Midnight Caller (8 page)

A
black easel sat in the foyer, bearing a placard with a single statement in elegant typeface:

Synapse Introduces the Art of Brian Rivette

The strains of a jazz piano floated above the conversation as Rain entered the gallery, impressed as always by its gleaming hardwood floors and high ceilings. A tuxedoed waiter stopped alongside her with a tray of champagne glasses. She selected one and took a sip, her eyes scanning the stylish crowd. Rain wore a simple slip dress of gray silk with a matching wrap that drifted around her bare shoulders. A square-cut amethyst hung on a delicate chain around her neck, and she touched the pendant absently as she stopped in front of Brian's first piece. It was an oil on canvas entitled simply
Woman,
painted in a loose style that added a suggestion of movement and voluptuousness.

“What do you think?” Alex appeared next to her, dressed in dark slacks and an open-necked white shirt.

“It's beautiful,” she said. “I've always loved Brian's pencil drawings and watercolors, but I can see he's equally gifted with oils.”

“It's a new medium for him, but his style is exquisite. I
couldn't resist putting a few into the show.” He smiled, his dimples deepening. “Of course, I could be biased.”

“You? Never.”

She gave her friend's arm an affectionate squeeze as they studied the painting together. After a few moments, Alex added, “You look lovely, by the way. Dolce and Gabbana?”

“St. Peter Thrift Shop,” Rain corrected wryly. “I think the fashionable term is
vintage.
”

More guests arrived, and Alex, always the exuberant host, went to greet them. He returned to Rain's side as she made her way to another of Brian's pieces, a somber watercolor that captured the fogged blues and grays of a rainy New Orleans street. Entitled
Monday on Dauphine,
the work was exceptional, with the storefronts reflecting back the luminosity of the rain in their windows and the puddles on the sidewalk acting as mirrors to the scene.

“Where's David?” Alex inquired. “Parking the beloved Jaguar?”

Rain caught the contempt in his voice. “We broke up several months ago.”

“That's what you keep telling me, but I don't think he got the memo.” He glanced suspiciously around the room. “Wherever you are, I swear he's lurking nearby. I think he considers you his property, as much as that damn car.”

“Speaking of cars, I saw the Audi Brian was driving. That's quite a birthday gift.”

“Don't change the subject.”

She decided to spare Alex the details of her confrontation with David two nights earlier. Instead, she took another sip of champagne, her eyes drawn to the other side of the gallery. Trevor Rivette stood close to an attractive, dark-haired woman. His companion said something to him, and her hand rested on his shoulder.

Rain lowered her eyes. She'd expected him to be here,
but she was surprised by how disappointed she was that he'd brought a date. He wore dark slacks and a V-neck summer sweater he'd pushed up on his forearms, a different look from the conservative business clothes she'd seen him in previously. The sweater displayed his athletic build, and his thick hair looked burnished under the gallery lights. He was drinking only Perrier, and Rain watched as he tilted the bottle to his lips and swallowed. She blushed when she realized Alex had caught her appraisal.

“I hear you've met Brian's brother?”

Rain nodded without giving further detail, since she wasn't sure how much information Alex had been privy to through Brian. She and David had been instructed not to discuss the possible connection between
Midnight Confessions
and the serial murder investigation.

“He's different from Brian,” Alex mused. “Gorgeous, obviously, but a little intense for my tastes.”

“What do you know about him?”

“He's thirty-four, single, he has a law degree from Georgetown, and he's been with the FBI for seven years,” he recounted. “Brian seems to worship the ground he walks on.”

“Do you like him?”

“I actually just met him.”

When she gave him a surprised look, he added, “Apparently, big brother doesn't make it back to New Orleans often. He's a bit estranged from the family.”

“Why?”

“I'm not sure,” he admitted, frowning. “My understanding is that he went to Maryland to live with an aunt and uncle there when he was a teenager. Brian won't talk about whatever happened.”

She followed Alex's gaze. He looked at Brian, who was in discussion with a silver-haired, goateed man Rain knew to be a serious art collector.

“All he's ever said is that their father was an abusive son of a bitch, and Trevor took the brunt of it,” Alex continued. “Their mother died a few years ago. She was drunk and fell down a flight of stairs.”

Rain stared into the golden liquid in her glass. “How terrible.”

“Annabelle doesn't say much about the situation, either.”

“Annabelle?”

“Brian's sister.”

Rain glanced again at the woman standing next to Trevor, the resemblance dawning on her. She knew through Alex that Brian had a sister who did the bookkeeping at Synapse, although they'd never met. She had a young daughter, too, if Rain recalled correctly.

“Enough of this depressing talk,” Alex proclaimed, taking her arm. “Tonight is about having fun. And making Brian rich and famous, of course.”

Guiding her toward a group of art patrons, he whispered, “Be warned, I'm not above using your celebrity to impress a few checkbook-carrying guests.”

“I'm not a celebrity,” Rain protested, although she knew Alex was like a runaway train she was unlikely to derail.

As he made introductions, Rain smiled and engaged in small talk, but her thoughts remained on Trevor Rivette. She'd thought about him for most of the weekend, although she realized it was probably due to the anxiety she felt about the caller to
Midnight Confessions.
Her psychologist's mind reasoned that as a federal agent, he represented security and protection, and she'd been feeling vulnerable.

You're a case number to him. A file he needs to close, that's all.

She reminded herself of David's words, and tried to push Trevor Rivette from her head.

 

As the night wore on, it became clear Alex had invited the entire Orleans Parish to Brian's opening. Despite the gallery's impressive square footage, it was overflowing. For Alex and Brian, however, it meant the show was a success. Already, nearly a dozen of Brian's pieces had gilt-edged cards beneath them, subtly announcing them as sold.

Rain worked her way through the crowd, trying not to make eye contact. She'd never gotten used to the attention that came with her job as host of
Midnight Confessions.
Several people had asked for her autograph, which she'd given, and another had inquired what it was like to be Desiree Sommers's daughter. There was an obvious interest, and Rain did her best to answer such questions as politely but as vaguely as possible. Worse, only a short time ago, she'd found herself cornered by a writer for
New Orleans Trends
magazine. The man was eager to do a profile on her and was ignoring her request not to be interviewed during the reception. When they'd been momentarily interrupted by another guest, she'd taken the opportunity to slip away.

Her purse and wrap were in Alex's office. She'd retrieve her things and then discreetly make her way outside to hail a cab.

Rain let herself into the office. It was furnished in dark cherry wood and burgundy leather. A desk lamp cast the space in a golden glow, and framed art in various sizes leaned against the walls, having been removed from the main exhibit area to make more room for Brian's work.

But the photograph was there, as always.

Alex had the ability to work magic with the camera, and it still surprised Rain that the image hanging over his desk was actually her. Years earlier, before Brian even, she'd joined Alex at a restaurant in the trendy Bywater neighborhood. They'd gotten buzzed on rum hurricanes and Rain had finally
agreed to be photographed. Afraid she'd change her mind when she sobered up, Alex hadn't wasted any time. He'd walked her to the gravel path atop the levee overlooking the Mississippi, where he'd pulled his camera from his ever-present shoulder bag, and started snapping photos. Rain wore jeans and a lace camisole, and the winds coming in from the river had blown strands of hair across her face. Even she had to admit the effect was evocative, her resemblance to Desiree made clear through Alex's lens.

Rain heard the door open behind her. It was Trevor, another refugee from the din inside the gallery. Their eyes met in the room's soft lighting.

“Art showings really aren't your scene, are they?” Rain asked as he closed the door behind him. She felt her heart flutter at the realization they were alone.

“Is it that obvious?”

“I'm not much for crowds, either,” she admitted. “But I wanted to be here for Alex and Brian. It's a big night for them.”

“I thought celebrities loved this kind of thing.”

“I'm hardly a celebrity,” Rain clarified for the second time that night.

“Your fans out there say otherwise. You've had people milling around you for most of the evening.”

She followed his gaze to the image of herself over Alex's desk.

“Not to mention, regular people don't have posters made of them,” he added, walking to her.

“That's not a poster. It's an original photograph.”

The arch of his eyebrows indicated he didn't see the difference. Rain picked up her purse from the desk, attempting to make light of their situation. “I was going to come by and say hello earlier, but I decided not to, considering the circumstances. I mean, what would I say? ‘Nice to see you, and
how's that hunt for a serial killer going?' Conversation like that tends to ruin the party atmosphere.”

“With all the noise out there, I doubt anyone would have heard you, anyway.” He glanced at the clutch purse she held. “Are you leaving?”

“In a little while.”

Trevor's sweater was a deep slate color that set off his eyes, and she noticed the injury to his temple had faded a bit and was covered only by a small butterfly bandage. Rain had the urge to reach up and gently touch the tender area as she had two days ago in her office. But instead, she simply smoothed her hands over the fragile silk of her dress.

“I've been wondering about the trace on the call. Were you able to find out anything?”

He shook his head. “The caller was gone by the time we got units into the area. No one claimed to have seen anyone matching the profile.”

Rain peered at him, aware of something in his guarded expression that told her he knew more than he was willing to divulge. “Is there something else I should be concerned about?”

“Anything you need to know about the investigation, Rain, I'll tell you.”

She tilted her head speculatively. “Is this the part where you do your Jack Nicholson impression and tell me I can't handle the truth?”

He swallowed a sigh, his hand rising to massage the back of his neck.

“If you're expecting my cooperation, Agent Rivette—”

“It's Trevor,” he reminded. “And some aspects of the case need to remain confidential.”

“If it relates to me in any way, I have a right to know.” Rain added softly, “After all, you're using me to get to this man, aren't you?”

His jaw tensed, letting her know she'd hit a nerve.

“Dante left me a note at the location where the call was made, welcoming me back to New Orleans,” he said. “We also found the disposable cell phone he used in a trash can. It was wiped clean of fingerprints, and any DNA residue won't match previous offenders in our databases—or at least that's been my experience so far.”

It took only seconds for Rain to connect the dots. “If he left you a note, then he knew you'd be out there looking for him. He knew about the trace?”

“My guess is that he's been watching you. Or me. Maybe since the moment I got into town.” He gazed at the amethyst that hung around Rain's neck. “He left a necklace in my car the same night I came to your radio station. He took it from the victim.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He wants me to know he's one step ahead.”

Realization settled over her. Until now, she'd held on to the possibility that Trevor was somehow mistaken, that Dante wasn't the man he was looking for but was just another pervert who'd gotten onto the airwaves. The note he'd left at the location on North Rampart proved otherwise.

“I didn't want to tell you because I didn't want to frighten you further.” Trevor studied her face. “I left your producer a voice message yesterday morning, alerting him to keep a close eye on you.”

Absently, Rain ran her hands over the gooseflesh that had risen on her arms.

“You're cold.” He went to the couch and retrieved her wrap. But instead of handing it to her, he stepped closer, leaving little distance between them. Trevor slid the silk around her bare shoulders, his fingers warm and lingering on her skin. His touch caused a delicious shiver to run through her.

“I could get D'Alba for you,” he offered, voice low. He'd
let his hands fall but hadn't yet moved away. “Tell him you're ready to go.”

Rain stared up at him, her breathing made shallow by his nearness. “He isn't here.”

Trevor scowled. “He let you come alone?”

“David doesn't
let
me do anything. He's my producer, that's all. Besides, I doubt that Dante is milling about somewhere in Synapse, waiting to snatch me from the crowd.”

“It's after you leave here that concerns me more.” He finally took a reluctant step back. “The NOPD's in on this. There's a squad car conducting drive-bys on your street as a minimal precaution. I wanted to have a uniform stationed inside the house, but D'Alba said he was staying with you.”