Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) (17 page)

“That’s what we want to know. You want to call a lawyer?”

“A lawyer? Why would I need a lawyer?”

Mulligan shrugged. “Just a formality, Mr. Heath. You can call one if you want.”

“No, I guess not.”

“Okay,” Mulligan said. “What time did you get to Vicky’s apartment?”

The other man, Detective Renzi, gazed at him, expressionless, his dark eyes intent.

“I don’t remember exactly. Sometime after nine. I took a cab from Logan. When I got there, her front door was open. The door to her flat was open, too. That seemed odd.”

“Why?” Mulligan skewered him with his pale blue eyes. “Did you go there often?”

“Well . . . no. It just seemed odd. Most people don’t leave the door to their flat open.”

“What did you do then?” Renzi asked.

“I called out to her, but she didn’t answer. It was . . . could I . . . do you mind if I smoke?”

“This is a non-smoking building,” Mulligan said firmly.

Why was the bastard being such a stiff-neck? His clothes reeked of smoke and he had a pack of Marlboros in his shirt pocket.

“Cut him some slack, Gerry,” Renzi said. “He’s just had a very traumatic experience. You want a cup of coffee, Mr. Heath? A bottle of water?”

He nodded gratefully. “Water would be good, thank you. And a cigarette.”

“Okay,” Mulligan said to Renzi. “There’s bottled water in the cooler around the corner.”

Renzi left the room, came back with a bottled water and a tiny red-plastic ashtray.

“Thank you,” he said. He took out a cigarette and lighted it.

Renzi nodded, but didn’t smile. “What happened when you went inside Victoria’s apartment?”

“I saw Vicky—” Overwhelmed by the memory of that horrible moment, he couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. His throat closed up and sharp pain squeezed his chest.

“I know this is tough,” Renzi said, “but we need you to describe what you saw. Where was she exactly?”

“On the floor in the living room. Near the telly. I went over to her and—”

“Was she dressed?” Mulligan asked. “All her clothes were on?”

“Yes. Jeans and a T-shirt.”

“What happened then?” Mulligan said.

“I called 9-1-1.”

The detectives exchanged glances. Several seconds went by, endless seconds, the room silent as a tomb.

Finally Mulligan asked, “Did you touch her?”

“No. I couldn’t believe it at first. She was . . .” Willing himself not to break down, he covered his face with his hands. If he started to cry, he’d never stop. Aware of the silence, feeling their eyes on him, he lowered his hands. “She was lying on her stomach.”

“On her stomach,” Renzi said. “Did you turn her over?”

The question infuriated him. “Of course I did! It was horrible! I still can’t believe—”

“You just said you didn’t touch her,” Mulligan said. “Stop lying to us.”

“I’m not lying. I just—”

“Mr. Heath,” Mulligan said, “if you moved the body, it makes it harder to—”

“
Body?
It wasn’t a body, it was Vicky! She was hurt! I wanted to help her!”

Mulligan glowered at him. “This is a murder investigation, Mr. Heath. Don’t lie to us. Don’t tell us one thing and then change your story.”

Good Lord, why were they badgering him? Couldn’t they see how distraught he was?

“Why did you go there?” Mulligan asked. “Was she expecting you?”

“Well . . . yes. I’d called her from the airport.” He puffed his cigarette.

“What time was that?” Renzi asked, gazing at him, his dark eyes unblinking.

“Sometime after eight. Might have been quarter past. I don’t know.”

“What time did your plane get in?” Mulligan asked.

“Around eight.”

“What airline? Where’d you fly in from?”

“United. I flew in from Vegas on an overnighter.”

“Okay,” Mulligan said. “So you talked to her from the airport sometime after eight, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Well . . .  to tell her I’d landed and that I was on my way to her flat.”

“How did she seem?” Renzi asked. “What was her demeanor?”

“She was happy.” His throat constricted. He could still hear her voice, his last conversation with his beloved Vicky. If only he’d known. If only he’d told her how much he loved her.

“Happy,” Renzi said. “Could you elaborate? What did you talk about?”

“I don’t . . . nothing much . . . she was glad to hear from me. We didn’t talk long. But I called her again later and she didn’t—”

“When was that?” Renzi said. “What time was the second call?”

“I don’t know. I had the cab drop me at a shop near Vicky’s flat so I could buy cigarettes. There’s one on the corner. I called her again, but she didn’t answer.”

“Called her from where?”

“After I left the shop I called her on my mobile, but she didn’t answer, so I left a message on her answer-phone.”

“Okay,” Mulligan said. “We’ll check your cell phone records. And she was a friend of yours?”

Friend? Bloody hell, Vicky was the love of my life.
But if he told them that . . .

“You might say so. I mean, I knew her, of course, from conducting the Pops.”

“So you were dating her,” Mulligan said, fingering the pack of Marlboros in his pocket.

“No . . . not dating her.” He puffed his cigarette and drank some water. His mouth tasted like he hadn’t brushed his teeth in a month.

Mulligan leaned forward and got in his face, so close he could smell cigarette smoke on his breath. “So why did you go there?”

Bloody hell, why couldn’t they leave him alone and let him grieve? Why couldn’t they let him go to his hotel and belt down some Scotch and figure out what he was going to do?

“I had to . . . we were planning . . .” Groping for a reason, anything but the real reason. “I had to drop off some music. We were planning to do a recording, you see, and I was dropping off the music.”

“So this wasn’t a romantic connection?” Mulligan said, skewering him with his implacable blue eyes.

“No.”
It was the love affair of my life, you ass-wipe. I loved her and now she’s dead.

“How’d you happen to be in Boston?” Renzi said. “Are you conducting Pops this week?”

“No. I just . . . no,
next
week I’m conducting Pops.”

A skeptical expression appeared on Renzi’s face. “Did you know Vicky won the lottery?”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact I did. I was thrilled for her, of course.”

“She told you?” Renzi asked. “Or did you see it on TV?”

He wanted to scream,
She didn’t win the lottery, I did!
But that would only make things worse.

“She told me when we spoke on the phone.”

“This morning?” Renzi said, battering him with his relentless questions, setting him up with a bottle of water and a cigarette, then attacking him like a bloody wildebeest.

“What difference does it make? Some bastard killed her! Why aren’t you looking for him?”

“Did you have a key to her apartment?” Renzi asked.

“No.” He put out his cigarette in the ashtray.

“Did you notice if anything was missing?” Renzi asked. “Valuables, jewelry, anything like that?”

“You think someone tried to rob her?”

For the first time Renzi smiled. “Could happen. You’d be surprised how often.”

“Ah, well . . . Not that I recall. No.”

“Did you take anything from the apartment?” Renzi asked.

“Of course not! Why would I?”

“Did you get blood on your hands?” Mulligan asked.

His stomach heaved. Would that hideous memory ever leave him? The coppery smell, the sticky feeling on his fingers. He drank some water, took out another cigarette and lighted it. “It was horrible.”

“Did you wash your hands before the EMTs got there?” Mulligan asked.

“Well . . . yes.”

“Where?” Mulligan asked, as relentless as Renzi, raining questions on him like blows from a hammer. “In the kitchen? Bathroom?”

Good Lord, did they think he killed her? How could they?

“Look here, I didn’t kill Vicky!”

Mulligan rose to his feet and stood beside him, looming over him like a hungry predator. “We’ll probably find traces of blood in the sink. Maybe the murderer washed
his
hands, too. Where’d you wash up?”

His forehead pounded with pain. “In the kitchen. Could I use the toilet? I’m feeling a bit . . . Will this take long? I mean, how much longer . . .”

“Where are you staying?” Mulligan said. “Do you have a hotel reservation? Or were you staying with Vicky?”

“No. Not with Vicky. I usually . . . I’m staying at the Back Bay Inn.”

Mulligan gave him a menacing stare. “You’re not planning on leaving town are you?”

“Leaving? I don’t know. I hadn’t thought—”

“Well, don’t. We need to talk to you tomorrow after we process the scene.”

“Tomorrow?” He felt like they’d punched him in the gut. He had to go through this again tomorrow?

Mulligan smiled tightly. “Yeah. Shouldn’t take long.”

Tuesday, May 16 — 11:30 a.m.

The instant he pushed through the revolving door of the Back Bay Inn, the paparazzi pounced, flashbulbs popping, screaming questions at him. He fought his way to a taxi and climbed inside. When the taxi pulled away from the curb, the pack of hyenas followed them. Blast! When they got to the station, he’d have to run the gauntlet again.

He lit a cigarette. If the cabbie said anything, he’d tell him to stuff it.

Exhausted, he leaned back against the seat. He didn’t dare shut his eyes. Whenever he did, nightmarish images appeared. Vicky’s blood-soaked head. Her vacant staring eyes. Her mouth open in a silent scream. Last night in his room he’d downed half a bottle of Scotch, but all it did was bring his predicament into sharper focus. The detectives were sure to find his clothes in Vicky’s flat. He’d been an idiot to deny his involvement with Vicky yesterday. But the shock of finding her had clouded his judgment.

Now the enormity of her death—no, not her death, her
murder
—had sunk in. He’d thought the publicity about the lottery win would be bad, but this was a million times worse, a bloody scandal, vulgar headlines all over the news. He still hadn’t talked to Hale. God knows what he’d tell him.

And what about the money? The lottery check was in a safe deposit box at Vicky’s bank. After they met with the financial planner and signed the agreement, they’d planned to deposit the money into separate bank accounts, half and half. But they hadn’t met with the financial expert and they never would. Vicky was dead and the check was made out to her. He hadn’t decided whether to tell the coppers about that. What if they didn’t believe him?

On the telly this morning, it said her family was flying in from Cleveland. They planned to hold a wake in Boston tomorrow before they took her body home. Maybe he could talk to her parents and explain about the lottery ticket.

But that wasn’t his immediate problem. Now he had to talk to the cops.

____

The white-haired detective turned on the tape recorder, stated the date and time and said, “For the record, Mr. Heath, you don’t care to have a lawyer present?”

“I don’t think so. No.” He massaged his hands. The interview room was hot and stuffy, worse than yesterday, but his fingers felt like frozen fish sticks. No kind words from Mulligan today, and the other one, Detective Renzi, was staring at him, expressionless. No help there, either.

“We found a suitcase full of your clothes in her bedroom,” Mulligan said. “What were they doing there?”

“Well, you see, what I said yesterday . . . when I said Vicky and I were just friends ... well, we
were
friends, but we were . . . more than friends.”

“You were having an affair,” Renzi said.

“Why’d you lie to us?” Mulligan said.

“It was such a shock, finding her like that. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Okay,” Mulligan said, “you didn’t mean to kill her.”

“
I didn’t kill her!
We were going to get married! I gave her a diamond ring!”

Mulligan shook his head. “Yesterday you weren’t thinking straight, now you tell us you and Victoria were planning to get married?”

“It’s true, I swear it. We were going to announce the engagement as soon as—”

“What about the money she won in the lottery?” Renzi asked.

“But she didn’t . . . do you mind if I smoke?”

“Tell us about the money.” Renzi’s eyes bored into him, hard and unforgiving.

“Look here, I didn’t kill Vicky!”

“Why should we believe you?” Mulligan said. “Yesterday you lied to us. First you said you didn’t touch the body, then you said she was lying on her stomach and you rolled her over.”

“You don’t understand. I loved her. Bloody hell, why don’t you find the bastard that killed her?”

“I get the feeling you’re jerking us around,” Mulligan said. “Tell us about the money.”

His heart jolted. The moment he’d been dreading. “All right, I’ll
tell
you. Vicky didn’t win the lottery, I did. The ticket she cashed in was
mine
.”

Mulligan’s eyes went wide with disbelief. He brayed a laugh, then a series of hacking coughs, his face crimson. “You had a lottery ticket worth twelve million bucks, and you expect us to believe you just
gave
it to her?”

“It’s
true,
I swear it! I bought it before I went to Iowa at that shop round the corner from Vicky’s flat. Ask the woman that works there. I’m sure she’ll remember me.”

“What were you doing in Iowa?” Renzi asked.

“Conducting a Broadway show.
The Music Man
. On Sunday I flew back to Boston to conduct a Pops concert. That’s when I told Vicky. After the concert I gave her the ring.”

“Told her what?” Renzi said.

“About the lottery ticket. I had her sign it so she could claim the money.”

Mulligan locked eyes with him. “Why would you do that?”

“I was worried about the publicity. The bloody paparazzi. We were going to split the money—”

“Where’s the ring?” Mulligan asked. “She wasn’t wearing one when we found her. We’re required to list any valuables found on the body and we didn’t find any diamond ring.”

Stunned, he stared at them. No ring?

“Check the apartment. It must be there somewhere.”

“We already searched her apartment,” Mulligan said. “We didn’t find any diamond ring.”

“Why wasn’t she wearing it?” Renzi asked. “Most women get a diamond ring, they put it on right away and show it off to their friends and relatives.”

His chest felt like a boa constrictor was squeezing it. He stared into space, trying to visualize Vicky’s hand. But he didn’t want to think about that ghastly image of Vicky. Thinking about it turned his guts to mush.

“Well, p’rhaps she wasn’t wearing it. When I found her, I wasn’t thinking about a ring. I wanted to help her. I wanted . . . I know this sounds silly, but I wanted it to be a horrible dream and I’d wake up and Vicky would be fine.” He looked at Detective Renzi. “That’s the truth. You’ve got to believe me.”

Renzi picked up a computer printout. “Your ex-wife lives in Hollywood. Maybe she was bugging you for money. Is that what happened? You said you were thrilled when Vicky hit the Megabucks. You wanted her to collect the lottery prize money and split it with you. But she wouldn’t so you killed her.”

How could they think that? Tears blurred his vision. If he didn't watch out, he’d start bawling like a baby. He rose from the chair and paced the room, teeth clenched. He knew they were watching, but he didn’t care. He forced himself to take deep breaths, regained control and sat down.

“You don’t understand,” he said quietly. “I loved Vicky with all my heart. I’d never do anything to hurt her.”

“You say you called her after you left the corner store and she didn’t answer, right?” Renzi said.

“Yes. From the shop where I bought the ticket. But the woman wasn’t there, just a young bloke.”

“What woman?”

“The woman I bought the winning lottery ticket from!”

“What did Vicky say when you called her?” Renzi asked.

“She didn’t answer. I left a message on her answer-phone. I
told
you that yesterday.”

Mulligan shook his head. “We didn’t find any tape in the machine.”

“P’rhaps it wasn’t working properly.”

Mulligan leaned forward and got in his face. “Mr. Heath, the incoming message tape was
missing
.”

“Well, where is it?”

“Did you plan to kill her all along, or was it a spur of the moment thing?”

He shook his head, unable to speak.

“You went there and the two of you argued about the money.”

“No! Look here, I’ve got a credit card receipt for the ring. I bought it in Iowa. I’m telling you the truth.”

Mulligan gave him a dubious look. “Okay, give me the receipt and we’ll check it out.”

He took the credit slip out of his wallet and handed it to him. “I’ll need you to make a copy before I leave it with you.”

I wouldn’t trust you with a receipt for a quart of milk.

“No problem,” Mulligan said. “That’ll do for now, Mr. Heath, but don’t leave town. After we check some things, we’ll need to talk to you again. Come with me while I make a copy of the receipt.”

____

Frank waited in the interview room, mulling over what Nigel had said. He appeared shell-shocked, bloodshot eyes, face pale and drawn, eyes darting from Frank to Gerry, then to the tape recorder. But that might not mean anything. Witnesses to violent crimes often got nervous during police interviews. The first day was bad. The second day, after they’d processed what happened, was worse.

But the conductor had changed his story dramatically.

Frank couldn’t decide whether to believe him or not. His emotional distress seemed real enough. Yesterday, after word of Vicky’s murder hit the local newscasts, Gina had called and told him she thought Vicky and Nigel might be having an affair. Maybe they were.

Gerry was itching to charge Nigel with Vicky’s murder, but Gerry didn’t know about the Jackpot Killer.

Still, some aspects of the murder didn’t match the Jackpot Killer MO. No plastic bag. No J&B nip. A young victim. Vicky was only thirty-three. The missing ring intrigued him. The Jackpot Killer had taken jewelry from several of his victims. Maybe Nigel was telling the truth. Maybe Vicky was wearing the ring and the Jackpot Killer took it off her finger.

Gerry sauntered into the room and flashed a triumphant smile.

“The guy’s lying, gives us some cockamamie story about he won the lottery. I say he’s guilty as hell. You?”

“I’d say he’s definitely a suspect, but we need evidence. What about the murder weapon? Be good if we could find it.”

“The guy is full of shit. Ask the woman at the store where I bought the ticket.” Gerry shook his head. “You know how many people bought lottery tickets before last week’s Megabucks drawing? Thousands. Frank, we got the guy.”

“We’re lucky he didn’t lawyer up.”
Incredibly lucky. Either that or Nigel Heath was incredibly stupid.

“Yeah, I was a little surprised that he didn’t.” Gerry grinned. “Good for us, bad for him.”

“Thanks for letting me sit in on the interviews. I appreciate it.”

“No problem. Hank Flynn called to thank me, said he owes me one.” Gerry made a gun with his forefinger. “But if you don’t tell me about the case you’re working that’s related to this one, bada-bing.”

“I will when I can,” Frank muttered, lying through his teeth. Gerry would be pissed when he heard about the Jackpot Killer, and that news could hit the headlines any day.

He left the District A-4 station and returned to his office.

No sooner did he sit down at his desk than his phone beeped. When he picked up, Rafe said, “Yo, Frank, you goofing off or you got time to talk about your boy Tyreke?”

“Right now I’m rating the women in the
Sports Illustrated
calendar issue, but seeing as it’s you, I’ll do that later. Whaddaya got?”

“Had a chat with Jamal’s grandmaw, Josephine Wilkes, after she got home from a hard day’s work yesterday. Also met your budding basketball star. The little guy’s polite as all getout, did his grandmaw proud, says Yes-Sir, No-Sir to the big scary policeman in his living room.”

Frank grinned and settled in for the ride, Rafe getting into his rap routine, belting out street lingo.

“After we finish the opening pleasantries I tell the boy I need to talk to his grandmaw and doesn’t he have homework to do in his room. Grandmaw nods, Jamal goes in his room and I get down to bidness, ask has she got a relative named Tyreke? She says No, but the look on her face tells me she’s scared. So I ask Ms. Josephine, Does yo mama, Ms. Robinson, know Tyreke? Josephine says No, looks even more scared. So I say, Who’s the Tyreke stays in your apartment sometimes, he your boyfriend?”

“I was wondering that myself. What’d she say?”

“She laughs, says: You kidding? Tyreke is young enough to be my son.”

“You believe her?”

“I do. Don’t get me wrong. Ms. Josephine was once a fine-looking lady, you know, but on the worn-out side nowadays, all tuckered out from her job and taking care of her grandson, her wayward daughter presently incarcerated at the ladies’ prison in Framingham for dealing crack or whatever.”

“So why’s Tyreke staying there?”

“Cool it, Renzi. Lemme get to it. Don’t stand there bouncing the ball, ’spect me to beat off two giants and situate myself under the hoop so you can throw me an alley-oop. So anyway, I ask Josephine could she kindly tell me Tyreke’s last name. The name Tyreke Evans ring a bell?”

“Tyreke Evans? No. Who is he?”

“Related to Odell Evans, one of the shooters in the Mattapan church hit back in ’92. But at the time I didn’t know that, asked Josephine for the particulars, you know, like how old is Tyreke and did he break his cherry yet.” A cackling laugh. “Not that I phrased it that way. In my most professional manner I inquired whether or not Tyreke Evans had ever been incarcerated and if so, where. She says—dig this, man—Tyreke is twenty-four years old, spent four of his formative years in a Georgia prison.”