The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (36 page)

Jump off a cliff
, Michael thought to himself.

After a moment, Michael said, “You can check up on the old Bourbon Street Ripper murders and see if there is any voodoo cult connection. Also, see if there is anything about this ‘Nite Priory’ that you can find.”

Richie nodded, then patted Sam on the back, saying, “So we’ll meet back here tonight?”

“Probably a good idea,” said Sam, getting up to start tidying up the room. “We can meet back here, compare notes, have dinner. That sort of thing.”

Rodger said, “Dinner would be nice.” He looked like he was starting to recover from his shock at the idea of being alone with Sam. He got up, patted Michael on the back, and went to help Sam with the dishes.

Michael went back to rubbing between his eyes. This was going to be a long day.

Richie, left alone with Michael, asked, “Hey, you okay? Can I get you anything?”

Feeling an overwhelming surge of sarcasm, one that supplanted the desire to simply cry and give up, Michael answered, “Cyanide, please.”

Chapter 19   
Richie’s Routine Day

After leaving Sam’s townhome, Richie headed straight back to the Ritz-Carlton, got changed, ordered a quick lunch of fried oysters, and did an Internet search on where the public library was located. Wading through web directories, Richie eventually found what he was looking for—the library was located on Loyola Avenue. Jotting down the address and grabbing a briefcase filled with pens and notebooks, Richie wasted no time in leaving his hotel room and catching a cab to the library.

On the way to the library, Richie organized his thoughts on what he needed to accomplish. Part of him had become extra-anxious over the sudden pressure of being involved with two members of the New Orleans Police Department in a real-life investigation, while another part saw this as the perfect chance to help Sam.

Richie hadn’t been particularly fond of the idea of Sam gallivanting off with Rodger to Angola, even though it seemed they had something that they needed to talk about. What he had wanted was to be the one to pair off with Sam.

As Richie exited the cab and paid the driver, he suddenly realized he was jealous of Rodger. As the taxi pulled off, the novelist stood there and stared into space for a long moment, then became half-cognizant of his legs carrying him to a nearby bench, a sudden dizziness having overcome him. His head was spinning, and suddenly he felt like he was going to be sick. The sudden onset of the nausea was unsettling, and he bowed his head and thought for a moment on why this might be happening.

Richie was not the kind to fall just for any woman, but as he looked back at his behavior since he had met Sam, he began to wonder. Every time he thought about her, Richie felt his heart start beating harder, his hands start shaking, and his throat start to get dry. It was the most unsettling feeling he had ever had. As he sat there on the bench, vision and sense coming back into focus, the sudden dizziness fading away, Richie said, “Holy shit… I think I’m falling in love with her.”

Turning his attention back to the task at hand, Richie headed inside the library. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t what he ended up seeing. Perhaps it was due to him spending most of his youth in the Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh, with marble floors, flying buttresses, and sweeping, elegant staircases, but upon seeing the interior of the main building of New Orleans Public Library, he couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

It was just a typical library, with rows of bookshelves, a reading area full of tables and chairs, and an area with a dozen or so computers. Directly in front of Richie was the large semicircular desk of the librarians, with the card catalog wrapped all the way around it.

Taking a breath in, Richie gathered himself and stepped forward, up to the librarian desk. Most of the librarians were busy checking out books, checking in books, or updating the card catalog. Overseeing the entire operation was a woman who looked to be at least two hundred years old, her skin more wrinkled than a sun-dried prune, her nose pointier than the tip of a knife, and her lips puckered so tightly that just being alive must taste exceedingly sour to her.

Avoiding Madame Skellington, Richie headed over to another librarian, a young woman with shoulder-length brunette hair and hazel eyes, who looked to be college age, just as she finished updating a card. Clearing his throat, Richie got the young woman’s attention. He was completely shocked when she took one look at him and gave a loud gasp.

“It’s you,” said the young woman so loudly that several dozen heads turned toward the commotion. Richie felt his ears burn and instinctively shrank back.

“Yvonne Baudelaire,” snapped the living mummy of a librarian, “that is not a proper way to act. Keep your voice down.”

“Sorry, Miss Dubois,” said Yvonne, blushing hard. Turning back to Richie, she asked, “How can I help you today, sir?”

Despite being caught off guard by Yvonne’s outburst, Richie quickly recovered. Figuring this woman to be a fan of his, he turned on the charm and asked, “If you don’t mind, maybe you can you show me where the microfiche readers are located?”

As quick as a roadrunner, Yvonne was out from behind the desk and, motioning for Richie to follow, headed between the rows of books.

“This is so cool,” Yvonne said in a low voice as she led Richie through the stacks of books toward the back. “I had heard that you were in town, but I could never have dreamed that I’d ever meet you in person.”

Feeling the rush of being in control, Richie said, “And I never dreamt such a pretty young lady would be helping me.”

Yvonne’s ears turned bright red.

Once in the back, the young woman showed Richie a door marked “microfiche” and unlocked it for him. Still flushing, Yvonne said, “Sir, you’ll have to sign in to use the room, but I’ll make sure you aren’t bothered about it until you’re done.”

“That’s very sweet of you, Yvonne,” replied Richie. Looking into her eyes, he touched her hand gently. “Please make sure that I’m not disturbed for the next couple of hours, okay?”

If Yvonne had nodded and run off any faster, she would have gotten whiplash. Watching her leave, Richie chuckled to himself and shook his head. “So easy it should be a crime.”

Letting himself inside the microfiche room, Richie turned on the lights. The room was quite cool and had a scent of acetate.

There was a single long table on the back wall to lay out microfiches ready to be scanned, and through another door was the reader and film catalogs.

Richie put his briefcase down on the table and moved to the catalog room, where the acetate scent was positively pungent. He started thumbing through the archives, looking for slides related to the investigation, trial, and execution of the Bourbon Street Ripper. After a few minutes, Richie had pulled several slides and decided to take a break. Leaning against the catalog, his mind started to wander, and thoughts of Sam began to emerge.

Despite his charm, Richie rarely gave any woman a thought once she was out of his presence. The fairer sex, although enjoyable, never had a lasting reaction in him. And yet, for the second time in less than hour, Richie started thinking about Sam. And for the second time in less than an hour, Riche began to wonder if he was falling for this woman.

His thoughts started with her smile and blue-gray eyes, then that sandy blond hair that she usually wrapped back. Then his thoughts went, literally, southward, Richie visualizing the curve of her chest in the blouse she had worn that morning, the way her jeans hugged her womanly hips, and the way they swayed as she walked. As Richie caught himself fantasizing about Sam, he felt a sudden surge of anxiety wash over him. It didn’t make any sense to him, but it felt like something inside was clawing away at his gut. Taking out his bottle of pills, Richie popped one into his mouth and swallowed.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” Richie said to himself, taking out another pill. He was about to swallow it when he felt the anxiety within him start to subside, the placebo effect he had come to rely upon lately kicking in once again.

“When I get back to Pittsburgh, I’m going to make an appointment with my therapist,” said Richie as he put the extra pill in his shirt pocket.

Placing the pill bottle on top of the cabinet, Richie returned to the task of fishing through the microfiche for articles pertaining to the Bourbon Street Ripper.

It was a quarter past five and Richie was still scanning articles when something caught his eye.

It was a photograph taken several months before the murders started. Vincent Castille was posing with a gaunt-faced woman, a heavier-set man, and a younger gentleman outside of some kind of mansion. The caption read, “Modern Priory donates millions to Southern Baptist Hospital. Social elite give sizable donation for restoration and upgrade of medical facilities. Shown here: Vincent Castille, Gladys Castille, Gerald Robichaux, and Jonathon Russell.”

“Priory? Could this be the same as the Nite Priory?” Richie asked out loud, starting to feel a rush of excitement. He read through the article.

While it didn’t use the term “Nite Priory,” the article did detail the group as being a society related to the carnival krewe Comus. Checking back through his notes, Richie remembered that Comus was the most exclusive of the carnival krewes, with membership often restricted to the wealthiest families with the highest status. Highly exclusive and highly ritualized, the members were known for secretive initiations, midnight gatherings, and a rigid hierarchal structure. They even wore black, hooded robes for their meetings.

“Creepy stuff,” Richie said to himself as he copied all the information down.

A sudden knock on the door to the microfiche room jarred Richie out of his research. From the other side of the door, he heard the harrowing voice of Miss Dubois.

“Sir, the library will be closing soon, and you are required to sign in and out of the microfiche room. If you do not come out this instant and do so, I will be forced to call the police.”

Richie felt his heart increase at that threat. This was exactly what Michael had told him to avoid, getting on the police’s radar. As quickly as he could, Richie turned off the reader, grabbed his notes, and headed out the door. Standing there, looking like one of those loa from Sam’s voodoo book, was Miss Dubois, holding out the microfiche room form.

Richie smiled nervously as he signed in and out, nearly dropping the pad as he handed it back to the old woman. After she looked it over and snorted dismissively, she said, in a tone that could skin a cat, “Have a nice day.”

Wanting nothing more to do with the mummy’s wife, Richie hastily headed toward the exit.

He was halfway out the door when Yvonne, like a true groupie, was right beside him, holding the door open for him.

“Sorry about Miss Dubois,” said Yvonne as the two stepped outside. “She can be a real bitch sometimes.”

“Ah, it’s fine, really,” Richie replied with a smirk, forcing down his anxiety. “I’m used to working with difficult people. You should meet my publicist, Gordon. He can be a real ass sometimes.”

As Yvonne giggled at that comment, Richie hailed a cab. Smiling at Yvonne and turning back on the charm, he said, “Thanks again for your help. Because of you, my next book will be even better.”

This really seemed to make Yvonne’s day, and as Richie got into the taxi, two girls about Yvonne’s age came up to her. They squealed just as girlishly as she pointed Richie out.

Keeping up the suave smile, Richie gave them a polite wave and told the taxi to pull out. Just as he closed the door, he heard one of Yvonne’s friends say, “I can’t believe you actually met Dean Koontz!”

Richie’s face fell, and his expression didn’t change until he arrived at the hotel.

By the time he was back in his hotel room, Richie had recovered from his experiences at the library. Instead, he was focused on ordering dinner—a steak with potatoes and steamed vegetables—and then he sat down to call Sam.

Instead of Sam, however, Richie got the answering machine, and Sam’s message was as subdued and sedate as one would expect. Leaving a message for her to call him, and that he had some important news, he then booted up his laptop computer and started to check his e-mail.

Amongst the usual junk, Richie saw an e-mail from Gordon, asking Richie to call him. The tone of the e-mail was curt and formal, and it made Richie’s hair stand on edge. Quickly picking up the hotel phone, Richie called his publicist.

“Hello,” answered Gordon, in what Richie could only call a monotone voice.

“Hey, Gordon,” started Richie, trying to sound as jovial as possible. “How are things in Pitts—”

“Richie, where the hell are you?” interrupted Gordon. “I thought you’d be back here by now!”

Richie gritted his teeth, not liking the sharp tone of his publicist at all. Gathering himself, he replied with, “And I thought you’d be in New Orleans by now. What gives?”

“Check your e-mail, Richie,” replied an unimpressed-sounding Gordon. “I was delayed so badly that I just canceled my flight. I caught your interview, by the way. Good job there. But that’s not the point. I’ve been e-mailing you for two straight days. When are you coming back? We have only ten days to prepare for your trip to Seattle and Los Angeles. And Letterman wants you back after you return from California. And—”

“Jesus, slow down,” retorted Richie. “You’re giving me a headache.” He took a deep breath. “So I am pretty much booked solid after ten days. I get it. But Gordon, you have to hear this. I am on the verge of something huge.”

“What?” exclaimed Gordon. “What’s going on over there? What are you doing?”

“Look, you remember the Bourbon Street Ripper story I was going to write after we were done with
The Pale Lantern
?” Richie began, hurriedly trying to come up with the words.