The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (21 page)

The response confused Richie, who leaned back and, wearing a perplexed look on his face, said, “Yeah? Is that so?”

“Mr. Fastellos,” Kent said, leaning back in his chair, “you are familiar with Vincent Castille, are you not? Known in his time as the Bourbon Street Ripper? The most famous serial killer in the history of New Orleans? Surely you know he was Samantha’s grandfather.”

“Well, yes,” admitted Richie. “I mean, I’ve heard about him, but I was just a kid when that happened, so it’s not like I followed the events or anything.”

“Yes, yes,” Kent replied, lowering his folded hands down to the surface of the desk. “Well, I handled the Castille estate during Vincent’s lifetime. In a way, I still do. I also handle Samantha’s personal estate, and that makes me, in many ways, her advocate.”

“Advocate, huh,” said Richie. “What, is she a recluse?”

“Of the highest variety,” Kent answered. There was a certain sadness to his voice as he gave that response, or so Richie thought, but it was quickly covered up.

“She keeps to herself, communicating only with myself and a few choice people. She also leaves the handling of all her property and investments to me, and since she has given me no indication that she wants to sell any of her properties, I have had no reason to negotiate with you.”

“Ah,” replied Richie, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. Kent went on to talk about his responsibility to watch over Samantha’s interests, and that he’d bring up the idea in a few weeks, or something or other. Richie wasn’t listening, but instead was in the deepest of thought.

This guy
is way too protective of Samantha’s interests for a mere estate lawyer. There is something else here, something that’s just off about the entire thing. But what is it? What reason would an estate law attorney have to stop anyone from having any contact with a client?

A sudden thought entered Richie’s mind, and even as Kent was beginning to wrap up the conversation, Richie blurted out, “Mr. Bourgeois, are you the executor for the Castille estate?”

That question seemed to shock Kent, who froze for a second before saying, “Well, I don’t see how that is any of your business, Mr. Fastel—”

“Yes, but it is a matter of public record,” interrupted Richie. “I mean, I could go down to City Hall and find out, so you might as well just tell me.”

Straightening up, Richie started to feel anxious. He slipped his left hand into his pants pocket where his bottle of anxiety pills were and ran his fingers over the bottle, the smooth plastic surface reassuring to him.

“Very well,” stated Kent. “Yes, I am.”

“So, you are the executor of the Castille estate,” Richie said, pointing animatedly at the attorney, feeling that Kent had just opened himself up wide for a good verbal rebuttal. “And are you the executor of Samantha Castille’s estate? Again, matter of public record. Don’t think you can lie to me.”

Kent looked confused as he said, “Yes, as a matter of fact I am.”

“So, you are the estate law attorney for two separate estates under the Castille name. And I assume then that Samantha is the beneficiary of Vincent’s estate?” said Richie, feeling anxiety start to well inside him. He knew that if he took the conversation the wrong way, Kent would toss him out on his ear.

“What are you getting at, Mr. Fastellos?” replied Kent, with more than a hint of irritation in his voice and his eyes narrowing.

Richie felt a rush of elation that matched his gnawing anxiety. He knew nothing about law itself, just that if he let Kent retake control of the conversation, he’d never get what he wanted—a chance to meet Samantha Castille.

“Well, if you are still overseeing the distribution of the estate of Vincent Castille to his granddaughter after twenty years, then she must, for whatever reason, not be using that estate.” Richie’s mouth flew faster than his brain, much like words flew from his fingers when he was on a writing binge. He squeezed the bottle of pills in his pocket more strongly.

“That means her own estate, for which she has turned the daily operations over to you, is what she lives on. I can only assume that estate is finite. I can also only assume that the sale of the townhome in question would expand the financial value of that estate. Samantha hasn’t said that she wants to sell anything, but she also, according to you, hasn’t said that she
doesn’t
want to sell anything.”

“The point?” Kent said, boring holes into Richie’s skull with his eyes. There was something almost dangerous in Kent’s gaze.

Richie gripped the arm of the chair and leaned back, pushing his anxiety down to his gurgling stomach. “This just smells a lot like a conflict of interest, that’s all. I don’t suppose we should audit the Castille estate and find out, should we?”

Richie, who was pulling most of what he was saying out of his ass, did not expect his bluff to have any effect, but it had come out before he had even realized what was going on. He got this way sometimes, and was aware that this anxious method of talking a person to death rarely worked. Fortunately, it only happened when he got stressed out.

Unfortunately, just being in the same room as Kent stressed him out.

To Richie’s surprise, however, Kent just stared at him with narrowed eyes, looking more frustrated by the moment. The effect was significantly more unsettling than he had anticipated.

Finally, Kent spoke. “Your knowledge of the law is a bit flawed, but your basic accusation is disturbingly accurate. All right, Mr. Fastellos, the truth.” Leaning in, the lawyer looked right at Richie, his face once again masking any emotion. “The truth is, I’ve known Samantha since she was a child, and I’ve seen that girl suffer in ways most people will never understand. That, paired with the fact that her own family loathes her has made me, well, very protective of her. I’ll admit I’m going far beyond the duties of a family attorney, but dash it all, someone has to look out for Samantha.”

This confession took Richie completely off guard, and with an “Oh,” he slumped back, unsure of what to make of the situation. He couldn’t tell if Kent was bullshitting him back or not. Every knot in his stomach told him it was time to leave the office.

Finally, he sighed, leaning forward and looking at the lawyer in a frank manner. “Okay, I see why you’re doing what you’re doing, and I promise not to do anything to harm her. I just want to talk to her. If you can make that happen… I promise not to bother her if she says ‘no.’”

Richie felt irritated at having to hand-hold a seemingly all-powerful lawyer through what he felt was tantamount to pinkie swears. But the alternative wasn’t even possible. After a confession like that, telling Kent he wanted to talk to Samantha about a book involving her grandfather would seem like pure exploitation.

“Deal?” Richie prompted.

After a long moment of silence, Kent nodded. “Deal. I’ll contact Samantha this afternoon and arrange a meeting between the two of you for tomorrow. Is that satisfactory?”

“Of course,” replied Richie, who struggled to keep the smugness off his face. The anxiety was gone, and in its place was the feeling of how awesome he was.

Kent nodded, showing no more emotion. “I can reach you by e-mail, then, Mr. Fastellos?”

“Of course,” responded Richie, “or just call the Ritz-Carlton and ask for my room.”

“Leave your room number with my receptionist,” Kent instructed, then reached down to pick up a pen. The stern-eyed lawyer started going through a stack of papers on his desk, then stopped when he noticed that Richie was still there. “Thank you for stopping by, Mr. Fastellos. Have a good day.”

Richie finally took the hint and left, making sure to drop off his room number with the receptionist, who almost laughed when he made sure to explain that it was for Kent to call him and not some attempt to pick her up.

Once in the lobby of the building, Richie popped a pill, washing it down with some water from a nearby fountain. While he didn’t feel a panic attack coming on exactly, he felt anxious enough that his stomach and head were starting to hurt. It was a dull, throbbing ache, like someone was walking around inside his skull.

Despite all that, Richie was in a fantastic mood when he got back to the hotel. He even tipped the concierge twenty dollars, which the man looked at with what appeared to be mild interest. Heading up to his room, he busied himself with answering e-mails, having an hour-long conversation with Gordon about the morning’s interview and signing, and looking over the dinner menu of a local pizzeria.

It was five o’clock, and Richie was just settling down to order a pizza and then watch some television, when the hotel phone rang. Picking it up, he said, “Hello?”

“Mr. Fastellos,” said the unmistakable Bond-villainous voice of Kent Bourgeois, “I just spoke with Samantha Castille.”

“Great,” replied Richie, his heart starting to race. “What did she say?”

“She wants to meet with you tonight”—Kent’s voice sounded like someone had taken away his plate of cookies—“at the restaurant at the Ritz-Carlton.”

“She what?” Richie said in a voice that was completely incredulous, before quickly recovering. “Oh, that’s fantastic! Tell her I’ll meet her. What time? What will she be wearing?”

Kent’s voice continued to sound disgruntled as he said, “Seven o’clock. Yes, I know that is a bit later than usual for dinner, but Samantha is somewhat of a night owl. As for what she’ll be wearing, don’t worry about that. She’s already reserved a table for you and her. When you get there, just give your name, and you’ll be seated. Samantha will join you shortly.”

“All right,” said Richie, getting a sense of cloak-and-dagger intrigue that was quite enjoyable.

“Be there no later than seven o’clock, Mr. Fastellos.” Kent’s voice suddenly took on a tone of warning, one that made Richie’s breath quicken. “Do not make my client wait for you.”

“Oh, I won’t,” replied Richie, jotting down notes of where, when, and what concerning his dinner with Samantha Castille. “Thank you again, Mist—”

“And Mr. Fastellos,” Kent added dryly, his voice becoming menacing, “you upset her, and I’ll make sure you never have another cent to your name again. Good night, sir.”

The lawyer hung up, leaving Richie sitting there, holding the phone, and wondering what kind of bug had crawled up Kent Bourgeois’s ass and turned him into a raging dick.

Richie shook it off and set about the task of getting ready for his dinner. Richie took a shower, shaved his stubble, brushed his teeth, and put on a clean suit. A spray of cologne later, and Richie was headed downstairs to meet up with Samantha Castille.

Chapter 11   
Mad Monty

Smoking a cigarette and leaning against a brick wall, Rodger stood outside the closed-down building that once was the Jean-Lafitte Theater. Michael sat in their nearby car.

Rodger mulled over the events of the last hour in his head. He wasn’t sure what Michael had expected to see in the run-down building, but as far as Rodger was concerned, the entire side trip was a colossal waste of time.

They had both been hopeful when they had discovered the building to be closed and still standing. The small pathway leading from Toulouse to the courtyard where the entrance lay was badly overgrown, and it was obvious from the flea-ridden blankets and used drug paraphernalia scattered throughout the courtyard that the outside of the Theater was being used as a crash space for addicts and derelicts. However, against all odds, the building hadn’t fallen into a permanent state of disrepair.

With just wooden planks nailed over the entrance of the building, getting in was an easy matter of tearing them down. Fortunately, Rodger always kept a toolbox in the trunk of his car, a habit he had gotten into during his days with Edward. The hammer in the toolbox was old, and the head was a bit rusty, but it did the job. It had taken only a few minutes for them to gain access to the old cabaret.

Inside the theater, it was very dark, even at four o’clock in the afternoon in August, the interior of the club having always had minor exposure to the outside world. Flashlights in hands, both detectives shone their beams around the front entry room, light reflecting off of tarnished brass and absorbed by moth-eaten velvet. Michael had made a comment about what a dump this place had become, but to Rodger, it was a cornucopia of memories.

Rodger remembered the splendor of what was once New Orleans’s most famous cabaret. The courtyard had been lit with gas lanterns that reflected off the surface of two large glass windows, which were draped on the inside, as well as reflected off the water from two enormous lion-head fountains, one on either side of the courtyard. The double doors from the courtyard had opened into the splendid front entry room, the smell of expensive cigars and even more expensive cognac wafting as soon as one entered.

Rodger remembered the weasel-like host standing behind a podium made of solid oak. He would look down his nose at you while checking “the list” for your name. The detective also remembered the pug-nosed bouncer with the sloped forehead and arms the size of small frigates who would ensure that only those on “the list” would get inside.

Rodger also remembered that back in the seventies, fifty dollars got you on “the list.”

Now, two decades later, Rodger had to agree with Michael’s assessment. Compared to its former glory, the Jean-Lafitte Theater had become “quite a dump.”

The brass was now tarnished, the black velvet divider was long gone, the red velvet drapes were moth-eaten, the carpet had more bald patches than a cat with mange, and the posters on the walls were faded and only partially legible. The smell of mold and dust was as thick as the specks in the air.

Only a few things were left to remind Rodger of the once proud and exclusive nightclub. The oaken podium still stood, an effigy to the weasel-nosed host and his list, and there were still two posters, one on either side of the room. One showed two lovely blond lasses in red dresses blowing kisses and winking for the camera, and the other showed a man who looked suspiciously familiar, with slicked-back hair and startling blue eyes, grinning like the devil himself.