Free Midnight Caller by Leslie Tentler Page A

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.
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œYou sound pleased.”
    â€œPleased? 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.
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œDoes Trevor—” Rain corrected herself. “Does Agent Rivette think I’m in danger?”
    Although David’s voice was soft, his dark eyes pinnedhers. “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.

8
    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.
    â€œThis 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?”
    â€œI’ll let you know when I find it.” Trevor walked a littlefarther, 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.
    â€œWhat 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