The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (20 page)

There was a serious tone to Rodger’s voice, one Michael had heard before. It was several months ago, but Rodger had spoken a warning in that tone just before they went to arrest a suspect in the Marcello family, who had murdered an ex-girlfriend in a very violent way, leaving her body to rot in the Mississippi River. The serious tone had stuck with Michael afterward, because when they went to arrest the suspect, they ended up in a firefight that resulted in three cops wounded and four gang members dead.

Suffice it to say, when Rodger spoke in that tone, Michael listened.

Chapter 10   
Darkness Rising

“I loved your book so much, Mr. Fastellos,” said a portly woman as Richie handed back her signed copy of
The Pale Lantern
. She smiled at him with that sort of admiration that borderlines on maniac, and for a short moment, he was afraid that she’d lean forward and try to kiss him. Instead, she just giggled, covering her mouth with pudgy little fingers, and tripped off into whatever world she’d come from.

As he sat there at the book signing, Richie was amused to think that he had just met his biggest fan—in more ways than one.

Reaching over to a tall glass filled with ice water, Richie took a long drink before motioning for the next person in line to come forward. A skinny, awkward-looking guy approached, offered his book, and immediately started to stammer about how
The Pale Lantern
had inspired him to become a writer, and asked if Richie had any advice, as well as a host of other questions that were quickly drowned out in the novelist’s mind.

Autographing the inner cover, Richie mentioned a few token things such as “keep on writing” and “believe in yourself”—stock answers that were given to him by his publicist, Gordon. As the gangly youth departed with what Richie could only imagine were new aspirations, he suddenly realized that he was bored out of his mind.

The morning talk show had gone extremely well, the local celebrity talk show host asking only the most general and friendly of questions. Never once did the interview get hostile, and never once was a question asked that Richie wasn’t coached for. He’d answered all questions briefly and succinctly, and in the end, several rounds of applause were given to the man being heralded as “The Next Dean Koontz.”

Richie, who wasn’t a Koontz fan, just smiled and thanked his host, reminding himself that one man’s junk is another man’s yacht—or something like that.

After the show, he was treated to a short brunch before being set up in the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton for a two-hour autograph signing. With luck, he’d be finished by one o’clock, giving him enough time to head over to the office of Kent Bourgeois and, hopefully, get in touch with Samantha Castille.

Richie’s mind kept flipping back to the previous night’s events, especially his conversation with that woman in the red dress. He had even tried to find out who she was, heading down to the bar the next morning and inquiring from the bartender the name of his mysterious companion. Unhelpfully, the bartender had looked at him like he was a lunatic and refused to give him any more information, even when money was placed on the table. This did nothing to alleviate Richie’s suspicion that the woman was connected to organized crime. He had left with the bartender shaking his head.

But Richie thought that, so long as he didn’t end up with a pair of cement boots on, he’d be all right.

Richie was interrupted by an “ahem” from one of the security guards present. He was suddenly aware that a woman was standing in front of him, holding out a copy, not of
The Pale Lantern
, but of
Darkness Rising—Ten Short Stories
by Richard Fastellos.

“Oh my goodness,” Richie said as he took the book, genuinely surprised. It was a bit older than his first novel, having been published through a subsidiary publishing company about a year or so before his big break with
The Pale Lantern
. Richie remembered that since the publisher was of the subsidiary kind, it had cost him a great deal to publish that book, and less than ten thousand copies were made. To see someone with a copy of it really made his day.

“Well, I never thought I’d see this thing again,” he said.

It wasn’t that Richie wasn’t proud of his collection of short stories. He was very fond of them. He wasn’t, however, known for them, and with the book in very limited circulation, he had been certain he’d never see a fan with one in their hands.

“I’m afraid I haven’t read
The Pale Lantern
yet,” said the woman who handed him the book. Richie deigned to look up at her. She wasn’t remarkably attractive; however, she had a hometown prettiness about her. And something about her really stuck out in Richie’s mind.

Maybe it was the circles under her eyes, the kind indicative of a person who sleeps very little. Maybe it was the way she made a blond ponytail work. Or maybe it was the way she pulled off wearing a pair of black jeans and boots along with a red blazer over a black shirt. Whatever it was, Richie liked what he saw in this woman.

“Well, you’ll have a good time with it, I’m sure,” Richie said, opening to the inner cover and uncapping his pen. “Who should I make this out to?”

“Sam,” said the woman, who paused for a second, squeezing what looked like a red plastic something in her free hand. “Just Sam.” She looked around as if someone was distracting her.

Looking up at her, Richie noted that the woman was carrying a manila envelope with some words on it, but he could only make out the word
Bourbon
. He found himself wondering what had her so distracted. Shrugging, he quickly adopted a pleasant smile and said, “All right, Just Sam, one Richie Fastellos autograph coming up.”

Scribbling quickly, Richie wrote out, “Just Sam, pleasure to finally meet a real fan,” in the inside cover of her book.

As soon as he handed Sam her book back, she smiled at him. It was a small smile, but it had a sincerity to it that every other smile around him seemed to lack. For a moment, her hand touched his as they handed off the book, and Richie felt his entire body tingle. As Sam pulled back, he could see a small look of confusion on her face as well. He wondered if she had felt the same thing.

The look of confusion was quickly masked by that pleasant smile, however, and with a nod of the head, “Just Sam” wished him the best and headed off. Richie’s eyes followed Sam’s back for a few moments, noting that she had an attractive posterior. Realizing that he was staring, Richie arched his eyebrow and chuckled to himself.

I need to get laid.

Richie shook his head at his own sudden rush of maleness before looking back to the next person in line, an extremely heavy man who smelled of Cheetos and Diet Pepsi.

Richie groaned inwardly. It was going to be a long ninety minutes.

It was one thirty when Richie was finally able to tear himself away from the autograph table, the line having been much longer than he, or the more-than-patient staff at the Ritz-Carlton, had anticipated. As soon as the line closed, Richie waved good-bye to the remaining fans, quickly threw them enough canned responses, love, and praise to fill a book on being fake, and rushed up to his room.

Once inside, Richie immediately called the concierge desk and requested a cab to come pick him up, giving the destination address as Kent Bourgeois’s office. Finding out that the office was only ten minutes away, Richie scaled down his panic from frantic to furious and changed his clothes. Soon, the fancy dress clothes were replaced with a more casual set: a button-up white shirt with a dark navy-blue tie and a pair of casual dress pants of the same color. The bottle of his anxiety pills went straight into his pants pocket.

In record time, Richie made his way downstairs and, sneaking out the side door so as to avoid the mob of his fans, got to the concierge desk. He was greeted by a gentleman in a full tuxedo who looked like he was perpetually smelling something foul.

“Ah,” said the man at the concierge desk, “Mr. Fastel—”

“Shhh,” Richie said, “let’s keep that on the down-low, okay? I want to get outside while avoiding”—he pointed to a gaggle of his fans, congregating at the bottom of some stairs and theorizing about his next book—“things like that.”

The concierge, while initially looking offended, gave Richie an understanding nod and said, in a lower voice, “We have a few side entrances that celebrities like to use. Shall I have the cab come around to one of them, sir?”

“Yes,” replied Richie, sliding the man a ten-dollar bill. “Take me to one of those private exits.”

The concierge looked at the ten-dollar bill with an inscrutable expression, but he picked it up. Richie just smiled. He knew that tipping well was a way to gain favor with hotel staff, and ten dollars was a pretty good tip as far as he was concerned.

Tucking away the money, the concierge motioned for Richie to follow him. “This way, sir.” As he led Richie through an unmarked door, the concierge snapped at one of the bellhops, “Tell the cab to meet Mr. Fastellos at the Number Six Exit.”

The bellhop snickered and ran off. Richie wondered what was funny. As the two men wandered through what Richie was certain was a maze of halls, the novelist, who was struggling to keep up with the concierge, said, “Number Six Exit? What’s that?”

Without looking back, the concierge replied, “It’s a place for guests such as yourself who wish to exit the hotel in privacy. Trust me, no one will ever think to look for you at the Number Six Exit. Your privacy is assured.”

“Ah, good,” Richie said as he and the concierge passed by more hotel staff.

“Here we are, sir,” said the concierge as he came to a door marked Exit. Opening the door, the man smiled once more and motioned for Richie to step through. “Your cab will arrive momentarily. When you return, let us know if there is any other way we can serve you.”

Richie gave the man a nod and muttered his thanks before going through the doorway and stepping out into the back alley behind the Ritz-Carlton.

Richie splashed down into a pool of pink and orange liquid that smelled like spicy meatballs, and as he turned, the door closed behind him. Looking around, he saw a heap of trash bags overflowing from the two green Dumpsters, several rats crawling around the refuse with twitching noses. His ears perked up as he heard the caterwaul of two alley cats fighting for supremacy. And as the cab turned into the alley, a pack of dogs started barking in the distance.

“Wow,” said Richie to himself as he waved toward the cab, gingerly shaking off his shoes. “I wonder what I get for a twenty?”

Ten minutes later, Richie was stepping out of the cab and heading up to the office of Kent Bourgeois. The building was impressively large and housed a number of businesses, including a mortgage corporation, a technology company, and over two dozen different legal and medical practices.

Taking an elevator to the fortieth of sixty floors, Richie had to admit that he had a twinge of vertigo as he exited the elevator. Remembering that Gordon Rockway’s office was only on the tenth floor of his building, Richie figured he had never been this high in a building before.

Following the directory on the wall, Richie soon reached impressive oak doors that had the words “Kent Bourgeois, Estate Law Attorney” written on them.

At the door, Richie inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and focused on his thoughts. He reminded himself that the point wasn’t to buy the townhome, it was to meet Samantha Castille. With that determined, Richie entered.

He didn’t have to wait at all, as Kent Bourgeois was more punctual than even Gordon Rockway. Just as Richie entered the office, it turned two o’clock, and the receptionist on duty, a pretty young lady with the whitest teeth he had ever seen, said, “Mr. Fastellos?”

Richie nodded, and the woman kept that bleach-white smile up. “Mr. Bourgeois is waiting for you. Please head through that door. At the end of the hallway.” She motioned toward a large door to the side of her desk, and Richie, smiling politely at her, traveled through the doorway and into a hallway with rather expensive-looking artwork. He soon reached an open doorway leading into a huge office.

“Mr. Fastellos,” said an older gentleman’s voice from within the room, “please come inside, sir.”

Taking everything in, Richie entered the office. His initial impression was correct—it was huge. The room was easily the size of a studio loft apartment, and sported a soft carpeted floor with area rugs of a Persian design. The walls were, once again, adorned with expensive artwork, and a few marble busts appeared to serve no other purpose than to break up the monotony of wall art.

Seated behind a solid mahogany desk, in a leather chair, was Kent Bourgeois. The man was dressed in what Richie assumed to be a tailored Armani suit. He wore spectacles. His hair was a medium gray, and he looked, above anything else, like a man who meant business.

“Yeah,” said Richie, not sure what he was saying “yeah” to. “I’m Richard Fastellos, the writer. I’m glad you responded to my e-mail, Mr. Bourgeois.”

Kent offered Richie a small smile before motioning to the seat in front of him. “Please, take a seat. I wish to talk with you for a while.”

“Right.” Richie, a bit overwhelmed at the sheer size of the office, took a seat. For some reason, Kent looked like a mob lawyer, and Richie suddenly felt that he had come here unprepared. “Look, I don’t want to cause any trouble for your client, Mr. Bourgeois. I’m just here on business.”

To Richie’s surprise, Kent chuckled and shook his head. “Ah, Mr. Fastellos, if you were perceived as any trouble, you wouldn’t be here.” The attorney slid his fingers together and rested them over his lips, which made him look positively villainous. “I just want to feel you out some before introducing you to Samantha.”