by Leo King
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1 Old Friends and New Leads
Chapter 2 A Condition of The Heart
Chapter 3 Theories and Postulates
Chapter 4 You’ll Be The One
Chapter 5 A Black Hooded Coat
Chapter 6 The Madness is Spreading
Chapter 7 The Monster Inside
Chapter 8 Everything is Connected
Chapter 9 Magnolias and Marigolds
Chapter 10 When You Come Home
Chapter 11 Another’s Eyes
Chapter 12 Confrontation at the Wharf
Chapter 13 The Good and The Bad
Chapter 14 Blind Moses
Chapter 15 Farewell, Sam
Chapter 16 Boudin and Bandages
Chapter 17 It Had To Be You
Chapter 18 Concerning Rosemary’s Child
Chapter 19 Never Off Duty
Chapter 20 Rodger’s Really Bad Day
Chapter 21 A Break in the Case
Chapter 22 No Reason To Kill
Chapter 23 The Blink of an Eye
Chapter 24 A Neatly Folded Letter
Chapter 25 August Summer Rains
Chapter 26 A Chance at Happiness
Chapter 27 The Knight Priory
Chapter 28 Everything Made Sense
Chapter 29 A Sheet of Notebook Paper
Chapter 30 The Bourbon Street Ripper
Chapter 31 Just the Mask
Chapter 32 A Tale of Two Sisters
Chapter 33 Exiting the Stage
Chapter 34 Isn’t it Wonderful?
Chapter 35 A Life Without Fear
Epilogue
Support Indie Authors and Small Press
Excerpt
Afterword
Acknowledgements
About the Author
More from Leo King
Recommended Reading
Grey Gecko Press
A Life Without Fear
Sins of The Father: Book Two
By Leo King
To Janna and Carol,
the two women in my life
who told me to just “write it down.”
A Life Without Fear is the second volume in the Sins of the Father trilogy. Sam’s story begins in The Bourbon Street Ripper and concludes in the final volume, Face Behind the Mask.
If you want to solve the mystery…
…keep an open mind…
…question everything…
…and pay attention to what Sam writes.
— Leo King
Prologue
Date: Saturday, August 9, 1992
Time: 12:00 a.m.
Location: Office of Kent Bourgeois
Central Business District
“I don’t care how high the property tax in that area is, just buy the damn place.” Kent spoke into the receiver, a barbed edge to his tone. He was silent for a few moments as someone spoke to him from the other end.
“I already told you, it’s for a charity that Madame Castille is investing in this autumn.” His voice was starting to sound strained. Taking out a white cotton kerchief with an embroidered “G.C.” on it, he wiped some sweat off his brow. “No, don’t use the usual account, she’ll never sign the check in time. Poor thing has been in a knot lately over the new Bourbon Street Ripper murders.”
After a moment, he said, “Yes. Use that account. It’s better for everyone that way, I think.”
After another pause, he nodded. “Yes, that’s it exactly. Very good. Corner of Bourbon and Canal. Call me—no, email me—when the transaction is complete. I’ll be busy all day today with the Castille accounts. Huge mess to clean up there.”
With that said, he hung up the phone and mopped some sweat from his brow. “Christ, the weather is muggy. Are we due for a storm soon?” He absentmindedly played with his gold wedding band, which shone with a newly polished luster. He hoped not. It was the middle of hurricane season, and a bad storm could spell big trouble for the Big Easy.
Kent’s phone rang again, jarring him from his thoughts. He nearly jumped out of his seat from the sudden noise. Grabbing the phone, he said, “Eddie, didn’t I tell you to—oh, hello, son.” His voice went from irritated to cool. “Yes, everything is fine. Please stop worrying. No, there’s no need to do anything like that. If you need more money, I’ll transfer some into your account tomorrow.”
He loosened his necktie and finished mopping the sweat off his brow as he listened. Finally, he said, “It’s not rocket science, son. You just have to follow the instructions I gave you. They were exceedingly explicit. God, if your mother saw what a disappointment you turned out to be…”
He pulled the receiver away from his ear as incoherent yelling ripped through the other end of the line.
After the noise died down, he put the phone back to his ear and said, “And you prove my point, son. Instead of using the education that I paid for to do something useful, you work for that low-class newspaper. Instead of becoming something admirable, like a police officer, you choose to just screw one. And instead of helping your father out when he needs you the most, you call him while drunk and complain about how broke you are. What a model son you are.”
Again, he lifted the receiver away from his ear as the shouting crackled out like fireworks on New Year’s Eve. When Kent finally spoke back into the phone, his tone was considerably colder. “We had a deal, son. You help get me out of this jam I’m in and I make sure you have all the money you need to booze up, shoot up, or get messed up with that little cop friend of yours. Are you trying to back out?”
After a measure of silence, the voice on the other end of the line responded. Kent smiled wryly. “Good boy. Then I’ll contact you tomorrow. For now, try to sleep off whatever you’re on. You sound like a damn moron. Good night.”
He hung up the phone.
For a few moments, he ran his fingers over a neatly folded letter on his desk. Then he placed it in his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of Scotch. He poured himself a third of a glass, removed his necktie completely, and then took a long draft.
He sighed. “I swear, if my marriage doesn’t get me killed, my stupid son will.” He sat back, closed his eyes, and continued to sip his drink. “This new Bourbon Street Ripper couldn’t have come at a worse time.”
Chapter 1
Old Friends and New Leads
Date: Sunday, August 9, 1992
Time: 6:00 a.m.
Location: Esplanade Apartments
New Orleans City Park
Water. Cool, clean, comforting water. Water that washed away the dirt, the grime, and the sins of the previous day.
Junior Detective Dixie Olivier’s eyes were closed as she felt that water cascade down her back, over her buttocks, and down her legs to the shower floor below. Leaning back, she reached up and massaged her scalp, rubbing in the shampoo. Her motions were slow and deliberate. They eased her troubled mind—and she had a lot troubling her.
The copycat serial killer dubbed “the new Bourbon Street Ripper” had the city in a panic and had caused some sort of harm to almost everyone she cared about. Her best friend, Junior Detective Michael LeBlanc, was still unconscious in the hospital, having been shot in the line of duty. Her partner, Senior Detective Kyle Aucoin, was being torn in three different directions—the case, his failing marriage, and his missing daughter. And her superior, Commander Louis Ouellette, was being pressured by City Hall to do whatever it took to find and arrest the killer.
Needless to say, quiet moments like these were getting rarer for her.
Rinsing off her hair, Dixie renewed her resolve to keep the investigation on track. Once Aucoin arrived, she’d bring up her list of notes on the case and suggest their next move. As a detective, she wa
s organized and well-practiced at sorting facts, not to mention she had a reputation for being damn good at interviewing.
However, she felt that her true strength lay in analyzing situations and discovering patterns. She only hoped she’d get a chance to let that side of herself shine.
Hair rinsed, she turned off the shower and dried off before throwing on her robe, slipping on her slippers, and heading out of the bathroom.
The bedroom was mostly dark, the sun still down and the drapes drawn closed. In the shadows of the room, she made out the sleeping outline of Gino, her long-term boyfriend. His muscular form lay still beneath the sheets, his chest slowly rising and falling. She felt a flush come to her cheeks and an increase in her pulse. She dearly loved him.
Dixie hurriedly got dressed in a fresh pair of slacks and a blouse. Once her socks and shoes were on, she softly and quietly kissed Gino on the cheek. “Love you, honey. Be here when I get back.” It was something they always said to each other.
Without another word, she went to the front of their apartment.
The Esplanade at City Park was way out of the price range for someone living on a detective’s salary, but fortunately for her, the apartment was in Gino’s name. Besides being independently wealthy, he made a comfortable income writing scripts for a nationally syndicated soap opera, as well as the occasional Harlequin romance novel. He preferred a life of seclusion. To most of the other residents, he was simply “that nice, quiet Greek fellow.”
As she entered the front room, the cordless phone in the kitchenette rang. She hurried over and picked it up. Her voice was low and scolding. “Whoever you are, don’t you realize it’s six in the morning? Are you out of your—”
“It’s Ouellette,” came the voice of her commander.
Immediately, Dixie straightened up and cleared her throat. “Apologies, sir. What’s going on?”
“I’m taking Aucoin off the case for a few days,” Ouellette said. “He’s obsessed over Cheryl’s disappearance and has convinced himself that she’s going to turn up as the third victim.”
She didn’t flinch. She was used to her commander being less than sensitive about others’ problems. “Can you blame him, though? Cheryl may not fit the profile Michael and Rodger have been working on, but his daughter did just go missing.”
“Teenage girls go missing all the time,” he said, irritation in his voice. “That doesn’t mean every one of them is the victim of a serial killer.”
Asshole. She waited to hear what he had to say next.
He sighed, the irritation in his voice replaced by a noticeable strain. “But I’m giving him a few days to get his shit straight, find her, and get back with the program with the rest of us. Whoever this killer is, he’s moving much faster than Vincent—one victim every other day instead of one a week. So we need to step up our game as well. For now, you’re paired up with Bergeron. He’s on his way to get you. Report to me before heading out.” Ouellette hung up.
For a few moments, Dixie stood there holding the phone and then slowly hung it up. She had thought the pressure would be getting to her commander, and she was right.
She picked up on others’ emotions very easily, a trait that helped her considerably as a detective. While she didn’t consider herself to have Michael’s level of brilliance—something she admired—she was able to combine her analytical skill with an understanding of people’s emotions. This also gave her an edge in interrogation.
Except in some cases, such as when she and Aucoin had interviewed Richard Fastellos, the bumbling goof who was Sam’s boyfriend. She hadn’t been able to get a good read on him, and he had snatched the interview from them with a smirk on his lips.
Dixie felt her mouth tighten and her skin heat up as he remembered how Richie had played her. She hated him for that. She hated it anytime an arrogant, domineering man got the best of a situation, and she had good reason to. I’ll get that son of a bitch back for showing me up.
She pushed away those angry thoughts and turned on the lights to the front room.
The dinner table in the dining area was covered in hers and Gino’s paperwork, as well as his word processor and her overcoat, pager, and holstered pistol. She finished getting ready by strapping on her holster, throwing on her overcoat, and making sure that her badge was secured.
Not sure how long Rodger would take to arrive, she sat on the leather couch in the living area and turned on the television. It was the usual morning broadcast. The weather was hot and muggy, the traffic was terrible, and the top story of the hour was, of course, the new Bourbon Street Ripper.
Dixie shook her head in disgust. The media sensationalism was amazing. It seemed like the news stations and the Times-Picayune alike were more interested in the ratings than the real story. Talking heads gave theories ranging from the sound to the ludicrous, and everyone had an opinion.
Of course, the prime suspect was the unknown writer called Sam of Spades, who had published the first chapter in a serial story that had detailed the second murder before it had even happened.
She was grateful that the district attorney had placed a gag order on the Times-Picayune. If the public discovered that Sam of Spades was none other than Samantha Castille, granddaughter of the original Bourbon Street Ripper, she’d be lynched by a mob of frightened, angry citizens before anyone could blink.
“In other news,” said the anchorman, “Saint Tammany Parish deputies arrested a man late last night for domestic violence. Mr. Gregory Descheneaux was arrested in his home after neighbors called in complaining they could hear his eight-year-old daughter crying out for help. The girl, Noella, was taken to the hospital with severe injuries.”
Dixie sat, transfixed in horror. She never liked watching the news alone, for fear that a domestic violence story like this one would trigger memories of when she was a little girl.
She did not like remembering her childhood.
She had been born Dixie Electra Gateaux and had grown up in Slidell, a city northeast of New Orleans, just across Lake Pontchartrain. Like most families in Slidell, Dixie’s was poor. She grew up in a trailer park with her parents and older sister. Throughout her childhood, poverty and instability tore her family apart.
As long as she could remember, her father had been unemployed and almost constantly intoxicated. Emotionally and verbally abusive, he would take his drunken frustrations out on every single member of the family on a daily basis. Her mother was an enabler who just kept making excuses and claiming he’d get better once he found a job.
Her older sister had reacted by staying out late, taking to smoking and extreme promiscuity by age twelve. By her fifteenth year, she had become pregnant with the child of a twenty-six-year-old man.
When her father had found out, he had snapped, and his verbal abuse had turned physical. Dixie had been only ten years old when she had watched her drunken father beat her older sister into a miscarriage. When her mother had finally tried to intervene, he had broken her jaw. The police were only called after Dixie, who had been hiding underneath her bed, ran to a neighbor and begged for help.
Immediately, her and her older sister became wards of the state, placed into separate foster homes.
Dixie was jarred out of the emotional trip down memory lane by the doorbell ringing. She realized she had been crying, and she took a moment to wipe the tears away before answering the front door.
“Morning, Dixie,” said Rodger. The bags under his eyes were apparent, but she must have looked even worse, since he looked at her with concern. “I can wait down in the car if you need a few minutes to, um, finish getting ready.”
“Thank you,” she said, giving him an appreciative smile. It was obvious that he knew she was crying but was too much of a gentleman to say anything. After he left, she washed off her face. She appreciated his not asking what was wrong.
A few minutes later, she went downstairs and found him parked at the roundabout in front of the apartments, leaning against his squad car and smoking a cigaret
te. Nearby, a doorman was motioning to a public ashtray.
Seeing Rodger like that made Dixie smile. Despite his looking more and more like he was at the end of his career, he had a reputation for being a good cop who wanted to do the right thing. Everything about him reminded her of a detective from a gritty noir film—a hard-boiled cop with a heart of gold.
“You ready to go?” Rodger asked, tossing his cigarette into the public ashtray. The doorman mouthed a “thank you.”
She nodded, and the two got into the car. “Do we have an agenda today, Rodger?” she asked as she latched her seatbelt shut.
“One moment,” he said, fighting to get his seatbelt to catch. Once it did, he fished out a series of Post-It notes and flipped through them. “Let me see what we’re doing today.”
Dixie watched him and tried not to laugh. The way he flipped through his Post-It notes with a look of concentration was the same way her foster father would concentrate when sorting through bills. That made her very comfortable.
“Here we go,” Rodger said at last. He was holding out a single note. “What we’ve got is a lead for the Nite Priory.”
She recalled that the Nite Priory, currently believed to be a cult of some sort, was the group who had left instructions for three out of the four accomplices of the original Bourbon Street Ripper. Topper Jack, as well as Mad Monty and Fat Willie, who were both now deceased, had all been contacted by this group to assist them with the new murders. The only accomplice not accounted for was Blind Moses, the supposed courier who had carried Vincent’s orders to the others.
“Good to know,” she said, reading the note. “Jonathon Russell, eh? Never heard of him.”
“You can thank Richie for this lead. One of the few things he’s done right,” Rodger said as he pulled out of the apartment’s roundabout. “Jonathon’s a rich guy. You know, old money. Lives on Lake Pontchartrain in a mansion, like the Castilles. A bit of a recluse, actually. Took Ouellette himself calling in a favor to get us the interview.”