Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) (19 page)

“Did you tell the police?”

“Yes, but they don’t believe me!”

“Did you tell anybody else you won?”

“No.” His eyes lit up. “Wait! I talked to that bartender in Iowa. Maybe he’d remember.”

“You told him you hit the lottery?”

“Not exactly. But we were talking about it.” He shrugged. “You see? It’s hopeless.”

“What about the store where you bought the ticket? Wouldn’t they remember you?”

“But I can’t prove the winning ticket was mine. I didn’t sign it, Vicky did. And now she’s dead.” His face contorted in anguish. “You’ve no idea how awful it was.”

“Where’d you get the ring?” Gina said. “Can you prove you bought it?”

“I gave the receipt to the bloody detective, but if they check my credit, they’ll find out—” He heaved a sigh. “I couldn’t bear to tell Vicky’s parents the ticket was mine. I’d give all the money in the world—every penny!—if it would bring Vicky back.” He looked at her, his expression desolate. “It’s my fault Vicky’s dead.”

“Nigel, you can’t blame yourself. You didn’t kill Vicky, but
somebody
did and we have to find out who.”

“That’s up to the coppers, isn’t it?” He drained the last of his Dewar’s. “You’ve been very kind, but it’s late and I don’t want to impose. I’d best get back to my hotel. Can I get a cab ’round here?”

“I can drive you.”

“No. The paparazzi will be waiting. I don’t want to put you through that. Be a dear and call me a cab. “

____

After Nigel left, she poured more scotch in her glass. Nigel was in denial, unable or unwilling to admit he had a problem. He didn’t even have a lawyer. Forget the Pops job. They’d never hire him now.

Forget her gambling series, too. Vicky’s murder was the big story.

Still, she had just befriended Vicky’s lover. People were saying that Nigel murdered Vicky for the money. But they hadn’t talked to him. They hadn’t seen the anguish in his eyes or his desolate expression.

Yesterday Franco had told her the lead detective, Gerry Mulligan, was convinced Nigel killed Vicky, but he’d warned her not to talk about it, saying that wasn’t for publication. But that was yesterday. Maybe he’d know more now. She got on her cell phone and called him.

“Hey, whaddaya know?” he said in his deep resonant voice.

“Not half as much as you,” she said, smiling into the phone.

“I saw you talking to Nigel at the funeral home.”

“You were there? I didn’t see you.”

“What did he say?”

“Hmm. How about a quid pro quo. Whaddaya got for me?”

A soft chuckle. “You come to my motel, I’ll show you what I got.”

“Oooh, tempting. Gimme fifteen and I’m there.”

“Wait. I need to give you directions.”

“I know where it is. I was there last week, remember?”

“Yeah, but that was the Dorchester Ritz. Too expensive. Now I’m at the Dorchester Palace. Take the Neponset Ave exit off the Expressway. Two blocks up on Gallivan Boulevard on the left.”

“Does it have a red roof?”

“Hey, you been following me?”

Gina laughed. “Yeah, I’m getting to be quite a detective.”

“When you get there, detect your way around back to Room 44.”

“And then?” she said.

“Better get here quick. I’m pouring you a glass of the Dorchester Palace’s finest wine.”

She waited for the punch line.

Franco didn’t disappoint. “Carlo Rossi Chianti.”

____

Frank heard a tap on the door and looked out the peephole. Gina, looking sexy as hell, even in a black outfit. He opened the door, pulled her inside and kissed her, a long lingering kiss to make up for the fact that he hadn’t seen her in a week.

When they came up for air, Gina looked around and said, “Charming decor. Like the Red Roof Inn.”

He gestured at two easy chairs he’d pulled up to a low table in the corner. “Your wine is poured, madam. The Dorchester Palace only puts plastic cups in the rooms, so I went out and bought real glasses.”

“What a guy,” she said, laughing.

“Want ice? There’s some in the cooler in the bathroom.”

“No, this is fine.” She took off her jacket and sat on one of the chairs.

One look at her curvy figure, he wanted to grab her and take her to bed. He restrained himself and said, “How’d you get into the funeral home? The family didn’t want any reporters at the wake.”

She grinned. “The ace reporter always finds a way.”

He took the other easy chair and raised his wineglass. “Congratulations. What did he say?”

“Not much at the funeral parlor, but I squirreled him out the back and took him to the beach house.”

He stared at her, appalled. “Jesus! Are you crazy? He’s a murder suspect!”

“Franco, he didn’t kill Vicky.”

“How do you know? Not a good idea, Gina. The guy keeps changing his story. Gerry figures they argued about the money, Nigel went into a rage and killed her.”

“But he’s devastated about Vicky. He told me he bought the winning ticket, but he asked Vicky to claim the prize. They were going to split the money and get married. What makes you so sure he killed Vicky? What about the Jackpot Killer?”

He gave her a stern look. “You didn’t tell Nigel about the Jackpot Killer, did you?”

“Of course not. I never talk about stuff you tell me until you say it’s okay.”

“Good. Because it’s not okay. This is a high-profile case. Gerry wants to close it fast and take the credit. If the Jackpot Killer story hits the headlines, Gerry will go ballistic.”

He sipped his wine recalling what he’d told Gerry:
This might be related to a case I’m working.
Another lie that might come back to haunt him.

He glanced at the double bed. It looked inviting and so did Gina, sexy as hell in her V-neck black jersey. But he wanted to know what Nigel said.

“What else did Nigel tell you?”

“He talked to a bartender when he was in Iowa. He didn’t tell him he hit the lottery, just hinted at it. He said the bartender told him a friend of his hit the lottery and his ex-wife got most of the money.”

“Did he tell you he owes his ex-wife a lot of back alimony?”

“He didn’t mention that. But if you talked to him, Franco, you’d believe him. I could set up a meet, just the three of us, at my beach house. Then you’d get a better idea of who he is. You can’t do that in an interview room at a police station.”

“Gina, you know I can’t do that. One, it’s not ethical. Two, Nigel knows I’m a detective. Not to mention the fact that I can’t afford to be seen there.”

Gina’s mouth quirked. He knew that look. She was pissed but trying not to show it.

“What about your wife?” she said. “Have you talked to her?”

“No.”

“Have you talked to her lawyer?”

“No.” He didn’t want to discuss it. “What’s up with Ryan? You still thinking about moving out?”

Gina gazed at him, somber-eyed. “It was a long weekend. Let’s leave it at that. If I move out, Ryan will shut me off like a faucet. That’s why I pitched the gambling series to my boss. I figured it would get me a raise, but now my big winner is dead and so is my gambling series. Vicky’s murder is the hot story now, so I figured I’d write a big feature article about it. But to do that I need an exclusive interview with Nigel.”

“Gina, I don’t want you spending time alone with Nigel. Maybe he killed Vicky and maybe he didn’t, but right now he’s a murder suspect.”

She set her wineglass on the table and stood. “I better go. It’s late.”

He rose to his feet and adopted his grim-faced policeman look. “Ms. Bevilaqua, I can’t possibly allow you to get in your car and drive. You just consumed a fair amount of wine.”

She looked at him, half-smiling. “Is that right, Mr. Police Detective?”

“Yes. I would be delinquent in my duty if I allowed you to get behind the wheel. There’s only one solution. You’ll have to sleep here tonight.”

Gina grinned at him. “Well, since you put it that way . . .”

Thursday, May 18 — 4:15 p.m.

“All the other victims were killed on weekdays,” Ross Dunn said, “but the Poughkeepsie woman was murdered on a Sunday.”

Holding the phone in his left hand, Frank jotted notes on the legal pad on his desk. Ten minutes ago his FBI liaison had called to tell him he’d found another Jackpot Killer victim. “Maybe he lives with someone, needs an excuse to be out of the house on the weekend.”

“That’s what I figure,” Ross said. “His wife or a girlfriend or his parents, for all we know. Poughkeepsie isn’t exactly a hotbed of activity, but Vassar hosted a conference that weekend, a two-day workshop sponsored by the Northeast Chapter of the American Library Association. A lot of women go to Vassar, so the focus was on books related to women in popular culture.”

Recalling Vicky’s massive head injuries, Frank said, “You think our killer’s a librarian?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. The workshop was open to anyone who paid the entry fee. I got a list of the registrants, a lot of Vassar students, sixty ALA members and seven others.”

“That’s a lot of suspects.”

“Yes, but I eliminated the Vassar students and the female attendees. That left nineteen male librarians and three miscellaneous males.”

“Still,” he said. “Twenty-two suspects? Can you eliminate any of them geographically? All the other victims lived in New England.”

“I already did, narrowed it down to ten males between the ages of twenty-five and forty-five. I doubt that our killer has hit forty, but I erred on the side of caution. Four live in New York City. Two live in Jersey, one in Newark, the other in Hoboken.” Ross paused. “His name is Sinatra.”

“Well, I guess it isn’t Nancy
, whose boots were made for walkin’.”

Ross chuckled. “No, and it isn’t Frank either. His boots are no longer walking anywhere. There’s also a guy in Philly, not a librarian, one of the miscellaneous signups.”

“Philly’s quite a hike from New England. I don’t picture this guy hopping on a plane, seems like he drives to the victim’s homes.”

“I agree,” Ross said, “but this guy’s a registered sex offender, Level Two. I don’t want to eliminate him without giving him a once-over. Tell me about the Chatham location. There’s an airport in Hyannis, right?”

“Yes, but not many flights go there, and he’d have to rent a car.” He heard Ross yawn on the other end. “You losing sleep over this, Ross?”

Ross laughed. “No, but I’m wiped out today. Had a birthday party for my twin boys this weekend.”

“How old are they?” Envying him. He still hadn’t talked to Maureen.

“Thirteen. Scary. In a couple of years they’ll be driving. We had a good time, though. My wife’s parents flew in and stayed with us.” Ross chuckled. “Her father can drink me under the table, kept asking me to mix up another pitcher of Manhattans.”

Frank smiled, recalling how they’d met. The night after classes ended at Quantico, he’d run into FBI Agent Ross Dunn at the airport bar. In his late thirties, Ross was married with twin sons, and he was wild about basketball. They discussed the current woes of the Boston Celtics and the Washington Wizards. Inevitably, the discussion turned to law enforcement. Frank said he worked a fair number of Boston gang hits, and Rafe, the center on the D-4 basketball team, was on a gang taskforce. At that point Ross had asked for his card, saying he liked to keep in contact with cops who had special expertise.

“Here’s the deal,” Ross said. “I’ll check the suspects in New York, New Jersey and Philly. Can you do the other three? One lives in Connecticut. Two live in Massachusetts, but one lives near the guy in Connecticut. You could do them together, with an overnight. The other one lives on Cape Cod.”

“Where? It’s been a month since the Chatham victim and the State cops have no leads.”

“He lives in Sandwich. What’s your take on the Boston case? I’m seeing a lot of chatter about this British conductor. Twelve million bucks? Plenty of people would kill for less. You think he did it?”

“I’m not sure. If it was the Jackpot Killer, there were significant differences. The victim was young, thirty-three. No J&B nip, no plastic bag. Someone beat her to death.”

“If the Jackpot Killer did it and sees the hype about the conductor—”

“He’ll do another one soon.” Frank checked his watch. “Let me go talk to my boss. I need to get travel clearance so I can check your three suspects.”

“Great. I’ll email you their names, addresses and DL photos. Tomorrow I’ll do the guy in Philly, fly to New York, check out those four suspects, then head to Jersey and talk to Mr. Sinatra. First name, Anthony.”

“Okay, Ross. I’ll call you when I get the travel clearance.” He rang off and massaged his eyes, thinking about his meeting with Vicky’s father at the wake last night. A brutal conversation that remained vivid in his mind.

Constantine Stavropoulos had pointed to his necktie: tiny clarinets in diagonal rows on a bright red background. “Victoria gave this to me. She was so thoughtful. She knew how proud I was of her talent. But when I ask the police who could do this to my Victoria, they give me no answers. They just ask about boyfriends. The only boyfriend Victoria ever mentioned was the one at Oberlin. And he wasn’t even a musician.”

“What about your wife? Sometimes girls talk to their mothers about things like that.”

“I doubt it. Janet is closer to my older daughter. Don’t misunderstand, Detective Renzi. I love Ophelia very much. She has given me two beautiful grandsons, but Victoria was like the son I never had. Now I must take her home for the services and the burial.” His bushy black eyebrows came together in a frown. “When I leave, the police will forget about her.”

Frank didn't blame him for being angry.
What if it had been Maureen?

“When did Vicky tell you she’d won the lottery?” he asked.

“She didn’t. I don’t understand why she would keep this from me. I would have been thrilled.”

“Did Vicky have a will?”

Struggling to compose himself, Stavropoulos removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “My friend Demetrius owns an insurance business. Three years ago he told me about a family whose son died in a car accident. The boy was twenty and had no will. No one wants to think about their child dying, Demetrius said, but Victoria lives in a big city with a high crime rate. The next time she came home to visit, I took her to my lawyer and she made out a will.”

“Mr. Stavropoulos, I’m not going to forget your daughter. I’m going to find her killer, I promise.” Whereupon Stavropoulos, his face working with emotion, had gripped his hand and thanked him profusely.

Frank tapped his pen on the legal pad. Maybe Nigel did buy the winning ticket. Maybe he asked Vicky not to tell anyone until she claimed the prize. But her father didn't care about theories. He wanted justice. Vicky hadn’t told him she’d won the lottery, hadn’t told him about Nigel Heath, either.

But she had a will. Had she made any changes recently?

There were plenty of lawyers in Boston. What if she’d used one to make Nigel Heath her beneficiary? Another unanswered question.

But one thing was certain. He’d promised Constantine Stavropoulos that he wouldn’t forget Vicky and he’d meant it. No matter who killed her—Nigel Heath, the Jackpot Killer, or someone else—he was going to nail the bastard.

He rose from his desk and headed for Hank Flynn’s office.

____

The first words out of Hank’s mouth were, “How are you getting along with Gerry?”

“As well as can be expected,” Frank said, taking the chair beside Hank’s desk. “But I don’t know how long I’ll be able to fluff him off about the Jackpot Killer.”

Hank tapped his pen on the desk. “What’s your take on the Stavropoulos murder?”

“Gerry’s convinced the conductor did it. I’m not, but the MO’s different from the other Jackpot cases. She was young. Maybe it didn’t go the way he planned, he got pissed and hit her with something.”

“Damn shame.” Hank shook his head. “She wasn’t much older than my daughters. What’s your take on Nigel Heath? You think they were lovers?”

“According to Nigel they were. He says he bought the winning ticket and asked her to claim the prize.”

“Why would he do that?”

“That’s what Gerry asked him. Nigel said he was afraid his ex-wife would take him to court and get all the money. She’s an actress, lives in Hollywood.”

Sidetracked by the words “ex-wife” and “take him to court,” Frank thought: What would Hank say when he found out Evelyn was divorcing him? Pushing the thought aside, he said, “Nigel also said he was afraid the publicity would hurt his career.”

“Sounds fishy to me. He’s a Hollywood hotshot, guest conducts the Boston Pops, wants to do it on a permanent basis. Most musicians bend over backwards to grab the spotlight. How would it hurt his career?”

“Beats me. He claims he made Vicky sign the ticket. They were going to split the money.”

Hank shook his head, half-smiling. “Well, if that’s what really happened, I bet he’s sorry now.”

“Right. Unless Vicky changed the beneficiary of her will.”

Hank’s eyes widened. “If she did and made Nigel the beneficiary, he looks guilty as hell. Are you sure she had a will?”

“Yes. I talked to her father at the wake.”

“Must have been tough.”

“Brutal. He said he had his lawyer draw up a will three years ago, and Vicky signed it. I didn’t ask who the beneficiaries were, but I’m pretty sure Nigel Heath wasn’t one of them.”

“I’d be surprised if she changed her will,” Hank said. “Given all the publicity, her lawyer would have contacted the family by now. But if Nigel Heath didn’t kill her, we’ve got another Jackpot Killer murder.”

“Speaking of which, I just got off the phone with Ross Dunn. He found another victim back in 1998. Poughkeepsie, New York. Long story short, he’s got ten suspects, asked me to check three of them. One lives in Connecticut, two live in Massachusetts. Dig this, one of them lives in Sandwich.”

Hank let out a low whistle. “A hop skip and a jump from Chatham.”

“True, but a long haul from Poughkeepsie. Ross wants me to check out the others first. One lives in Chicopee, not far from the Connecticut suspect. I could do them in two days, stay over one night.”

“No problem. I’ll authorize the travel. We need to catch this guy. If he murdered Vicky three weeks after the Chatham kill, he’s escalating.”

“And Vicky’s murder was more violent than the one in Chatham, looked like a rage kill. If he sees the hype about Nigel being the prime suspect, he’ll do another one soon.” He felt his cell vibrate against his leg, took it out and saw a familiar number. “Hank, I gotta take this. I’ll call you if I get any new information.”

He left Hank's office, punched on and said, “Hey, whaddaya know?”

“Things are getting crazy,” Gina said.

He passed two detectives walking along the hall, tossed them a wave and kept walking. “Whose life are we talking about, yours or mine?”

Gina chuckled. “Mine, yours and Nigel Heath’s. He called me at home last night.”

Frank went in his office, shut the door and sat at his desk, unable to decide if he was pissed or worried. Nigel Heath. Killer or not? Making a play for Gina, or not? “Why is Nigel Heath calling you?”

“He’s got no one else to call. He’s emotionally distraught. The woman he loved is dead and everyone thinks he killed her. He said you and Gerry Mulligan raked him over the coals again.”

“So? He’s a murder suspect.”

“But I’m positive he didn’t kill Vicky. Can’t you talk to him? Not at the police station, somewhere else. No one will know. Please? Humor me, okay?”

A tempting idea. Get the man in a neutral setting, see what he had to say.

“I’ll think about it, but it won’t happen anytime soon. My FBI agent contact needs me to check out some Jackpot Killer suspects. I won’t be back until Wednesday night.” He checked his calendar. Thursday night he and Rafe were taking Jamal to a Celtics game. “I’m tied up Thursday, too, any kind of luck I might have drinks and dinner with my favorite woman on Friday.”

Gina chuckled. “Anyone I know?”

“Yeah, Gina Lollobrigida.”

“Ha! So can I set up a meeting with you and me and Nigel?”

Amused, he said, “You drive a hard bargain.”

“How’s this for a bargain? I’ll pick up a pepperoni and cheese pizza to go with the Carlo Rossi Chianti in your room, deliver it to the Dorchester Palace tonight around seven. I’ll help you pack for your trip.”

He started laughing. “Sounds good to me. Be careful, I might tuck you into my suitcase.”