A Life Without Fear Page 2

  Dixie’s lips tightened again at the mention of Richie’s name, but she fought back any snarky comments. Instead, she focused on the task at hand. “Old money like the Castilles, eh? We’re headed there right now, yes?”

  Rodger shook his head. “Nope. Need to head into the precinct first. Ouellette wants to talk to us. Probably to give us some instructions we have to follow… or else.” He accented the words “or else.”

  Despite herself, she giggled at his display. That helped them both relax. She found herself sliding into the same kind of groove as she had with Aucoin. She thought they’d get along just fine. She was looking forward to working with him.

  It was two hours later when they finally finished meeting with Ouellette. On their way to Lake Pontchartrain, they stopped at a convenience store to get some coffee. While Rodger had gotten the usual, a dark roast with very little added to it, Dixie had bought one of those premade coffee drinks. It was more her style. As Rodger made a call to Tulane hospital to let Michael know the results of meeting with Ouellette, Dixie sipped the sweet vanilla drink and reflected on the meeting with Ouellette.

  It hadn’t been a pleasant meeting. With one officer in the hospital, two victims in the morgue, and the city getting the same paranoia as twenty years ago, City Hall was tightening its grip on Ouellette. Already his competency was being called into question, and with the recent mass murder of Giorgio “Blue-Eyed” Marcello and his men, the mayor was one more murder away from putting the city under martial law.

  Ouellette, who was in a substantially foul mood, had even informed Dixie and Rodger that the mayor was considering calling in Sergeant Arsenault and his team from reserve duty. Arsenault headed up a special SWAT team affectionately called Arsenault’s Arsenal. They were known for their ability to bring in a perpetrator no matter the danger. They were normally kept in reserve because of their reputation for using extreme tactics, and Arsenault himself had as many reprimands as commendations.

  Everyone knew that when the Arsenal was called, shit had gotten real.

  “All right, I’ve updated Michael on everything,” said Rodger. While he still looked tired, the coffee had him looking less haggard. Rodger loved coffee—a lot.

  “You know, Rodger,” said Dixie, finishing up her coffee drink and tossing the bottle away, “you don’t have to call Michael every time we learn something. Ouellette will update him, like he said he would. You need to let him rest and heal.” She was unable to hide the concern in her voice. Michael was someone she cared for very deeply. A part of her secretly wished that things had been different between the two of them, even though she knew that would never have worked out. But the friendship she had with him was one of the few absolutes she felt she had in her life.

  “Yeah, forget that,” said Rodger, starting up the car and heading toward the lake. “Just the night before he got shot, Michael was furious with me for hiding some stuff from him. For the first time since I was paired up with the kid, I felt like I was losing a partner and a friend. And then when he needed me the most, when some crazy-ass John Woo Ninja bitch started pulling stunts from a Bruce Lee film, I could barely keep up.”

  “But you saved his life,” she interjected.

  Like everyone else, she didn’t know what to make of the superhuman stunts that Michael and the indigo-clad assassin, who had just killed a Jefferson Parish deputy, were rumored to have performed. Ouellette had said it was more important to find the copycat killer than to investigate “this comic book bullshit.”

  Although she was on the fence about that part of it, Dixie knew that if Rodger hadn’t been there, Michael would likely have died. “At the last moment, your bullets got the assassin away from him, Rodger. It’s plain and simple. When he truly needed you, you were there for him.”

  When Rodger didn’t reply, she reached over and rested her hand on his. “You’re a good partner, Rodger Bergeron, and Michael knows that.”

  That seemed to scare away the dark cloud gathering on his face. “Thanks, Dixie.”

  When they pulled up to the Russell mansion, the mechanical front gate was closed. Rodger pressed a small button underneath a speaker. A moment later, an older man’s voice rang out in a distinctive Creole accent. “Yes? Who is it?”

  “This is Detective Rodger Bergeron with the New Orleans police,” he said. “Our boss, Commander Ouellette, called to let you know my partner and I would be showing up to speak to Mr. Russell?”

  “Detective Bergeron? Well, I’ll be damned. I’ll ring you right in.”

  As the front gate opened up on its own, Rodger leaned back with a confused expression.

  Dixie looked over at him, cocking her head. “So this person knows you, Rodger?”

  He sat there for a few moments before shaking his head and driving onto the property. “Not that I know of. I guess we’ll find out. At this point, there isn’t much left that could surprise me.”

  He drove alongside a pretty, well-tended garden with assorted trees and shrubs, as well as a few water fountains. Parking in front of the main entrance to the mansion, he shrugged. “So long as he doesn’t try to feed me into a grinding machine, I’ll be fine.”

  Dixie groaned as she got out of the car.

  As they headed up the front steps, an elderly African-American male with curly gray hair and a gaunt face, dressed as a butler, came down the steps. “Detective Bergeron! I haven’t seen you in so many years. How are you? How is Miss Samantha? You two still talking, right?” He shook a very surprised-looking Rodger’s hand.

  Dixie took a step back and rubbed her chin while regarding the man. He seemed to be well into his seventies and too frail to be an effective manservant.

  Meanwhile, Rodger seemed to be faltering. “This is embarrassing, but I don’t remember—”

  “Oh, Lordy, forgive me,” the butler interrupted. “You knew me back when I worked for”—his voice hushed, as if he were saying a bad word—“Master Castille.”

  Rodger’s eyes widened with recognition. “Wait, Reggie?” he asked. “Reginald Washington? The chauffeur?”

  Reggie smiled brightly and, clapping him on the back, led both of them into the mansion. “That’s right, Detective Bergeron. After Miss Marguerite passed, Miss Gladys done canned all of us. Fortunately, Miss Samantha arranged it so that we’d be taken care of for the rest of our lives.”

  Dixie listened intently to Reggie’s story as he led them through a foyer and up some stairs to the second floor. The interior of the house was beautiful, with dark oak beams interspersed regularly along the walls from the floor to the ceiling, several expensive-looking pieces of artwork adorning the walls, and hardwood floors covered in exquisitely detailed rugs. She noted that the architecture had a distinctive rustic look to it that made the mansion feel homey despite its size.

  She also noticed that the interior of the house was clean and everything here was as well-kept as the grounds, though she hadn’t seen any maids or other servants as they passed through.

  “So you received a quarter million in severance,” Rodger was saying as the three of them stopped in front of a large oak door, “and yet you still came to work for Jonathan Russell?”

  “Oh, yes, Detective Bergeron, that I did,” replied Reggie. “I don’t feel right not working. And Master Russell was always kind to me when he’d come by the Castille house. So after Miss Gladys done let me go, I asked Master Russell if I could be his chauffeur.”

  “And what happened?” asked Dixie, inserting herself into the conversation.

  Reggie turned to her. “Well, Master Russell said he didn’t need anyone to drive him, on account of him staying inside all the time, but he’d be happy to hire me on as a manservant.”

  “Been with him ever since, eh, Reggie?” asked Rodger.

  Reggie bowed his head. “Yes, sir. But that’s my story and no reason to bore you with it. Let me announce you two.” He knocked on the door. After a few moments, the door opened by itself.

  Dixie blinked as this happened. “Yo
u don’t see that every day.”

  “Oh, almost everything here is like that,” he said, motioning the two detectives into a study. “I do feel bad for the burglar who tries to break in here, though. The security system Master Russell has is not very friendly.”

  She was about to ask him what he meant when a gruff old voice from the far side of the room said, “That’ll be enough of that, Reggie.”

  They turned to see an elderly gentleman sitting behind a desk. He had white wispy hair and was as thin as a skeleton, his skin hanging from the bones of his face and hands as if it were moss on a tree. He wore what looked like a dark bathrobe and was breathing into an oxygen mask attached to a large tank. The mask was painted to look like the mouth and jaw of a skull.

  Dixie felt that was a bit too freaky for her tastes.

  Removing the oxygen mask, the old man said, “Good afternoon, Detectives Bergeron and Olivier. I’m Jonathon Russell.” He motioned toward two chairs before his desk with a bony hand. “Please take a seat.”

  She looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and concern. She had met more than her share of elderly people, and more than her share of sick elderly people, but Jonathan surpassed them all. He looked like he could pass any day now.

  She noted that the most prominent thing on his desk was a sizable red button. She also noted that behind him was a small altar with an assortment of miniature statues, skeletons in tuxedoes, beautiful half-naked women, and a portrait of the Virgin Mary.

  With a congenial smile, she took a seat. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Russell.” Rodger also took a seat.

  Reggie approached the desk. “Is there anything else I can gets you, Master Russell?”

  Jonathon waved him off. “No, Reggie. Thank you. That will be all. Please leave me with the detectives.”

  Reggie bowed politely before heading out, leaving the three of them alone.

  “You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t shake hands. The cancer that is eating me alive makes simple movements very painful. If not for Reggie, I don’t know what I’d do,” said Jonathon, taking a few moments to breathe from his mask, which made him look even more dead.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Rodger, shifting some in his seat. “Reggie seems to enjoy working for you.”

  Dixie recognized the tactic of getting personable with someone they were about to interview, as it was a tactic she had used successfully many times before.

  ”Reggie is a good man. I felt bad when Gladys Castille fired him. He’s not a very useful servant, but he’s loyal and he looks after me. And at my age, I really appreciate loyalty, Detectives.”

  She looked him over, noting an ornate ring with a crest on it—a red cross with a golden crown. Sorting that design away for later, she said, “If you don’t mind me asking, Mr. Russell, where is the rest of your staff? I only saw Reggie here, and there’s no way just one elderly man can care for this entire estate.”

  He chortled. “My dear Detective, I don’t have anyone else on staff. I contract out a maid service and a gardening service to care for my home. I have my meals catered to me every day.” He took a deep breath from his mask and then he coughed a few times. “I don’t generally like people. Not anymore.”

  “And I’m sure it’s more cost effective,” Dixie said politely, trying to keep the conversation going. “Much more so than having a full-time staff.”

  Giving a short, loud snort, Jonathan said, “I don’t have any heirs or any family left, Detective. When I die, whatever I have left goes to Reggie. Why should I care how much of the Russell estate I squander?”

  Dixie shook her head. Wow. What a jaded old grouch. But she figured she probably would be, too, if she were dying a slow, painful death.

  “But enough talk of my short remaining lifespan,” he said, leaning forward in his chair. “Your commander told me that you have something very important to talk to me about. And Louis wouldn’t bother me if it wasn’t important. So then, what is it, Detectives?”

  Dixie blinked, surprised that he was on a first-name basis with her commander.

  Rodger pulled a folded-up piece of paper out of his overcoat. “I made this at the library last night. It’s a copy of a newspaper clipping of you, Vincent and Gladys Castille, and someone named Gerald Robichaux. It mentions a ‘Modern Priory.’ Do you remember that?” He passed the paper over to Jonathon.

  Jonathon slid his bony fingers over the image. He smiled in a way that looked more bitter than reminiscent. “Ah, yes. Our donation to Southern Baptist Hospital. I remember that. Vincent was so happy the Priory was supporting modernized medicine.” Pushing the paper back toward Rodger, he said, “But this isn’t about a trip down memory lane, is it, Detective?”

  Rodger shook his head. “No. I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Russell, we’re at a dead end with an important lead in our investigation of the new Bourbon Street Ripper.”

  “Oh? What lead is that, Detective?”

  Rodger leaned forward on one elbow. “We keep coming across something called the Nite Priory. What is it?”

  To their surprise, Jonathon laughed, so hard in fact that he started wheezing and hacking, his eyes bulging in considerable pain and his face turning red.

  Quickly, Dixie got up and helped Jonathon get his oxygen mask back on.

  As he breathed deeply and calmed down, she noticed dozens upon dozens of buttons behind the desk. What the—? What are those for? She wondered if they controlled parts of the house, like the door that had just opened. She anxiously eyed the large red button, remembering Reggie’s statement about feeling bad for a burglar. She had a feeling it was not a nice button.

  Once she was sure he was breathing normally again, she went back to her chair. He and this house were starting to creep her out. She just wanted the interview to be over.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Russell?” asked Rodger, concerned.

  “Yes, yes. I apologize for that,” said Jonathon. “But this is my own penance for my own sins. The good Lord saw fit to strike me down with an aggressive form of cancer that will, to be blunt, end my life in excruciating pain.”

  Dixie was about to offer more condolences when he said, “But you want to know about the Priory. Instead of telling you about it, I’ll show you.” With a trembling hand, he pressed a button under his desk.

  There was a click, then a motorized sound, and then the wall panel beside Rodger slid open. Both detectives watched as a small bookcase, framed in black velvet, rolled forward. In it were what looked like old, leather-bound tomes and dozens of rolled-up parchments. It looked like something from a monastery.

  “The dark red book on the top, Detective,” said Jonathon, pointing with a skeletal finger. “Can you read Creole?”

  “A little,” said Rodger, taking the book. It was as dark as blood. The cover had an embossing of the same design as Jonathon’s ring—a cross with a crown.

  Dixie took note of this. Perhaps that was their emblem, a family crest.

  Jonathon gestured toward the book with a shaky hand. “The page you want is where the black ribbon rests, Detective.”

  Dixie traded glances with Rodger, the anxiousness on his face matching her own. The interview had officially become creepy.

  When Rodger opened the book to where the black ribbon was marked, Dixie saw an intricate drawing of what looked like a group of men in black hooded robes. They were all holding chalices up toward a heart pierced by a sword and wrapped in thorns.

  Rodger read slowly. “The Knight Priory of Saint Madonna.” He looked over at her. “Knight spelled like, um, a knight. You know, armor and swords. Not the way we’ve seen it spelled.”

  She looked at the picture more closely. Something wasn’t right, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

  “The Knight Priory of Saint Madonna,” said Jonathon, leaning back in his chair. “Formation dates back to the founding of New Orleans.

  “Originally, the Knight Priory was a group of French nobles who believed in the purity of blood a
s a right to rule. They believed that as some of the first founders of the Port of New Orleans, that rule was their right. Over the course of this city’s history, the Knight Priory gained complete control over the trade routes, businesses, and even its construction.”

  She suddenly realized what was off-putting about the image of the hooded men. “Mr. Russell,” she said, pointing at the image, “the eyes of each of these men are hollow, lifeless. Like they’re all dead.”

  Jonathon nodded. “Yes. Indeed, Detective. Very observant. You see, the Knight Priory, for all its roots in Christianity and pledges to the Virgin Mary, put considerable stock in Haitian voodoo. While homage was always given to the mother of Christ, the real deities worshipped were Papa Ghede, Madame Brigitte, and Baron Samedi, the three chief loa.”

  “Loa?” asked Dixie.

  “Spirits,” said Rodger, his lips tightening. “Sam called it correctly. There is a voodoo cult involved here.”

  Jonathan snorted sarcastically. “Well, if this ‘Sam’ you are referring to is Samantha Castille, I’m not surprised that she would think that. You see…” He leaned forward and stared at them. “Samantha is the reason the Knight Priory of Saint Madonna isn’t the same organization it used to be.”

  Dixie blinked, feeling quite lost.

  “Please, tell me what happened with Sam,” Rodger said, finally sitting down again.

  Jonathon again leaned back and took a long series of inhales from his mask. Then he started speaking.

  “The Knight Priory was always run by the Castille family. Vincent, his father, his father’s father, and so on. While their public face changed over the centuries to include groups such as the Mardi Gras Krewe of Comus, behind closed doors, the Knight Priory basically remained a secret order that ran New Orleans. And they—we, I should say—routinely practiced voodoo rituals.”

  “Voodoo rituals? Like what?” asked Dixie. In the back of her mind, she was trying to understand how this Knight Priory related to the Nite Priory referenced by the copycat killer. She wasn’t completely sure it was the same thing.