Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) (7 page)

“Sounds great. I’ll have that.”

She nudged his shoulder. “But y’know what the
really
best bet is? Megabucks tickets. No winner last night. They say Wednesday’s prize might hit twelve million. I sure could use some of that.”

He glanced at his mother. Her lips tightened, but she liked Arlene so maybe she wouldn’t lecture her about gambling. He hid his hands under the table and picked at a scab. His eczema had flared up yesterday.

His mother took a sip of coffee and set her cup down. “This coffee is too hot.”

“Put some cream in it, Mom.”

“Too much fat.” Her thin lips pursed. “I’ll wait till it cools.”

He took a roll and noticed a drop of blood on his thumb. He wiped it on a napkin and bit into the roll. His stomach rumbled with hunger. Every Sunday they went through the same routine: up at 7:00, get dressed and drive for an hour to the Pentecostal Word of God Church near Brockton.

Fifteen years ago his mother had found God.

The service lasted two hours; then they drove back to Sandwich. In the summer it was brutal, traffic backed up for miles, tourists fighting to get over the Sagamore Bridge onto Cape Cod. His mother wouldn’t eat Sunday dinner anywhere else, but that was fine with him. He liked the Seaside Diner.

He especially liked watching the cops. He glanced at the counter. The cop was gone. Sometimes he came in by himself at night and sat near the detectives. Sometimes they talked about the cases they were working on. Maybe he’d come in tomorrow and find out what they knew about Florence.

He finished the roll and reached for another one.

“Don’t eat so much bread before dinner, Billy. It will spoil your appetite.”

He put the roll back, put his hands in his lap and scratched. Today’s sermon was about gambling, probably because of the Megabucks prize. The preacher had a loud voice. It scared him, just like his father scared him when he was little. The preacher ranted on and on about the sin of gambling. He knew why. If people spent all their money on gambling, they wouldn’t have any to give to the church. The offering was important. Then came the healing ceremony—his mother’s favorite—the laying on of hands. After that people got up and spoke in tongues. Creepy. He got the shivers listening to them.

“Look at those girls, Billy.” His mother pointed at two teenage girls at a nearby table. “It’s shameful the way girls dress these days. Those tops look like undershirts!”

“Tank tops, Mom. All the kids wear them.”

“Well, it’s disgraceful.”

Then Arlene arrived with their dinners. “There you go, Mrs. Kay. Roast beef special. I got you an end cut. I know you like it well done.” Her hoop earrings swayed as she set his meatloaf dinner in front of him.

His mother eyed his plate and frowned. “Billy got more vegetables.”

“We got a hungry fella here, Mrs. Kay. He’s just a little guy, but he still needs his nourishment!”

He flushed and ducked his head. He hated it when people called him little. He couldn’t help it if he was short. He forked mashed potatoes into his mouth and swallowed.

“Don’t eat so fast, Billy. It’s bad for your digestion.” His mother scraped gravy off her roast beef and cut the meat into tiny morsels. She put one in her mouth and chewed. Her mouth moved in short rapid strokes. It reminded him of the rabbit at the pet store, nibbling on a chunk of carrot.

“Preacher Everdon is absolutely right. Gambling is evil. It’s the ruination of people like Arlene. She’s had a hard life, poor thing. No husband and four boys to support. But
her
mother helps out. Not like mine, after your father died.” She put a green bean in her mouth and chewed.
Click, click, click
.

She put down her fork. “Look at that woman! She must weigh two hundred pounds and she’s eating pie and ice cream. It’s not healthy to be so fat.”

He dipped some meatloaf in the gravy. If she said anything about the gravy, he’d throw the plate in her face. Well, no, he wouldn’t. But he’d like to.

Arlene came back, sipping a mug of coffee. “How’s the meatloaf, Billy?”

“Wonderful,” he said, smiling up at her. “You’re the best waitress on Cape Cod.”

“Aww, you’re so sweet, Billy.”

“Sit down, Arlene,” his mother said. “You must be tired.”

“Thanks.” She perched on the captain’s chair opposite his mother and ran a hand over her carrot-red hair. “Sundays are always busy. I’ve been here since seven and this is my first break.”

“You’re a hard worker,” his mother said. “The Lord will reward you.”

“Maybe, but I’m gonna buy me some Megabucks tickets in case He don’t. My boys need new sneakers.”

“Don’t waste your money. You’ll never win. Billy played the lottery after the library fired him—”

“They didn’t fire me, Mom. It’s only a layoff. I’ll get the job back.”

“Maybe.” His mother smirked at Arlene. “Billy comes home one night and says he hit the jackpot and hands me the ticket like it’s a big prize! Big deal. We only won two hundred dollars.”

He put his hands in his lap and scratched. “It got us the van,” he muttered.

“It did not! I got us the van. That nice reporter came to interview me and I told her you lost your job at the library.” His mother lowered her voice and said to Arlene, “We almost lost the house, you know.”

He dug at the scab on his thumb.
Too bad we didn’t lose you
.

“I sure do admire you, Mrs. Kay. Being in a wheelchair don’t stop you from getting what you want!”

“Almost twenty years, with the help of the Lord. But it’s hard. And poor Billy with his headaches. Billy! Look at your hand! It’s bleeding. I
told
you not to scratch like that!”

He dropped his fork and it clattered onto his plate. The girls in tank tops looked over, staring at him.

Arlene stood up. “Want some pie, Billy? We’ve got key lime today.”

“No,” his mother said, “we’ve got errands to do.”

He smiled at Arlene. “I’m taking Mom to Morrow’s to get some of those special chocolates they make.”

“You’re a wonderful son to treat your mom so good. I hope my boys grow up to be just like you.”

“It’s just an excuse, Arlene. Then he’ll go to the pet store next door and buy food for his goldfish. His
girls
!”

His hands grew still beneath the table. “I might buy a new one today.”

“What are you going to call this one?” His mother shook her head and said to Arlene, “I don’t know where he gets these silly names. Lulu. Tessa. Florence.”

“Well,” Arlene said, edging away from the table. “You folks have a nice day. See you next Sunday.”

Tuesday, May 2

When Frank got back to his office after lunch his boss, Detective Lieutenant Harrison “Hank” Flynn, stood outside the door, sipping from a container of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. Usually if Frank ran into him in the hall, Hank would toss him a friendly
Hey, how’s it going?
Not today.

Today, he said, “Hey, Frank, got a minute?”

“Sure, come on in.” Frank unlocked the door, waved Hank into his office and sat down at his desk.

Hank took the visitor chair beside it and set his coffee container on the desk. “You hiding out from your wife? Evelyn called me yesterday, wanted to know where you were.”

Blindsided, he thought about Evelyn’s brusque
Good morning
when he got home from his five-mile run this morning. Was she checking up on him?

“I was testifying in court. The Johnson murder case finally went to trial.”

“Uh-huh.” Hank took a sip of coffee. “How’d it go?”

“Okay. No surprises from the defense team. The guy should go down for it. Hell, we got the gun, got two wits to testify that actually showed up.”

“Good.” Hank waited a beat, then said, “Evelyn called me at 6:30 last night, said she called you here, then called your cell phone and you didn’t answer.”

Definitely checking up on him
. “You know, when I first joined Boston PD, Evelyn said having a police officer husband made her feel safe. But the first time someone shot at me . . . remember that bank robbery in the South End?”

“I do. The Tierney brothers held up a Citi Bank three blocks from here, a teller hit the silent alarm and two squads showed up.”

“Right. Mine was one of them. I get out and they start shooting.” He fingered the scar on his chin, remembering the jolt of fear when he pulled his service weapon. “Nobody got shot, and we captured them, but when I got home that night and told Evelyn what happened, she freaked out and started crying.” Aware that he was dissembling like a suspect avoiding questions, he said, “Did that ever happen with Meredith?”

Hank ran a hand over his hair, dark brown flecked with gray. “No. Not that Meredith wanted to hear about the shit that goes down on the job, but she said she’d rather hear if from me than see it on the news.”

“Not Evelyn. She won’t watch the news, doesn’t want to hear about it from me, either. So I went out with one of my buddies. We had a beer and a burger and hashed over some cases.”

Making it sound like he’d been out with a cop friend, not Gina. After his long day in court he wanted to relax and talk to someone who’d make him laugh, someone who wouldn’t freak out if he said the F-word. Talking to Gina was way better than talking to a guy, the hint of sexual attraction lurking below the surface.

“I told Evelyn but maybe she forgot.”
Fat chance. Evelyn forgot nothing. Especially the bad things.

“How’s it going with the Jackpot Killer case?”

Hank was the one who’d urged Boston PD to send him to Quantico for the serial killer course last year. Because all three Jackpot murders were in New England, FBI Agent Ross Dunn had asked him to act as liaison on the case, his first time, and he didn’t want to screw up. Hank had okayed it. He was hot on the case, too.

“Yesterday I checked VICAP, the FBI database, for cases with similar MO’s. Two years ago a Rhode Island lottery winner got murdered. The local police didn’t enter it in the database until last week. That’s probably why Ross wasn’t aware of it.”

“Some police departments don’t have the personnel or the time to do it. Same MO?”

“Yes. An older woman, Caucasian, asphyxiated with a plastic bag, and a J&B nip, which seems to be the Jackpot Killer’s signature. No sign of forced entry. No witnesses, no leads.”

“Men hit the lottery, too. I wonder why he picks women?” Hank said.

“Older women. Maybe he figures they’re easier to overpower.”

“Maybe he hates his mother. Plenty of weirdoes out there do.”

“Maybe he hates his wife.”

Hank’s eyes widened. Frank knew what he was thinking: Freudian slip by Frank Renzi, who hates his wife. Hank was fifteen years older than Frank, fifteen years more experience on the job and a bullshit detector to go with it.

“Or his mother-in-law,” Frank quickly added. “On Sunday I spent an excruciating two hours with mine.”

“Tough?” Hank said.

“Yes, and I’m not talking about the pot roast. Evelyn’s mother is ultra-conservative, and as she gets older . . .” He shrugged. “Maybe the killer’s mother hit the lottery and wouldn’t share it with him.”

“The Chatham victim had a son, right? Did you talk to him?”

“I did. Cross him off the suspect list. He’s in a wheelchair, got both legs blown off in the Gulf War. He’s got no way to get around. Somebody would have had to drive him.”

“How did the killer get in?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Ross Dunn says this Jackpot Killer is what FBI profilers call an organized killer. He plans his moves. Maybe he poses as a deliveryman.”

“Flowers maybe?” Hank said. “We had a serial rapist once that got into women’s hotel rooms that way. Knocks on the door, she looks through the peephole, sees roses in his hand, lets him in and he jumps her.”

“Or it could have been UPS or FedEx. Florence didn’t have many neighbors. The Chatham police chief said no one reported seeing any unusual vehicles. The State Police are running the investigation. The lead detective showed me the crime scene photographs. I asked him to keep the J&B nip quiet, but who knows?”

Hank shrugged. “The State cops pretty much do things their way. So the killer looks harmless enough for these women to let him in. Caucasian?”

“Almost certainly. Chatham’s a small town. A black guy would stand out. The Rhode Island victim has a daughter that lives nearby. I want to talk to her, but I’m on call tomorrow for the murder trial, in case the defense lawyer calls me back. I caught that gang hit last week, and I’ve got other cases, too.”

Hank glanced at his watch. “And I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes. What’s your take on the Jackpot Killer? Your overall impression.”

“I hate to say it, but it’s like a lot of these serial killers. The FBI profilers would say he’s a white male in his late twenties, early thirties . . .”

“Not married, lives alone?” Seven years ago Hank had taken the same FBI serial killer course.

“I’m not sure. All the murders were daytime kills, the ones we know about anyway. There could be more. So far, none on the weekend. Maybe he’s got a job. Maybe he lives with someone, can’t get away on the weekends.”

“Okay, Frank. Keep me posted.” Hank rose from his chair and gave him a pointed look. “Might be good if you kept in touch with Evelyn, too.” He turned and left the office.

Frank slumped in his chair, ruminating over his workload, juggling two hot-potato cases, the Jackpot murders and the Mass Ave gang hit. Okay, maybe the gang hit wasn’t a hot potato, but for some reason he’d fallen for the skinny little kid with the big brown eyes and the frightened look on his face. The kid might have witnessed the hit. Damn, he hated to see these black kids get involved with gangs.

And what about the biggest hot potato? If Motormouth Myra told Evelyn she’d seen him with Gina, he was in serious trouble. Myra would say they were drinking wine at a bar, too cozy to be working, and Evelyn would believe her. But Evelyn had to know he was getting sex somewhere. He sure as hell wasn’t getting any at home.

As long as no one else knew, Evelyn could ignore it, but if Myra blabbed about Gina, Evelyn would have to do something or lose face. If she didn’t, Motormouth Myra would tell all their friends that Evelyn’s husband was unfaithful.

Forget the joy of sex. In Evelyn’s world the joy of gossip reigned.

_____

Grinnell, Iowa

Nigel gazed out the window of the pickup truck at the boring Iowa landscape, flat endless cornfields, not a tree or a house or billboard in sight. Grinnell was fifty miles east of Des Moines, might as well be the bloody end of the earth. He dug out a handkerchief and blew his nose. Get on an airplane healthy, breathe the recycled air, people coughing and sneezing, get off the plane with the mother of all colds.

He cast a sidelong glance at his driver, the man in the buckskin cowboy hat, blue jeans and cowboy boots. He was the local bank president, but he owned a five-acre farm and raised hogs on the side. For fun, he said. The hog-farmer-banker fancied himself a music buff, had offered to chauffeur him around for the week. Their conversation had ended miles ago. Nigel was too annoyed to chat him up. He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette, then put it back. The banker thought smoking was the eighth deadly sin.

They passed signs of civilization: a gas station with a yellow Shell sign and a red Coke dispenser out front. About time. They’d be at the hotel soon. The banker turned on the radio. A whiny voice backed by twangy guitars wailed about his lost love. Nigel gritted his teeth. The next time Hale booked him a gig like this, he’d tell him to wank off. Five thousand, plus expenses for the whole bloody week. Hale took twenty percent so deduct a thousand, and taxes took a big chunk. Bloody Christ, it didn’t add up to ten cents a note! In his wildest imagination he couldn’t have conjured a worse week.

He lit a cigarette and took a deep lung-searing drag.

The banker looked over. “Could you open your window? Smoke really bothers me.”

And country music really bothers me
. Aloud he said, “Sorry, but there’s no smoking in the theater. At least I can smoke at the hotel.”

“Yup. One of the last holdouts. The whole township’s about to go smoke-free.” The banker tipped back his cowboy hat. “How’d the dress rehearsal go today?”

“Oh, jolly good,” he said in his best British accent. Let the man feel important, hobnobbing with an international star. He puffed his cigarette morosely, willing the Budget Inn to appear.

The cheap hotel was just off an interstate highway exit, part of his expense package: a room and two meals a day. The first night at dinner he’d asked for the wine list. The waitress said they didn’t have one and would he like a glass of the house red? It tasted like vinegar.

He smiled, recalling Vicky’s merry laugh when he told her about it. Late last night he’d phoned her, dying to talk, aching to hear her voice. He missed her badly, couldn’t wait to get back to Boston on Sunday.

If he won twelve million dollars, he’d never have to take a gig like this again.
The Music Man
. Jake Forester was Professor Harold Hill. Hopeless. The aging actor could spit out his lines: “Ya got trouble, yes, my friends, ya got trouble right here in River City.”

Too bad he couldn’t sing three notes without wandering off pitch.

The truck jolted to a stop below the canopy of the Budget Inn. “What time shall I pick you up tomorrow?” the banker asked.

“No need,” he said. Damned if he’d take another ride with this relentlessly-healthy hog farmer. “Jake’s picking me up so we can practice his solos. Thanks and cheerio.” He climbed out of the truck, marched into the hotel lobby, took out his cell phone and called his agent.

“Bloody Christ, Hale! I’ve got a
hog
farmer driving me around in a pickup truck. A bleeding health nut! And the male lead’s hopeless.
Seventy-Six-Trombones
went okay. Any schoolboy can sing that. But
Marion-the-Librarian
totally flummoxed the bloke. Today at rehearsal he entered a fifth too high and
kept going
, sang the whole bloody piece in the wrong key!”

“You’ll shape him up, Nigel. You always do.”

He rubbed his bleary eyes. “Any news on the Pops job?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Okay,” Nigel said wearily. “Ring you tomorrow.”

_____

Milton

Frazzled by the rush-hour traffic on the expressway, Frank pulled into his driveway at 6:35. His house was a modest two-story Cape on a tree-lined side street with similar homes. A far cry from the McMansions along Route 28 beside the golf course and the ritzy Victorians near Milton Academy.

He went in the side door and dropped his keys on the kitchen counter. Evelyn was putting their salads on the table. “Hi hon, sorry I’m late. Expressway traffic was tied up because of an accident.”

Evelyn looked at him and frowned. “Highway driving is so dangerous. I don’t know how people do it. They take their life in their hands whenever they get on it.”

He said nothing, unwilling to discuss the terrible things that might befall a person if they obsessed about every tiny detail of their lives. He opened the refrigerator, took out a Sam Adams, popped the cap and took a long swallow.

“Want a beer?” he asked. Just to see what she’d say.

When she got pregnant, Evelyn had stopped drinking alcohol, a ban that continued while she was nursing. Even after Maureen was drinking out of a cup, Evelyn wouldn’t touch a drop. No more alcohol. And no more sex. At first, he’d been mesmerized by his gorgeous baby girl, but after a while . . .