The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (24 page)

“Yeah,” said Monty as he looked up for a moment, then looked back down at Rodger. “I’m gonna kill you a whole lot worse.”

For a surreal moment, Rodger just stood there, his eyes widening as his brain registered what was just said. Then suddenly there was a loud
whoosh
sound as a steel car bumper, attached by two chains, swung down from the interior of the warehouse and struck Rodger directly in the chest. Like a sack of potatoes, he hit the ground, his jaw slack and his eyes unfocused, all the breath gone from his body and his ears ringing loudly.

Through the haze, he saw Michael, already turning and reaching into his coat to grab his pistol, as one of Monty’s friends, the bald one with the bullet wounds on his chest, rushed behind him with a metal baseball bat. With a single swing, Michael was disarmed.

Even as his vision began to blur and darken, Rodger mentally screamed for Michael to run away and get help.

Michael had already turned and was engaging the baseball-bat-wielding thug with his bare hands, even as the other one, the one with the wife-beater, came up behind Michael and hit him with a lead pipe in the back. Rodger watched as his partner cried out and fell to one knee.

Rodger again screamed in his head for Michael to run away.

While Rodger doubted that Michael could hear his thoughts, he was relieved to see that his partner was doing something. Rolling to the side, Michael rushed toward the back of the warehouse, the thugs giving chase.

Good. He got away.

Meanwhile, Horace was shouting shrilly at Mad Monty, “This is going on my report, Mr. Jones. You, sir, are heading back to jail!”

Rodger’s vision started to grow dark, the blow to the chest finally overwhelming him, even as he saw Mad Monty step over him and, with one punch, knock Horace to the ground.

As darkness stole over him, he saw Mad Monty turn and look him in the eyes, his white teeth glaring like the fangs of a wolf.

The last thing Rodger thought before unconsciousness overtook him was the word
shit
.

Chapter 12   
Dinner at the Ritz

It was seven in the evening, and Richie was sitting at the table near the window, overlooking Canal Street, wondering why he had come down so early. He was at the restaurant an hour early and had since downed two dry martinis. Richie was already feeling a strong buzz. Glancing at his watch and seeing that it was now just turning seven o’clock, he made a promise to himself to never be that early again.

“Excuse me,” said a voice that was frighteningly familiar. For a moment, Richie feared that he would turn his head and see that woman in the red dress again, this time with an older, stern-looking gentleman—probably Kent Bourgeois—glaring at them both and whispering to a pair of slick-haired “associates” who would nod and vanish into the darkness.

Instead, Richie was pleasantly surprised to see the woman he knew as “Just Sam” from earlier that day. She was dressed in an elegant black cocktail dress, which looked brand new, her blond hair out of her ponytail and cascading about her shoulders, and she was wearing low-heeled black shoes.

Her left hand was still wrapped around something that looked red and plastic. Her cheeks were flushed, as if she had been drinking. She was smiling that small, pleasant, and sincere smile at him, and suddenly Richie felt like the world’s biggest boob.

“Sam,” Richie said, gripping his forehead with both sets of fingers. “Samantha. God, I am such an idiot.”

Samantha, or Sam—whichever—gave a genuinely pleasant laugh, a short and melodious one that held no hint of malice.

“Don’t let that bother you, Richard,” she said as she took her seat, motioning for a nearby waiter to bring a menu. “I get that, literally, all the time. I’m used to it.”

“Fine,” Richie said with an exasperated sigh. “Just… what do I call you, Sam or Samantha?”

“Sam, please,” she said before pointing to a drink on the menu and nodding confirmation to the waiter, who quickly departed. “And what should I call you?”

“Call me confused, bewildered,” Richie said, surprisingly getting another small laugh out of Sam. “Richie, please. I hate it when people call me Richard. It makes me nervous.”

“Nervous?” Sam said, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Why so?”

“It’s just a thing, ya know? It’s who I am,” Richie said, shrugging and leaning back, playing it cool. “And anyway, this morning, I thought I had no chance in hell of meeting you, and now we’re having dinner. Who wouldn’t be nervous?”

Sam again laughed, this one lingering a bit longer, and looked away. “Wow. And here I thought I was going to be the nervous wreck meeting you.”

There was a hint of anxiousness behind her voice that Richie only made out because he himself often had experienced the same thing. He saw her squeeze whatever she was holding in her hand.

Arching an eyebrow, Richie leaned forward and asked, “So what, were you stalking me earlier at the autograph table? Because here I thought I’d have to hunt you down, Sam.”

That comment got a bit of a shy grin from Sam. “Actually, I saw a notice in the newspaper this morning about your appearance. I had to head downtown to the
Picayune
, and the Ritz was on my way, so I figured, why not get an autograph from one of my favorite authors?” She shrugged.

Richie felt his cheeks get warmer at that compliment. He remembered that brief moment of electricity when Sam’s hand had touched his. Sitting back, he said, “That’s very flattering, Sam, but there is no way you weren’t scouting me, not after all those e-mails I exchanged earlier this week with Mr. Bourgeois.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” Sam replied with a nervous-sounding chuckle, rapidly squeezing the plastic object in her hand. “I had no idea you were in contact with my lawyer before this afternoon. I called him after running errands, he told me about your visit, and I agreed to have dinner with you.”

“Oh,” replied Richie, and then sat back. For a moment, he wondered just how much information Kent was keeping from Sam, all under the pretense of “keeping her safe.” Richie was surprised that the notion of someone abusing Sam in any way made his temperature rise.

He also wondered if Kent had even told Sam that he, Richie, wanted to discuss purchasing a townhome from her. Richie decided that Kent likely did not, given that Sam hadn’t even brought it up. While this was fine with him, as it was really just a pretext, Richie felt it further cast Kent into a negative light.

Pushing those thoughts away, Richie looked back at Sam and saw that she appeared anxious, like a timid animal about to run, and that she was squeezing the plastic object in her hand much like he would squeeze his bottle of pills. A sudden feeling surged up inside him, a desire to shield this anxious-looking woman from whatever ailed her.

Richie wasn’t sure where this desire came from, as it wasn’t one he had ever had before, but it was extremely strong. With that desire came an uncanny feeling of attraction toward her—that frightened face, framed by that sandy blond hair, looked very sexy to Richie.

Richie didn’t have a problem with women—well, not with getting in their pants—but it was usually just a matter of playing the game until they “opened up.” He rarely felt emotionally invested. While he felt similar desire toward Sam, it was overtaken by an even stronger desire to keep her safe and secure, and near him.

“It’s all right,” Richie said. “I’m probably overanalyzing things, Sam. I am a mystery writer, you know, and I have to look at things from a suspicious and unorthodox angle. It’s what I get paid to do.”

That seemed to satisfy Sam, who relaxed in her chair, her shoulders lowering. “That makes sense.”

After a few long moments of silence, Sam added, “I’ve been a recluse most of my life. This, that is, meeting you for dinner, is a big thing for me.” Sam idly ran her free fingers over her black dress. “I even went out and bought this thing because, well, I don’t even own a dress, or heels. So, I’m still a bit like a rabbit in a trap, you know?” Looking down at her hand squeezing the object, Sam covered it as if protecting it from the world.

Sam’s analogy excited Richie even more, and his desire to put his arms around Sam and ward off all the ugliness in the world increased. It was like she was begging for someone to help her. Having never figured himself as a “savior” type, Richie was surprised that he felt this strongly. Maybe it was just a chemistry she gave off.

“I think I get it,” replied Richie, offering his most charming and gentle smile to Sam. “So, I’ll tell you what then, Sam, let me give you a dinner you’ll always remember. If I’m your favorite author, then we’ll talk about my books. If you want advice, I’ll give it away. Want an autograph, I’ll give you a hundred. Let’s have this dinner on your terms, to celebrate you coming out into the world.”

At that moment, the waiter returned with Sam’s drink, a glass of wine so dark it was almost black, like her dress. Richie raised his nearly empty martini glass and said, “A deal, then?”

A soft hue of pink rose to Sam’s cheeks, lighting up the otherwise hollow face with a splash of real color. She said, “Yeah… I think I’d rather just have dinner than all that, if it’s all the same. Are you this way with all women, Richie, or just the ones who like your older books?”

This honestly caught Richie off guard, and for a moment, he was at a loss for what to say. When he had finally gathered himself back up, he said, “All right, then, that will work, too, Sam. And to be honest, I prefer that, because… Okay, well, I’m actually a lot like you. I keep to myself a lot, and I, how do I say this… ”

A sigh escaped his lips, and he took a few moments to gather his thoughts before continuing. “A lot of people have pushed me into the spotlight really fast, and before this happened, I was nobody special. Now, suddenly, I’m at center stage and I have to act a certain way, talk a certain way, and respond to things a certain way.”

Leaning forward, Richie continued, “So I’ve been pretty much coached on how to be a ‘celebrity,’ such as it is, and, in fact, most of the personality that people see is a façade created by my publicist. And Sam, you are”—Richie stopped, wanting to say one thing, but instead saying another—“someone I feel I can be the real me with.”

The blush that had initially appeared on Sam’s cheeks crept back even stronger than before. She nodded her head in understanding and said, “I guess we’re kindred spirits, then, Richie.”

There was a hesitant moment before Sam exhaled and asked, “So, then, would you be surprised to find out that I’m a writer as well?”

As Sam sipped her drink, Richie thought about what she had just asked. It made sense. Who else could understand a writer as well as another writer? Finally, he said, “Okay, I’m not surprised. But I’ll bite. Sam, what have you written? I’ve never read anything by Samantha Castille, or even Just Sam.”

“I write under a pen name,” Sam replied, bringing her glass to her lips. “Sam of Spades.”

“Never heard of her,” replied Richie in a candid manner, as he ordered another martini.

Sam removed the glass from her lips and licked them silently before saying, “Ah well, that’s okay. I should have seen that coming. I’m local at best.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” Richie said, giving Sam a wink. “I mean, I was local, at best regional, before
The Pale Lantern
came out.” He let that last statement linger, before pushing to segue the conversation toward his book topic. “So then, are you planning anything bigger? Looking for a way to get published outside of New Orleans?”

What Richie heard next, however, was not what he expected to hear.

“I’m writing a series about the killings that started up two nights ago,” Sam said, a bit of an annoyed look on her face, “from the standpoint of it being a Bourbon Street Ripper copycat.”

If Richie had been drinking at that moment, he would have spewed it all over the table. Immediately, his eyes cast downward and his fists, now in his lap, tightened.
What the flying hippopotamus fuck! This was an idea I’ve had for months,
months
, and this bitch is going to come along and swipe it out from underneath me?

As he felt himself getting more and more upset, he remembered his conversation with the woman in the red dress the previous night. She had plainly asked why Richie didn’t try solving the murders himself. That made him think—why write about a fictional copycat, when the real one would be just as, if not more, lucrative?

Immediately, Richie’s brain went into overdrive, forming a plan to work this situation to his advantage. There was a genre similar to mystery, called True Crime, where the author examines a real crime, including the evidence and the people involved, and lays out the entire investigation for the reader to follow. While it was essentially nonfiction, it was a very profitable niche.

Richie figured that he could write the True Crime story based on the current real-life investigation, while Sam could write her fictionalized version.

And we could use each other as resources. That will work.

“Sam… ” Richie finally said, looking up and seeing that she was watching him cautiously. He realized that he was getting anxious again, and he had left his pills up in his room
.
The sudden desire to swipe all his goals to the side and protect Sam flooded back into his mind. He pushed down his rising anxiety and focused on the woman before him.

“The truth, Sam,” Richie began, “is that I’ve been toying with the idea of a Vincent Castille story myself, but I for one think it’s an excellent idea for the granddaughter of the original Bourbon Street Ripper to write a copycat story, or whatever it is you are doing.”

That seemed to disarm Sam, who nodded and placed down her drink. “Okay,” she said, “go on.”