The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (37 page)

“Yes,” replied Gordon. “What of it?”

“Well, check the news tonight, Gordon,” Richie excitedly continued. “There is a copycat killer right now who is doing the same thing. And the granddaughter of the original Ripper, Samantha Castille, is a friend of mine.”

There was a pause before Gordon said, “I’m listening. Go on.”

Hurriedly, Richie laid out his plan to Gordon, emphasizing that he and Sam were working very closely. He left out the part about assisting in the actual police investigation.

“Hmmm,” Gordon said as Richie finished. “Imagine that. Well, when do you think you’ll be done with this little side trip?”

“I think that in three to four days, the investigation will wrap up,” replied Richie. “From what I’ve seen, the police are really serious about catching this killer.”

“Well, all right,” answered Gordon, his voice not nearly as excited as Richie’s, but still sounding quite interested. “You just keep me up-to-date on things, okay? I don’t want to be left in the dark anymore.”

Richie scribbled down a note to e-mail Gordon every morning. “Right. Will do.”

“Okay, then,” replied Gordon, sounding a bit tired from the conversation. “I trust you, Richie. And I guess it was a good thing that my ticket got lost. Otherwise, I don’t think you’d be doing this right now, because I would have dragged your ass back to Pittsburgh.”

Richie gave a sharp, forced laugh and said, “Probably. Anyway, I’m starving and my dinner should be here any moment. I’ll e-mail you tomorrow morning.”

“Good,” said Gordon. “Take care, Richie.”

Richie hung up the phone and walked over to his luggage.

“Good luck, my ass,” he said as he reached into the recesses of his bags. Pulling out a plane ticket with the name “Gordon Rockway” on it, Richie slowly ripped it up. At first, he wasn’t sure why he had stolen Gordon’s ticket. It was something he had done almost on a whim, and guilt had been nagging at him. But now, with everything that had transpired so far, he was glad he did it. Gordon would have made meeting and working with Sam very difficult.

“Sorry I had to trick you, Gordon, but something inside tells me this is for the best.”

Richie was just finishing up dinner when there was a knock on the door. For a moment, he sat there, holding a glass of wine, and wondered who it could be. A sudden rush of excitement overcame him as he thought, for a moment, that it might be Sam. Quickly, he got up and opened the door.

What he was expecting to see was Sam, and possibly Rodger. What he saw was a woman a few years older than Sam, perhaps in her midthirties, with auburn-red hair that fell to either side and partially over her face. The woman had auburn eyes and was attractive in that “I can kick your ass” sort of way. She wore a long black coat over a dark blue shirt and a pair of black pants.

Even before Richie could ask who this tough chick at his door was, the woman whipped out a police badge and said, “Mr. Richard Fastellos? I’m Detective Dixie Olivier. My partner and I would like to have a word with you.” Richie closed the door to his room.

Why are the police here? Are they already on to me? Did they follow me from Sam’s house? Wait, why would they even be at Sam’s house? Holy shit, did they arrest Sam already?

Richie reached into his pocket to fish out his pill bottle. Instead of feeling the comforting plastic tube, he felt only emptiness and lint. Richie’s heart started pounding. Where was his anxiety medicine?

“Mr. Fastellos, please open up the door,” said Dixie, knocking on the door.

Richie’s mind raced as he tried to remember where he had left his pill bottle. Sweat began to bead up on his brow as he remembered taking the bottle out and popping a pill in the microfiche room at the library. The library!

“Oh God. I can’t believe it,” moaned Richie to himself.

There was another knock on the door, followed by Detective Olivier saying, “Mr. Fastellos. It’s very important that we talk to you immediately. If necessary, we will come back with a warrant.”

Richie’s hands were trembling as the anxiety attack continued to come on. Sliding down to his butt, he buried his face in his hands.

“Mr. Fastellos,” Dixie said, now clearly agitated, “I’m giving you one last chance to open up, then I’m going to get a warrant.”

One last!
The detective’s words triggered something in Richie’s mind. He had one last pill in his shirt pocket! His fingers trembled as he reached into his pocket, searched around, and pulled out the pill. He could take this pill now, deal with the police, and then go get his prescription refilled in the morning.

Richie took three deep breaths, fighting back the nausea from the anxiety attack. Forcing the pill down, he got up and began composing himself. Just taking the pill was enough to start settling his nerves.
It’s okay. Tell them they scared you. Play it off. It’ll be okay.

Continuing to breathe in and out, Richie formulated an explanation for his behavior. Finally calm enough, he opened the door and smiled pleasantly at Dixie, who was noticeably scowling at him.

“Sorry,” Richie said. “I was just writing something very hardcore for my next book, and you scared the crap out of me.”

“Scared you?” replied Dixie. “Do you have reason to be scared of the police?”

Richie chuckled, shook his head, and winked at Dixie. “No, of course not. You know who I am, correct?”

“You’re Richard Fastellos,” replied Dixie flatly, “the author of
The Pale Lantern
.”

“Right, right,” replied Richie. “Well, I was writing something for my next book from the killer’s point of view and I’m afraid you got me while thinking like a murderer.”

Dixie smiled pleasantly enough at him and nodded her head toward the interior of the hotel room. “May I come in?”

Richie smiled back, the situation with Sam giving him a clear course of action. “I think I’d rather talk out in the hall. Unless you have that warrant you talked about?”

Dixie’s pleasant turned into a smirk. She shook her head as she stepped back and said, “Well, why don’t we go downtown, then? We can give you some coffee and have a nice long chat.”

Richie’s lips ached as he kept his smile up, the pill fighting back any more anxiety. He exhaled, chuckled, and then asked, “Well, am I a suspect? Do I need to call my lawyer?”

“If you were a suspect, Mr. Fastellos, I’d be treating you completely differently,” said Dixie.

Richie felt her eyes searching him, as if sizing him up.

“Right now, you’re a potential witness. However”—Dixie’s voice suddenly got stern, her eyes piercing—“if you keep acting like this, like a suspect, then I’m going to start treating you like one.”

Richie felt he had more to lose than to gain by continuing to be evasive. He said, “Let me get my wallet. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

In the hotel lobby, Richie and Dixie were joined by another detective, a man about Rodger’s age, but with considerably less hair.

“This is my partner, Detective Kyle Aucoin,” said Dixie.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Fastellos,” said Aucoin as he shook Richie’s hand. “Thank you for speaking with us this evening.”

The two detectives escorted Richie through the lobby toward the outside.

As Richie walked along, he glanced toward the bar and restaurant. A flash of red caught his eye, and life slowed down for Richie as he caught the gaze of the Lady in Red. Seated at the bar, between two heavy-set and dangerous-looking men, the lady gave Richie a serious look, and then shook her head.

In a moment, the novelist was past the entrance of the bar, life having sped back up to normal, and the Lady in Red was out of eyesight.

What’s going on? Why would the Lady in Red do that? Am I now in some sort of danger?

The two detectives escorted Richie to their squad car and drove him downtown to the 8
^th
District police precinct. The building was abuzz with activity, and as Aucoin and Dixie led Richie to one of the interview rooms, the novelist saw that there was a large board with the pictures of both serial murderers’ victims on it, and a handful of uniformed officers being given orders by a bald man who looked to be in charge.

Richie looked at everything thoughtfully.
The copycat killer thing must really have everyone riled up.

Richie was shown into a room with a table and a set of chairs. It was like any police interview room he had ever imagined, complete with barred windows, a one-way mirror, and a thermostat, for literally “sweating out” a potential perpetrator.

“Really?” asked Richie, looking over at Aucoin and Dixie as they led him inside, motioning toward the table. “I’m a witness, and you’re interviewing me in an interrogation room? Are you serious?”

“Sorry about that, but we don’t actually have comfortable lounges for witnesses,” Aucoin said as he slid back a chair for Richie to sit in. “Can we get you anything? Water? Coffee, perhaps?” Aucoin turned toward his partner. “Dix, can we get some coffees in here?”

“Whatever, Kyle, sure,” Dixie snapped at her partner and then left the interview room. Richie rolled his eyes and shook his head.

As Aucoin turned back to him, Richie, who had folded his arms and was feeling rather indignant, said, “Look, Detective Aucoin, I write mysteries for a living. I know the good cop, bad cop routine. I also know that the way detectives try to get confessions is by buddying up to their suspects. You’re going to be the good cop, Dixie’s going to be the bad cop. It’s really boring.

“And lastly,” Richie said, cocking his head to the side and staring right at Aucoin, “I know that, unlike in every crime drama ever written, I can end this interview whenever I want.”

Aucoin just smiled at Richie. “Well, you have all the answers, don’t you?”

Standing up and loosening his tie, the detective walked over behind Richie, and patted his shoulders. “And I assume you know that me touching you is police brutality, and me calling you a fucking smartass”—Aucoin leaned down and whispered in Richie’s ear—“and saying I’m going to rip your nuts off if you talk down to me again, is abuse.”

Standing up, Aucoin patted Richie gently on the back, walked over to the other side of the tables, and took a seat, still smiling. “I can assure you that for now, Mr. Fastellos, you are a witness. But if you keep copping an attitude with me, considering the immense strain I’m under right now, I’ll find a reason to lock your smart ass up until this investigation is over.”

Richie’s face had grown stony, and his eyes had gotten very focused on the detective in front of him. His jaw clenched and he felt a rush of rage. He imagined what it would be like to punch Aucoin in the face repeatedly for giving him such a hard time. It would be satisfying to see Aucoin’s teeth punched out, his nose broken.

Closing his eyes, Richie inhaled slowly, then exhaled just as slowly. When he opened his eyes, the dark feelings had passed, the pill still doing its job. Richie said in a steady voice, “My apologies. I was out of line.”

Holding out his hands in a friendly gesture, smile broadening, Aucoin said, “See? Now we can be friends.

“And speaking of friends,” Aucoin continued as Dixie returned with a tray of coffees, “what we want to talk about is your new friend, Samantha Castille.”

Richie wasn’t the least bit surprised. “Sam Castille,” he said. “Well, we’ve only just met. What about her?”

Handing Richie a coffee in a disposable cup, Dixie said, “You call her Sam instead of Samantha? You sure you two have just met?”

Richie frowned for a moment, thinking to himself that Dixie was way more perceptive than he was comfortable with. Looking her in the eyes and seeing a calculating look, Richie realized that he was about to enter a battle of wits over information that could be used to incriminate Sam.

He was just glad that, by now, the anxiety medicine was flowing through his system. He could think clearly. He could psyche them out like he had psyched Kent out yesterday.
I just need to make sure they don’t get anything that can be used against Sam.

Taking the coffee cup, Richie sipped at it thoughtfully before saying, “Well, she asks everyone to call her Sam. It’s like saying Chris for Christina, or Alex for Alexandra, ya know?”

“Ah, so that explains the familiarity,” said Aucoin, taking the coffee handed to him by his partner. Aucoin took a sip. “And yet, you were seen at Miss Castille’s house this morning.”

With that, Richie realized that his initial fear was true. They were staking out Sam’s house. Biting on his bottom lip, he wondered just how much the two detectives knew.

Do they know about Rodger and Michael?

Deciding that it was entirely possible, Richie chose his next words very carefully. “We’re both writers, Detective. It’s a bond that’s as strong as, well, the bond between fellow policemen. For someone like myself, that’s one of the things I live for—visiting with a fellow author.”

“I find it hard to believe that there isn’t something else there,” replied Dixie, having taken her seat. “Fellowship is one thing, but who goes over to a single woman’s house early in the morning just to talk about writing?”`

“She’s not bad-looking,” added Aucoin, winking at Richie. “Are you two, ya know, closer than just professional?”

Richie sipped his coffee and stared at Aucoin. He was really starting to dislike this guy. Having Dixie hit him with the hard questions was one thing, but Aucoin’s attitude had a cockiness about it that made Richie want to throw boiling oil on his face.

Richie decided to take an over-the-top approach. He chuckled and shook his head, saying, “Between you and me, Detective Aucoin, I wish. I think Sam is pretty hot, but that’s not how she sees me. Nope, our relationship is purely professional.”

Richie leaned back and swished his coffee around in his cup.

That seemed to derail the routine Aucoin and Dixie were working on, and from what Richie could see, they were immediately changing tactics. Dixie sat back, tapped her index finger on the table three times, and turned to Aucoin. “Ya know, this is all fun and everything, the testosterone trip, but we should start asking him the questions we’re supposed to ask him.”