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slower, lengthened vowels of a Deep Southerner. There was, however, a family resemblance in the strong cheekbones and slightly squared jawline.
    â€œCould I get either of you some coffee?” she asked.
    â€œNo, thank you.”
    â€œI’ll have some,” Brian spoke up. “But I’ll get it myself so you two can talk.” He headed off toward the dining room.
    â€œWhy don’t we go into my office.” Rain led the agent through a set of French doors that separated her workplace from the rest of the downstairs. In addition to a desk, there was a barrister’s bookcase in the room, as well as two matching wing chairs with a small table between them. Hanging above the desk was a black-and-white photograph of an ornate gate in an aboveground cemetery, a stunning image of one of New Orleans’s famed Cities of the Dead.
    â€œI wasn’t aware my brother knew you so well,” he said once Rain closed the doors behind them.
    â€œAlex Santos, Brian’s partner, is one of my oldest friends,” she explained. “That’s one of his photos on the wall. It’s a fairly well-known print.”
    He regarded it briefly before moving his blue-gray gaze back to her. As curious as she was about Trevor Rivette, she was more perplexed as to the reason for his arrival. She wondered if Midnight Confessions had broken some sort of on-air indecency rule.
    â€œIf this is about the subject matter of my show, you really should take it up with David D’Alba, my producer. I know we walk a fine line regarding regulations.”
    â€œI’m with the FBI, Dr. Sommers. Not the FCC.”
    Rain sat in one of the wing chairs, and she studied him as he stood in front of the window. He’d loosened his tie, andshe noticed how the smooth cotton of his dress shirt fit his chest. He appeared extremely physically fit. But his face was pale, and his right temple looked abraded and bruised under the bandage. She wondered what had happened.
    â€œYou had a caller on your show last night,” he said. “A man who called himself Dante?”
    The name caused Rain’s heart to jump a little. “Yes?”
    â€œI’m looking into the murder of a teenage female here in New Orleans. The killing has similarities to murders committed in other cities over the past eighteen months.”
    â€œAnd you think this Dante person is linked somehow?”
    â€œI don’t have anything to go on but my instincts, but I believe it’s a possibility. Would you mind taking a look at a snapshot from the M.E.’s office?” he asked. “The victim’s currently a Jane Doe. Brian says you specialize in adolescents and young adults—”
    â€œSo I might recognize her?”
    â€œMaybe.” When she nodded her consent, he reached into his back pocket and retrieved the snapshot. Rain looked at the grim photo, a close-up of the dead girl’s face. She was obviously lying on an autopsy table, her skin waxen and eyes closed. A sheet covered her shoulders and neck, concealing her nearly up to the chin.
    Rain gave a faint headshake. “I don’t know her.”
    Taking the snapshot back, he walked to her desk, indicating the framed cemetery photograph she’d pointed out earlier. “That’s a rather gothic image, don’t you think?”
    Rain looked at him. “I think that’s open to inter pretation.”
    â€œOne of your callers last night was talking about an ankh tattoo. Would you consider your show to have a special appeal to the goth community?”
    â€œMay I ask where you’re going with this?”
    He crossed his arms over his chest. “Several of the victimshave been associated with a goth lifestyle, or were known to have frequented goth clubs in their areas.”
    â€œAnd the girl here in New Orleans?”
    â€œWe’re not sure yet.”
    Rain rose from the chair, aware he was watching her intently.
    â€œYou