The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (48 page)

“It’s that and some other problems,” Rodger said, giving a small nod to Sam. “Michael and I have some talking to do, and I have a lot of explaining to do.” He looked over at his partner.

Michael didn’t give much of a nod, but it was enough to show Rodger that, indeed, there would be an uncomfortable conversation forthcoming.

“I see,” replied Sam as she moved forward to look at Rodger’s nose, going so far as to tilt his head up to look at the injury. As much as he wanted to stop her from fussing over him, the pain in his nose was pretty intense, having turned into that kind of throbbing pain that lingers.

“Let me clean the two of you up,” said Sam, who started heading toward the kitchen, motioning for both men to follow her.

Rodger followed Michael and Sam into the kitchen, thinking,
We’ve fought before. But not like this. He must be seriously pissed off.

Rodger didn’t say anything as Sam fixed him up, stopping the bleeding in his nose and making sure it wasn’t actually broken. Once Sam determined everything was okay, she tended to Michael, who was equally banged up. As she finished up, the phone rang.

“Crap, I bet that’s Richie,” said Sam.

She hurried up front. Rodger could barely hear Sam say “hello” before her voice dropped too low for him to hear. Not wanting to eavesdrop, he soon refocused his attention on his partner.

Michael was standing and looking at a piece of artwork on the wall. Rodger had a good view of his partner’s back, and Michael seemed to be keen on making sure that was all of him that Rodger saw.

Rodger spoke in a low voice. “Okay, I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to keep this kind of tension up. I’ve had too much happen lately, and my old ticker can’t handle it. So, what do I need to do to make this right?”

Michael’s reply was hushed and sharp. “Tell me every goddamn thing you’ve been hiding about this case, about Edward, and about you.”

Rodger inhaled slowly through his mouth, the throbbing pain in his nose still prevalent. “Right, so after we leave here, we’ll go somewhere and I’ll tell you everything. That’s fair?”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” replied Michael. As Michael didn’t say anything else, Rodger figured that the matter, for the moment, was done. He knew he still had a lot to get through, though. This was turning out to be a very uncomfortable day.
I’m not used to being this emotionally worn out
.

Sam returned. “Richie’s not coming over tonight,” she said, a tone of regret to her voice. “He has apparently had a rough day, too. He said he’d catch us up on it tomorrow, and that he’s got some major news.”

Rodger shook his head, just as Michael did, not sure that Richie was someone to take seriously. One look at Michael, and he was sure his partner felt the same way.
Richie is completely out of his element.

Michael said, “That’s just as well, Sam. Rodger and I need to get going. We have to compare notes and get ready to meet with Commander Ouellette tomorrow morning.”

Immediately, Rodger felt his blood pressure rise at the mention of meeting with Ouellette, especially since there was no advance notice. Rodger started to wonder if that meant he and Michael just got put on the hot seat.

One look at Michael, who seemed completely composed, and Rodger suspected that it was just a story by Michael to give them an excuse to go have their “talk.”

“It’s okay, really,” Sam said. “I need to get some more coffee and then start on the second chapter in my story. Lord knows, with the details of the last murders identical to my story, I’m halfway considering not writing anything at all.”

Before Rodger could say anything, Michael spoke up. “Actually, Sam, don’t do that. Write the story just as you intended, especially if there is another murder in chapter two.”

Sam nodded, saying, “There is. Do you want me to tell you who gets killed?”

“No,” was Michael’s reply. “Telling us about your next victim will only make me want to search a city filled with hundreds of thousands of people for a single person based on nothing more than a description.”

“Michael’s got a good point,” Rodger, who had been feeling left out of the conversation, said. “Your last character victim didn’t have the same name as the actual victim. So it wouldn’t help.”

Michael went on, “So what I need you to do, Sam, is create a list of everything you do, from the moment you finish typing the manuscript, to the moment you drop it off at the
Times-Picayune
. Every little thing you do, no matter how insignificant, you need to list. Then, when you have that list, give it to me.”

That made Rodger experience two different feelings. First, it made him grumpy that Michael was blatantly cutting him out. Second, it made him feel hopeful that Michael had an actual plan to crack this case. The look in Michael’s eyes, for that moment, eerily reminded Rodger of Edward.

Sam nodded and said, “All right. I can do this. I’ll give you a detailed list of what I do tomorrow. Also, I won’t allow myself to be sidetracked.”

“Thank you,” Michael said in reply, then turned to Rodger. “Are you ready to leave, Rodger?”

“I am,” replied Rodger, who was starting to feel tired. The day had been long, and this was after the hell that had been Mad Monty. While he knew the value of getting everything with Michael out in the open, Rodger really just wanted to go back to his apartment, have a whiskey, and go to sleep.

Rodger followed Sam to the foyer while Michael got his jacket. Out of earshot of his partner, he gave Sam a brief hug and said, “You be careful, Sam. Remember, you are still a suspect.”

Sam, who seemed all too pleased to hug Rodger back, replied that she would be very careful. By the time Michael came out of the kitchen, Sam was unlatching the door to let both men out.

“Good night, you two,” Sam said, closing the door behind them.

As Rodger heard the latches slide back in place, he felt that she would indeed be safe.

“You want to drive, Rodger?” Michael asked as they walked to the squad car.

“Honestly, I really don’t,” Rodger said, taking a moment to enjoy the warm night air. “Do you mind?”

“I don’t care,” was Michael’s reply, the cold way he said it giving Rodger a shiver.

As Rodger got into the passenger seat, his partner was struggling to get the latch on the driver’s side safety belt to catch.

“This stupid belt hardly works,” Michael briskly commented, finally getting the seat belt to stick.

“It is a piece of shit, partner,” Rodger said, the passenger seat belt easily catching. “I’ve told Ouellette about it several times. I’m sure when the next quarter budget gets approved, we’ll get it fixed.”

“Probably not,” Michael said as he started up the car. “But we’ll see, I suppose.” He put the car in Reverse and pulled out of the driveway of Sam’s townhome. “So, where to for conversation?”

“The usual place,” suggested Rodger, who wasn’t feeling too adventurous after such a long day.

“It’s probably packed this time of night,” replied Michael, as he headed out toward the French Quarter. “Besides, Danny O’Flaherty is singing tonight, isn’t he? We won’t be able to hear ourselves think, much less talk. How about Jean Lafitte’s Blacksmith Bar?”

Rodger chuckled, then nodded, saying, “Somehow, that is terribly appropriate.”

Michael’s expression didn’t seem to soften, so Rodger tried again to lighten the conversation. “That was a good excuse you gave Sam to getting us out of staying late, that Ouellette wanted to see us tomorrow morning. Pretty ingenious.”

“It wasn’t an excuse,” Michael said curtly. “Ouellette wants to see us both at nine in the morning, sharp.”

Suddenly, Rodger felt that the mood of the conversation didn’t need to be messed with anymore.

Thirty minutes later, both detectives were sitting at a table in a dark, private corner of the Jean Lafitte Bar, far on the Dauphine side of the French Quarter on Bourbon Street. While it was not their usual spot, Jean Lafitte was typically more quiet on any given night. People could actually hear each other.

Rodger liked Jean Lafitte’s, although the irony of this bar and the nightclub that had become an important part of the case was not lost on him. The bar, which had once been a blacksmith shop, had a cozy quality to it.

The atmosphere was kept comfortable and dark, due to the illumination of palely lit lanterns, the tables and chairs had an Old World feel to them, the walls were still made of cobbled stone, and the centerpiece of the bar was the old forge and anvil.

Both detectives had gotten a pint of their favorite beers. While Rodger was looking around at the customers, most of them natives who were enjoying Bourbon Street, he noted that Michael was getting out his notebook and pen. Rodger’s expression soured. As he sipped on his beer, he thought to himself that Michael wasn’t capable of relaxing.

“All right,” Michael finally said, taking a sip of his beer and getting ready to take notes. “Start talking, Rodger. No more bullshit. Tell me everything.”

Rodger decided the best place to start was with Edward.

“You want to know about Edward Castille,” Rodger said, the pale light of the bar’s lanterns cascading off his tired face, “I’ll tell you about Edward Castille. But a word of this isn’t to get to Sam. Ever.” He made sure there was a serious quality to his voice—one that conveyed to his often socially obtuse partner the severity of his “request.”

Rodger went on, “Edward was what one would have called a model cop. The guy fought for the good guys simply because he wanted the world to be a better place. Or so that is what people like Ouellette and I would have you believe. The truth is that, at the time of his death, Edward was under investigation by Internal Affairs.”

Michael, who had been scribbling notes, looked up and blinked. From where Rodger was sitting, the lantern light shone completely on his partner’s face, and every etched line of confused suspicion shone through.

Michael looked Rodger in the eyes and asked, “So, then, Edward was a dirty cop?”

Rodger shifted so that the light of the lantern fell off his face. He didn’t like talking about this ugly part of his former partner’s life, but as Michael had asked for the truth, and a lot more was at stake than Rodger’s comfort, he pushed himself to continue.

“If it were only that easy,” said Rodger, “because the investigation was never concluded. You see, Vincent Castille was business partners with the head of the Marcello crime family, Carlos Marcello.”

“I know that,” Michael replied, looking back down at his notes. “I found that out today. They were, what did she say, ‘real tight,’ right?”

Instantly, Rodger knew who Michael was talking about. Leaning forward and narrowing his eyes some, Rodger said, “You spoke with Rosemary today, didn’t you?”

Michael looked up at him, his surprise evident.

With a smirk, Rodger continued. “Yes, Dr. Castille and Mr. Marcello grew up near each other along Pontchartrain Lake—you know, the area in Mandeville where all big mansions are.”

Rodger didn’t need to elaborate. Unless his partner knew nothing of New Orleans, he’d know the part of Lake Pontchartrain—Northshore—where the obscenely rich lived.

When Michael nodded in understanding, Rodger continued. “One went on to become the head of the biggest crime family in New Orleans, and the other became a respected and beloved doctor. But they remained in contact. So in 1960, the childhood friends funded, built, and managed Jean Lafitte Theater. Why? To live out the glory days of the forties and fifties, I suppose. It’s not really important, because the real meat doesn’t come with those old geezers, but with their sons.”

“Edward and Giorgio,” replied Michael.

With a nod, Rodger leaned back into the darkness, taking his beer with him. For a few choice moments, he sipped on it. It had a bitter taste, but it was cool and felt good going down.

“Fathers knew each other, sons knew each other. You could call the two pals, even though they ran in obviously opposing circles. Fast-forward to the seventies. As Blue-Eyed Giorgio came under suspicion of being a serial rapist, the police put him under more and more surveillance. And Giorgio got better and better at dodging the heat.”

“And let me guess,” Michael said, scribbling like mad. “Edward was under suspicion of protecting his friend, right?”

“Yeah. At first, it seemed ridiculous. Edward was an upstanding cop. He had a young daughter, Samantha, to care for. And together, he and I had closed hundreds of tough murder cases. It was inconceivable that Edward would be dirty.”

Michael looked up for a moment, obviously trying to see Rodger in the shadows. “But I don’t get it, Rodger. Internal Affairs back then wasn’t what it is now. What made them focus so heavily on Edward?”

“The Jean Lafitte Club,” Rodger said. “That damn club. I hated going there, but Edward went there all the time. And guess who else was there?”

“Giorgio,” was Michael’s reply.

“You got it, partner,” Rodger said, taking another long swig of his beer. “When I stopped going, and Edward continued to go, and Giorgio started dodging the cops, suspicious eyes fell on Detective Castille.”

Rodger paused for a long time and then said, “And me. Giorgio and Edward would often be heard arguing behind closed doors, and the next day the trail of Blue-Eyed Giorgio’s activities would go cold.”

Michael looked up, and Rodger could see that his partner finally got it. “So you had to distance yourself from Edward, while maintaining the illusion of being close to him, in order to keep yourself from being investigated.”

Rodger leaned forward, his face fully in the lantern light. He knew the tired lines on his old face showed. Nodding, he said, “It was the hardest balancing act I have ever had to play. I cared for Edward. He was a friend. And I honestly believed I was better friends with him and Blue-Eyed Giorgio. Not to mention that I loved Samantha like my own daughter. But this… this sucked. And it happened during the worst possible time.”

Michael’s face again registered comprehension. “During the Bourbon Street Ripper murders.”

“Correct,” Rodger said. He took a sip of his beer, and then sighed. “So, when you think about it, Edward should not have been buried with full honors. But considering that he gave his life to bring down the most infamous serial killer this city had ever seen, it was no surprise when Internal Affairs sealed the case and swept the matter under the rug.”