A Life Without Fear

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A Life Without Fear Page 31

by Leo King


  It had to be someone who could benefit from Sam’s commitment or conviction. It seemed like only the great-aunt stood to gain anything. But Rodger had said that Gladys was an old woman who was barely coherent.

  Michael opened his eyes. “But Dixie mentioned that when they brought up weddings, Kent shut the interview down. If Gladys got married and Sam had to forfeit her inheritance, Gladys’s new husband would stand to benefit.”

  Suddenly, the picture was coming into focus for him. And it was ugly. As the nurse left, he picked up the envelope. It was from a guy named Derek Malone and was labeled “Marriage License.”

  He opened the envelope. One look at the names on the marriage license confirmed his suspicions.

  Kent Bourgeois and Gladys Castille.

  “The son of a bitch married his way into the Castille family,” Michael said. He had never felt such disgust before. “Dixie was right. The bastard has put himself right in line for all of Sam’s inheritance.”

  “Excuse me, Detective,” came the tired voice of Michael’s nurse. She was standing at the doorway. “Someone named Rivette is on the phone for you at the nurse’s station. Take your time. I’m going on a coffee break.”

  His hands shaking, Michael hurried to the phone. “Whatcha got for me, Rivette?” he asked, barely containing his excitement. It was exhilarating to be on the hunt again.

  “Wow, Michael, you hit the nail on the head with this one.” Rivette sounded excited as well.

  Michael couldn’t wait any longer. “Come on, Scott, just lay it on me.”

  “All right, all right, bud,” Rivette said. “The company that manages Sam’s office equipment is called Office Electronics. Sam is a priority customer, so the installation and maintenance for her equipment is always handled by their operations manager. Some guy named Gregory Billot.”

  Gregory Billot, Michael thought, inhaling quickly. Cheryl Aucoin’s boyfriend!

  Rivette continued, “I pulled his record, and he’s got three prior arrests for possession. Cocaine, mostly. He got off on all three charges. His lawyer is bank-rolled by a guy named Irving Jennings.”

  “Irving Jennings?” asked Michael. He had never heard that name before.

  Rivette chuckled. “It’s not just that. Seems that Mr. Jennings has been paying the legal defense costs of several ne’er-do-wells for years. They all belong to a motorcycle gang whose theme is black hooded coats. Guess what they’re called?”

  Michael’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “Why, they’re the Rippers, ladies and gentlemen!” exclaimed Rivette. His tone had taken on that of a game show host. “OK, the last one is a real kicker. You’ll never guess who their leader is—the guy Irving’s bailed out the most times.”

  Michael thought for a moment, then said, “I have no idea. Who?”

  Rivette chuckled again. “Check this out—it’s the son of Samantha Castille’s lawyer.”

  Michael’s jaw dropped. “Kent… has a son?”

  “Well…” Rivette said, the eagerness gone from his voice, “I think he’s Kent’s son. Although Bourgeois is a pretty common last name here in the bayou.” Rivette said “bayou” like “bye-yoo.”

  “OK, OK,” said Michael. “So who is this alleged son?”

  “His name is Nick Bourgeois,” said Rivette. “He’s called the Demon Rider of Bourbon Street. Kinda has a Sweeney Todd thing going on, eh?”

  Michael’s head was spinning. Nick! The guy from the letter to Fat Willie! Holy shit, I was right! Nick is Kent’s son. That bastard Kent is out to screw Sam.

  “Anything else?” he asked, sitting down.

  “Just those LUDs,” replied Rivette.

  “OK, what about them? Anything out of place?”

  Michael could hear Rivette rifle through some papers. “Honestly,” said Rivette, “there are two calls from Samantha Castille’s townhome that don’t make sense. Both are on the target dates. One is very early on the morning of the 6th and the other is on the afternoon of the 8th. But here’s the thing: the ‘call from’ number is not the same as the house number. And it was transmitting data, not voice.”

  A modem! Faxes! Slowly, Michael stood up again. Both times matched up to when Sam had made copies of her manuscripts. “Where did those calls go to?” he asked, his excitement growing.

  “Ah, to the Inn on Bourbon Street,” said Rivette. “I have no way of knowing which room, though.”

  “No, no, that’s fine,” said Michael, excitement continuing to grow within him. “Listen, can you get Ouellette on the phone? I think I’m about to break the case.”

  “Break the case?” asked Rivette. “What do you mean? Isn’t Sam the killer? Isn’t she being arraigned tomorrow?”

  Michael didn’t feel like explaining things. He was too caught up in his thoughts. “I’ll explain later. Just let me speak to Ouellette, please.”

  “He ain’t here, man,” said Rivette. “Just me and Landry, and we’re about to take a smoke break.”

  Michael heard Landry in the background. He sounded excited.

  “Or not,” said Rivette. “Sorry, man, we’ve got a call down at Lake Pontchartrain. Gotta run!”

  Michael felt frustrated. “Ugh. I’ll see about getting in touch with him myself. Thanks a lot,” he said sarcastically, and hung up. Almost immediately, he regretted acting like an ass to Rivette, who had been helpful so many other times. I’ll have to apologize when I see him again.

  After a moment of thought, he called the Inn on Bourbon Street.

  A woman picked up. “Good evening, thank you for calling the Inn on Bourbon Street. This is Viviane. How may I help you?”

  “Yes,” said Michael, keeping his voice low. “This is Detective Michael LeBlanc, New Orleans eighth precinct. My badge number is 3276.”

  There was a pause before Viviane asked, “Yes, Detective. How may I help you?”

  Michael nervously tapped on the side of the phone. “I need to know if any of your rooms are wired to receive faxes.”

  “No, Detective,” replied Viviane. “Only our business center is…” Her voice trailed off. A moment later, she said, “Oh, my apologies. I see here that someone did pay for an extra phone line.”

  Michael’s pulse quickened. That’s it! A second phone line so that faxes won’t interfere with calls!

  “Which room is that?” he asked. “Who’s staying there?”

  There was a pause, and then Viviane replied, “It’s Room 205. An older gentleman named Irving Jennings has been staying in that room for several weeks now.”

  As the name sank in, Michael broke into a sweat. Oh, my God. The guy who has been bankrolling the Rippers gang!

  Clearing his throat, he asked, “How much longer until he checks out?”

  “Let me see,” replied Viviane, her voice accompanied by the clicking of computer keys. “He’s checking out tomorrow morning.”

  Michael processed the information in silence.

  Several seconds passed before Viviane asked, “Is there anything else, Detective?”

  “No. Thank you.” He hung up the phone.

  For a few minutes, he sat there with his face in his hands, wondering who Irving Jennings was. Quite suddenly, a thought popped up.

  What if Irving Jennings was Kent Bourgeois?

  Even though it was a bit of a leap, he felt he was right. Kent had the finances to bankroll the Rippers. He could bail his son out of trouble without implicating himself. And if Sam went down for murder, and Kent was married to Gladys, wouldn’t that put him in a position to get the Castille family fortune?

  Kent and Nick are behind the murders to frame Sam and get her money. Whether they’re doing the killings themselves or hiring someone else, they’re behind it.

  Michael nibbled on his bottom lip. The only question was, how did Julius Boucher fit into this? Was he part of Nick’s gang? Was it another alias? The fact that “Nite Priory” was derived from “Knight Priory,” and that it came from the hospital Sam, Dallas, and Julius were at, had to be i
mportant. But how did the word game and Julius fit into this?

  But Julius aside, as far as Michael was concerned, he had blown the case wide open. And to get the final bit of proof, the person calling himself Irving Jennings needed to be apprehended.

  Picking up the phone again, he called the precinct. No answer. Frowning, he called Rodger’s apartment. No answer. Then he called Dixie and Gino’s apartment. Not surprisingly, no one answered.

  Dammit, he thought, where is everyone? Dammit, I wish I remembered people’s pager numbers!

  Rubbing his eyes, he called his commander at home. Please pick up!

  Two rings later, he heard a sleepy Ouellette answer. “If you’re not the mayor, or don’t have the best excuse in the world for waking me up, whoever you are, I am going to kick your ass all over the city.”

  “Commander, it’s Detective LeBlanc,” Michael said, his tone authoritative. “I broke the case. I know who’s really behind it. It’s not Sam.”

  There was silence before Ouellette said, “Tell me.”

  Michael spent ten minutes laying out his trail of logic.

  When he was done, Ouellette asked, “And you’re sure of this?”

  “I’m positive. They’re in Room 205 at the Inn on Bourbon Street, using the alias of Irving Jennings. I’ll meet with Rodger and apprehend them.”

  “That’s a negative,” Ouellette said. “I’ll contact Bergeron and get a team together. God, I hope you’re right, LeBlanc.” He hung up.

  Michael sat there holding the phone. Just like that, he had been dropped from the case again. What the hell is that about?! He found himself getting more upset every passing moment.

  After all I’ve been through with this case, how can he just throw me to the side? I deserve to apprehend this son of a bitch!

  Picking up the phone, he tried the precinct once more. This time, he got Rodger.

  It took very little effort to convince him that Kent was the villain. It seemed that Rodger already had serious issues with the Castille family lawyer. When Michael brought up going to apprehend him, however, Rodger protested.

  “If Ouellette thinks you need to stay out of this one, then it’s for your own good,” Rodger said.

  Michael held back his rising temper. “Man, that’s bullshit! You know I can handle this, Rodger. I’m fine. The wound was clean, and it’s almost healed.”

  “I don’t think it’s that, buddy,” Rodger said. “I just think the commander is worried about you.”

  “Then bring a vest!” Michael stopped as he realized he was shouting.

  Rodger sighed. “Partner, I’ve been through shit tonight. I told you I almost got killed by some lunatic’s funhouse. I don’t think either of us should go in there. Let’s let Ouellette handle it.”

  “Come on, Rodger.” Michael was starting to feel desperate. “For all the shit we’ve been through? For all the heartache we’ve suffered? Don’t we deserve to be the ones to put an end to this?” As he stopped talking, he realized that he was near tears. He had not felt this deeply in a long time. He had forgotten how painful it could be.

  Rodger was silent for a long time. Finally, he said, “Yeah. Fine. But we do this by the book, partner. I’ll bring the vests. You bring your gun. We work out a plan so one covers the other. We go in, we apprehend, we wait for backup. No deviations.”

  While Michael appreciated the irony of Rodger saying that things would be done “by the book,” he was nonetheless very grateful. “Thanks, buddy. I appreciate it.”

  “Ugh,” groaned Rodger. “Just don’t get hurt again, Michael. And this better be the end of it. These two better be the killers.”

  “They are.” Michael hung up the phone.

  Even as he went to his room to get dressed, he fought back any doubt. This had to be the end of the case. “I’m sure of it.”

  Chapter 22

  No Reason To Kill

  Date: Tuesday, August 11th, 1992

  Time: 9:00 p.m.

  Location: Home of Rosemary Boucher

  Lafayette, Louisiana

  “Come on, kid,” said the gruff voice of one of the hooded figures just outside the bathroom door. “The Lady’s waiting. You don’t want to be here for too much longer.”

  “I’m coming! Fuck, I’m going as fast as I can,” Richie said as he finished drying off. He didn’t completely blame the Lady in Red for hurrying him along. He had taken close to thirty minutes to clean up, spending half the time crying in the shower and nursing the wound she had kicked into his chest.

  What the hell had he gotten himself into? Now he was party to two different sets of murders.

  He wondered if he had just gone completely mad. It would be better than being in the company of people whose favorite method of killing involved disemboweling. Furthermore, they had taken Julius’s letter to Rosemary before he could read it. All he had seen was the name “Annie-Mae Bernard” and the phrase “Don’t try to find me.”

  By the time he was finished showering, he knew he had to talk to the Lady in Red. He needed to get some answers, for Sam’s sake. Even if it got him killed, he needed to question the Lady in Red, and he needed to do it now. He pushed back the feelings of anxiety as hard as he could.

  Outside the shower, Richie found a set of jeans and a shirt which he recognized as one of his spare clothing sets from the Ritz Carlton.

  Great! They had gotten into his hotel room and brought clothes all the way to Lafayette. Love it! I’m being stalked by a psychotic noir bitch and her murder gang.

  As he exited the bathroom, the overpowering smell of petrol hit his nostrils, the fumes soaking into his clothes and hair.

  “Ugh, what the hell?” he said, stumbling out to the front room. Several of the hooded figures were drenching the house in gasoline, coating the corpses of the dogs, Eustace, and even Rosemary, who had been dragged up to the front.

  One of the hooded figures said, “You should probably clear out—the Lady’s waiting for you.”

  As fast as he could move, Richie fled the house. As he approached the entrance of the driveway, where Sam’s car was waiting, he saw the Lady in Red standing there, arms folded and watching everything. As he joined her, she looked him over, sniffed, and shook her head with disdain.

  He smelled his hands. They reeked of gasoline. Ugh, I hate that smell.

  “Where the heck is your car?” he asked, out of breath.

  “Vans are around the corner in the woods,” she replied. She raised and then dropped her arm. The hooded figures who were pouring gasoline into the house pulled back. One of them lit a match, flicked it inside, and set the entire house ablaze.

  As the glow of the fire cascaded over Richie’s face, he said, “OK, so, before you leave, I have some questions.”

  The Lady in Red was watching the house burn.

  Clearing his throat, he added, “Considering that I’m getting pulled more and more into this insanity, I feel I’m owed at least a few.”

  Without looking at him, she said, “Fair enough. You have three questions.”

  “All right, fine,” he said. “So are you the actual Knight Priory of Saint Madonna? Are you the same group Vincent was in charge of?”

  “Sort of,” she said. “We’re their descendants, or what’s left of them. Twenty-five years ago, Master Castille performed a set of rituals that ruined the original Knight Priory. So now we exist to help interested parties take care of certain problems.”

  He arched an eyebrow at her. “Huh?”

  The Lady in Red blew a kiss to Richie. “We kill people, little boy.”

  He exhaled and nodded. It was exactly what he had been expecting to hear. He was surprised, however, to hear her call Vincent “Master Castille.” It was as if, right after the link between her group and the old Knight Priory was made, she suddenly had reverence for him.

  Everything he was learning was conveniently helping the Lady in Red’s story make more sense than everything else. It was like she was predicting his questions and changing her s
tory to answer them.

  He sighed. “So then, why are you so fixated on me solving this crime? I mean, there are others far more brilliant than me.”

  She smirked and looked away from him before continuing. “Boy, do you ever lack faith in your investigative abilities. Anyway, the real reason is that you’re an outsider. You haven’t been part of the sickness that infects this city.”

  He blinked and stared blankly.

  Sighing, the Lady in Red patted Richie’s face gently, as one would a puppy. “You see, New Orleans has been sick for a long time. It all started when Master Castille became the Bourbon Street Ripper. The madness of the city, it gets to you after a while. You get pulled into it. You become just as crazy as the rest of the city.”

  Turning away from him to signal the hooded figures, she said, “So I saw you, recognized you, vetted you, and decided to use your silly ass to sniff out the problem. Now that we know who the problem is, we can take care of it.”

  The figures started to clear up the equipment and prepare to leave.

  He sighed. He felt tired. He felt used. Again, she had given him the answer he expected, and he felt like she was saying it just to satisfy him. I want to get back to Sam. Wait! That’s it! Sam!

  Richie got in front of the Lady in Red. She looked at him crossly as he shook his head. “Oh, no! You answer this last question. Why are you so interested in Sam?”

  Arching her eyebrows, she said, “Are you really that ignorant? Samantha Castille is the ultimate goal to everything. You need to keep her safe until the very end, Richie. Just like I told you.”

  “But why?” he asked.

  Her pouty red lips curled into a sneer. “Sorry, kid, but you’re out of questions.”

  He scowled, really starting to dislike her. At least she seemed obsessed with keeping Sam alive… but why would the Knight Priory have such an interest in Sam?

  Putting her hands to her mouth, the Lady in Red whistled loudly. The hooded figures started to fall back, rushing out of the yard and leaping into the brush. Three of them walked over to where they were.

  “But—” Richie started to protest, only to be stopped by the Lady in Red covering his lips with her fingers.

 

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