Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) (32 page)

Her cell phone rang. “I’ll take it in the living room,” she said. 

When she answered, Franco said, “Where’ve you been? I called you earlier.”

Speaking softly so Nigel wouldn’t hear, she said, “Did you get the search warrant?”

“Not yet. Hank will only okay it if you can identify the bracelet. It’s a custom job so I’ve got jeweler’s pictures to show you. I can bring them over to the
Herald
in half an hour.”

“No,” she said quickly, “don’t do that. I’m at the beach house. There was, uh, there’s a plumbing problem so I had to call someone to fix it.”

“You want me to come there?”

No, no, no!
She gripped the phone. Franco was already pissed at her for going to Billy’s house. He’d flip out if he found out Nigel was staying here.

“No, don't bring them here. I’ll be in town in an hour. Let’s meet at that coffee shop near the
Herald
where we go sometimes.”

“Okay. See you there,” Franco said, and hung up.

Her spirits soared. If she identified the bracelet, Franco could go to Sandwich and arrest Billy.

When she returned to the kitchen, Nigel said, “Must be good news. You look happy.”

She was dying to tell him about Billy, but she didn’t dare, walking a tightrope now, hiding things from Nigel, hiding things from Franco. Not to mention hiding the Gina-Franco affair from Ryan.

“I just need to take care of some business.” She sat down at the table and lit a cigarette.

“Bloody nuisance, business. My father expected me to be the next Van Cliburn, but I wasn’t and he never forgave me for it. After Mum’s funeral, we never spoke again. Six months later he was dead.” Nigel gazed at her. His eyes were very blue and very sad. “You don’t say much about your husband. Bit of a cock-up there?”

A cock-up? More like a Force-5 tornado. “Sort of. But life goes on.”

“That must be difficult. Do you have family to lean on?”

“No. My parents are dead and my brothers have their own problems.”

“You loved him once, didn’t you? In the beginning, I mean.”

Without warning, her eyes filled with tears. Did she love Ryan in the beginning? She couldn't remember. Strange. Maybe she’d been mesmerized by the big Italian wedding her mother was planning. Maybe she’d been in love with the idea of Ryan, his persuasive charm and his constant attention. Maybe she’d been too young and stupid to get married in the first place.

“Now you’re in love with Detective Renzi,” Nigel said. “But he’s married, too, isn’t he?”

“Yes.” Abruptly, she put out her cigarette and stood.

Nigel was beginning to get on her nerves. If she came back here tonight after work, she’d have to listen to more of his depressing stories.

Sooner or later she’d have to, if she wanted to write a book.

But tonight she’d rather be with Franco.

Boston — 10:35 a.m.

Rushing and out of breath, Gina yanked open the door of the coffee shop. Predictably, there’d been an accident on the northbound Expressway, just a fender-bender, but it had snarled traffic for miles.

The coffee shop was small because most people got takeout. There were only two booths. Franco was sitting in one of them.

“Been waiting long?” she said as she slid into the booth beside him.

“A couple of minutes.” He sipped his coffee and cocked an eyebrow. “Everything okay? You look frazzled.”

“Traffic-jam on the Expressway,” she said, flashing him a smile. “Have you got the pictures?”

“Yes,” he said, tapping a finger on a manila envelope. “Want coffee?”

“No, thanks. I had some earlier. Show me the pictures.”

He opened the envelope and took out two black-and-white photographs.

Visualizing the scarab bracelet she’d seen on Mrs. Kay’s bony wrist, Gina studied them. The photographs had been taken from different angles, but the bracelet’s delicate filigreed setting was distinctive.

“That’s it. The exact same setting. I’m positive.”

“Okay, but these are black-and-whites. Do you remember what color the stones were?”

“As I recall the scarabs were green and amber.”

Franco smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that. Her son said those were her favorite colors, so he had the jeweler use green and amber stones.” He squeezed her arm. “This is great, Gina. Just what I need.”

“How soon will you be able to get into Billy’s house?”

“Tomorrow, I hope. I’ll call you tonight if we get the warrant.”

She traced a finger down his forearm. “Call me? Why can’t I stay at the Dorchester Palace tonight?”

He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “Sounds good to me, but I might have to work late. We’ve got a complication.”

Her heart sank. She didn't need any more complications. “What?”

“Gerry Mulligan went to Nigel’s hotel with an arrest warrant this morning, but he wasn’t there.”

Shocked, she stared him. Just as Nigel had predicted, the cops were going to arrest him for Vicky’s murder. If she told Franco she was the one who helped Nigel escape, he’d be furious. Which meant she’d better act like she was furious at Gerry Mulligan. The best defense is a good offense. That’s what Ryan said, and Ryan should know. He was a master at it.

“Gerry’s going to
arrest
him?” she said indignantly. “How can he? What’s he got for evidence?”

“Calm down, Gina.” Franco tilted his head, reminding her that others were in the coffee shop. “I don’t know what Gerry put on the arrest warrant. I haven’t talked to him in awhile. He’s pissed at me for not telling him about the Jackpot Killer. While I was in Hank’s office today, asking him about the search warrant, Gerry called Hank and told him Nigel was missing. Nobody knows where he is. Gerry put out a BOLO on him.”

Franco gave her a speculative look, one she knew well. He suspected something. Time for a diversion. “If you get the warrant, why can’t you arrest Billy today?” Anything to shift the focus away from Nigel.

“Gina, you gave me good information, but I’m not sure what I’ll find in the house. Besides, I need to set things up with the Sandwich police before I execute the warrant. Best case, that’ll happen tomorrow.”

She felt guilty about not telling him Nigel was at her beach house. But if Franco got what he needed tomorrow, it wouldn’t matter. After he arrested Billy, she’d tell him about smuggling Nigel out of the hotel and they’d have a good laugh about it. But that hinged on capturing Billy, and if Billy really was the Jackpot Killer, he was dangerous.

“Be careful when you go to Billy’s house,” she said. “Did I tell you that UPS delivered a package while I was there?”

“No,” Franco said sharply. “What was in it?”

“I’m not sure, but it was from a sporting goods store in Texas.”

“You think it could have been a gun?”

“Maybe. The package was heavy. I’m worried about Billy’s mother.”

“Do you think she suspects him?”

“I don’t know,” she said, recalling the odd look in Mrs. Kay’s eyes when she’d given the woman her business card.

Franco checked his watch. “Gotta go, Gina. The sooner I take the search warrant application to a judge, the sooner I’ll get it.”

She walked out of the coffee shop with him and they separated. Now that she'd identified the bracelet, Franco seemed certain he would be able to get the search warrant, but as she walked back to her office she felt uneasy.

If they didn’t arrest Billy tomorrow, how long would Nigel have to hide out at her beach house? Grieving for Vicky. Obsessing over family baggage. Fodder for her book, but she had troubles of her own.

Still, tonight she’d be with Franco. When he got the search warrant, they’d have a glass of wine and celebrate. Tomorrow, Franco would go to Sandwich and arrest Billy, and everything would be fine.

Well, fine for Nigel, but not for her. Tomorrow was Friday. Ryan would fly back from Austin and come home to an empty house. Ryan was no dummy. He’d probably figure she was at the beach house. If he decided to confront her and found Nigel at the beach house, there'd be hell to pay.

____

Sandwich — 6:15 p.m.

“How do you like the fish, Billy?”

He stared at the glop on his plate. Mushy canned peas, fish with slimy gray skin. The stuffing she’d made to go with it was so dry and salty it stuck to the roof of his mouth. He could feel her watching him, waiting for him to say it was wonderful.

“Mom, why can’t we ever have something simple? Hamburgers or barbequed chicken, something like that?”

“We can’t afford it. Why can’t you find a job that pays better?” She picked up a carrot stick and crunched it. Mouth moving, teeth clicking.

“If you didn’t give so much money to the church—”

“Billy! The church is my
salvation
! And yours. You should get down on your knees every day and thank the Lord for saving you. And your mother.” Pale-blue eyes boring into him. Lips pinched in a line.

He rose from the table, took his plate to the counter and scraped the stinking mess into the garbage. The room was quiet.

So quiet he could hear the wall clock ticking.

Almost quiet enough to hear his heart beating. Beating. BEATING.

He took out a loaf of Wonder Bread, opened a cupboard and took out a jar of Jif peanut butter, the crunchy kind. “Where’s the grape jelly, Mom?”

“I didn’t buy any. All that sugar rots your teeth. You’ll thank me when you’re older.”

He refused to look at her. He would
not
look at her mouth moving.

He made himself a peanut butter sandwich, sat down at the table and took a big bite. She wasn’t eating. She was watching him. He felt her eyes bore into him, but he still wouldn’t look at her.

Mouth moving. Making pain in the head. Throbbing.

Blood beating. Boiling blood. BLOOD.

He thought about the gun. And his new skill.

“Did you fold the laundry?”

He chewed methodically, savoring his peanut butter sandwich. “Yes, Mom.”

“Good. There’s a program on TV tonight about gambling. I want you to watch it.”

Gambling. He put his hands in his lap and scratched. When he looked down, his knuckles were bloody. BLOOD.

“I can’t, Mom. I have to go out.”

Her pale blue eyes bored into him. “What for?”

“I have to go somewhere.”

“What do you mean? Where are you going?” Her eyes were relentless. Cold. Blue. Dead.

His heart fluttered like a moth at a hundred-watt bulb, faster and faster, fluttering wildly. Beating his chest.

Pounding his blood. Into his head. Making it hurt. Hurting. Him.

“I have to go to Boston.” He dug his nails into the palms of his hands and looked at her. Looked at her cold dead blue eyes.

“What for?”

“I have to take care of something.”

“You do not! Don’t lie to me! You’re not going
anywhere
. I
forbid
it! You’re staying right here with me.”

He got up and backed away from the table.

Away from his mother. Away from her eyes.

“Don’t you
dare
leave while I’m speaking to you!”

Mouth-making pain in his head. He forced himself to look at her cold, hard blue eyes. For an instant he saw the briefest flicker of—

What was it? He’d seen that look before in Tessa’s eyes. And Lulu’s.

A tiny flicker of fear.

He ran downstairs, unlocked the door to his room and went inside.

Blood boiling. BLOOD. Heart beating. BEATING.

He went to the fish tank and stared at Judy. Now she was all alone. He plunged his hand into the tank and captured her, felt her fins flap against his hand. But she couldn’t escape. He squeezed her hard, as hard as he could.

Then he dropped her on the floor and shut his eyes and the glorious ache surged into his groin.

He undid his fly, breathing in ragged gasps, stroking until the final exquisite shudder came.

He opened his eyes and stared at the orange mess on the floor.

Judy. Dead.

He took out his tool box and opened it.

Beating. His heart was beating. But slower now.

BEATING.

He opened his toolbox and took out the wrench.

He sat down at Gina’s piano and played a three-octave E-minor arpeggio. E-minor to go with his melancholy mood. His fingers wandered over the keys and launched unbidden into “Stardust.”

Improvising on the familiar melody, he let his mind wander. Hollywood. A smoky cafe. Appreciative patrons. The sound of clinking glasses.

He eyed the amber liquid in the glass that stood on the corner of the piano. Vamping chords with his left hand, he picked up the glass with his right and took a long pull of Dewars. Straight. No ice.

His fingers feathered the keys and slithered into “Laura.”

“Vicky,” he said.

Speaking her name aloud brought a rush of memories. Her beautiful brown eyes. Her mischievous smile. Her wicked sense of humor. How he loved her sense of humor. Her bubbly laugh echoed in his mind.

He never should have bought those Megabucks tickets.

With merciless precision his fingers struck the keys.

He never should have given Vicky the winning ticket. Never should have asked her to claim the money. If he hadn’t, she’d still be alive.

It was all his fault.

Forearms flailing, he pounded the keys. The sound crescendoed to a mighty clamor that thundered through the house. Moments later another sound penetrated the din.

Abruptly, he jerked his hands off the keyboard. The phone was ringing.

Should he answer it? No, before she left this morning Gina had turned on her answer-phone.

The ringing stopped. The machine clicked and whirred. Then, silence.

He gulped some Dewars and glanced at his watch. Almost 9:30. He should eat something. Gina had told him to help himself to whatever was in the fridge, but he wasn’t hungry. He lit a Winston, set it in the ashtray and riffled the keys aimlessly, searching for a melody. But nothing came to him.

He felt utterly drained, numb with grief.

How could he go on living without Vicky?

He took the empty glass into the kitchen, sat down at the table, poured more scotch into the glass and massaged his eyes. Sooner or later the cops would find out he’d gone missing. And then what?

What in bloody hell was he going to do? How would it all end?

He took a coin out of his pocket.

Heads: it would work out. Tails: belly up.

He flipped the coin and slammed it down on the table. Tails.

He flipped the coin again. Tails.

Bollocks! He couldn’t win!

The phone rang.

Now
who was calling? P’rhaps it was Gina’s husband. She hadn’t said much about him, but he got the feeling her marriage was in trouble. He went in the living room and stood by the futon, staring at the phone.

It stopped ringing. The machine clicked and whirred.

Was someone speaking on it now? Gina had turned down the volume so he wouldn’t be disturbed.
Don’t answer the phone
, she’d said.
Let the machine get it.

Maybe she was afraid her husband would call her. If her marriage was in trouble, it wouldn’t do to have a man answer.

He went back in the kitchen, sat at the table and gulped some scotch.

His life was in the toilet. A monstrous feeling of dread overwhelmed him. Would he
ever
get out of this bleeding mess?

He fingered the coin. Tails: he would. Heads: not.

He flipped the coin. Caught it. Slammed it down.

Heads.

Bloody hell! He couldn’t win! He was a loser. He’d
always
been a loser.

He poured more scotch into the glass.

____

Thelma Delaney stood by the phone in her kitchen, trying to decide what to do. Gina had given her an emergency number in case something happened to the house while she was away. Orchid’s number. She’d only met Orchid once. What a strange girl! Why on earth did she dye her hair purple?

But she was nice enough. Friendly. Gina’s best friend. Should she call the girl? She was probably fussing over nothing. It was hot tonight so she’d opened all her windows, hoping to catch a breeze. That’s when she heard all that loud music. But when she called Gina’s number, all she got was the machine and Gina’s voice saying, “Please leave a message.”

When she called again, she got the same message. That worried her.

She went to her front window and looked across the street. It was pitch dark outside. She couldn’t see Gina’s car, but maybe it was in the garage. And maybe it wasn’t. If Gina was there, why didn’t she answer the phone?

And if she wasn’t, who was pounding on Gina’s piano?

She picked up the phone and dialed.

After three rings a voice said, “Orchid’s Pots, Orchid speaking.”

“Orchid? It’s Thelma Delaney, Gina’s neighbor?”

“Oh hi, Thelma. How ya doing?”

“I’m fine, but . . . ” Thelma sighed. “Well, I was wondering if you talked to Gina today.”

“Nope. I’ve been in Phoenix all week. Why? Is something wrong?”

“I’m not sure. Awhile ago I heard someone playing Gina’s piano.”

“So? Gina plinks away at it sometimes.”

“I know, but this was different. Loud and sort of jazzy, you know? I don’t want to seem like a busybody, but I called and Gina didn’t answer.”

“Maybe she’s in the shower or something.”

“That’s what I thought, but I waited twenty minutes and called again and
still
got her answering machine. Do you think I should go knock on her door?”

“No, don’t do that,” Orchid said emphatically. “She could be, uhmmm, she could be
involved
in something, you know?”

Thelma smiled. These young ones thought she was an old fuddy-duddy, but she’d had her share of romances. “Yes, Orchid, I know. But it’s just that, well, the music was really loud. And jazzy.”

“Maybe her husband is there.”

Orchid didn’t sound too enthusiastic about that. In fact, she really didn’t sound like she thought Gina’s husband was there. “Maybe you’re right,” Thelma said, “Maybe they had the stereo on. Ryan’s a nice young man. They had a spat a couple of weeks ago, didn’t they?”

“What makes you think that?” Orchid said sharply.

“I don’t know. Gina seemed a bit down when I talked to her last week.”

Orchid chuckled. “Gina’s the creative type. That can make for a volatile love life.”

“Goodness, I guess I’ve made a tempest out of a teapot, haven’t I? Sorry to bother you.”

“No problem, Thelma. Call anytime.”

She replaced the phone. There. She felt better.

She worried about Gina sometimes, a lovely girl like that, at odds with her husband. Ryan was a fine young man. Handsome, too.

Thelma poured herself a glass of wine, went in her living room and turned on the TV.

____

His heart thrummed with excitement as he crept upstairs and slipped into the kitchen. He heard voices on the television set in the living room. He crept to the doorway.

Seated in the wheelchair with her back to him, his mother was watching television in her bathrobe. She hadn’t put her hair up in rollers yet. Stringy blonde hair drooped down to her shoulders.

He crept forward, silently inching toward her.

Suddenly, she turned. Eyes wide. Staring. At him.

“Billy! What are you doing?”

Mouth-moving pain in his head.

He swung the wrench.

“Stop!” she shrieked, raising her hands to ward him off.

But she couldn’t.

He studied her mouth, her incessantly yapping mouth, making pain in his head. He raised the wrench and smashed it against her teeth. When she opened her mouth to scream, blood spurted out, but no sound.

Again he hit her. Beating. Beating. BEATING!

She groped at the wheels of her wheelchair with both hands, trying to get away.

NO! He couldn’t let her escape! He swung the wrench again, beating her mouth and her cold, dead blue eyes.

Her face turned to BLOOD. Sickening. Spurting. Stinking.

Dark red blood gushing everywhere.

She slid out of the wheelchair and slumped to the floor, moaning. Blood matted her hair, dripping onto the rug. In a frenzy, he pounded her face with the wrench. Mouth-moving mother-pain in his head.

At last he stopped, gasping for breath, staring at her. Still.

Mouth still. Mother still. STILL.

His breathing slowed and a shudder ran through his body, as if his own heart had stopped beating.

But then her hand moved. Fluttered to her blood-soaked bathrobe. Hand moving. Slowly. Inching toward the pocket of her bathrobe. Almost.

He slammed the wrench down on her hand. Heard the bones crunch like snapping sticks. Now her hand was still.

What was in the pocket?

He tried to reach it, but her arm was in the way.

He mustn’t touch her. Not touch. No.

Grasping the sleeve of her bathrobe between his thumb and forefinger, he lifted her arm away from the pocket. Reached inside. Pulled out a small rectangular piece of paper.

A business card.

He stared at it. Gina Bevilaqua,
Boston Herald
reporter.

Gina Bevilaqua. The woman who’d left the message on Victoria’s answering machine.

The reporter who’d come here to interview his mother. The woman who knew the conductor. Nigel Heath. The lucky lottery winner.

The man who had ruined his Victoria victory.

The police thought
Nigel Heath
killed Victoria. Victory-Victoria.

VICTORY was near.

He studied his mother, lying on the floor.

Quiet and still. Face bloody. Eyes shut. Dead eyes.

Not watching.

Not anymore.

He went in the kitchen and washed the blood off his hands.

His clothes stank of blood and sweat. Disgusting.

He went down to his room and took the gun out of the Wagner’s Sporting Goods box, feeling the weight and the power, remembering how he’d hit the target at the shooting range. He wrapped the bloody wrench in a towel and put it in his toolbox. Then he took Victoria’s diamond ring out of his desk drawer and put it in the top tray of his toolbox.

He studied the business card and felt a delicious thrill of anticipation.

Gina Bevilaqua. Friend of Nigel Heath.

The lucky lottery winner.

But not anymore. Nigel Heath’s luck had run out.

All he had to do was find him.