with drug dealers and others with unscrupulous business to conduct. A short while ago, the wireless carrier had confirmed the caller to
Midnight Confessions
used one of those phones, making it impossible to trace it back to a subscriber.

So why had he made the call from
this
area?

The bronze glow of a street lamp lit the corner. Every now and then it flickered and buzzed, as if it had a short circuit and might go dark at any moment. But it still illuminated the flyer taped to the side of the first phone's hooded exterior.

Give Us Red, We'll Give You Green. Orleans Parish Blood Bank Pays Donors Cash.

“Bring that light over here, will you?” Trevor asked.

McGrath shone the flashlight over the area as Trevor pulled on a pair of latex gloves. He squatted in front of the first phone and peered under its base as he felt inside the darkened partition intended to hold a phone book. Rising, he dipped his index finger into the coin-return slot and plumbed its hollowed depth. Empty. He continued down the line, repeating the process on each pay phone.

Thibodeaux snickered in the background. “You looking
for pocket change, Agent? Thought you feds were paid better than that—”

His taunt died as Trevor made contact with something wedged into the slot of the last phone. He retrieved the piece of paper folded so it was small enough to fit inside the compartment.

“Fuck me,” McGrath intoned, staring over Trevor's shoulder at the note. It was written on heavy stationery, and Trevor recognized the dull brown of what he'd first thought to be ink.

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

The note was signed with the letter
D.
McGrath raised the flashlight. “Is that blood?”

All business now, Thibodeaux extracted an evidence bag from his trouser pocket. He held it open so the note could be dropped inside. “Forensics can dust this for fingerprints and see if the blood matches our vic. Not much point in going over the pay phones, though. Every skell in New Orleans has most likely had their hands on 'em.”

“I've got something else that needs to go into evidence,” Trevor mentioned. “A necklace that probably belongs to the Jane Doe.”

“Yeah? Where'd you get it?”

“Someone broke into my car earlier and hung it from the rearview mirror.”

“This psycho's reached out to you
twice
tonight?” Thibodeaux blew smoke from his nostrils before tossing his cigarette onto the sidewalk and grinding it out with his shoe. “There's a voodoo shop 'round that corner, Rivette.”

Trevor shrugged. “It's New Orleans. There's a voodoo shop around every corner.”

“Well, this one's the real deal. None of that lame-ass tour
ist shit. You get over there in the morning and tell the high priestess Hélène I sent you.”

“What for?” He expected another of Thibodeaux's wise-cracks, but his expression was serious.

“To get you a gris-gris for protection, son. All the cops here carry one—probably some FBI agents, too. Seems to me this vampire's got a real jonesin' for you.”

 

“Drink this.”

David handed Rain a crystal tumbler as they stood in the kitchen of her house in the Lower Garden District. His eyes watchful, he gulped from his own glass and waited while she took a sip.

“I hate bourbon,” she confessed.

She set the drink on the countertop, walked into the parlor and sat on the sofa, placing one of the striped throw pillows onto her lap. Sighing tiredly, she looked around the familiar room and tried to distance herself from the night's events.

It was widely rumored the old house had ghosts. A tour bus, its signage proclaiming it as part of the Official Haunted New Orleans Tour, even drove past several times a week. On more than one occasion, Rain had heard the bus operator over a loudspeaker, recounting Desiree's murder to photograph-snapping tourists. But whatever spirits inhabited her home, she'd grown comfortable with long ago. She'd never felt unsafe here. At least not until tonight.

“What's going on with you, Rain?”

She looked up, realizing David had followed her into the parlor.

“I guess this Dante thing has me a little on edge,” she admitted.

“I'm not talking about Dante.” He sat down next to her, contemplating the amber contents of his glass before speaking again. “I'm talking about us.”

She closed her eyes. “David—”

“What was up with you and the FBI agent tonight? Or was that all for my account?”

“Please don't do this,” she implored. “Not tonight.”

“Don't do what? Ask you where I stand?”

“Are you still sleeping with her?” Rain interrupted, unable to stop herself. A part of her wanted to know if he'd thrown away their relationship for more than a one-night stand.

“Would it matter to you if I was?”

Rain paused for a long moment. Then she shook her head and replied with honesty, “No. Our relationship is over.”

She'd turned on a single lamp in the parlor, and its muted light silhouetted David's profile. He had angular, chiseled features, and his olive complexion and black hair hinted at his Creole lineage. Rain knew he'd been linked to several New Orleans socialites in the past, as well as to one internationally famous runway model. In the beginning, she hadn't understood his fascination with her. She was too small, definitely not leggy and far from exotic. She wasn't his type, although Ella LaRue certainly was.

“I still want you, Rain.”

“You want
Midnight Confessions.
”

“I thought that was something you wanted, too.” He tossed down the rest of his bourbon.

Now or never,
she thought. It was time to tell him the truth.

“We need to talk about the show, David. I'm not sure I want to renew my contract when it runs out.”

He set the glass down on the table in front of him and wiped his hand over his mouth. Unable to bear the silence, Rain got up and walked across the parlor's floral rug. His voice made her turn back around.

“Listen to me.” He'd risen in front of the sofa, and he gestured with his hands, throwing them wide before dropping
them back down to his sides. “Now is not the time for you to run out on
Midnight Confessions.
”

“I'm sorry—”

“I haven't told you yet, but they're considering us for syndication. The show would have to expand to a full five nights a week, but we could be airing in six major markets by fall.”

He walked toward her and clasped her arms. “We could go
national,
Rain. Do you know what that means?”

“Why didn't you tell me about this before?”

“I'm telling you now. I've been shopping dubs of the show around for a while. Our Arbitrons are solid. I thought you'd be pleased.”

“We should've discussed this.”

He let go of her. “Christ. I need another drink.”

Snatching up the tumbler, David stalked back to the kitchen. She found him with his palms planted on the granite counter, a fresh glass of bourbon in front of him.

“I need this syndication deal.” He lifted the glass and swallowed. “I'm behind on some loans. I could lose everything.”

Rain fell into stunned silence. She thought of his luxurious French Quarter apartment, his expensive car and the beach home on St. George Island. David was known as a successful entrepreneur. She'd assumed producing
Midnight Confessions
was merely a complement to his partial ownership in the radio station. And that the radio station, in turn, was just one of several other business ventures. She'd had no idea things weren't going well.

“What about the restaurant?”

David's was a Creole-style dinner spot tucked into the Shops at Canal Place, an upscale mall on the edge of the Quarter near the four-star Wyndham Hotel.

“It's bleeding money,” he confessed. “Everything's going to shit.”

“I didn't know.”

“Of course you didn't. Do you think I wanted you to know what a mess I've made?”

“If there's anything I can do—”

“You can renew your contract,” he said tightly. “You can forgive me for fucking Ella.”

There was desperation in his eyes as he waited for a response. Hearing none, he drained his glass again. As he did so, Rain searched his face for some glimpse of the charming man she'd imagined herself in love with only a few months earlier, but he'd all but disappeared. After a short while, he reached for the decanter and splashed in another drink.

“You're pleased with yourself, aren't you?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

David's eyes glinted like a knife blade. “You shut me out of your bed, and now you're holding my financial future in your hands.”

“That's not fair.”

“National syndication means a lot of money.” The tumbler hit the counter with a sharp rap. “If the show takes off, it could mean a publicity tour, maybe a book deal, guest spots on TV talk shows—”

“You certainly have this all figured out.”

“I do. At least I
did.
” His face suddenly loomed near hers. “Damn it, Rain! How could you not want this? How could you not want
us?
”

He pulled her to him, his hands cupping her bottom so that she was drawn fully against his hips.

“Tell me we weren't good,” he challenged huskily.

“Stop it.” Rain tore herself from his arms and took several steps back. Normally she could handle David, but she wasn't used to him drinking so much. “I think you should go.”

“I'm staying,” he stated flatly. “You shouldn't be here alone tonight.”

“I'll be fine.” Rain walked to the wireless phone that hung on the kitchen wall. “You shouldn't be driving, either. I'm going to call you a taxi.”

He bridged the distance between them and yanked the phone from her hand, replacing it roughly in its cradle. “I don't need a goddamn taxi.”

She trailed him to the front of the house. David stared onto the darkened street. The cicadas' chant from the garden had grown louder with the door open, and the moist heat of the New Orleans night filtered in and clashed with the house's air-conditioning.

“Just tell me you'll think about
Midnight Confessions,
” he said.

“David.” Rain's voice was soft. “I'm pretty sure my mind's made up.”

His eyes carried the weight of his words. “Whatever happens between you and me, Rain, I can deal with it. But the show is my last hope. I won't let it go. I'll do whatever I have to.”

He walked to the Jaguar and drove away. Rain continued standing at the window long after she'd closed the door and locked it. Outside, a squad car rolled past. Its spotlight swept over the lawn as it conducted a safety check, ensuring nothing looked amiss.

I won't let it go. I'll do whatever I have to.

Whether David's words were a threat, she wasn't sure.