by Leo King
“Restaurants, what?” He sounded surprised. She heard him shuffling papers around. “Dixie, it’s almost nine o’clock. Most restaurants will be closing soon.”
Her voice rasped with irritation. “Then you better start calling. Oh, and Rivette, if Rodger is there, do not—I repeat—do not say anything to him until I arrive.” She still wasn’t sure that Rodger could be objective about Sam’s guilt.
Dixie hung up the phone and threw on the rest of her clothes, securing her badge and gun as well. She then brought the phone up front and headed over to Gino.
He had his glasses back on and was nonchalantly typing as if her behavior was routine.
She put her hand on his shoulder. “I need to run, honey. See you later.”
He smiled as he typed. “All right. Go get the bad guys.” He leaned up and the two kissed briefly but firmly.
“Love you, honey,” she said as she headed toward the front door of the apartment.
The last thing she heard from Gino was the same thing she heard every time she had to run off to work: “I love you, Dixie. I’ll be here when you come home.”
When Dixie got to the precinct, Rivette was still making calls to restaurants and Ouellette was going over the day’s patrol with Arsenault. Landry was nearby, cleaning out the coffee pot. Rodger was nowhere to be found. He must still be at home.
“Olivier,” Ouellette called out as she arrived, “you mind telling me why you have Rivette calling every restaurant in town that serves blackened catfish and bananas Foster?”
She had come prepared, assuming he would question her. She slipped out the paper with Michael’s notes on the dinners. “Michael and Rodger forgot an important angle, Commander. Vincent Castille used to treat himself to a fine dining experience after each murder. We need to look for three instances of the same person spending a lot of money on food each night of a murder.”
After listening, he looked over the paper. “All right, but from now on, run all changes in the investigation by me first. I had Rivette searching for connections between the three victims.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Dixie, glancing at Rivette. “Sorry about that, Scott.”
He waved her off, furiously scribbling down information in a notebook.
Ouellette continued, “Also, Olivier, don’t forget that you are currently Ber-geron’s partner. Where the hell is he?”
“I dropped him off at his townhome several hours ago,” she said. “He said he was going to go over his notes and get some rest before tonight.”
Ouellette didn’t seem too pleased. His tone started rising. “Do you people forget how to follow orders? Olivier, call Rodger and tell him to get his ass over here right now.” He turned back to Arsenault, ignoring her.
Dixie felt the conversation spiraling out of control. So she took a deep breath and loudly exclaimed, “The Nite Priory doesn’t really exist. It’s a ruse by the killer!”
All conversation in the squad room stopped, except for Rivette, who was cursing in Creole.
Turning around, Ouellette eyed her dangerously. “What are you saying, Detective?”
She didn’t flinch. Unfolding her worksheet with the Nite Priory anagram, she handed it to him. “We’ve been had. ‘Nite Priory’ is an anagram for ‘iron pyrite.’ Fool’s gold. A similar trick was used in The Silence of the Lambs. Commander, someone has been signing the notes to the accomplices with ‘Nite Priory’ because they were counting on us wasting our time focusing on it.”
Ouellette looked at the paper, his eyes narrowing. He looked like he was getting more pissed than usual.
Arsenault looked over Ouellette’s shoulder and said, “Well, I’ll be damned. If that ain’t the shit to end all shit. Good work there, Dixie.”
Just then, Rivette hung up the phone and headed over. “Hey, guys. Listen up! You all are going to love this.”
He held out his notebook, the page covered with incomprehensible scribbles. “On the nights of all three murders, someone spent a tidy sum on dinner. On the night of Virginia Babineaux’s murder, someone ordered a lobster dinner from Arnold’s for delivery to their house. Just so you know, Arnold’s doesn’t deliver to just anyone. On the night of Rebecca Clemens’s murder, that same person racked up a two-hundred-dollar bill at the Ritz Carlton hotel restaurant. And on the night of Cheryl Aucoin’s murder, someone racked up an even higher bill at Muriel’s in Jackson Square.”
Ouellette looked at him. “Who are these bills charged to?”
“Samantha Castille,” Rivette said.
“You see, Commander?” replied Dixie. “Plus, Richie Fastellos reported that he found written evidence of the Nite Priory, spelled N-I-T-E, in Sam’s townhome.”
She counted off on her fingers. “So, her stories match the murders, she’s treating herself to meals the exact same way her grandfather did, and she’s the only one with written information about the Nite Priory. All the while, she’s putting forth the act of being emotionally distraught. She’s been playing games with us the entire time.”
Rivette spoke up. “Sounds like she’s one of those schizophrenic types, doesn’t it?”
Ouellette cocked his head at him, glaring.
Rivette cleared his throat and looked flustered, then turned away while muttering that he was just throwing out a theory of his own—all the way back to his desk. As he sat down, his phone rang. He picked it up and started talking.
Dixie thought she heard him say Michael’s name.
Turning back to her, Ouellette said, “Well, this is good circumstantial evidence, but until we get something hard, there’s no way the DA will issue an arrest warrant.”
“Then I’ve got your smoking gun,” came a crotchety and disenchanted voice from the squad room’s doorway. Morton Melancon, the coroner, limped in, holding up a folder.
“What’s with the limp, Morton?” Dixie asked, feeling concern for the old coroner.
“Gout, it flares up in this humid summer weather. Don’t worry about it,” Morton responded curtly before presenting the folder to Ouellette. “Here you go. We lucked out on poor Miss Aucoin.”
“Please tell us that the killer left something on her that we can use,” Ouellette replied as he flipped it open.
“Well, more like inside her,” Morton said, carefully leaning against a desk.
As Ouellette looked through the file, Morton said, “There was some skin tissue in the victim’s chest cavity. Looks like your killer scraped his or her hand a little. Not much, but enough to give us the cells we need for a DNA test.”
“This is fantastic,” Dixie said, looking at the report. It was a medical report with DNA charts and more terminology than she cared to sift through. “If we can get a DNA match, we’ve got our killer.”
Ouellette nodded in silent approval. “So now we just need probable cause to force Samantha Castille to give up her DNA. Something that can’t be refuted.”
“Already got that for you, too,” replied Morton with a derisive sniff. “I had a hunch, so I ran a few comparisons. I found a very close match. Only problem? It’s someone who can’t be the killer.”
“Oh, why not?” asked Dixie.
“Because he’s been dead for twenty years,” he said. “Vincent Gilles Castille.”
Ouellette raised an eyebrow at Morton. “Melancon, are you telling me that Vincent’s DNA was inside Cheryl Aucoin?”
Shaking his head, Morton replied, “More like his direct kin. A child or grandchild.”
Ouellette closed the file and handed it to Landry. “Landry, take this to the DA. Wake his ass up if you have to. Unless Edward Castille has found out a way to come back from the grave, our killer is Samantha Castille. Get a search warrant for her townhome in the Garden District.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Landry, taking the folder and heading off.
Ouellette turned to Dixie. “Contact Bergeron. Have him set up a meeting with Sam to discuss the Nite Priory. Choose someplace secluded, away from the general populace. Once we’ve taken her into cus
tody, we’ll see about getting a court order compelling a DNA test.”
Nodding, she started to head off before stopping midstride. Something nagged at her conscience. “Commander, about Rodger. Do we tell him the truth? About Sam being the prime suspect?”
Ouellette shook his head. “That’s a negative, Detective. We need him to contact the suspect, but he has proven himself biased. We can’t let him risk the operation out of sentimentality. Do I make myself clear?”
She bit her bottom lip, but she would do as she was commanded. She didn’t want to lie to Rodger—they had spent the past few days building up their friendship. However, Ouellette was right. In the matter of Sam Castille, Rodger couldn’t be trusted to remain objective.
“Rivette,” said Ouellette, “help Melancon back to the lab, then get your ass back here.”
Rivette hung up the phone mid-sentence before helping Morton out of the room.
Dixie looked for Rodger’s phone number. Rodger, I am so sorry…
Ouellette again jumped on a desk and called out to the room. “OK, everyone, listen up! We going to head out and give Detectives Bergeron and Olivier cover during this operation. Samantha Castille has a history of mental illness. You are to consider her extremely dangerous. If she shows any signs of hostility, do not—I repeat—do not hesitate to open fire.”
He turned to two other detectives. “Breaux and Gravois, once Landry comes back with that warrant, take him and Rivette and search her townhome. Tear the place apart. We’re looking for anything the district attorney can use when the case goes to trial.”
The two detectives nodded in understanding.
Dixie closed her eyes and picked up the receiver. So sorry you fell for the trickery of that psychotic bitch…
Ouellette continued. “Arsenault, get your SWAT team ready. We’ll need them in case the indigo assassin shows up.”
Arsenault sniffed disdainfully. “Hell, the suspect might be the indigo assassin, for all we know.”
Please forgive me…
Looking around the room, which was rapidly filling, Ouellette said, “Once again, I cannot stress how dangerous the suspect may be. Make sure you’re wearing your vests.” Finally, he approached a wall of suspects’ photos. “Our prime suspect and the target of this operation is…”
Dixie dialed Rodger’s number.
Ouellette slapped his hand onto the photo of Sam. “. . . the granddaughter of the original Bourbon Street Ripper—Samantha Castille!”
Chapter 11
Another’s Eyes
Date: Monday, August 10th, 1992
Time: 6:00 p.m.
Location: Gargoyles Gothic Shop on Decatur
The French Quarter
“Richie Fastellos? Is that really you?’
Richie, holding hands with Sam, turned to see a portly woman with a ruddy face and an armful of shopping bags. She was coming toward them with a massively friendly smile and all the grace of an elephant. He returned the greeting with a nervous grin and a curt nod of the head.
He had no idea who this woman was.
“Don’t you remember me?” the large woman said as she invaded Richie’s personal space. She smelled of strong, cheap perfume, offsetting the clove-laden scent of Gargoyles. Her wide mouth was outdone only by her wider stature, taking up the entire aisle and blocking Richie’s only means of escape—unless you counted curling up into a ball and crying. “I was at your book signing a few days back.”
Richie felt trapped. It was pretty obvious from the way she was out of breath that she had rushed into the store after him. He also felt about a dozen sets of eyes upon him. The woman, who was wearing an “I Love Bourbon Street” T-shirt, seemed as out of place in Gargoyles as Richie did, her tourist style clashing with the rows of leather and vinyl garments, spiked collars, chained leashes, and items of clothing made entirely out of belts.
Still, his training from his publicist, Gordon, kicked in, and Richie kept up a congenial grin. “Nice to see you again.” Someone, please save me.
“Oh, come on, Richie,” she said, pressing the conversation as one would pressgang someone into military service. “You have to remember me. After all, we talked a whole two minutes on the symbolism of Detective Montoya’s simultaneous mentor and stalker relationship with Junior Detective Paddington.”
He just stared at her, and she stared back, awaiting a response as if they had been having the conversation all afternoon. He hardly recognized the characters from his own book, The Pale Lantern. This woman’s sudden approach and subsequent tête-à-tête had been that disarming to him. A full-blown panic attack was forthcoming.
Sam spoke up hastily. “I felt that the relationship was subtly more antagonistic than the reader would first suspect. Very similar to Dr. Lector and Agent Starling, but with less regard for formality.”
Starling? What’s a starling? Richie thought as he felt her squeeze his hand. It took him a few more moments to realize that she was saving him from social embarrassment.
Then a light bulb went off, and he remembered who this large woman was.
“Oh, I remember you—the woman who was impressed with the way the two detectives played off each other as both friends and enemies, right?”
She smiled again, shifting from foot to foot. “That’s me. As I said before, I love your work. I can’t wait for your next novel to come out. I am just simply stoked!”
He nodded, keeping up his expression. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sam turning to the side, covering her mouth politely, her shoulders shaking mightily. Lord, make it tough on me, eh, hun?
“So who’s this, Richie?” the woman asked, motioning to Sam, who came to attention. “I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”
Richie came very close to saying “Sam Castille” and proudly introducing her as his girlfriend. He stopped himself when he realized that they were the center of quite a bit of attention in the store. No… I need to be careful. People will recognize the name.
“No, this is my cousin, Linda… Blair… Witch. Linda Blairwitch!”
Sam looked up at him with widening eyes.
Keeping up his public smile, he let go of her hand and grappled her head. A moment later, he was giving her a noogie, her arms flailing helplessly.
“We’re really close friends, practically grew up together. She lives here, and we haven’t seen each other since my book tour began, so I thought I would spend the weekend with her,” Richie said.
The fib seemed to work. Sam wiggled free and made a fussing noise, fixing her hair and saying, “Really, cousin? We’re not kids anymore. Don’t do that again!”
The large woman nodded with obvious approval.
“Well, I shouldn’t keep you, then,” she said, adjusting her armful of bags. “But it was darling seeing you again. I’ll be sure to come to your next book signing. Ta, ta, Richie! Au revoir!” And she waddled out of the shop, staring and giggling at him the entire time.
As he stood there and twitched, Sam stood beside him, arms folded, leaning against him as if he were a hitching post.
“So… cousin…” she said with a smirk.
Despite the social anxiety Richie was feeling, he laughed and put his arm around her.
Gargoyles was a shop specifically designed for Gothic clothing, and while he couldn’t care less about the style here, she seemed to love it. They had been there only thirty minutes and already she had found her ensemble for the evening—a pair of black hip-hugging leather pants, a black vinyl tank top that zipped in the front, a pair of black boots lined with buckles on the sides, and black fingerless gloves.
He had waited outside the dressing room, and when she came out, hair down and cascading over her shoulders, he thought that not only was she the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen… she somehow managed to look like a blond Sarah Connor from the Terminator sequel.
“What do you think?” she asked, striking a dramatic pose.
“Going for the Gothic rebel there, eh, Sam?” Richie quipped.
> Sam blew him a raspberry and went over to the front cashier, wrapping up her hair in her trademark ponytail. “I’ll take all this. And I’ll wear them out,” she said. One minute and what must have been a horrendously high credit card charge later, she was back with him, holding a bag with her old clothes. “Your turn!”
Richie grimaced, fighting back the tingle of nervousness. “I told you, hun. I’m not really into the Gothic look.” He had mentioned it twice earlier in the day.
Sam’s shoulders dropped and for a moment, she looked away. “Oh, right, well…” Then she looked back at him and shrugged. “Look, Richie, I’m going like this and Jacob’s going to be decked out in his leather biker gear. If you can’t dress like us, then dress in something that will at least look good.”
“That’s the problem, Sam,” he said. “I honestly don’t know the first thing about fashion. I mean, my only impression of what’s hip is John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever.” He bit his lower lip.
To his surprise, she burst out laughing. After a few seconds, she snorted and said, “Richie, Baron Samedi dug disco’s grave so many years ago, I bet he’s forgotten doing it.”
Richie frowned. He was starting to feel picked on by her. It was making him feel extremely uneasy.
However, before his anxiety could bubble forth, she leaned in and kissed him. She lingered for many seconds, and he felt her sweet, hot breath wash over his lips. When she leaned back, she said, “I know what to get you that will make you look butt-fine gorgeous. Come on!”
Sam walked out of the store. He followed her with his eyes, taking in the beautiful way the leather pants hugged her hips and rear.
He heard the store clerk, a bald guy with more tattoos and piercings than clothing, say, “Cousins, my ass.”
“Piss off,” Richie said under his breath.
