The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (25 page)

“Well, Sam,” continued Richie, his mind and mouth going into autopilot, “I’d like to help you with your endeavor. Not as a co-author or anything, just as a coach. You know, impart some tips on what I did to make
The Pale Lantern
so successful.”

Richie moistened his lips. Here was the big part of the whole deal. “In return, I want to write about this real investigation that the New Orleans police are doing, especially if the killer ends up being a real copycat.”

“Ah,” said Sam, nodding to show she understood. “So you will help guide me in writing the fictional story, and in return, you want me to help you with a True Crime version of this story?”

“Exactly,” Richie replied, the talk of business pushing the last of those anxious bubbles out of his mind. “You can help by allowing me to access anything of your grandfather’s that you may have, allowing me to interview you about him, and helping me get in touch with the detectives who were originally on the Bourbon Street Ripper case.”

Sam leaned back and gave a long
hmmmm
, finishing with an inhale through the nose, before saying, “Well, this is definitely forcing me to face these issues head-on. So, as long as we help each other, and not just ourselves”—she offered her hand to Richie—“you have yourself a deal, Mr. Fastellos.”

Taking the offered hand and shaking it, and noting how smooth it was, Richie said, “All right then, Miss Castille, we have an accord. Shall we drink on it?” Richie raised his glass.

Sam
clinked
her glass against Richie’s, but then added, “Well, drinking is good, too, but I’d prefer if we ordered some food as well. I haven’t eaten since noon today.”

Richie laughed and said he thought ordering dinner was an excellent idea.

At eleven fifty at night, with the restaurant nearly closed, Richie and Sam were still going, laughing over stories of their managers and publicists.

Beneath their glasses, which
clinked
together with whatever they were drinking at the time, was a double plate of mostly eaten bananas Foster. All around, the restaurant was being cleaned, the staff giving the two writers a wide berth.

Richie had consumed several martinis, and was tipsy enough that his speech slurred. He could tell from looking at Sam that she was quite drunk.

He had adopted the same mannerisms as her, to appear just as drunk to her. It was a charade he was used to when with a woman—if he acted as drunk as her, she’d be more comfortable around him.

“Wow,” Richie said, his speech just garbled enough to make him sound like he had his own Cajun accent. “So this Caroline chick is always busting not only your hump, but your buddy Jacob’s as well?”

“Yeah,” replied Sam, her own speech muddled as she sipped her fifth Crown and cola. “She is… Richie, she’s a real bitch. I mean, I try to get along with her, but the more I give, the more she takes.” Sam rested her free hand over her heart in a melodramatic fashion. “I’m only one person. I can only do so much.”

Richie positively howled with laughter at that. “That is why—right there—that is why I never wrote for newspapers.” He paused. “Unless I had to.” Another pause. “For money.”

Nodding, Sam finished off her drink and sat back. “Richie, I’m going to be totally honest here.”

This got Richie’s attention. He sat up as straight as he could and looked Sam in the eyes.

Sam continued, “I really thought you’d be a dick, but you turned out to be pretty cool. Thank you.”

That got a sharp laugh out of Richie, who slammed back his fourth martini. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sam. I’m a totally likeable fellow!”

As Sam snickered at him, Richie continued, “But that’s okay, because from the way Kent described you, I thought you would be a psycho-chick who would be ready with a lawsuit in one hand and a gun in another!”

That made Sam laugh out loud and gulp down the last of her wine before saying, “I’m not that bad. Okay, maybe I
was
, but dammit, I went out and had dinner with someone tonight. This is the first time I’ve come outta my shell since I was twenty. I’m proud of myself.”

As Richie smiled to himself at Sam’s comment, she added, “We should do this again, Richie.” She reached out and touched his hand for a moment. “I mean, if you want to, that is… ”

Richie again felt a charge rush through his body at Sam’s touch, stronger than the first time. For a long moment, he stared at his hand where she had touched him. Her touch felt so strange and yet so familiar. He had never felt anything like that sensation before.

Richie looked up at Sam, who was smiling back at him. His anxiety was replaced by the confidence only brought about by alcohol, and he felt very masculine.

Clearing his throat, Richie reached over and touched his fingers to Sam’s hand, saying, “Tell you what, Sam. How about we have coffee tomorrow morning? We can go over the book ideas together. And let’s choose someplace you are comfortable with, like your place.”

“Coffee, huh?” Sam asked, tapping her bottom lips with her finger. “Sure, why the hell not! Come over to my house tomorrow morning.”

Sam reached into her back pocket and pulled out a card with an address. Sliding it over to Richie, Sam said. “How does eight o’clock sound? We can have breakfast, fresh coffee, and work on our book ideas.”

Richie, who was certain that a sober Samantha Castille would never have invited him over for breakfast, thought that was a fantastic idea. Just as he was about to suggest that he pick something up for their breakfast, the head waiter approached the table with their bill.

“Pardon me,” the waiter said in a cordial voice, “but we are closing in five minutes. Can you, please… ?” Holding out the bill, he offered a pleasant but tired smile.

Before Richie could do anything, Sam reached out and tossed a plastic card onto the plate. “Here. On me,” she said, winking at Richie.

Richie was stunned. He hadn’t seen the bill, but he was sure the total had to be over two hundred. Two filet mignon dinners, not to mention that many drinks, couldn’t be cheap.

Remembering his conversation with Kent earlier that day, he realized that Sam must be extremely wealthy.

“Sam,” Richie said with a twinge of guilt for all those martinis he had drunk, “I’ll pay you back tomor—”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Sam replied, tilting her nose up. The waiter brought the receipt and Sam started to factor in a tip.

“At least let me handle the tip, Sam,” Richie said, reaching into his jacket pocket and taking out his money clip. Sam seemed to agree with that, as she zeroed out the tip column and signed the slip. Richie quickly tossed a fifty on the table, then another ten, just in case the concierge might somehow get involved.

Soon, the two writers, tired and with varying degrees of intoxication, stumbled out into the hot air of Canal Street, Richie reaching out an arm to hail Sam a cab. Finally succeeding, he opened the door for Sam and helped her inside. Once inside the cab, Sam regained her composure before thanking Richie for a wonderful dinner.

“My pleasure, Sam,” Richie said with a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow in time for coffee. I like mine with sugar and cream, all right?”

“All right,” Sam said, then leaned back against the seat, clearly still very drunk.

Closing the door, Richie watched as the cab drove off. He gave a happy sigh as he headed back into the hotel lobby. With a skip to his step, he headed into the elevator and clicked his floor number. Leaning against the back wall of the elevator, Richie took several long, deep breaths to push the tipsiness back, no longer having to pretend to be drunk in order to keep Samantha comfortable around him.

It was on his third deep breath that Richie realized he wasn’t alone.

“You look happy,” said a sultry voice beside him. Richie turned his head to see that the woman in the red dress was his elevator companion.

“I am,” he said, and then he looked at the elevator doors again. “So where are you heading?”

“Top floor,” she said, with a sigh that was mournful, like a lonely saxophone’s final exhale. “People aren’t doing their jobs properly.”

“Oh,” Richie said before looking over at the woman again. The way she phrased her problem only reinforced his belief that she was somehow involved in organized crime. “Sounds kind of suspicious. You’re not in any trouble, are you? Do you need any help?”

“Not really,” she said, her naturally sultry tone suddenly bitter. “The help I was looking for didn’t come when I needed it. And I’ve already suffered for it.” Then she smirked almost devilishly. “But now I get to pick up the pieces.”

Richie said nothing to that. He just looked forward again. “Sorry. I have a habit of trying to rescue women. It’s an annoying trend I think I’ve just developed today.”

“Then go solve that murder, writer-boy,” the woman said, her pouty lips curving into a sweet, sexy smile. “You are going to do it, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Richie said, nodding to himself as much as to his strange companion. “I’m going to do it. And I’ll have help, too.”

Richie then thought of Sam.
And I’ll help her, while I’m at it
.

The woman looked upward as she sucked on her bottom lip for a long moment, almost as if she were nearing climax. “Mmmmm, so what’s your plan?”

“I’ve got some work to catch up on,” Richie said with a chuckle, even as the elevator stopped and the doors opened. “Quite a bit before I head to bed. But that’s just how I roll, lady. I burn the midnight oil to do what has to be done.”

“We all do,” she said as Richie left the elevator. “We all do what needs to be done.”

“Right,” said Richie, giving the woman a nod of thanks. “Good night.”

She just stared up at the ceiling of the elevator and smiled as the doors closed.

The Lady in Red. Who the hell is she?

Once inside his room, Richie stripped off his clothes and got into his robe, laying out a pair of jeans, boots, and a T-shirt for the next morning. He was already thinking about his breakfast with Sam.

“I may not be able to write about the Bourbon Street Ripper copycat murders,” Richie said to himself, “but I can sure as hell help solve them.”

The alarm was set for six o’clock in the morning, and once that was done, Richie sat down in front of his computer. Cracking his knuckles, he started to load up his web browser.

“All right,” Richie said to himself once more, “time to get to work.”

Chapter 13   
Rodger’s Bad Day

When Rodger’s consciousness and vision returned to him, he was back inside the warehouse with the door tightly shut. He wasn’t sure how long he had been out, but judging by the daylight seeping through the windows of the warehouse, it couldn’t have been that long. Rodger quickly realized two things: he was tied up with a chain, hands bound in front of him, legs bound at the feet, and he was suspended in the air by virtue of one of those hanging hook-chains attached to the chain binding.

“Good,” said the booming voice of Mad Monty from the center of the warehouse. “You’re awake.”

Rodger swiveled a bit by swinging his lower body, turning to face Mad Monty. The large man was over by the conveyor belt, leaning on an equally tied-up Horace, pushing one hand on his face and another on his knees. The parole officer was tied up pretty tightly, and the conveyor belt now had raised sides, so rolling off would be impossible. Between Rodger and the machine was a small table. On that table lay Horace’s briefcase and Rodger’s coat and sidearm. Rodger could see that the weapon still had its clip in it.

Monty grinned that toothy, fanglike grin again, saying, “Man, you have no fucking clue how happy I was to hear that you were coming over today. I’ve been thinking for years about how I’d do you. You can’t even imagine how hard it’s been to wait for the right moment.”

Rodger screamed, “Monty!” Just the act of screaming made Rodger start to rotate away from the scene, and like a flailing fish, he struggled to return to facing Monty again. “You think you’ll get away after this? You know I got backup coming!”

Monty laughed a great booming laugh and said, “Shit, you mean that skinny bitch kung fu partner of yours? My boys are chasing his ass down by the river. He’s gonna get a real lesson in being a bitch.” He sniffed once more. “But you and nerd-boy be dead long before that.”

Rodger knew how bad the situation was. Without any way to call for help, he had to wait for the thirty-minute time limit they’d set with Ouellette to run out. By the time the police commander acted, he and Horace could already be dead.

Deciding the best chance he had to keep them both alive was to keep Monty talking and killing time, Rodger started up again. “You don’t have to kill Horace, Monty. Your beef is with me, not him.”

Spitting to the side, Monty said with a growl to his voice, “You think I care about this limp-dicked pussy? You can’t imagine how annoying it’s been listening to his wimpy voice tell me what I should and shouldn’t do. Fuck, man, you know how hard it is to be a bad motherfucker when you have to drink nonalcoholic beer and listen to Beethoven? Hos don’t respect that!”

“Like your woman didn’t respect you when she fucked your best friend?” asked Rodger. He had played this card before, and it worked perfectly. Monty was pretty much emasculated when his old girlfriend had had a child with Monty’s best friend. Only through crushing the guy’s windpipe did Monty regain his manhood, as well as earn himself ten years in prison. It was a topic Monty was always sore over.

Much to Rodger’s surprise, however, Monty just smirked and shook his head. “Man, I am well over that shit. I’ve had so many bitches since then it don’t matter no more. Besides, I fuck guys now, too.” Mad Monty leaned forward on Horace, resting his elbows on him. “White, lily-assed guys like your pussy-boy partner.”