Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) (26 page)

Frank visualized the machine on the table beside Vicky’s loveseat. When Nigel called, maybe the Jackpot Killer was there, heard the message, realized someone was coming and panicked. Forget the plastic bag and the J&B nip. The killer beat her to death and split. But why take the message tape?

“Tell me about the ring. Was Vicky wearing it when you found her?”

Nigel heaved a sigh. “I asked her not to wear it until after she claimed the prize. Then we were going to announce our engagement. But she knew I was coming that day. Maybe she was wearing it. I can’t remember.”

“Did you see anyone else when you got there? In the hall, on the stairs, outside the building?”

“Not that I recall, no.”

“Think carefully. It’s important.”

Nigel snubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Not a bloody soul.”

“When you walked to Vicky’s apartment from the store, did any cars or vans drive by you?”

“Not that I recall, but I might not have noticed. I couldn’t wait to see Vicky.” His face crumpled in despair. “If only I’d gotten there sooner.”

“Did Vicky have cable?”

“I believe so, yes.” Nigel frowned. “You know, there was one thing. I didn’t mention it before, but . . .”

“What?” Frank said, hunching forward in his chair.

“I was so distraught about Vicky.” He looked at Gina. “It was horrible. I went to lift her head and she was bleeding and the blood got on my hands.”

“Nigel,” Frank said sharply. “What were you going to tell me?”

“After I washed my hands, I heard this hissing sound. That’s when I noticed that the telly was on. But there was no picture, just wavy lines and the static. So I shut it off.”

Frank stared at him, incredulous. Jesus, the smoking gun. Vicky had cable and her TV was screwed up, just like the Rhode Island lottery winner’s.

“What?” Gina said, picking up on his intent expression. “Is that important?”

“It might be. Nigel, I need to make absolutely sure. Vicky’s television was on when you got there?”

“Yes, but I didn’t notice it, you see—”

“I understand. You were too concerned about Vicky. But after you called 9-1-1, you noticed the television was screwed up and you shut it off.”

“After I washed my hands, yes. The hissing noise was driving me mad.”

Frank nodded. The jigsaw puzzle was coming together. “Okay, I think that’s enough for tonight.”

“If it proves that Nigel’s innocent,” Gina said, “shouldn’t you talk to his lawyer?”

“No.” He gave Nigel a stern look. “Don’t tell your lawyer I talked to you. I need to check some things.”

Nigel eyed him anxiously. “D’you think they’ll arrest me?”

Gina rose from her chair, went to Nigel and grasped his hands. “You have to think positive, Nigel. I’m sure things will work out.”

“Thank you, Gina, you’re such a dear.” Nigel raised her hand to his lips and brushed it with a kiss.

A courtly gesture, Frank thought, nothing erotic about it.

Still, it annoyed him.

“Gina, we’d better go. It’s late.” When they got back to his motel, he had to tell Gina about the divorce papers. Another worry. He had no idea how she would react.

“Quite right,” Nigel said and gave him a wan smile. “Thank you for coming, Detective Renzi.”

____

Desperate for fresh air after Nigel’s smoke-filled room, Frank lowered the car windows. After talking to Nigel, he was almost certain the Jackpot Killer murdered Vicky, but how would he prove it? If Vicky was wearing the ring, maybe the killer took it. But why take the incoming-message tape?

When they entered his motel room, Frank opened the window, still craving fresh air. A cool breeze billowed the filmy inner curtain, bringing now-familiar sounds: a car door slamming, a truck rattling past the motel, a distant siren on the Expressway.

Gina poured two glasses of Chianti and sat on the lone easy chair. “What do you think, Franco? Are they going to arrest Nigel for Vicky’s murder?”

“Why are you so desperate to rescue Nigel?”

She combed locks of hair behind her ears and stared into space. “You never met Vicky, but I did. We talked after she claimed the prize, but I didn’t think to warn her about the Jackpot Killer. Now the police think Nigel killed her. Tuesday night I talked to Nigel at his hotel, at the rooftop bar.” She gulped some wine. “Nigel told me his mother committed suicide when he was eighteen. He was away at a piano competition and he felt terribly guilty, like he should have been there for her.”

Frank didn’t see the relevance, but waited, letting her play it out.

Abruptly, she got up and paced the room. When she came back and sat down, the skin around her eyes was tight. “Ryan and I had a huge fight last Sunday. I’ve been sleeping at the beach house. Wednesday night when I went home to get some clothes, Ryan called.”

“What happened?” Judging by the look on her face, it had to be bad.

“Ryan wanted me to go away for a romantic weekend. While we were talking on the landline, Nigel called my cell. Ryan overheard me talking to him.” Her lips tightened. “Ryan thinks I’m sleeping with Nigel, but I’m not.”

Wait long enough, they always came out with the vital details. But he could tell she wasn’t done. His always-effervescent lover looked like she was ready to cry. He took her hand, led her to the bed, sat her down and put his arms around her. “Talk to me,” he said.

In a low voice, she said, “When Ryan and I started having these horrible fights, I thought it was my fault.” She looked at him, her dark eyes enormous. “Because I was having an affair.”

“Hey, don’t beat up on yourself.” Now he knew why she identified with Nigel. Guilt, the great common denominator. He felt guilty, too. His wife was divorcing him and his daughter wouldn’t talk to him. “What are we supposed to do? Slog through life in an unhappy marriage until one of us dies?”

Gina’s eyes glinted with tears. “I told Ryan I wasn’t going anywhere with him this weekend. I can’t stand to be around him anymore.”

Maybe now wasn’t the time to tell her about the divorce papers. Time to lighten up. “Was your father a writer?”

Gina looked at him, puzzled. “No. He worked for a construction company, operating one of those big cranes. Why?”

He shrugged. “You’re a writer. I thought maybe it ran in the family.”

“Yeah? Was your father a cop?”

“No. But my mother was an FBI agent.”

“Get out. She was not!”

He grinned. “Right, but she was tough enough to be one.”

It got a smile out of her, a smile that quickly faded. “Franco, I’m really worried about Nigel. You saw how despondent he was tonight.”

Frank gave her a stern look. “I think the Jackpot Killer murdered Vicky, but you can’t tell Nigel, or anyone else. I don’t want it splashed over any front pages. This killer watches the news.”

“How soon do you think you’ll catch him?”

“I’m not sure. My FBI agent liaison has a prime suspect, too, a Newark librarian, plus three more suspects to investigate. I eliminated two of my three, but I like the last guy a lot. He lives on Cape Cod.”

“Why don’t you arrest him?”

“Way too soon to do that. Judges used to hand out search warrants like lollipops, but not these days. This guy fits the profile, but all I’ve got is hunches. He works for a cable company.”

Gina’s eyes lit up and she smiled. “So that’s why you got excited when Nigel said Vicky’s TV was messed up.”

“That’s one reason. My suspect lives with his mother. I want to interview her while he’s at work, but Monday’s Memorial Day, and Tuesday I’ve got to testify in court. And this afternoon I got a nasty surprise. A Sheriff’s Deputy served me with divorce papers.”

“Damn.” Gina put her arm around him. “I’m sorry, Franco.”

“Yeah. I need to find a good divorce lawyer. Evelyn’s lawyer’s being a bitch.” He barked a curt laugh. “The grounds are adultery, which any lawyer in the state of Massachusetts will tell you is almost impossible to prove. You can’t just allege that the spouse had sex with someone, you have to prove it.”

“Prove it? How?”

“Pictures.” He grinned at her. “Aren’t you glad we never took any during our wild sex orgies?”

But she didn’t crack a smile. “I still can’t believe this happened because that woman saw us.”

“Well, it did, but I’m not going to let it ruin our relationship.”

“Don’t worry, it won’t. But if Ryan hears about it . . .”

“Why? Did he threaten you?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “Did he hit you? Is that why you’re sleeping at the beach house?”

“Ryan’s got a temper, that’s for sure. He wants me to quit my job and have a baby.” She heaved a sigh. “He doesn’t know I’m taking birth control pills, but if he finds out . . .”

“How would he find out? Stop worrying. You got too many things messing up your mind.”

She hugged him. “You know what? You’re right. When are you going to talk to your suspect’s mother?”

“Wednesday. I want to get into the house and take a look around. To get a search warrant I need specifics.”

“Like what?”

“Some serial killers take trophies. I think he took Vicky’s ring.”

“That would explain why it’s missing! Franco, you have to arrest him. Then Gerry Mulligan will stop thinking that Nigel killed Vicky.”

Amused by her enthusiasm, he said, “I’d love to arrest him, but it’s not that simple.”

“Where does he live, this guy you’re so hot on?”

“Sandwich.”

“Nice town. I’ve been there a few times. What’s his name?”

“Why?”

“Just curious. Don’t worry, I won’t blab about it.” Her lips twitched in a smile. “Come on, Franco, tell me his name. Maybe he’s my long-lost cousin or something.”

“I doubt it. Not with a name like William Karapitulik.”

Sunday, May 28

A sharp rap sounded on his office door. Gerry Mulligan checked his watch. 10:25. Fifteen minutes ago, he’d called a local reporter and said he had a scoop for him. It killed him to do it, but he needed a friendly reporter.

“Come in,” he yelled.

The door opened and Peter Starr burst into his office. A little runt with a Hollywood-handsome face, Starr had been around for years. Gerry knew for a fact the mop of hair on his head was a toupee. His name was probably fake, too. Starr wasn’t too bright, but he had a million sources and was often the first television reporter on the scene of a major crime.

“What’s up?” Starr said eagerly, taking a seat in the visitor chair. “You get a break in the Megabucks winner murder?”

“What I got is this.” Gerry picked up the tabloid on his desk and thrust it at Starr. “One of your rivals rousts me out of bed this morning and asks for a comment. Which is why I’m in my office on a Sunday, Memorial Day weekend no less, instead of playing with my grandson at the beach.”

Eyes narrowed, Gerry watched Starr scan the front page of the
Inquirer
. Even upside-down, he could read the headline:
Serial Killer Targets Lottery Winners
. Starr flipped pages, found the story, and began to read. Gerry knew what it said because the fucking reporter had quoted it to him.

Is a serial killer targeting lottery winners? That’s what some law enforcement officials believe, following last week’s murder of a Nashua, NH, lotto winner. Sources close to the investigation say four other lottery winners in New England have recently been murdered, and they believe the same person is responsible.

Starr looked up and said, “You think this is credible?”

“Who gives a fuck? The Police Commissioner’s already got lottery officials crawling up his ass. Every media outlet in the country’s gonna jump on this.” He took out a Camel and lighted it.

“I thought smoking was prohibited in police stations,” Starr said.

“Only if you get caught.” Gerry fixed him with an icy stare. “Thanks to this cockamamie serial killer hogwash I gotta do a press conference tomorrow, so you better feed me the right questions.”

“Okay, but what do I get in return?”

His desk phone rang. Gerry grimaced, and let it ring.

“What about Vicky Stavropoulos?” Starr said. “You think a serial killer did it?”

“No, I don’t,” he snapped. “But how come Detective Frank Renzi shows up at the crime scene? It’s not his territory. He works District 4. He got his boss to call and ask me to let him sit in on the Nigel Heath interviews. So I extend him this courtesy, which I was not obligated to do. But does Renzi tell me he’s working another lottery winner murder? No. Now I find out there’s four of them. Maybe more.”

His phone stopped ringing. “Fuckin’ vultures,” he muttered.

“You still think Nigel Heath killed Vicky Stavropoulos?”

“Damn right, I do.” He snatched the tabloid and ran his finger down the article. “They found a yellow plastic bag and a nip bottle of J&B planted on some of the victims. Most of them were asphyxiated, with the plastic bag, allegedly.” He dropped the tabloid on his desk. “Our case is different. Crime of passion, pure and simple. The Pops conductor beat her to death.”

“But what about this serial-killer theory? You have to admit it’s intriguing.”

“For you, maybe, not for me.” Gerry ticked off points on his fingers. “Nigel Heath’s prints were all over her apartment. We found some of his clothes in her bedroom closet, and we got phone records of him calling her from all over hell and gone. Not only that, he admitted he got blood on his hands. Our crime scene techs took blood samples from her kitchen drain.”

“Did they match them to Nigel Heath?”

Gerry flinched as a sharp pain stabbed his gut. “We need to get a DNA sample, but his lawyer won’t allow it. Merrill Carr. Christ, that guy never met a TV camera he didn’t like. He’s worse than F. Lee Bailey. But we’ll get it, one way or the other.” He smiled tightly. “And now we’ve got a new witness.”

“Great!” Starr exclaimed, scribbling furiously in his notepad. “Who?”

Barely able to hide his disgust, Gerry watched him. He could read the little squirt’s mind. Starr figured the District A4 Chief of Detectives was under the gun. Starr figured if he asked the right questions at the press conference, Gerry Mulligan would owe him big time. The little shit.

“Who’s the new witness?” Starr said again.

“Henry Polanski, financial planner.” He puffed his Camel and blew smoke. “Took his own sweet time contacting us, but I guess his conscience got to him. He called me yesterday, said Nigel Heath had an appointment to see him the day of the murder, but he never showed up. Polanski was supposed to draw up a pre-nup for Nigel and his bride-to-be. Victoria Stavropoulos, winner of twelve million bucks.”

“He was setting her up!” Starr exclaimed. “He wanted the money.”

“You bet your ass. Motivation with a capital M. He asked her to do a pre-nup, she balked so he killed her.” He skewered Starr with a look. “I don’t give a shit if the feds think some weirdo is killing lottery winners. Nigel Heath murdered Victoria Stavropoulos and I’m gonna nail his ass for it.”

____

Sandwich

The cop was watching him. A half hour ago the police officer had followed them into the Seaside Diner, sat at the counter and ordered coffee. Between listening to his mother’s idiotic comments and checking on the cop, he could barely eat. He pushed his plate aside and scratched his hand.

Why was the cop watching him?

Arlene finished taking an order from a young couple, then came by their table and left their check.

“You folks have a nice day,” she said, and turned to leave.

“Why don’t you sit down, Arlene?” his mother said. “We’ve hardly had a chance to chat today.”

“I better not. I’ve got work to do in the kitchen.”

“Oh, sit for a minute, Arlene. You deserve a break.”

“Well, okay, but just for a minute.” She sat down opposite his mother, took off one of her hoop earrings and fussed with it, not looking at him. After a moment she said, “There’s an article in today’s
Inquirer
about that serial killer.”

“What serial killer?” his mother said.

“The one I told you about. I saw it on
Rivera Live.
Geraldo said some guy is killing lottery winners. The article in the
Inquirer
said he already murdered four women, maybe more.”

His heart surged. Finally, they had noticed him!

“The cops have no clue who he is!” Arlene rubbed her scrawny arms. “It gives me the creeps. The last one was in Nashua, New Hampshire!”

“When was that?” His mother looked at him, frowning.

“I’m too scared to buy a Powerball ticket,” Arlene said. “If I won, he might kill me!”

He saw the cop at the counter look over. Arlene’s voice could be shrill when she got excited. He smiled at her, but she avoided his eyes, fiddling with her earring again. “Go ahead and buy one, Arlene. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Don’t encourage her, Billy. You know gambling is bad. How many times do I have to tell you?”

He watched her mouth move. It reminded him of Ruthie and her dog, yap-yap-yapping until he made it shut up. He wondered how his mother’s mouth would look if—

“I hear the FBI is on the case,” Arlene said.

He glanced at the counter. The cop was watching him. When he turned back, Arlene was watching him too, but her eyes shifted away when he looked at her. “How do you know?” he said.

“I think I heard it on
Rivera Live.
” Arlene turned to his mother and said, “Maybe the serial killer murdered that girl up in Boston.”

“    Don’t be silly,” his mother said. “The conductor did it. They were having a romance and he killed her for the money.”

He clenched his fists. Stupid, stupid, stupid!!

“Come on, Billy, we have to go. You promised me you’d wash the kitchen floor today.”

Arlene rose from her chair, but she didn’t smile at him the way she usually did. She looked at his mother and said, “Take care of yourself, Mrs. Kay. See you next Sunday.”

____

Plymouth — 3:00 p.m.

Gina opened a bottle of water and guzzled half the contents. She hadn’t had a hangover in years, but she recognized the symptoms: an unquenchable thirst and a dull headache. After their Friday night meeting with Nigel, she and Franco had stayed up late. Lord knows they had plenty to talk about: his divorce, her fight with Ryan, the Jackpot Killer. But when Franco made love to her, all her worries had faded away.

Saturday morning she’d left his motel at 10:30. Franco had a basketball date with the little boy he’d taken under his wing. He had a soft spot in his heart for boys with no fathers. Unlike Ryan, who only thought about himself.

That’s why she was staying in this cheap motel.

It was Memorial Day weekend. Ryan would be at their house in Westwood, and she didn’t dare stay at the beach house. Ryan might go there looking for her. He didn’t have a key, but still.

Last night, she’d polished off a small bottle of Merlot, ruminating over her situation. Ryan was ruthless. If he found out she was having an affair, he’d file for a divorce. Forget the house. She’d be lucky to keep the clothes on her back. But she had no control over Ryan. All she could do was stay out of his way. Ryan would never change. He wanted her to quit her job and have her life revolve around him.

But she loved her job and she loved Franco. He understood her.

She trusted him and he trusted her. Sometimes Franco played the part of the gruff, steely-eyed cop, but he had always been gentle and kind with her. He was smart as a whip, a terrific detective, and a fantastic lover, not to mention funny as hell sometimes. He had even agreed to talk to Nigel.

Poor Nigel. Friday night he’d looked like a whipped dog: forlorn and dejected, mournful eyes, slumped shoulders. But afterwards, Franco seemed convinced that Nigel didn’t kill Vicky, the Jackpot Killer did.

She got up and looked out the window. It was a gorgeous day, sunny and mild, a perfect beach day. Too bad she wasn’t at her beach house. Some of her fondest childhood memories were the summers she’d spent in Squantum, a tiny peninsula jutting into the ocean south of Boston.

Thirty years ago when beach property was cheap, her grandparents had bought a two-story bungalow facing the ocean, a sea captain’s house built in 1878. The kitchen was antiquated, but so what? Nobody cooked in the summer. The second floor had three bedrooms. She had claimed the biggest one. It faced the ocean and there was a widow’s walk outside the windows. Sometimes on hot nights, she sat out there to cool off. There was always a delightful breeze. Unlike this stuffy motel room.

She went outside and sat in a molded-plastic chair in front of her room. The exterior of the two-story motel had seen better days, fading yellow paint, rusty wrought-iron railings on the second-floor walkway. Several motorcycles, campers and pickup trucks sat in the parking lot. She had intended to rent a room in Sandwich, but all the cheap motels were booked for the weekend, and she couldn’t afford to pay for three nights in an expensive hotel.

So here she was in Plymouth, twenty miles away.

She fired up a cigarette and sipped her water. The key to her financial future—and freedom from Ryan—was a lucrative book deal. She figured she had a good shot at it. Due to the Boston Pops connection, Vicky’s murder was big news all over the country and so was Nigel. Now that the Jackpot Killer murders had made the national news, that was hot, too.

She’d talked to Vicky, she had an inside track on the Jackpot Killer, and she was Nigel’s only confidant. But to write a bestseller, she had to spice it up with intimate details. When Nigel was young, did he ride a bike, play cricket, have a teenaged crush on a girl? He’d asked her not to write about his mother’s suicide, but his mother had been an opera singer. She made a mental note to ask Nigel about her career. Surely he wouldn’t mind that.

Nigel’s father sounded like a tyrant. Practice, practice, practice.

Could she persuade Nigel to tell her what caused their rift? And she needed some juicy details about his ex-wife. According to the information she’d found on the Internet, Joanna was a minor film actress, an older woman, but still attractive: wavy blonde hair, a pretty smile and a curvy figure.

But the main focus would be Nigel’s relationship with Vicky. She’d have to tread carefully there. Nigel was still grieving, holed up in his hotel, belting down scotch and smoking like a fiend. If she wanted the inside scoop, she’d better hurry. Nigel’s lawyer seemed to think Gerry Mulligan might arrest him soon and charge him with Vicky’s murder. Then Nigel would be in jail, and murder suspects rarely got out on bail.

She drank some water and puffed her cigarette. Franco seemed to think the Jackpot Killer murdered Vicky, but he’d warned her not to tell Nigel, and if Franco asked her not to repeat something, she didn’t. That was the deal.