Free Midnight Caller by Leslie Tentler Page B

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.
    â€œBring 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 lookingfor 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.
    â€œFuck 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.”
    â€œI’ve got something else that needs to go into evidence,” Trevor mentioned. “A necklace that probably belongs to the Jane Doe.”
    â€œYeah? Where’d you get it?”
    â€œSomeone broke into my car earlier and hung it from the rearview mirror.”
    â€œThis 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.”
    â€œWell, this one’s the real deal. None of that lame-ass tourist shit. You get over there in the morning and tell the high priestess Hélène I sent you.”
    â€œWhat for?” He expected another of Thibodeaux’s wise-cracks, but his expression was serious.
    â€œTo 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.”
    Â 
    â€œDrink 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œWhat’s going on with you,