by Leo King
Michael sighed and rubbed his eyes again. He was getting tired, more so than he wanted to admit. Determined to get through his latest train of thought, however, he shook off the cobwebs and focused on his notebook.
“Let’s see. Rodger said that in his interview with Fat Willie, he found out that Maple and Dallas were the only ones Fat Willie did not kidnap. So someone else did. Fat Willie thinks it was Vincent.”
Michael’s brow creased. Vincent might not have been frail, but Michael doubted that he could have overpowered a grown woman and her ten-year-old son without some sort of struggle or drug. But there were no signs of a struggle when they were taken, and the only traces of a drug found were of the paralytic agent used to keep Dallas still while Maple was killed. So if Vincent did take them, that means they went with him willingly.
He looked up, repeating those words. “So they knew him. Then… then…” He gritted his teeth. He was missing something. Something significant.
Leaning back, he sighed. “Rodger said that Edward lost it when he found out that Maple was dead. But we know nothing about Edward’s relationship to her. A friend? A relative? A lover? Heck, we don’t even know who she really was. I don’t know enough about her to theorize, and I’m going nowhere with this.”
He decided to try focusing on something else.
Michael flipped to the notes from his interview with Rosemary Boucher in Lafayette. One thing stood out. Rosemary had stated that Magnolia had been murdered. She had also stated that she knew who had done it.
He rubbed the sides of his head, his mind spinning with facts.
He’d already theorized that one of the M&M sisters was Mary Castille—Edward’s wife and Sam’s mother. Ouellette had said that Magnolia had had health problems, and Rodger had said that Magnolia had died of a heart attack. That added up. So if people believe that Magnolia died of natural causes, but someone said she was killed, then that means…
His hands dropped. “Magnolia’s death was a murder that was made to look like a heart attack. And I can verify that by talking to Rosemary again.”
He scratched his head and groaned. “Ugh! This is all so confusing. Why is there so much mystery surrounding these twins?”
Michael froze at the word twins.
“Whoa, hold on,” he said, biting his bottom lip. “What if the twins switched places? Or what if one twin posed as the other? Whoever married Edward would have access to the Castille fortune, right? What if…”
Things were starting to fall into place. It was all theories and postulates, with no hard evidence to back it up. However, if there was one thing he had learned in the past few days, it was to trust his gut.
And his gut told him this: One sister married Edward, and the other twin got jealous because of the Castille fortune. Could she have tried to take the other twin’s place? Why not? But for one twin to become the other twin, the first one would have had to die. So, then, what if… what if…
The conclusion Michael came to was as horrible as it was plausible.
“What if Marigold murdered Magnolia?”
Chapter 4
You’ll Be The One
Date: Sunday, August 9, 1992
Time: 4:00 p.m.
Location: Corner of Tulane and LaSalle
Downtown New Orleans
“Richie, what the hell are you doing here?” Rodger stood at the coffee stand, hands on his hips, staring incredulously at Richie, who had just finished adding sugar and creamer to a large cup of gourmand coffee.
“Getting a cup of coffee?” Richie said, holding up and pointing to the cup as if it were a courtroom exhibit. He looked hopelessly confused as to why he was getting questioned.
Rodger shook his head. He had clearly instructed Richie to take care of Sam, and there was a definite lack of Sam around. Not only that, but with the recent reports on how “Blue-Eyed” Marcello and his men had died, the information Richie had discovered about the Nite Priory seemed even more important. Rodger couldn’t risk Richie making stupid decisions with his or Sam’s well-being.
Taking Richie by the arm, he led him a few yards away. “I mean, where the heck is Sam?” he said in a harsh whisper. “I asked you to keep her safe!”
Richie pulled away. “Man, calm the hell down. You need to chill, Detective. Sam’s fine. I was just getting some coffee while she got checked out.”
Any frustration Rodger felt got overridden by a rising sensation of panic at the mention of Sam being in the hospital. He wanted to demand to be taken to her. Before he could speak, Richie started talking again.
“We were out enjoying ourselves and she got hit with a dizzy spell, the second she’s had in twenty-four hours. I think it’s the stress, Rodger. It’s getting to her, and can you blame her? Anyway, she’s fine. She’s getting checked out by a doctor right now.”
He nodded. “All right. Take me to her. I’ll see if she needs any—”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Rodger,” interrupted Richie.
Rodger was stunned. He never would have imagined Richie talking to him like that. He folded his arms and glowered. “Well, I don’t much like your tone. And I definitely do not like you deciding if I can or cannot see my niece.” Even though they had just recently patched things up, he was already back to being “Uncle Rodger.”
“Look, Rodger, it’s not like that,” Richie said in an exasperated tone. “I know you care for Sam. I get that. But, man, you told us yesterday that Ouellette is watching all of us under a magnifying glass. So if you go gamboling up to see her and somehow this gets back to the police…” He held out his hands.
Rodger sighed and rubbed his forehead. He hated to admit that Richie was right about anything related to Sam, but it was more apparent than ever that Rodger was too emotionally involved with her—just as Michael and Ouellette had said.
“All right, Richie,” he said. “I’m sorry. You’re right, I need to back away and let you handle her. I shouldn’t have jumped your shit.”
“Well, all right, then,” Richie said, sipping his coffee in a huff.
“So get back to her! But before you go, I have something I want to ask you.” He figured that this was the best time to follow up on the “Nite Priory” versus “Knight Priory” conundrum.
“I have a question, too,” Richie said, looking around as if he expected someone nearby to be eavesdropping.
Rodger felt annoyed with him looking around. It was like he was becoming more and more distracted every day.
Finally, Richie said, “It’s about Sam. Did either of her parents have any medical problems? I wanna know what to tell the doctor, and Sam doesn’t remember.”
Rodger hummed softly to himself, his brow creasing in thought. “I think her mother did. I remember Edward saying that she died of health complications soon after Sam was born. I don’t know what it was, though. I didn’t know Mary Castille.”
Richie flicked his tongue over his cup of coffee, licking off a few droplets. “Sam’s fainting spell was indicative of a person with heart problems. Any way we can find out whether her family has that kind of history?”
Rodger stared at him. “Jesus, Richie! Heart problems? That’s not a small deal, man.”
Richie again held out his hands. “Whoa, whoa. You gotta trust me, Rodger. I’ve got it handled. Believe me, if I thought she was in any danger, I’d let you know right away.”
Rodger nodded, taking a deep breath.
“So?”
Rodger refocused on the question. As much as he hated to admit it, Richie might have found a link as to which M&M sister was Mary. If one of the sisters had indeed had heart problems, that one would have had to have been Sam’s mother. He was also starting to see Michael’s point—Sam’s mother was somehow central to the original murders twenty years ago. He was going to have to pass all this on to Michael.
“I’ll follow up on that, Richie, and let you know. Now it’s my turn,” Rodger said. “You said that you researched the Nite Priory the other night and discov
ered that they were a group of assassins who used cutting weapons and bare hands, correct?”
Richie looked around again, like he was expecting to see one of those Nite Priory members standing nearby. “Yes.”
Rodger nodded and folded his arms. His description matched up to what had happened with Marcello’s men. “And you’re sure it’s spelled N-I-T-E, correct?”
Richie sipped his coffee, looking thoughtful. “Yes, that’s right.”
Rodger nodded again. If Richie had indeed found a source with “Knight Priory” spelled incorrectly, then where he had gotten the information was important. “So you got this information at the local library, right?” he asked.
“No, no, no,” replied Richie, shaking his head with considerable vigor. “I got it at Sam’s house, in one of her books.” He looked around again.
Rodger hardly noticed Richie’s paranoid antics. Instead, he felt his temperature drop. No goddamn way. Richie had to have found it somewhere else. If the source of the misspelled word was Sam’s townhome, it was another nail in her coffin.
He was feeling desperate. “You’re sure that the information you came across had it spelled N-I-T-E.”
“Yup,” said Richie with a nod.
Rodger raised his hands and tried to keep his cool. “And you’re sure, absolutely one-hundred-percent sure, that the only place you found this information was in Sam’s home?”
“Yup,” said Richie with another nod.
“Good to know,” replied Dixie’s voice from behind them.
Rodger felt his temperature plummet. Turning around, he saw Dixie holding a cup of coffee and sneering. Oh, no! He hoped Dixie wasn’t about to start in on Richie.
She leaned toward Richie and said, “Well, hello there, Mr. Fastellos. Funny meeting you here.”
Richie scowled and motioned back toward the hospital. “I should get back to… you know…”
“Back to Sam?” she asked, sipping her coffee in a way that looked pretentious. “She’s in the lobby waiting on you. I just had a nice long chat with her, since I’m good friends with Rodger and Michael. Really sweet girl. I hope for your sake she’s not our killer. She won’t be much fun in bed if she’s dead.”
As Richie noticeably tensed up, his free hand balling up and his jaw clenching, she whistled, showing what could only be called a bitchy smile.
Christ, Dixie. This was not the time to play the psychology game on him.
“Ho ho! Getting mad there, lover boy?” asked Dixie. “Don’t worry, I’m sure Sam will be waiting for you. She turned seven shades of red the moment she found out that I knew you. Don’t worry, though, I didn’t tell her about you only wanting to get in her pants.”
Rodger just shook his head. The last thing he wanted to do was undermine Dixie, who had a reputation for being able to make suspects blow their cool and their cover. However, if he ever wanted to get information out of Richie again, he needed to stay on his good side.
Richie made a grunting sound and tossed his cup into a nearby trash can. “I’m outta here, Rodger. It stinks of trailer trash.”
“The only trash here is a low-life who thinks he’s good enough for Samantha Castille.” She glared at Richie as he stormed off. “She’s too classy for someone like you. You—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Calm down, Dixie!” He held his hands out. Dammit. He had waited too long to say something.
Dixie fixed her glare on him. “Why did you shut me down, Rodger? That son-of-a-bitch made fools of Aucoin and me the other night. How the heck can you defend someone who’s probably bullshitting us to protect our number-one suspect?”
Rodger’s head hurt. He needed to get them back on the same page quickly. He chided himself for not taking time this morning to explain what was going on with Sam and Richie.
Closing his eyes, he silently counted to five and then said, “Okay, there are some things you need to know if we’re going to continue working together. First off, Sam may be a suspect, but she’s not under arrest. The goddamn justice system says she’s innocent until proven guilty. I’m doing my best to remain objective, despite the fact that she’s practically my niece. I know her past and what she suffered better than anyone else. So whether she’s the killer or not, I’m going to make sure that she gets fair treatment under the law.”
Dixie’s expression went from peeved to confused. “Okay…”
Opening his eyes, Rodger continued, “Second, I trust my gut about Richie. The guy is an ass and a goof, but I believe he genuinely cares about Sam. So I asked him to keep an eye on her. I’m afraid someone may try to harm her as this thing goes on, just because she’s Vincent’s granddaughter.”
Her expression relaxed. “Go on.”
“Lastly,” said Rodger, “I believe Richie may have been approached by this Nite Priory voodoo cult we’re beginning to suspect. His information about how they kill is too similar to what happened down at the Riverwalk with Marcello to be a coincidence. If I’m going to get this information from him, I need him to trust me.”
She folded her arms, tightening her lips and looking at the ground. “You should have told me all this earlier. It would have saved me a lot of groundwork and mistakes.”
He blinked. For a moment, Dixie sounded like Michael. It was scary how much alike they were sometimes. They could have made a cute couple if things had been different.
With a soft exhale, she said, “Well, that’s that, then. Okay, I’ll back off for now. But next time, don’t wait to tell me anything. And make sure you tell Ouellette about the Nite Priory thing. Because if you don’t, I will. And I really don’t want to take a butt-tanning for your bad judgment.”
Rodger found himself chuckling at her remark.
She chuckled as well and patted him on the shoulder. “See, you’re laughing again. Much better!”
Instantly, he felt better. Dixie was just one of those people who had a way of lightening your mood. People like her gave him hope for the future of the New Orleans police.
“Come on, temporary partner,” she said, nodding her head toward the squad car. “Ouellette paged me. We need to get back to the precinct. He wants to meet everyone right now.”
Rodger cocked an eyebrow, figuring that she meant her electronic pager. He, like many of the older detectives, usually kept his off. “What did he say it was about?”
“He didn’t say what it was,” she said. “Just that it was extremely important. There was a lot of background noise. It sounded like the precinct was full.”
He didn’t like the sound of that.
“So, Dixie, now that you’ve had a chance to talk to Sam, do you think she’s the kind of person to commit serial murder?”
They got into the squad car. Dixie strapped herself in and sat back, looking contemplative. Finally, she said, “If she is the killer, then she’s an expert at hiding it. I couldn’t get a single read on her that made me feel uneasy.” Then she grinned. “And she’s well read, obviously intelligent, and likes Hemingway and Frost. Big plusses in my book.” She winked.
In spite of himself, Rodger laughed out loud again.
When they arrived at the eighth precinct, however, it was clear that something was going on and that it was quite serious. The parking garage was full, and the sides of the street were lined with squad cars.
“Jesus,” Dixie said as they searched for a parking space. “Arsenault’s Arsenal is here.”
Rodger looked just in time to see the large SWAT vans used by Sergeant Arsenault’s team parked in the alley off the street. As usual, they were painted with logos and designs that belonged more in Full Metal Jacket than on a police vehicle.
“What the hell happened?” he asked.
Her eyes widened and her voice hushed. “There must have been another victim.”
They quickly found a parking space.
Inside, the squad room was buzzing with activity. As they entered, Rodger saw every detective in the homicide division, as well as every uniformed officer he’d ever run across in t
he French Quarter, along with a number of police from nearby precincts. He even saw the black uniforms of Arsenault’s SWAT team. Jesus, is this a manhunt or something?
“Let’s find Kyle and learn what’s going on,” Dixie said, her voice thickening with concern.
It took them a few minutes to wade through the crowd toward the desks where Dixie and Aucoin sat. Both were empty.
Someone called out from a few desks away. “Dixie!”
Rodger turned to see a detective in his thirties, wearing a black duster, sporting a goatee, and with hair likely too long for regulation. He looked haggard and anxious and smelled of cigarette smoke.
“Rivette,” said Dixie. She looked him over. “You’re a mess. What’s going on? Is it the Marcello case?”
“No, it’s not,” said Rivette. “The Marcello case has been put on hold along with everything else.”
“What the hell’s going on, Rivette?” asked Rodger.
Rivette shook his head. “It’s the Ripper case. A third victim was found this morning.”
Dixie’s eyes wandered down to the ground, her lips silently moving as if thinking out loud. Slowly, a look of horror came over her face. “Where’s Kyle?”
Rivette motioned toward where the interview rooms were located. “He’s in there with Cathy and Ouellette.”
Rodger started to feel sick to his stomach. He had a sinking feeling that he knew what he was about to hear. “No. No goddamn way.”
Rivette looked riddled with anxiety as he said, “It was Cheryl.”
Dixie’s bottom lip immediately started to tremble, tears rolling down her cheeks without even a blink. “I gotta go to him.” She rushed off.
Rodger felt his throat tighten. He watched her go, his body twitching as feelings of helplessness wracked him. He braced himself on Dixie’s desk and rapidly shook his head. What kind of lunatic would torture a kid to death? How could anyone be so evil?
“I’m so sorry, Rodger,” Rivette said, struggling to find the words. “When Aucoin showed up, he had Cathy with him. They’d been looking for Cheryl all night. They went all the way to Mandeville. Ouellette took them back there. Aucoin… man, you could hear him shriek all the way across the building.”