The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (51 page)

“So, what,” Michael asked, a bit leery, “he was eaten by an alligator?”

Rodger seemed jarred by Michael’s question, the senior detective suddenly looking over. “What? No! Nothing like that. Jason had too much to drink, slipped and fell off the boat, and drowned.”

“Oh,” Michael replied, feeling a bit silly for suspecting an alligator-related death. But at least that helped him to understand the reason for Ouellette getting so upset with Rodger over the Houma comment. “So his son dies in an accident, and suddenly he becomes the most overprotective commander in the world? That doesn’t make any sense.”

Rodger shifted a bit in his seat and frowned. “There’s a bit more to it than that. You see, Ouellette was convinced that it wasn’t an accident. Autopsy showed a trace amounts of Amobartbital, a barbiturate.”

Michael wasn’t familiar with the barbiturate Rodger had named, but he knew that those kind of drugs didn’t mix well with alcohol. “Sounds like Jason mixed pills and booze, then took a spill off the side of the boat. How is that not an accident?”

“Because,” said Rodger. “when the boat came back right after the drowning, Ouellette had it scoured and all of Jason’s boat mates searched. No traces of anything like that were found.”

“Ah,” replied Michael, “so Ouellette thinks that one of the people on the boat dosed his son up and caused the accident.”

“Correct,” Rodger said, shaking his head. “It was a mess. Ouellette was mad with grief and was certain his son had been murdered. His wife, who was beside herself, just kept begging him to stop acting that way. For a year, until the chief shut him down, Ouellette spent all his free time trying to find a killer that possibly didn’t even exist. It ruined his marriage and pretty much killed his chance of getting promoted beyond commander. Since then, he’s sort of like me, stuck in the same job, the same situation, until he retires.”

Michael wanted to ask a question, but his partner must have sensed it, because before the junior detective could ask anything, his partner said, “But don’t worry about me, I’d rather do this more than anything else. Desks bore the shit out of me.”

Chuckling in spite of himself, Michael agreed with his partner. Rodger was just settling down again when Michael asked, “So, Rodger, who is Mary?”

“Huh? Oh right, Mary. I did promise to explain that,” Rodger replied, looking like he was very comfortable and had no plans on changing that position. “Mary was Sam’s mother. Mary Castille. Edward married her in a private ceremony. I never met her. A shame, too—Edward used to tell me that she was a beautiful woman.”

Michael’s brow wrinkled in confusion. He was certain that Rosemary had heavily hinted that Magnolia of the M&M Sisters was Sam’s mother. After all, wasn’t that the one whom Blue-Eyed Giorgio wanted, but who had Edward as a sugar daddy? According to Rosemary, Edward was protective of the M&M sisters. Why else would he show them that much attention, unless one was the mother of his child?

But Rodger seems to believe it’s the other sister, Marigold, who was Edward’s lover. And “Marigold” does shorten to “Mary” better than “Magnolia” does, if that even means anything. Damn, this is going to get confusing. We need to figure out which sister was with Edward, and soon.

Michael looked over at his partner, who was falling asleep inch by inch, and asked, “Rodger, do you remember what Mary Castille supposedly did for a living?”

Rodger gave a sleepy yawn before saying, “Oh, she worked at St. Jude’s Hospital. Her and a sister, I think. Both were nurses in the recovery ward.”

As Rodger’s breaths turned to snores, Michael focused more on his thoughts than the road.

That clinches it. Mary must have been Magnolia or Marigold’s real name. And she and her sister worked at the same hospital as Vincent Castille. Yes, that makes sense. Edward would know her from a venue other than the Jean Lafitte Theater. So when the two nurses became lounge singers at the Jean-Lafitte Theater, and one of them got the attention of a known serial rapist, Edward… um… married one and had a kid with her?

This doesn’t add up. What am I missing? What’s going on here? What the hell happened twenty years ago with these two sisters?

It was a little over an hour later when the detectives arrived at the Jefferson Parish Police Department near Bayou Lafitte. The building was a dirty white-brick single-floor building complete with a weather-worn American flag fluttering on a flagpole out front. The parking lot was filled with several older-style Crown Victoria police cars that looked more like old, rusty white bricks than serviceable vehicles. Leaning against the outer wall near the glass front door, the window tinting half stripped off, were three police motorcycles. The rest of the parking lot was littered with at least two dozen pickup trucks, some with flat boats attached to the backs, others filled with various assortments of furniture, lawn equipment, and fishing gear. Pulling up in a free parking space, Michael gently shook Rodger until his partner woke up.

“Huh? What?” Rodger snorted himself awake, and then looked around. “Where the heck are we?”

Michael looked outside in time to see a stout African-American woman waddling toward the building with four children, all joined hands with the oldest and tallest in front. The woman was mumbling to herself. Michael could only make out the words “that good for nothing” and “son of a bitch.”

The heat was coming off the pavement in waves of steam, and the car’s air-conditioning started sucking up the smell of trash baking on asphalt.

Turning to his partner, Michael smirked and said, “We’re in hell.”

Chapter 26   
Lonesome Hearts

When Richie arrived at the front door of Sam’s townhome, he had already memorized what he wanted to say to apologize to her for being so late. He had already apologized on the phone the previous night, and she had accepted his apology with what sounded like a genuine sigh of relief. However, he felt like he needed to apologize again. Part of that feeling came from his guilt at standing her up after she made sure he was included in the plan, while the other part was that he didn’t want to ruin his chances with her.

On the subject of Sam, Richie wasn’t completely sure that he even had a chance. While it was obvious to him that there was a chemistry between them, he wasn’t sure if it could or would go anywhere. He just knew that when he focused his thoughts on Sam Castille, every part of him reacted.

After waking up and getting the morning newspaper, Richie had gone back to the library to get his pills. But the bottle had long since been thrown away. What was remarkable to Richie was that he felt he didn’t need them. He hadn’t had a panic attack all day, and for once he felt in control—a feeling he had never known without medication. It was eerie, yet refreshing.

So by the time Richie was knocking on the door to Sam’s townhome, he had again come to terms with being “in love” with Sam, and hoped that she would return those feelings. He had spent the entire morning mentally rehearsing the apology, as well as certain key and particularly suave comments to make to Sam. He had also made sure he looked and smelled like a gentleman—an effort that was hilariously ruined by the humidity of New Orleans in August.

So when Sam answered the door to her townhome, wearing a pair of black jeans and a white loose blouse, Richie was, by contrast, sweaty and far from perfect.

Sam had an anxious look about her. Fearing that she was upset with him, Richie managed a small wave and started to say, “Hey, Sam. Look, I just wanted to apologi—”

And then Sam yanked Richie inside by his shirt.

“Richie, thank God you’re here.” Sam hugged him for a lingering moment, then pulled back. Her voice was thick with relief. “You have no idea how good it is to see you.”

Bewildered, Richie gave a nervous chuckle, the solidly cool exterior that he used to obliterate Dixie and Aucoin’s interview techniques cracked like an eggshell. Before he could reach up and hug Sam back, Sam had pulled away. Still, he grinned and replied, “Well, I know we have some catching up to do and everything, but—”

“No, that’s not it,” Sam interrupted. Her voice grew hushed and cautious as she said, “I think someone has been in my house.”

Immediately, Richie grew serious, the cheesy grin on his face vanishing behind a mask of seriousness. Suspicions, ranging from a burglar to the copycat killer to the Nite Priory, assailed his thoughts, and without thinking, he moved protectively in front of Sam. “Where do you think he is?”

Sam sighed and shook her head. “Richie, I can defend myself, but I was hoping you could—”

“Where do you think he is?” Richie repeated, this time his voice even less emotive and more focused. Something within him felt an instinctual desire to protect Sam.

Behind him, Sam sighed and said, “Well, Tony Testosterony, I don’t think they’re here now. But if you’re that determined to go forging ahead, I’ll show you what I found. Just don’t get in front of me if there is an intruder here. I might kill you by mistake.”

Coming out of his moment of bravado, Richie saw that Sam was carrying her father’s service revolver, her thumb on the hammer, her forefinger on the trigger. From what he could see, Sam knew how to use that weapon proficiently.

Giving Sam a nod, Richie said, “All right, lead the way.” He motioned for Sam to pass him. As Sam walked by, and then up the stairs, Richie followed. From his vantage point, Richie had a fantastic view. He did his best to not stare, but found it harder with every passing moment. Finally, he gave in to his desire and indulged himself in a long look, only tearing his eyes away just as Sam reached the top of the stairs.

Fortunately, Sam didn’t notice Richie staring, and she just marched up to the third floor. Turning right, she entered a bedroom.

Once they were inside, Richie stopped and looked around. His eyes widened with surprise as he looked into what must be Sam’s bedroom.

If it was, it was not what Richie expected. The entire room was furnished with hand-carved furniture—everything from an armoire to a vanity to a Queen Anne chair. The walls were lined with hand-painted art of the bayous and French Quarter. A four-poster king-sized bed made of mahogany wood, with an ivory canopy, was the centerpiece of the room. There were candles burning everywhere in brass votive arrangements, and the entire room smelled of coconut and lime.

Holy shit
,
Sam is loaded.

Suddenly, the small fortune Richie had amassed from the sale of
The Pale Lantern
seemed like peanuts. This was the kind of furniture that people with real money bought.

Sam moved directly to the vanity, up to the terra-cotta vanity mirror. “It was about an hour ago. I was just coming out of the bathroom.” She pointed at a small unassuming door leading into what was presumably an equally expensive bathroom. “I came out here, and saw this in the vanity mirror.”

From his original angle, Richie couldn’t see what Sam was talking about, but as he stepped just to the side, he saw it.

Someone had used beige lipstick to smudge the otherwise pristine vanity mirror with the word
Murderer
. A spent tube of the stuff lay on the surface of the vanity.

Immediately, Richie found himself looking around, an unsettling sense of not being so secure momentarily overtaking him. Pushing hard at his emotions, he forced the fear reaction out, breathing in a deep breath, then exhaling.

“I see,” Richie finally said, leaning back and shaking his head. He was just about to ask Sam if she had called the police yet when she briskly walked past him to a small mahogany bedside table.

“I found this in my office, in my typewriter,” said Sam as she shoved a piece of paper in Richie’s face. He took a step back, but he took the paper and looked at it. In type, most likely from Sam’s own typewriter, the word
Torturer
rested in the center of the page.

“Jesus, Sam, what the hell is going on?” Richie asked rhetorically, real fear for Sam’s safety welling up within him.

But Sam didn’t respond to Richie’s comment. Instead, she opened the drawer to the bedside table and took out a large kitchen knife and a piece of paper with a knife-shaped stab wound in it.

“And when I went to my kitchen,” Sam said, waving the knife and paper carelessly in front of Richie’s face, an act that made him flinch, “this shit was stabbed onto my back door—from the inside!”

The paper had a threat handwritten on it—“You will die like your victims did, bitch!”

Quickly Richie grabbed the knife and paper from Sam, figuring she was too upset, or pissed, to realize how dangerous her waving the weapon around was.

“Here, I’ll take those,” was the only thing Richie had to say about that.

Setting them to the side, along with the typed paper, Richie exhaled again and looked up at Sam. Her face had two distinct emotions on it, fear and anger, mixed with what almost looked like incredulousness. As Richie leaned in and put a hand on Sam’s shoulder, he struggled with what to say to her.

How does one deal with what Sam is going through?

Sam’s reaction to Richie’s touch was for her shoulder to relax some.

Smiling softly at her, he said, “Sam, we should call the police.”

And just like that, Sam swiped Richie’s hand from her shoulder and stormed away from him, her arms folded, her right hand still clutching her father’s gun.

“No, no police,” she said, an adamant stubbornness in her voice. “You and I both know they’ll use this as a chance to search my house.”

Richie followed Sam, trying to reason with her. “Maybe that’s not a bad idea, Sam. I mean, if they search the house and find nothing, that can only prove your innocence, right?”

“Yeah right, Richie,” Sam retorted, “unless that bastard Ouellette tries to plant something and frame me, like he tried to frame my father!”