by King, Leo
Continuing to appraise his reflection, Richie scowled a bit, muttering about how awful he looked. His normally neatly combed brunette hair was as messy as a mop, those normally crystal blue eyes were bloodshot from sleeping too hard, and that normally smooth Caucasian skin was stubbly with a five o’clock shadow.
Standing up straight and giving a nod, he started to fix himself up. Richie Fastellos, as he was commonly known, felt he could look better than he currently did. On the upside, he thought he still looked like he was under thirty, rather than over.
A shower, shave, and grooming later, and Richie was back to his normally sharp-looking self, dressed in a short-sleeved mock neck and jeans—comfortable and functional. Smelling like Brut, his favorite scent, and having claimed a bottle of water from the nightstand, Richie moved over to the desk and took a seat. Turning his computer on and connecting to the Internet, the laptop’s modem screeching to life, he took several swigs of water and started to check his e-mail.
The first were the usual e-mails from Gordon Rockway, his publicist, relaying pieces of wisdom on how to promote himself at the book signing tomorrow. Gordon’s e-mails were tiresome to read, and Richie found himself skimming for high points at first, and eventually just not caring and skipping the e-mails entirely, “archiving” them in his e-mail client’s trash bin.
“Gordon should be here tomorrow,” Richie said to himself. “I’ll talk to him then and see what advice he has for me. It’s not like I’m going to blow a book signing.”
Richie reached over and held protectively on to the bottle of pills near his computer. Having had anxiety attacks for years, the pills were a regular part of his life. Any high-stress situation could be made to disappear with one dose. In fact, just taking a pill made him feel better, even if they took a few minutes to actually start working.
Richie attributed that to the placebo effect. He was fine with it.
As he drew his hand back from the pill bottle, Richie’s fingers touched the cover of a nearby book. It was his book, The Pale Lantern, his ticket to the big times. The story was centered on a New Orleans detective solving the murder of a wealthy couple.
In a twist that shocked his readers, the murderer ended up being the detective himself, and the mystery was solved by the detective’s assistant. The novel became a hit almost overnight, making the New York Times best-seller list in only one week. Richie went from an unknown mystery writer from Pittsburgh to a millionaire.
One year and several talk shows later, Richie was in the city where the story took place, New Orleans, for a book signing at a local talk show. His publicist had arranged the book signing for the middle of the week, but Richie, who had always wanted to see New Orleans, came in a few days early.
So far, he had managed to get drunk two out of the three nights and get smashed a third time at a party held by a local author who specialized in books about vampires. Richie, who often enjoyed more than a few drinks, was already sick of daiquiris.
As Richie sorted through his e-mails, a particular one caught his eye. It had been sent by a man named Kent Bourgeois, an attorney in New Orleans. Richie wondered what a lawyer wanted with him. Anxiety beginning to churn in his stomach as he opened the e-mail, Richie saw that it was the result of an inquiry about a townhome in the Garden District—an inquiry he had apparently made several months ago.
“God, that was so long ago, I don’t even remember doing it,” said Richie to himself with a shrug as he read the e-mail. The contents of the e-mail, however, grabbed his complete attention.
Mr. Fastellos:
It is with regret that I must inform you that the property you have inquired about is not for sale. The townhome in question belongs to a legacy estate that is quite old in New Orleans, and cannot be broken up without express permission by the estate holder.
In this instance, the estate holder, Ms. Samantha Castille, uses the townhome in question as her primary residence. Ms. Castille has no interest in selling the property at this time.
We appreciate your courtesy in this matter.
Sincerely,
Kent Bourgeois, Esquire
For several minutes, Richie just looked at the e-mail, his mouth a straight line. He was a bit offended by its tone. He read the line talking about “Ms. Samantha Castille” over and over again. Finally, his expression melted and he rubbed his head. “Castille,” he said tiredly. “God, I’ve heard that name before, but where?”
Being unable to place Samantha’s name brought a nervous twitch to the corners of Richie’s lips. Mind racing, he loaded up his web browser and typed in a search for “Castille New Orleans.” A few minutes later, he was looking at the results—mainly newspaper articles from years ago on the Bourbon Street Ripper murders.
“Holy crap, that’s right,” Richie said to himself. “I remember this from when I was tinkering with the idea of doing a copycat killer story to the Bourbon Street Ripper murders from the seventies.” Picking up a briefcase resting near the desk, Richie opened it up. Over a dozen notebooks lay inside, along with the usual assortment of important papers and credentials.
As he started to sift through the notebooks, Richie continued to talk out loud. “This psychopath butchered over twenty women in a ritualistic fashion. I was just starting to look into this before I decided to write The Pale Lantern first.”
Finally finding the notebook he wanted, Richie opened it up and started flipping through it, revealing several pages of notes on the Bourbon Street Ripper murders.
Among the notes were four clearly marked columns: one was a list of the victims, another the names of the detectives investigating the murders, and a third was a list of suspects. A fourth column, titled “accomplices,” had a large question mark underneath it.
“It’s been awhile since I last looked at these,” he said almost fondly, turning page after page. “I should probably speak with Gordon about this idea after the book signing tomorrow.”
That course of action decided upon, Richie flipped to the final page of notes on the Castille murders. On that page was a single name—Samantha Castille—circled several times with an arrow pointing to it, and the label, “Only surviving descendant of Vincent Castille.”
Again Richie stared at the name for a long moment, before finally closing the notebook and looking at Kent’s e-mail once more. ”Well, slap my face and call me Cousin Lenny,” said Richie in a mixture of awe and disbelief.
“What are the chances that the same Samantha Castille who owns the townhome that I’m interested in is the last living descendant of Vincent Castille?” Deciding that those chances were good enough to risk responding to the attorney, Richie fired off a reply to Kent Bourgeois:
Mr. Bourgeois:
Thank you for the prompt response.
I appreciate your candor, as well as you looking out for the interests of your clients. However, I find it odd that Ms. Castille won’t even reply to my offer, which is, as I have been told, a more than reasonable amount. Surely, Ms. Castille would be willing to hear my case?
Currently, I am in New Orleans on business. I will be by your office tomorrow after lunch, as I have a pressing morning engagement. I believe that a brief, private conversation will enable us to quickly put everything into perspective.
I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.
Sincerely,
Richie Fastellos
He hit the “send” button and leaned back in the chair. “Forget the property,” he said to himself, “if I can somehow meet this Samantha face-to-face and talk to her about her grandfather… ”
Richie’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud ringing coming from the hotel phone, breaking his Internet connection. The ring was particularly loud, and with a start, he picked up the phone. “Good evening,” he said into the receiver, “Richie here.”
“Richie, good, you’re awake,” replied a tired man’s voice on the other end, a voice Richie recognized as belonging to Gordon, his publicist.
“More or less,” Richie replied with a chuckle, l
eaning back again into the leather chair and getting comfortable. “How’s the weather over at Pittsburgh International?”
“It’s fine, but I’m not doing so well,” replied the publicist, his exhaustion apparent with every breath he took.
“Oh,” replied Richie, biting on his bottom lip as his concern rose. “What’s wrong?”
There was a modicum of irritation in Gordon’s voice as he answered, “Somehow, I managed to lose all my reservations that we printed up last week. We’re sorting things out here, but it looks like I won’t be showing up until tomorrow evening.”
Richie was no longer leaning back against his chair, but was instead sitting straight up. “Are you serious? Tomorrow evening?… What about the book signing? The talk show? The interview?”
“You’ll have to do them on your own, Richie,” replied Gordon, stifling a yawn and muffling the words “excuse me.” “You got all my e-mails, right? They should more than prepare you for everything tomorrow.”
Richie didn’t immediately reply. As he clicked into his e-mail’s offline trash bin and restored Gordon’s e-mails, Richie responded in a calm tone, “Yeah. I read them. I’ll read them again before going to bed, and again in the morning.”
“Good. Then we’ll be fine,” was Gordon’s firm reply. “You’ll be fine, Richie. This isn’t a roast. It’s just an interview at a talk show, followed by a book signing. You’ll be out and done by lunchtime.”
Thinking to himself how well that worked out for his own plans, Richie couldn’t help but grin. “Fantastic,” he said, standing up and stretching his legs a bit. “So you’ll be in town by when?”
“It’s looking like I’ll touch down at five, so expect to see me by six,” was the short and tired reply on the other end of the phone. “For now, I’m going to go home and get some sleep. It’s been a long day, Richie, and I have a long plane ride tomorrow.”
Richie voiced his sympathy and exchanged a few more pleasantries before ending the call.
“Heck, yeah,” he said to himself, grabbing his bottled water and finishing it off, then tossing the empty bottle into a nearby waste can. “I’ll be able to swing by that Bourgeois’s office and get back here in time to meet with Gordon. This is fantastic!”
Richie felt a shivering tingle go down his spine and attributed it to elation. He grabbed a pen from his briefcase and jotted his itinerary down. Feeling a secondary small shiver, he felt he must really care about seeing Kent tomorrow to bother taking notes on something so simple.
The elation was soon replaced by a sense of sincere hunger, his stomach growling loudly. “Right. I haven’t eaten all day.”
It was a small matter for Richie to get his watch, wallet, pill bottle, and shoes assembled before heading out the door. However, his thoughts of oyster po’boys and seafood gumbo were interrupted when he nearly tripped over the newspaper laid at the door of his room. Catching himself with a quick grab of the door frame, Richie looked down.
For the third time today, his eyes froze on some text laid out before him. Only this time it wasn’t an e-mail, or a jotting in a notebook—it was a newspaper headline: “Woman Butchered Last Night—Police Suspect Bourbon Street Ripper Copycat.”
For almost a full minute, Richie stood there and stared at the newspaper’s headline. Again, the sides of his mouth twitched. In his mind, wheels were already turning, and his reasons for wanting to speak with Samantha Castille were just reinforced. When he finally came to his senses, Richie leaned down and scooped up the paper, taking it inside.
He read the articles on last night’s murder, paying particular attention to the gruesome details of the crime scene. The more he read, the more fascinated he became. The story of a potential Bourbon Street Ripper copycat killer was thrilling to him. He was just about to get his pen and start underlining facts and details that he felt were important when his eyes fell upon a name he recognized from his notes on the Bourbon Street Ripper: “Senior Detective Rodger Bergeron.”
Immediately, Richie recognized Detective Bergeron as one of the two original detectives on the Bourbon Street Ripper murders case, as well as the detective credited for catching Vincent Castille. His mind a whirl, Richie circled the detective’s name several times before saying to himself, “I wonder if he’ll actually talk to me about those murders years ago? Probably not, but it can’t hurt to ask, right?”
Dropping the newspaper on the desk, Richie again headed out the door. His hunger had long since overcome his desire to continue researching the gruesome Bourbon Street Ripper murders, and besides figuring that he could think better on a full stomach, Richie needed to get out of the hotel room.
An hour later, Richie was sopping up hot sauce with the crunchy squishiness of a fried oyster that had fallen off his po’boy. Having walked about three blocks down Canal Street, one of the longest streets in downtown New Orleans, Richie had settled on a small family-owned restaurant that had come highly recommended. Run by an old, overweight woman named Mama Claire and her three sons, the Ragin’ Cajun, as it was called, was quaint and intimate. Richie had received such good service there that he was already contemplating a 20 percent tip.
Having had a lot of time to think about the idea of writing about a Bourbon Street Ripper copycat, Richie had come to the conclusion that he really wanted to pursue this kind of novel next. The timing couldn’t be better—with a real-life copycat killer on the loose, the media would love having a New York Times best-selling author release a book on the very same thing. It’s a bit gruesome, Richie thought to himself as he swallowed the last bit of his po’boy, but any free coverage is welcome. And if the controversy of cashing in on a serial killer’s bloody trail gets me free press, then more’s the better.
Richie Fastellos didn’t care what others thought of him, especially not the media. He wrote for himself, and if people thought he was a son of a bitch for capitalizing on a possible copycat, then let them think that—so long as they bought his books.
Slurping down the last of his iced tea, Richie paid for his meal and left the Ragin’ Cajun, heading back toward the hotel. As he walked, he took in the sights of Canal Street and downtown New Orleans.
Ever since he was a teenager aspiring to be a famous author, Richie had wanted to visit New Orleans, the dark mystique of the city drawing him in like the summoning gesture of a Gypsy fortune-teller. He wasn’t sure if it was the unique blend of Spanish and French architecture, the Creole and Cajun cuisine, or the year-round relaxed atmosphere that intrigued him, but something about the city fascinated him.
This was partially the reason why he was looking to purchase a townhome here, as Richie wanted a place specifically for him to stay in whenever he came to New Orleans.
Lost in his own thoughts, as well as the sights of the city, Richie didn’t realize he was walking right into a group of strangers until a man’s voice called out, “Hey, dick, watch out!” Quickly, Richie looked up and spun to the side, pressing against the side of a building, even as the group passed him. His heart immediately started racing, and for a brief moment, Richie was sure that the guy who had yelled at him would start kicking his ass.
Once he was sure that he wasn’t about to have a full-blown anxiety attack, which he was prone to have whenever confronted by anything outside his comfort zone, he looked over at the group of people. It was just three people, two men and one woman, walking with the easily recognizable double stagger of those who have been imbibing all day. All three were holding forty-eight-ounce daiquiri cups.
As they passed, one of the men said, “Fuckwad,” to Richie, but the woman stopped and slapped her companion’s arm.
“Don’t be a douche-mouth!” she said. Then she stumbled over to Richie.
As he was pressed against the wall, Richie noted three things about the woman. One, her chest was too big to be real. Second, the black T-shirt she wore had the words “Cock Teaser” on it. Third, she was pressing those silicon puppies against his own chest.
“Hey, good-looking,” the
drunk woman said, her breath rank with liquor, “don’t let my stupid friends fuck with you. Here, have a drink… ”
Richie opened his mouth to say “no, thanks.” Instead, a spit-lacquered straw ended up in his mouth. Eyes wide, Richie sucked obediently for a few moments, tasting the distinct flavor called “Sex on the Beach” before tearing his mouth away and thanking the woman.
“My pleasure, sexy,” replied Cock Teaser as she reached down and roughly manhandled Richie’s manhood. Her two friends quickly tore her away, one of them apologizing for the woman’s lewdness, the other wrapping his arm around her waist to keep her near.
The woman reared her head back and announced to the world, “I am drunker than shit and want to fuck some dick right now!”
The three stumbled off, heading toward the intersection of Canal and Dauphine. Richie shook uncontrollably as he gasped for breath. The encounter with the woman had been too much for him, and his heart was racing as panic seized him.
He struggled to keep his hands steady as he took out his bottle of anxiety medication and, popping the cover, slid two pills into his mouth. Dry-swallowing them, Richie slid down to the ground and sat there, protectively hugging the bottle against him as the medication took effect.
Once the pills had worked their magic,. Richie felt like he could function again. He took a few minutes to recover from what could only be described as a sexual assault by a drunk woman.
Inside, he felt nothing but disgust for himself and the woman. He couldn’t stand trashy women, let alone drunk trashy women. And her roughly grabbing him started to bring back some memories he didn’t want to have.
Straightening himself out, Richie, whose ears were burning red, wished he had reacted with more poise and dignity. By the time he got back to the Ritz-Carlton, he was thoroughly in need of a drink himself.