Midnight Caller (7 page)

T
he ringing cell phone shattered Trevor's sleep. He fumbled on the nightstand for the offending device and managed to flip open its cover.

“Rivette,” he mumbled hoarsely.

“It's McGrath. Thought you'd want to know we got an ID on the Jane Doe.”

Trevor scrubbed a hand over his face at the sound of the detective's voice and sat up. “Who is she?”

“Her name's Cara Seagreen. She was a sophomore at St. Vincent Catholic in Jefferson Parish.” He paused, and Trevor heard a young girl talking in the room with the detective. “Hold on…”

There was a muffled sound that Trevor assumed was McGrath covering the mouthpiece with his hand.

“Tell Momma I'll be down in a minute. I'm making a call.”
His voice became clear again. “Sorry about that. I'm at home. Anyway, it turns out the vic's parents were out of town and thought Cara was staying at a friend's house, a classmate named Simone Bausell. This friend, and I use the term loosely, never told anyone Cara had disappeared while they were out clubbing. Both girls are underage and Simone didn't want to get into trouble. So she lied to her mother, told
her Cara's parents were back and the girl had gone home. Meanwhile, the vic's parents return from one of those ocean cruises last night to find out their daughter's disappeared. They called the police.”

“Which explains why no one was looking for a missing teen.” Trevor looked at the clock next to the bed. It was just past 7:00 a.m. Light leaked into the hotel room under the drawn curtains.

“I got the M.E.'s toxicology report in my e-mail this morning, too,” McGrath continued. “The vic had a shitload of Ecstasy in her bloodstream.”

“Did the friend say which club Cara disappeared from?”

“Apparently, Simone was pretty baked herself that night. Says she visited a string of clubs, as well as an illegal rave in one of the old mansions upriver. Really gettin' her party on, if you know what I mean. She can't seem to recall at what point she and Cara were split up, or where.”

“You believe that?”

“I don't know.”

A creaking sound came through the phone and Trevor envisioned McGrath shifting his large frame in his chair. “I've got three girls myself, Rivette. My oldest is almost the same age as the vic. It scares the hell out of me what kids are into these days.”

“I'd like to interview the friend myself.”

“Thought you would. The mother's bringing her into the precinct this afternoon. They've lawyered up, so they won't be alone.”

Trevor wasn't surprised. “What about the vic's parents?”

“They're pretty upset, as expected. I met them at the morgue at five-thirty this morning for the ID.”

“You should've called me.”

“We're working on this together, right? No point in nobody getting any sleep. I didn't call Tibbs, either. He's positively
cranky without his beauty rest,” McGrath replied. “By the way, the cross left in your car belongs to Simone Bausell. She let the Seagreen girl borrow it, along with the trampy clothing found at the crime scene.”

“Nice friend.”

McGrath snorted. “Wait till you see her. She's what Courtney Love probably looked like as a kid.”

The roar of the room's air conditioner kicked up, forcing Trevor to press the phone harder against his ear to hear the detective.

“Has this been a pattern with the other vics?” McGrath was asking. “This lunatic leaving you trophies from the kill?”

Trevor pinched the bridge of his nose. When his cell phone rang, he'd been dreaming, more a nightmare, really, and it was beginning to return to him in pieces. He worked to shut out the familiar images so he could concentrate. “Rivette?”

“I'm still here. And no, it's not the first time. I work with a partner sometimes, but the letters and packages have all been addressed to me. We're lucky all he left behind last night was a necklace. The last time I got a ring through the U.S. Postal Service. It was still on the vic's finger.”

“Jesus.” There was a brief silence before the detective spoke again. “Look, it's Saturday. My youngest has a soccer game this morning at City Park, but I'll meet you at the precinct this afternoon. Around one.”

“Yeah. Thanks, McGrath.” The phone went dead. Trevor peered into the shadows. The adage “No rest for the wicked” ran through his mind, and he wondered what Dante was doing right now. Stalking his next victim? If he was a resident of New Orleans as the note suggested, was he at home in one of the quiet suburbs? Trevor thought of him mowing his Bermuda lawn while his wife and children looked on, unaware Daddy liked to cut up women for kicks. Whatever his current
activity, the multijurisdictional aspect of the crimes suggested the unsub was someone who traveled frequently, such as a salesman or business executive. But what did it mean that he was now playing on his home court?

Not to mention, the note meant the unsub had done his homework. He knew Trevor was from New Orleans, too.

Dragging a hand through his hair, Trevor felt the need for coffee to push away the residue of sleep. He stared at the darkened screen of his laptop that sat on the small desk. At the least, he needed to get his report filed with the VCU before meeting up with McGrath to interview the Bausell girl that afternoon.

After pulling on jeans and a T-shirt, he walked to the coffee shop across the street to purchase a cup and a copy of the
Times-Picayune.
Trevor was returning when he saw him, loitering by the line of vending machines inside the hotel's breezeway.

“Hello, son.”

For a man approaching sixty, James Rivette was sturdy-looking. He was an inch taller than Trevor and heavier by thirty pounds. Although his thick hair had grayed and deep lines bracketed his mouth, he still cut an imposing figure. His presence had served him well as a police officer working some of New Orleans's toughest neighborhoods. The last time the two men had seen one another had been three years ago, across Sarah Rivette's casket. There had been no words exchanged then, only glares that were thick with challenge and meaning. Trevor realized his entire body had tensed, an ingrained fight-or-flight reaction that not even his years of training as a federal agent could alter.

“I came by to see you, Trev.”

Trevor kept his voice flat. “You've seen me.”

“Seems like you wanted to see
me,
too.” James indicated the cut on Trevor's forehead. “I called 911, you know. What
the hell, boy? Don't they teach you to watch for cars at that fancy training academy in Quantico?”

Trevor looked away, squinting at the sunlight that reflected off the courtyard's pool as he tried to regain his equilibrium.

“What were you doing outside my bar the other night?” James had been leaning against the breezeway wall. Now he straightened and walked closer. He took a drag from his cigarette as he waited for a response.

“I was out for a run.”

“Got to keep in shape for the FBI.” His tone mocking, James's gaze roved over his son. Trevor noticed his eyes were bloodshot, his nose mottled where the spiderlike vessels had ruptured from years of alcohol abuse.

“Guess you've been to see our Annabelle,” he commented.

Trevor's jaw tightened. “You don't have the right to say her name.”

James merely smiled at the fierce statement, revealing strong-looking teeth that had yellowed only slightly despite the heavy use of nicotine.

“Always the protector, ain't you, Trev? Too good to be a beat cop like your old man, though.” His eyes broke away to follow a swimsuit-clad young woman headed toward the chaise lounges alongside the pool. “You don't even sound like a Southerner no more. Guess I can thank your aunt Susan for that, uppity bitch.”

Trevor's grip tightened on the disposable cup, causing its plastic lid to buckle. He barely felt the trickle of hot liquid as it made contact with his skin.

“So,” James said. “You here for business or pleasure?”

When Trevor didn't answer, his father chuckled. “I'm just trying to make small talk. I know why you're here. I've still got a few friends left at the NOPD.”

“I doubt that.”

James moved toward him, and Trevor caught the odor of whiskey on his breath. “That smart mouth used to get you into trouble—”

“The playing field's more level now,
Dad.
”

“You think you're something, don't you? With your big-time law degree and your Department of Justice badge to shove in people's faces—”

“I'm better than you. I know that much.”

“You don't know shit.” James flicked the cigarette to the ground at Trevor's feet. Turning to saunter away, he tossed off one last statement. “Tell Annabelle to make you some of her biscuits while you're in town. That gal's a better cook than your momma ever was.”

Trevor remained rooted in place until James had rounded the corner and disappeared. Then he went up the stairs and let himself into his room, hating the tremor in his hands as he swiped the security card to open the door. Leaving the coffee and newspaper on the desk next to the laptop, he grabbed his gun and left the hotel.

 

It was still relatively early, but the temperature had already begun to build, sending up heat from the concrete in rolling waves. He'd watched her leave her house that morning, making her way on foot and then taking one of the St. Charles streetcars to the French Market on Decatur Street.

He knew her destination, based on her routine and the wicker basket she carried. He found her again easily once she'd departed the streetcar. She was browsing through the market stalls and picking out goods. Her selection consisted of fruit, cinnamon-dusted pecans, cheese and large olives—the good Italian kind marinated with herbs. She picked up a loaf of rustic-looking bread, lifting it to her nose and sniffing
its freshly baked scent before dropping it into her basket, as well.

She wore denim shorts and a green tank top with thin spaghetti straps. Braless, her nipples were faintly visible through the tank's material. He rarely saw her dressed like this, and the unintentionally provocative outfit left him transfixed by her simple beauty. She wore no makeup and her red-gold hair had been pulled up into a loose twist, a few tendrils escaping to frame her face.

She looked so much like Desiree. He felt something dark and hot move in his veins.

After she made her purchases, she sat at a café table protected from the sun by a brightly colored umbrella. She drank coffee and leafed through the pages of a psychology magazine she'd brought with her from home. He was close enough to make out the details—the silver bangle bracelet on her wrist, the graceful curve of her slender neck, the frosted pink of her painted toenails in the flat sandals. Her skin was pale, as if it rarely saw the sun, and he could see the faint sprinkle of freckles across her creamy shoulders.

A man in blue running shorts and white T-shirt stopped at her table. Smiling, she stood and embraced him, her small hand threading through his salt-and-pepper hair. He wondered who the intruder was. It wasn't the Creole bastard he'd been certain she was bedding. Another lover? He didn't like the thought of that because it made her seem less worthy of his devotion. He wanted—
no, needed
—to believe that while she possessed her mother's looks, she didn't share her lack of morals.

She conversed with the man a while longer, then lifted on tiptoe and hugged him again before he went on his way. As she returned to her magazine, a breeze ruffled her hair so that she had to push it out of her eyes.

Once they were together, he'd have her grow it out long,
nearly down to her hips the way her mother's had been. He imagined his fingers slipping through the strands that were the color of fire and felt like spun silk. He'd run her baths that smelled of lavender, and in their bed, he'd leave a scattering of rose petals on which they'd make love.

A barking dog being dragged on a leash interrupted his fantasy. Rain looked up at the intrusion as well, and he stepped back behind a stall filled with canary melons. He watched as she bent to pet the dog. The homely mongrel was as thin as its owner was fat. It lapped up the attention she gave, its scraggly excuse for a tail wagging furiously.

He reminded himself that he had to be careful. It was still too soon to reveal himself.

He had a schedule to keep.

T
he sound of the sidewalk jazz band rose to the loft apartment in New Orleans's revitalized Warehouse District. Standing at the window, Brian Rivette took in the bustling scene below him. Tourists tossed change into the musicians' open instrument cases while a little farther down, a man in a flowing white tunic and dreadlocks paced the street, carrying a bible and a hand-painted sign. The man raised the sign over his head, and Brian had to squint to read the words:

Armageddon Is Approaching. The End Is Near.

Turning back from the window, his eyes scanned the apartment he shared with Alex Santos. The loft was open and spacious, with hardwood floors and exposed-brick walls that had at one time comprised the frame of a textile mill. Synapse, the art gallery and studio Alex owned, was on the ground floor of the building, but Brian preferred working here in the sun-filled loft. He returned to the sketch pad he'd laid on the coffee table when he'd heard the music outside. The drawing didn't look like much yet, just a series of grayed lines and shadows. It was the bare bones he put on paper first, and in his mind's eye he could see how the drawing would take shape.

Before he'd met Alex—before he'd gotten clean—his
artwork had been harsher and unrefined. Thirteen years his senior and already a successful, nationally renowned photographer, Alex had been his mentor. He'd guided Brian's raw talent and forced him to challenge himself on both artistic and personal levels. When Brian had finally decided to stop using for good, it was Alex who'd been there for him.

The door to the loft opened. Alex entered, his gray-flecked hair wet from his morning run in the humid climate. His cocoa-brown eyes fastened on Brian, who now sat on the leather couch with the sketch pad on his lap and a charcoal pencil in his left hand. Alex walked over to press a kiss on top of his head.

“You're dripping on my sketch.”

“Sorry.” He grinned and headed toward the well-equipped kitchen. Alex was a stellar cook, another thing for which Brian realized he was fortunate.

“Guess who I ran into?” Alex called. Brian heard him removing what he assumed was the pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice from the refrigerator.

“Who?”

“Rain, sitting at a table in the French Market.” Alex returned to the living area. He selected a chocolate croissant from a basket on the table to have with his juice. “I reminded her about your opening tomorrow night.”

Brian looked up from the sketch. “Don't you think that might be a little weird? I mean, Trevor's going to be there.”

“Why would it be weird?”

“She's part of his investigation.”

Alex shrugged. “It's not like they have to talk shop.”

Brian had told Alex in confidence about taking Trevor to meet Rain, and about the possibility that one of her show's callers was responsible for a string of murders, including one committed recently in New Orleans.

“Remember, they're trying to avoid any mention of a serial
killer getting out to the press,” he said. “I hope you didn't tell anyone.”

“Well, now, you tell me. And I just got off the phone with the bureau chief at the
Times-Picayune.
”

Brian rolled his eyes at Alex's sarcasm and returned his attention to his work. Putting his breakfast down, Alex studied the drawing.

“That's good,” he said, watching as Brian worked.

“Good enough for Synapse?”

Pride was evident in Alex's voice. “I know talent, Brian.”

“I'm a little freaked about the show.”

“You're worried about the critics who'll be there, waiting to malign your work? Or the fact that your big brother will finally be meeting me?”

“Alex…”

“We've been together for almost two years. I just think it's odd I haven't so much as laid eyes on the guy, that's all.”

“He doesn't come around much,” Brian said quietly. “You'll meet him tomorrow night.”

“He won't like me. He's a homophobe, and I'm hardly in the closet.”

When Brian gave him a look, Alex raised his eyebrows. “What? You said as much yourself.”

“That's definitely
not
what I said.” Brian put down the sketch, unsure of how to explain his complicated relationship with his brother. Restless, he went to look back out the window. The musicians were making out like bandits, their instrument cases filling with coins and paper bills. The doomsayer had wandered off, replaced by a street artist who'd set up his easel not far from the band, hoping to glean business from the gathering crowd. For a while, Brian had supported his habit doing pencil drawings of tourists for cash. He would avoid getting stoned until he'd made enough money, then head
out to the edges of Storyville to score. At his lowest, he'd even turned a trick or two in order to buy heroin or cocaine, his drugs of choice. But that had been before Alex and it was part of a past he wanted to forget. He stared at the gold band on his left hand. All that seemed like someone else's life now. Brian knew how lucky he was to be alive and healthy.

“I don't think it's about me being gay,” he said, still gazing out the window. “It's about me being an addict. Trevor tried like hell to get me clean.”

Alex came to stand behind him, and Brian drew a breath before speaking again. “It was before I met you. Trevor took a leave from work, came down here and literally kicked my ass. He dragged me kicking and screaming into a rehab facility, a private one in Baton Rouge that cost him a lot of money.”

Alex's arms went around his waist, and his chin rested against Brian's shoulder. “What happened?”

“I bailed on the program the first chance I got. When I was high, nothing mattered but staying that way. After I ran away from the center, Trevor kind of gave up on me. I don't think he knew what else to do. The last time I saw him, we said some pretty awful things to each other.”

“Like what?”

“It doesn't matter now.”

Framed photos sat on an end table—pictures of Alex's parents and sister in Puerto Rico, images of Annabelle and Haley, and one of Brian's deceased mother, Sarah. Brian picked up a recent shot Alex had taken of him with Annabelle. They stood together at a street fair in Annabelle's Marigny neighborhood. Trevor's absence was like a physical pain, a yawning hole in their family that had been left unfilled. There was so much Alex didn't know, things Brian was unsure he'd ever be able to share with him.

He replaced the photo. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Sure.” Alex took Brian's hand and looked down at his charcoal-smudged fingers.

“But this brother of yours. Is he half as hot as you?” His smile was mischievous, and Brian knew he was trying to lift his somber mood.

“Because if he is…”

Alex left the statement hanging and Brian graced him with a halfhearted laugh. He pulled his hand away and went off in search of his other art supplies.

“I'd be careful. He carries a gun.”

“And handcuffs? Please, God, let there be handcuffs.”

He barely dodged the croissant Brian picked up from the table and launched in his direction before leaving the room.

 

If you looked at it long enough, the West Indies-style cottage could take on human qualities. The two large windows in front were like eyes, the vertical slash of the door a nose, and the wide porch a mouth with even, white-planked teeth. It was something Trevor and Annabelle had discussed often as children, their young imaginations ripe.

Trevor knocked on the door, then turned the handle and found it unlocked. He went hesitantly inside, intending to call out for Annabelle and Haley. But his throat felt constricted, his nerves still jangled by the unexpected run-in with his father.

The interior was more cluttered than the night he'd been over for dinner. Toys were scattered around the front room and a worn, crocheted afghan lay bunched on the sofa. A half-empty juice glass and a cereal bowl in a ring of milk sat on the coffee table. Haley's breakfast, no doubt.

This house had secrets. Every corner revealed some part of his life Trevor had worked to push from his mind. His eyes traveled to a closet in the hallway.
Don't think about it,
he told himself, but the images were closing in. He'd put Annabelle
and Brian inside that closet, warned them to stay quiet as James Rivette's thunderous voice filled the house. The rest of the memory came flooding back. His mother's pleas from the kitchen, and the sound of fist hitting flesh. He'd run then, wedging his own thin body between his parents and bracing himself for the hurricane force of his father's rage.

Trevor ran his hand over his forearm. He felt the slight ridge in the bone where the break had healed. That time, he'd been eight years old.

He went down the hallway and past the bedroom's half-open door. The shower ran in the bathroom, although he barely heard it. His concentration was on the memories that tugged at his mind.

James and Sarah's bedroom had been on the main floor, the children's located upstairs. The boys shared the larger room and Annabelle had the small, atticlike space with a ceiling that leaned in under the slant of the house's gabled roof. Unable to stop himself, Trevor climbed the narrow staircase. When he reached the top, he saw that his and Brian's old bedroom now appeared to be inhabited by Haley. Their bunk beds were replaced by a single twin with a patchwork quilt and eyelet dust ruffle. A braided-rag rug covered the hardwood floor, and a bookshelf sat against the far wall, lined with stuffed animals and dolls.

It all looked so normal.

Trevor turned, seeing the closed door to the room that had once belonged to Annabelle. Gathering his courage, he moved closer. He slowly twisted the glass knob and pushed open the door.

The room was mostly empty now, used for storage. Boxes bearing his sister's neat handwriting were stacked inside, labeled as Christmas decorations and Haley's baby clothes.

The image came at him instantly, stunning him like a physical blow. His father turning to look at him, still in his
uniform, his eyes like twin stagnant pools. Annabelle, her face hidden behind her hands.

Don't you know how to knock, boy?

He closed the door, his heart hammering.

“Trevor?” Annabelle stood in the hallway behind him. She wore a thick bathrobe, and her hair was damp and curling around her face. “I got out of the shower and saw your car outside—”

Her voice halted and her eyes flickered to the closed door before moving back to his face.

“Did he come here?” Trevor demanded. “Don't lie to me.”

“You're trembling.” She reached for him. “Let's go back downstairs.”

He shrugged off her touch and paced the hall. “He was at my hotel this morning, Anna.”

Sliding her hands inside the pockets of her robe, she sighed in resignation. “He came by yesterday, looking for you. But he's never been here before, I swear. He leaves us alone.”

“Why didn't you tell me? Are you all right?”

She nodded. “I didn't want to upset you. Haley answered the door, and I didn't want to make a scene. He was here for only a minute and then he went on his way.”

“Keep your doors locked from now on, you hear me? I was able to just walk in here.”

“Haley forgets sometimes. We'll be more careful.”

“That's not good enough. You're going to file a restraining order when the courthouse opens on Monday.”

“He isn't a threat anymore. He's older, and all those years of drinking and smoking—”

“Christ. And you feel sorry for him?”

“Of course not,” she answered, defensive. “I just refuse to let him—
what he did to us
—rule my life anymore.”

She gazed at him, her eyes soft. “Can't you see? He's stolen
enough from all of us already. I'm not going to let him show up here and disrupt my life. I won't give him that power.”

Trevor felt a pressure on his lungs that made it hard to breathe. His presence had brought James Rivette back to this house. That thought alone was enough to justify his years of staying away.

“Trevor, he stole
you,
” Annabelle whispered.

“I should've stopped him from hurting you.”

“You did. I promise, he never touched me again.”

He shook his head. “I should've known sooner.”

It was the reason Annabelle rarely bore the burden of their father's wrath. He'd thought it was because she was so good, so innocent, that even a bastard like James Rivette couldn't bring himself to harm her. He'd been incredibly naive.

Annabelle took a step closer. “He nearly killed you.”

He looked again at the closed door. What he'd been told about that day had been in opposition to the splintered memories that had resurfaced, whip-shot images that were too brief to hold on to but still left behind questions he couldn't shake.

“It's okay,” Annabelle said gently. She put her arms around him. Trevor flinched and tried to pull away, but she held tight, refusing to let go.

He felt dampness on his cheeks and realized he was crying.