The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (56 page)

“Caroline, that’s not really fair,” Sam finally said. “I mean, I’m a victim here, too. After all, my family is—”

“Your family,” Caroline interrupted, “that is, the entire Castille family, is comprised of some of the richest people in this city. You and I both know that your aunts, uncles, and cousins don’t give a crap about you. This is not about the Castille family, Sam, this is about you.”

Surprised at this sudden turn in conversation, Richie arched an eyebrow at Caroline.

Sam, sighing heavily, nodded her head. “Yeah, you’re right, this is about me. But, Caroline, you have to believe me, I have no idea how this happened.”

For a long moment, Caroline stared at Sam, her cold eyes holding a calculated look. Finally sighing, the stern woman leaned back and shook her head, saying, “Sam, I’ll be honest, this has really hurt my business. I have people from all over, rich and powerful to poor and hungry, trying to get from me as to who Sam of Spades is. In the public’s eye, Sam of Spades is the copycat killer.”

Richie watched as Sam’s face went a few shades paler. It was then that he spoke up. “Miss Saucier, I think I get what you’re saying. Do you think Sam is guilty?”

Caroline looked over at Richie, her brow furrowing. “Honestly, Mr. Fastellos, I haven’t a clue. I don’t know Sam as well as Jacob does, but I’ve known Jacob for years and trust him. He’s torn up over this, so much so that tomorrow he is going on vacation to try to find a way to help her. However, that doesn’t change the facts. Sam’s story and Miss Clemens’s murder were frighteningly similar.”

“I know,” Sam said, chuckling morbidly. “Believe me, I know.”

Richie looked over at Sam and gave her a weak smile. He honestly didn’t know what to say. Unlike with Kent and the detectives, this wasn’t something Richie felt he could talk his way through. Feeling uncomfortably powerless, Richie consigned himself to just being there for Sam.

“If you need to pull my story, I’ll understand,” Sam said, avoiding eye contact, a thickness to her voice. “If you need to fire me, I’ll understand that, too.”

There was a long pause as Caroline sat there, leaned back and stared intently at Sam. Richie noted that Sam eventually was unable to avoid the stern woman’s gaze any longer, and for a long time, the two locked eyes in what Richie could only assume was a battle of wills.

Apparently Sam measured up, because finally Caroline said, “No. I don’t think I’ll be firing you today, Sam.”

Richie, more so than even Sam, breathed a sigh of relief.

Sitting up, Caroline said, “Besides, I want to see what happens next.” She pointed at Sam, saying, “But if another ‘coincidence’ happens, Sam, I don’t think anyone can protect you. Not your family’s social standing, not Mr. Bourgeois, and even not Mr. Fastellos here.”

Richie wondered why Caroline felt compelled to bring him into it. His temperature started to rise again as he envisioned getting up and slapping the taste right out of her mouth.

“Thanks, Caroline,” Sam replied, getting up to shake the older woman’s hand, “you won’t regret this.”

“I hope not, Oh-Entitled-One,” said Caroline as she shook Sam’s hand, then Richie’s, who also stood up. “I sincerely hope not.”

On the way out the office, Richie turned one last time to look at the editor-in-chief. To his surprise, Caroline was staring straight at him, her eyes narrowed and her jaw tight. Richie, narrowing his eyes back, smirked and shook his head before walking out.

He had never met anyone who had pissed him off that quickly, and already his darker nature was in the admittedly childish act of fantasizing about harming her. In the back of his mind, Richie decided that if he were the serial killer, Caroline Saucier would be the next victim.

I hope you die in a fire, bitch.

The two had taken the bus when heading out to the
Times-Picayune
, and now they took the bus back to Sam’s home. On the ride back to Sam’s house, Richie finally asked, “Okay, Sam, so, I give up, what’s Caroline’s problem?”

Sam, who had become quiet after leaving Caroline’s office, her face very tired, looked over at Richie and gave him a half smile. “What, you can’t tell that she’s one of those angry, male-hating stereotypes?”

Richie gave a short laugh as he shook his head. “No, I worked that part out myself. I mean, why is she such a hostile bitch toward you personally?”

“Ah ha, I see,” replied Sam, nodding and looking forward. “Did you see that pretty girl in the picture with her?”

Nodding, Richie said, “I saw that, yes. It was an old picture. Looked to be about ten, maybe twenty years old. Who is she?”

“You mean who
was
she. She was her lover, Richie. Her deceased lover, Allison Surette.” Sam glanced over at Richie. “Grandfather killed her. I believe she was victim number four.”

“No wonder she’s so… hostile… toward you,” Richie said, the scenario with the stern woman making more sense.

“No kidding, right?” Sam said, her voice sounding more tired and strained. “To be honest, I don’t think I’d have that job if Jacob hadn’t pushed me so hard. I don’t think Caroline hates me, but I do think she is so broken over what happened to Allison that just looking at me reminds her of that awful event.”

As Sam closed her eyes, seemingly resting, Richie stared at her. The more time he spent with her, the more he felt that he understood the Lady in Red’s edict to “keep Sam safe.” Closing his eyes, he rested as well as the bus drove them back to Uptown.

When Richie opened his eyes, he noticed two things. First, he noticed that Sam’s hand was resting on his arm. Second, he noticed that they were approaching the stop where they needed to get off. Half-tempted to miss the stop, just to feel Sam’s touch on his arm a bit longer, Richie finally decided to be prudent and, reaching up and over, gave a tug on the “stop wire.”

His movement caused Sam to rouse from what must have been a peaceful nap. Her hand was off his arm before she noticed she had it there. Smiling softly at Richie, Sam let him help her get off the bus. Richie felt at peace as he walked alongside Sam down the block to her townhome.

As the two approached the townhome, Richie saw a police squad car waiting outside. Putting his hand on Sam’s shoulder, he pointed it out.

After looking at it for a few moments, Sam said, “I think that’s Rodger’s.”

Sure enough, waiting outside of the car, sitting on the front steps to Sam’s home, and finishing a cigarette, was Rodger Bergeron. Richie immediately noticed two things about the senior detective. Rodger looked awful—worse than before—and his face showed a level of exhaustion that Richie didn’t think was possible on someone Rodger’s age. Also, Richie noticed that Michael was nowhere to be seen.

“Hey, Rodger,” Sam said as she and Richie approached the townhome.

Rodger stood up and gave them a tired smile, nodding his head at Richie. “Hey Sam. You doing okay?”

Sam shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve been better. But how are you?”

“I’ve been better, too. Very sore right now.”

“You look awful, guy,” said Richie as he nodded and looked around for Rodger’s partner. “Where’s Michael?”

“Eh, long story,” was Rodger’s reply.

Sam had moved past both men and was unlocking the door to her townhome. “Well, you can tell us all about it over tea. Want to come inside?”

To Richie’s surprise, and presumably Sam’s, Rodger shook his head. “I can’t come in, Sam. Oullette’s on my ass about going to Angola with you. Michael was right, this nearly cost us both. If I don’t watch myself, I’ll lose my job and my pension.”

“Oh,” was Sam’s reply. Richie could hear the disappointment thick in Sam’s voice. Instantly, he felt bad for her. He knew she cared for Rodger like an uncle. Again, Richie felt uncomfortably powerless.

“So,” Sam finally said, “was there a reason you came here then?”

“Yeah, there’s a reason,” Rodger said, lighting up another cigarette. “Mainly to tell you that it’s best if you lie low for a while. Don’t do anything more with the investigation. Let me handle it.”

“You mean you and Michael,” Sam said.

As Rodger shook his head, Richie, for a moment, thought that maybe tragedy had befallen Michael. His eyes shifted between Sam, whose worried look told him that she feared same thing, back to Rodger, whose haggard look did nothing to dissuade the worry that Michael LeBlanc was dead.

So when Rodger said that Michael had been injured in the line of duty and was in the hospital, but would recover, Richie felt a surge of relief rush through him. One look at Sam, who had her hand to her chest and was exhaling softly, and he knew Sam felt the same way.

Still, Richie noticed something about the way Rodger looked that told him Rodger wasn’t being forthcoming with all the information. Holding that to himself for the moment, Richie decided to let the conversation between Rodger and Sam play out.

“So what happens now?” asked Sam.

Rodger shifted a bit, looking tiredly at the ground, then back up at Sam. “For now, you stay home, work on your writing with Richie here, and do anything other than continuing to investigate things. I mean it, Sam. You stick your nose out again, and Ouellette won’t hesitate to have you arrested.”

Sam frowned. Richie could tell she was not pleased.

“If you won’t do this for me, Sam,” came Rodger’s more assertive reply, “then do it for Edward. Don’t make your father watch his daughter screw her life up.”

Richie looked intently at Rodger. It was obvious to him that the senior detective meant “from heaven.” Richie recalled from his research into New Orleans that it had a heavy Catholic influence. So, it wasn’t completely out of place for Rodger to make such a comment, even if he didn’t seem to be the religious type.

With just that one statement from Rodger, Richie felt like he saw through Rodger’s gruff, hardened exterior to the deeply spiritual person inside. It was a surreal moment of cognizance, and with it, Richie realized that most of the people in New Orleans, to some degree, wore masks that disguised and guarded the real person.
It’s like the people of New Orleans live within their own perpetual Mardi Gras masquerade, never showing their real selves. I wonder why.

That revelation in his mind, Richie glanced over at Sam. Her face was steely and determined as always. Richie wondered what was underneath the mask Sam wore.
To live your life wearing a mask. How awful. Sam, I have to set you free.

The expression on Sam’s face was unreadable at first, but the more Richie looked at her, the more he could tell she was wrestling with her emotions. Finally, giving Rodger a nod, Sam said, “All right. I’ll stay here. Good luck, Rodger. Please be careful.”

Leaning in, Sam moved to embrace the detective. Rodger pulled back and shook his head. “If someone is watching us, that’ll get me in trouble.”

Richie detected the regret in Rodger’s voice.

“Take care, Sam,” Rodger said.

As Rodger headed back to his car, Sam went inside. Watching the two depart, Richie realized that he had, at this moment, the ability to make things right. He realized that now was the right time to tell Rodger about his encounter with the Nite Priory.

Quickly, Richie followed Rodger, who was opening the door to his squad car.

“Hey, Detective Bergeron,” Richie said, catching Rodger’s attention and keeping him from entering the vehicle.

“Yes, Mr. Fastellos,” replied Rodger. “What is it?”

“Look, I wanted to give you the information I found. About the cult. About the Nite Priory.”

Rodger leaned forward against the door to the squad car and just looked at Richie.

Richie sweated. He didn’t want to get arrested over this, but at the same time, he couldn’t help but feel he held a key piece of evidence.

Richie must have taken too long to say something, because Rodger said, “If you have something to say, Mr. Fastellos, go ahead and tell me now.”

“Okay,” Richie said, sucking in his breath. “Vincent Castille and the social elite of New Orleans could be the Nite Priory’s ancestors. I found an old microfiche article with him, someone named Gladys Castille, Gerald Robichaux, and Jonathon Russell. The article referred to them as a Priory. I know it’s a long shot, but it’s all I could find.”

Rodger nodded and wrote that information down in a small pocket notebook, saying, “I know who Gladys is. That was Vincent’s sister. I’ll check up on Gerald and Jonathon. They could shed some light on things.”

“It very well could,” Richie said.

“Anything else about the Nite Priory?” asked Rodger tiredly.

Richie nodded and said, “They seem to be some kind of secret organization. I don’t know much about them, but their members wear, or wore, black hooded robes. They seem to be assassins or something, but I’m not sure. Their trademarks are the use of cutting weapons and their bare hands. They appear to go after high-profile targets, like high-ranking members of crime families or public officials.”

As Rodger’s eyebrows rose some, Richie smiled nervously. He had just lied to Rodger by altering his story to make it sound like he had researched the Nite Priory instead of meeting them.

“Interesting,” came Rodger’s reply as he looked Richie in the eyes. “And where did you get this information?”

Richie didn’t show his reaction, keeping that cool exterior he’d used to shut down Aucoin’s and Dixie’s interview of him. Internally, however, he grew concerned. He was certain that if he told Rodger about being at the Riverwalk, even if he didn’t get arrested, he’d be hauled in for questioning.

They’d never believe me about the Nite Priory. I’d be arrested for sure.

Giving Rodger a placid smile, Richie came up with what he believed was a good lie that would have immediate credibility with Rodger. “I came across that information while going through Sam’s library of voodoo stuff. Pretty crazy, don’t you agree? The answer was right there in front of us the whole time.”

As Rodger looked at Richie intently, the novelist kept up his smile.

What is with this guy?

“All right, I’ll be sure to pass that along. Thanks,” Rodger finally replied, leaning in and keeping his voice low.