The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (52 page)

Richie’s mind halted for a second as he processed what Sam had just said. “Wait, whoa, hold on, what? Ouellette? Your father? Okay, outsider here who knows nothing, remember? Wanna fill me in on this, Sam?”

With a sigh, Sam walked over to her bed and leaned against it. The way she did only accented the slenderness of her womanly form to Richie, who had to look around the room to avoid staring at her.

“You’re a smart guy, Richie,” Sam said, “so you know my father was a cop, right?”

Richie nodded, looking into her cool blue eyes. “I figured it out from the service revolver there.” He pointed to the weapon in Sam’s hand as he leaned against the wall opposite Sam. “So, who is Ouellette? Another cop? What happened to your father?”

Drawing in a breath, Sam said, “Ouellette is the commander for the Eighth Precinct, where my father worked. Let me explain.”

Richie listened.

“More than twenty years ago, my father, Edward, was Rodger’s partner. Unless Dad was busy with a big case, I’d stay with him in this townhome.”

“This one?” asked Richie, motioning around the room.

Sam nodded and replied, “Yep. I’m not sure if you know this, but the Castille family is very old and very wealthy.”

Richie chuckled. “Yeah, I pretty much worked that part out.”

Sam nodded and continued, “Good. So, anyway, my father and grandfather shared custodial duties. Whenever Dad was busy with a big case, my grandfather would take care of me. I’d spend those days at the Castille mansion on Lake Pontchartrain.” Sam stopped, then asked, “Richie, are you familiar with the Marcello crime family?”

His brow furrowing, Richie thought for a long moment. He didn’t want to jump into recounting his tale from last night—not yet—but he knew who the Marcello family was, especially now. Nodding his head, he said, “Yeah, I’ve heard of them.”

“Good, that’ll save me some time explaining things,” replied Sam. “So, my father was friendly with Giorgio Marcello, the son of Carlos Marcello, the famous crime boss.”

Richie showed no emotion, clenching his jaw tight. He knew exactly who Giorgio
was
—the past tense being the operative one.

Sam continued, “They used to go to this club, the Jean-Lafitte Theater. I remember Dad used to go there a lot. He said it was for business. He used to meet Giorgio there a lot.”

“Did you know Giorgio?” Richie asked suddenly.

“Oh, did I know Giorgio? Um, yeah,” replied Sam, a look of remembrance on her face. “I didn’t see him as much as Rodger, who I honestly thought was my uncle for years, but every now and then Giorgio would come by. He’d always bring a present for me, like a dress or a doll. He told me I was as beautiful as my mother.”

Richie suddenly felt guilt travel down to his gut. The Nite Priory had killed this man in his defense just last night, and Sam was talking about him as if he were a member of her family.

“So, what happened?” Richie asked, pushing back the feelings of guilt and focusing on Sam’s story.

“Well, again, you may not know this, but it turned out that Blue-Eyed Giorgio used to, well… ” Sam’s voice lowered as she appeared to struggle for what to say.

Richie knew where that look was coming from. Gently, he offered, “I know, Sam. I read up on Blue-Eyed Giorgio while studying the history of crime in the Big Easy—er, New Orleans—sometime back.” He bit his bottom lip. It was a small lie, but a lie nonetheless.

Nodding, Sam continued, “When Dad found out that Giorgio was, well, a rapist, he hit the roof. Of course, at the time, I was ten years old and had no idea what a rapist was. He sent me to stay with Grandfather for weeks while he tried to stop Giorgio. I had no idea what was going on, and Grandpa refused to tell me anything. Then that damn Ouellette got involved.

“He was convinced my father was helping Giorgio cover up his crimes. The one night I stayed over at my father’s townhome, he and Rodger were downstairs talking when Ouellette came over. They thought I was asleep, but I had crept down the stairs and sat, listening.”

The look on Sam’s face darkened as she said, “I heard what Ouellette said to Dad. He said he knew Dad’s dirty little secret, and unless he served Giorgio up to the police, he was going to make sure the police chief and mayor found out about it.”

Richie had been listening intently to Sam the entire time, following along with what she was saying. However, as Sam revealed what she had overheard, Richie felt stalled. There was nothing for him to grab on to and work with. Everything Sam reported Ouellette as saying was outside of any context he understood.

“Wait, wait, Sam,” Richie said, “maybe he wasn’t talking about your father being a collaborator with a serial rapist. Maybe he was—”

“Of course that’s what it was,” screamed Sam, her countenance suddenly becoming violent. She waved the gun in Richie’s direction, making him jump back, hands out to defend himself.

“Whoa, Sam, chill the hell out,” Richie exclaimed, caution and shock in his voice.

Sam, who apparently didn’t notice Richie’s outburst, or even that she had a gun pointed at him, continued to rant. “Because right after that, Internal Affairs started to investigate my dad! I heard him talking to Grandpa about it. Grandpa told him to leave town for a few months, to get the heat off, but Dad wouldn’t. He said he had his job! He said he had his honor! He said he had me to look out for! His little magnolia!”

Sam was near tears, and as Richie inched toward her, she started to shake.

Richie realized he had never seen someone in this much emotional pain before in his entire life. He wondered just how much anguish Sam’s heart held, and how deep that pain went. Richie saw that inside her tear-filled blue eyes lay more emotion than he ever thought possible within another human being.

Then Richie moved. With a quick motion, he slid the gun out of Sam’s hand—she wasn’t resisting—and pulled her into his arms. Her arms wrapped around him, and she started sobbing into his chest, dampening his shirt with her tears.

“Sorry,” Sam sobbed. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Richie said, pressing his face against the top of her head. “Really, it’s okay. I’m here, Sam.”

As Sam sobbed on, Richie realized his intuition was right on the money with Samantha Castille. This woman really needed someone to help her. For the moment, thoughts of lust were nowhere in Richie’s mind. Likewise, there were no thoughts of being a macho man and protecting “the female.” It was just him, Richard Fastellos, comforting and caring for her, Samantha Castille.

That settles it. I’m in love with her. God help me.

An hour later, Sam and Richie were back downstairs, having some tea and conversation. Edward’s service revolver was back in its usual place, and the two had searched every inch of the townhome without finding any intruders. They had decided to wait until they heard from Rodger and Michael before doing anything else with the case.

“So, Sam, have you seen or spoken to anyone else today about this incident?” Richie asked, sipping his tea, a refreshing change from all the coffee he’d been drinking lately.

“You’re the first one I spoke with since it happened,” Sam said, sipping her tea with small, less-than-confident sips. “My best friend, Jacob, came by this morning. He told me he wasn’t certain if the
Picayune
could continue to run my story, and that Caroline, the editor, would call me later today about it.”

Richie nodded, having heard Sam mention Jacob Hueber in passing. “But Jacob believes you are innocent, yes?”

“Oh yes,” Sam said, smiling softly into her cup. “Jacob has had a rough past, too. I’m not sure I can tell you anything. Suffice it to say, however, Jacob knows what it means to be alone. To not let others inside your heart.”

Richie nodded in understanding. He had become increasingly aware that the people involved in this sordid copycat tale were all misfits who had a hard time letting others into their lives. To him, it seemed appropriate that the people to hunt down a true psychotic killer were those who were, in fact, messed up themselves.
It’s almost like, in order to find a monster, you have to be a monster yourself.

Richie was drawn out of his thoughts by Sam saying, “So he made some copies of something for work while he was here, said he’d be back tomorrow to check up on me, and left. He’s one of the editors at the newspaper, so he has to go in to work today. Ya know, with tomorrow being Sunday and all.”

“Right,” replied Richie, sipping his tea. “The big print day for a newspaper. So, Sam, um… you are one hundred percent certain that I cannot convince you to call the police and let them know you have a potentially dangerous stalker after you?”

“I’m certain,” Sam replied in a very matter-of-fact tone. She had already told Richie, under no uncertain terms, that she would let Rodger and Michael know the situation when they showed up, and that all four of them would figure out a plan. Richie decided he did not want to push it.

“All right,” Richie said, finally giving up the fight. “But I’m staying here until they show up. No compromise there.”

To his surprise, Sam smiled into her teacup, batted her eyelashes, and said, “That’s a bonus.”

Richie blinked.
Did she just… flirt with me?

Suddenly, thoughts of getting cozy with Sam didn’t seem so far out of the ballpark.

Coming back to reality, and clearing his throat, Richie said, “So, Sam, I need to tell you about what happened last night.”

“Probably not a good idea to talk about it before Rodger and Michael arrive,” Sam replied.

Richie frowned and sucked in his breath. “I’m not talking about the investigation, Sam. Something… happened last night. Something that is, well, bad and yet holds a lot of answers.”

Noting that Sam was staring at him, Richie added, “And I could get arrested if the cops find out about it.”

After gently setting her teacup on her saucer, Sam rested her hands on her knees. Her expression was neither disapproving or judgmental, just coolly observant. “Go on.”

Drawing his breath in, Richie focused his thoughts on getting the story out as concisely as possible. The novelist in him came out as he sipped his tea, wet his lips, and began his tale.

Richie recounted how he was picked up and interviewed by Aucoin and Dixie, how he had been kidnapped by Giorgio Marcello, and how the Nite Priory had saved him by killing Marcello and all of his thugs.

Sam blinked, then registered surprise. “Wait, everyone is dead? Blue-Eyed Giorgio is dead? His men are dead?”

“Yes, yes,” replied Richie, knowing he was sweating. “I’ve never seen anything like it, Sam. They moved so fast that the thugs didn’t have a chance. And I was rushing so hard from adrenaline that the whole thing seemed to go in slow motion. But it was a massacre—a total massacre, Sam. No one survived.”

“Jesus, are you sure this happened?” asked Sam. “This wasn’t some crazy drug trip or something?”

Richie’s voice snapped some as he exclaimed, “Sam! I may be a writer, but even I can’t make that shit up! The entire time it was happening, I thought I was crazy! It was… surreal. Even now, my rational mind tells me that I was dreaming, but it can’t be a dream, because of this!”

Reaching into his pants pocket, Richie took out a folded piece of paper. It was an article taken from that morning’s edition of the
Times-Picayune
. He had originally assumed all this time that Sam had already read the headlines, but given how her morning had gone, Richie now assumed she hadn’t.

Richie unfolded the paper and showed it to Sam. There an image of human bodies being fished out of the Mississippi River took up a large portion of the page.

The text was as bold as the image: “BODIES OF BLUE-EYED GIORGIO AND ASSOCIATES FOUND.”

As Sam looked over the newspaper clipping, shaking her head in disbelief, Richie continued, “If I hadn’t seen that, I would have thought the events of last night were some kind of psychotic dream. But seeing this headline proves it was no dream. Last night, I witnessed a mass murder the likes of which I have never seen before.”

Sam skimmed over the article. “So, you said the Nite Priory saved you? I thought the Nite Priory were the bad guys, the ones committing the murders.”

Chuckling, Richie waved for Sam to wait, saying, “It may seem like that, but that’s not what’s going on. Let me explain.”

Then, just as Richie was about to talk, Sam’s phone rang.

Sam lurched, a bit startled, and got up, going over to her desk. Picking up the phone, she said, “Hello?”

A few moments later, Sam’s face tensed with rage and she screamed, “Fuck you, asshole!” Slamming the receiver into the cradle, she paced a bit, seething.

Finally, she said, “I need a drink.” With an angry scowl, Sam headed over to a small cabinet in one of her bookshelves. Opening it revealed rows of liquor. She stood there, considering for a few moments, before taking out a bottle of black label Jack Daniels and pouring herself a drink.

Richie was standing by the time Sam slam-dunked the drink, and he watched her with silent concern. He could see she was mixing her emotional problems with alcohol, a combination that meant she was spiraling out of control.
I need to do something, and quick!

Going over to Sam, Richie took the bottle and began to screw the top back on and put it away. When Sam glared at him, he said, “One drink is enough on a stomach with nothing but tea in it. You may need a drink, but your body is going to need some food with that, or you’re going to get sick.”

Sam’s reply sounded like horse snorts. She downed more of the whiskey, only to wince from the alcohol seconds later.

Man,
that woman can drink.

“Telling me they know where I live and that they are coming for me. The hell with them,” Sam said into her drink.

Hearing what the threat had been only made Richie tense up more.

The silence of the afternoon was again pierced by the sound of the phone on Sam’s desk ringing. Sam froze in place, her face starting to turn red.

Wanting to nip this in the bud, Richie held out his hand and said, “Let me. They may piss off if they hear that someone else is here.”