Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) (10 page)

“What??”

“Yeah. What a pisser. I’m paying the mortgage and I have to get out.”

“You can use the beach house. My brothers never use it until Fourth of July at the earliest. Al lives in New Jersey and his kids are in school till the end of June, and George teaches until—”

“No. Think about it, Gina. The utilities are in your name, right? The phone? The electricity? The cable TV?”

“Yes, but—”

“All her lawyer needs to do is run a search, find those accounts and sic a private investigator on you. He sees me there, takes a picture and bam, they’ve got evidence.”

“Okay. But where will you live?”

“I don’t know. To tell the truth, I haven’t thought about it. I’m worried about Maureen.”

“Jesus. She told Maureen?”

“I don’t know. I asked her, but she didn’t answer me.”

“Franco, this is awful. I’m so sorry. I never thought this would happen.”

“Neither did I.” He barked a sardonic laugh. “Neither do the crooks that get caught.”

“But we’re not crooks, we’re just two people who love each other, stuck in bad situations.”

He couldn’t argue with that, but plenty of people could. And would.

“Maybe you could stay with Orchid,” Gina said. “She’s got a loft in the South End.”

He’d met Orchid once, a string-bean with purple hair. Gina's best friend. Orchid knew they were having an affair, but he didn’t want to bunk with Orchid. Not that he didn’t trust her, but the more people that knew . . .

“Mum’s the word, okay?” he said. “I need to do some thinking. Figure out some things.” Figure out what to do now that his life was in the toilet.

“Can we at least have a drink tonight and talk about it?” Gina said, her tone wistful.

His throat thickened. For a moment he couldn’t speak. Man, this was like a boulder dropped into a pond, the ever-widening ripples affecting everyone, shredding their emotions, his included.

“Sure,” he said, his voice husky. “But someplace north of Boston. From now on we need to make sure no one sees us.”

Already he felt like a criminal.

Friday May 5

Squinting against the glare of sun, he cruised the Mass Ave area near Boston Med Center. After his morning run, he hadn’t bothered with coffee, didn’t bother talking to Evelyn either, just took a shower, got in his Mazda Protégé and drove to work, questions dive-bombing his mind.

Should he talk to a lawyer? He knew plenty of prosecutors and defense lawyers, but they didn’t handle divorces. Why should he leave his own house? On the other hand, staying might be worse. Already he hated the tension, tiptoeing around, avoiding Evelyn’s accusing looks.

When he got to his office, he’d checked his messages, none of them urgent, so he went out to Dunkin’ Donuts and bought coffee and a blueberry muffin. Then he’d decided to hunt for the black kid he’d spotted at the Mass Ave murder scene. Anything to avoid brooding over his marital woes.

He drove past the alley where he and Rafe had chased the kid. No sign of him now. All the pedestrians he saw were adults. This was probably a wild goose chase. At 9:30, the kid should be in school. But some kids cut school on balmy days like this, itching for classes to be over. He turned a corner, drifted down a side street and eyeballed people sitting on their front stoop, enjoying the balmy weather, sipping coffee, reading newspapers.

But no skinny little black kid.

At the next intersection he turned left and saw a kid running down the sidewalk with a basketball. He knew that stride! The boy was dressed for the mild weather, shorts, a ragged T-shirt and sneakers. Frank drove by him, turned left at the next corner, parked beside a fire hydrant and got out.

Seconds later the kid whipped around the corner and spotted him.

“Don’t run, or this time I’ll grab you.”

The kid froze, a deer in the headlights, huge brown eyes, dark skin, and rail-thin, five-foot-three, might have weighed eighty-five pounds soaking wet, arms as skinny as drinking straws.

“Detective Renzi, Boston PD. We need to talk.” He opened the passenger side door. “Get in the car.”

The kid hesitated, eyes wary. Frank showed him his ID badge. “Get in and we’ll take a ride. I’ll bring you back, drop you off right here.”

Pouting, the boy slid onto the front seat, clutching his basketball.

Frank got in and did a U-turn. “Where we going?” A soft voice, the kid not looking at him, staring straight ahead, hugging the ball to his chest.

“Not far. You shoot hoop?”

No answer. He kept going on Mass Ave, took a right four blocks later and stopped at a basketball court. “You shoot hoop?” he said again.

The kid nodded slowly.

“Let’s see you shoot then.” Hoping the kid wouldn’t run, he got out and walked onto the deserted court, relaxed when the kid followed him. Frank asked him for the ball, dribbled to the free-throw line and took a shot. It clanged off the rim and bounced away. The kid chased it, put up a shot, made it and ran after the ball, his stick-legs working like pistons. He put up another shot and missed, rebounded the ball and threw Frank a perfect bounce pass.

For the next half hour they took turns shooting, the kid running him ragged, full of energy.

Frank mopped sweat off his face. “Man, I need a break. Let’s go sit for a minute.”

Reluctantly, the kid followed him to the sideline and they perched on a cement slab. “You’re good,” Frank said. “Keep up your shooting, develop your passing skills, you’ll make a good point guard. Who’s your favorite? Rondo?” Assuming it would be the Boston Celtics point guard.

The kid ducked his head, staring at the ground. “Nah. Kobe’s better.”

He clutched his chest in mock horror. “You root for the
Lakers
?”

The kid half-smiled, a tiny acknowledgement of his acting skills, said nothing.

“You play hoop in school?”

A shake of the head. No.

“How come you’re not in school today?”

The kid went still, his face tense.

“Look, I’m not the truant officer. I don’t even know your name, and even if I did, I’m not gonna report you. Now that we shot some hoop, how about we swap names. I’m Frank Renzi. What’s your name?”

“Jamal.” Barely above a whisper.

No last name. Frank decided to let it go, for now. “Okay, Jamal. I won’t report you this time, but you need to go to school. You’re smart enough to know that. Who takes care of you, your mom?”

A quick headshake. He didn’t ask about the kid’s father. If Mom wasn’t taking care of him, the father probably wasn’t either. That left Grandma.

“You live with your grandma?”

A slow nod.

“What’s her name?”

The kid looked at him, eyes wary. “You gonna tell her I skipped school?”

“Okay, Jamal, here’s the deal. Promise me you’ll go to school every day next week, and I won’t tell her you skipped today. What’s your grandma’s name?”

“Wilkes.” Digging his sneaker into the dirt. “Josephine Wilkes.”

“I don’t know about you, Jamal, but I’m thirsty. There’s a Friendly’s ice cream shop a couple blocks away. Let’s go get a milkshake. Then I’ll drop you off where I picked you up, like I promised.”

Ten minutes later they were in a booth at Friendly’s. The waitress, an attractive young black woman with pearly-white teeth and a welcoming smile, brought them glasses of ice water and menus, and left.

Jamal didn’t touch the menu, just sucked up water through his straw.

“You hungry, Jamal?”

Jamal’s huge brown eyes met his, no expression on his face.

“How ’bout we get cheeseburgers and milkshakes? You pick the flavor.”

Jamal gave a tiny nod. Frank signaled the waitress who came right over.

“We’ll both have a cheeseburger with fries, and a milkshake. Coffee milkshake for me. What flavor you want, Jamal?”

“Chocolate,” Jamal said softly, hesitated, then said, “please.”

After the waitress left, Frank did an extended monologue on his favorite basketball players, Celtics greats Bill Russell, Dennis Johnson, threw in Larry Bird to see what the kid would do.

“And Magic Johnson,” Jamal muttered.

Frank grinned. “You know your basketball history, for sure. Who taught you that?”

“Cousin Tyreke,” he said, and froze, a stricken expression on his face.

Pretending not to notice, Frank said, “You live with Tyreke?”

Jamal’s big brown eyes filled with tears. He clamped his lips together and shook his head.

Then the waitress arrived, set down plates with cheeseburgers and piping hot French fries, then the milkshakes, coffee for Frank, chocolate for Jamal.

“Anything else I can get for you?” she asked, smiling at Jamal whose eyes were focused on his cheeseburger.

“Just the check when you get a chance,” Frank said.

She tore off a slip, set it on the table and told them to have a nice day.

Jamal devoured his cheeseburger and fries in record time. Frank didn’t. His stomach was too jumpy. He cut his cheeseburger in half, took two bites, ate a few French fries and set his plate aside. Jamal stared at the other half of his cheeseburger, seemed like the kid hadn’t eaten a square meal in weeks.

“Want the other half? Go ahead. Why let it go to waste? Besides, I think you beat me at hoops.”

When Jamal finished the burger, Frank paid the tab and they went out and got in his car. “How old are you, Jamal?”

“Ten,” Jamal muttered, not looking at him.

“You running with a gang?”

The boy shook his head, still not looking at him. “No. Gramma would kill me.”

Relieved, Frank said, “Gramma’s right. Kids get mixed up with gangs, bad things happen.”

Jamal nodded, mumbled, “That’s what Gramma says.”

“Okay, Jamal. Here’s the deal. You go to school every day from now on and I won’t tell your grandmother you skipped school today. I’m gonna check. What school you go to?”

“Alma Lewis Middle School.”

He held out his hand. Jamal hesitated, then shook it.

“I coach a middle-school basketball team in Mattapan sometimes,” Frank said. “How about I pick you up at Grandma’s on Sunday morning and we shoot some more hoop?”

Jamal looked at him, frowning now. “Be better if I meet you at that playground.”

His anxious expression made Frank’s heart ache. The kid didn’t want a cop coming to his apartment, too many eyes watching. “Okay. Meet you at the playground at eleven. Maybe this time I’ll beat you.”

Jamal’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “Don’t count on it.”

_____

Sandwich, MA

He couldn’t wait to finish dinner. He shoveled down his mother’s tasteless slop, answered her incessant questions and raced downstairs to his room. His shoes were lined up beside his bed: blue Nikes next to his spare work boots next to the black loafers he wore to church on Sundays. Perfect.

He powered up his computer, got on the Internet and checked the
Boston Globe
website. An article in the Metro section said no one had claimed the twelve-million-dollar Megabucks prize.

The back of his hand felt like a thousand bugs were crawling over it. He scratched furiously, digging at the skin with his nails. Drops of blood beaded around the scab. Disgusting. He grabbed a towel off the shelf above his bed, wiped off the blood and turned back to the computer screen.

Today’s article was longer than yesterday’s. The winning ticket had been sold at Marie’s Variety, a small store in Boston’s North End. People in the neighborhood were thrilled. Two men with Italian-sounding names said they figured the winner was Italian, one of their pals, maybe, the ones they played bocce with in Paul Revere Park.

He didn’t care if the winner was Italian as long as it was a little old lady with cable. He logged off the Net, clicked on the file that contained his journals and opened the one labeled Lulu.

His Powerball princess. Twenty-six million dollars.

Lulu. His first lucky winner.

He opened the article he’d retrieved from the Poughkeepsie
Journal
website two years ago, the day Lulu claimed the prize. Her picture was on the front page. Her name was Louisa, but he liked Lulu better. An article below her picture said the American Library Association was hosting a workshop on Women in Popular Culture that weekend. One session was on movie icons, and there, topping the list, was Judy Garland! Beautiful Judy, showing him how it could be done.

After that, it was easy. He got Lulu’s address and telephone number from the cable company and told his mother he had to go to a conference. She didn’t like it, but he told her it might help him get another library job. He took two vacation days and drove to Poughkeepsie. At the movie seminar he sat in the back, enthralled, listening to them talk about Judy. Icon to millions, they said. Beautiful, talented Judy, fighting the demons within her. After the seminar, he finished his preparations. The next day he went to Lulu.

Lulu was easy. Gullible, like his mother.

She even looked like his mother, pale and thin with scrawny arms.

The next day her murder had made the front page of the
Poughkeepsie Journal
.

A familiar ache stirred in his groin.

He rubbed himself through his pants, felt himself grow hard.

Make sure the door is locked,
said a nagging voice in his mind.

He went to the door, secured the deadbolt and stood by his bed, feeling the excitement grow. Until the nagging voice said,
They’re watching you
.

His girls, with their little beady eyes.

He draped a towel over the fish tank and shut off the light. Now he was safe. The room was quiet. Dark. He opened his fly and stroked himself, remembering how Lulu had struggled, fighting him.

But she couldn’t stop him. He had the power and she had none.

His breathing grew ragged. He pumped harder and harder, seeking the glorious release.

Did you turn off the light in the bathroom, Billy?

His mother’s voice, humiliating him.

He kept stroking, harder and harder until the muscles in his arm ached. But it was no use. He couldn’t come. He zipped his fly, turned on the light, pulled the towel off the fish tank and watched Judy.

Beautiful, talented Judy. He would never hurt Judy. He watched his other girls swim through the water, flitting this way and that. Tessa and Lulu and Rosie and Florence. And his No-Name girl.

His hands clenched spasmodically. Someone had a Megabucks ticket worth twelve million dollars!

What were they waiting for? Why didn’t they claim the prize?

He plunged his hand into the tank and captured Lulu, his Powerball princess. Her fins flailed against his hand, but he squeezed her tight.

Finally, the fluttering stopped. When he dropped Lulu in the tank, she floated on her side on top of the water.