Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) (20 page)

Friday, May 19

“We talked to that bartender,” Detective Mulligan said, stone-faced, his blue eyes flinty. “The one in Iowa you told us about. He said you told him your
friend
won the lottery.”

Nigel shifted in his chair. “Well, I might have said that. But when all the numbers on my ticket matched the winning numbers, I could hardly believe it. I was chatting him up, having a scotch to celebrate.”

He’d been here an hour and they kept asking the same questions over and over, acting like he was some sort of demented killer, the tape recorder on the table, recording every word he said. The seat of the chair felt like a slab of granite under his butt, not a breath of air in the room, the window shut, secured by iron bars, a nasty reminder that they grilled criminals here.

“But you didn’t tell him
you
won, did you,” Mulligan said, flashing him a triumphant smile.

“But I
did
! I bought the Megabucks tickets! Two hundred of them!”

“Not according to the woman at Marie’s Variety,” Detective Renzi said.

“You talked to her? She remembered me?”

“Yeah,” Mulligan said, “she remembered you. Funny accent, she said. But she told us you bought
twenty
tickets, not two hundred.”

“I didn’t buy the whole lot there. I had a cabbie take me ’round to some other shops.”

“Where?” Renzi said. “What stores?”

“I don’t remember. The bloke driving the cab took me.”

“Where’d you get the cab?” Renzi asked.

“Outside North Station.”

“Okay, we’ll talk to the driver. What cab company was it?”

“How should I know? Why are you wasting time asking about cab companies? Why don’t you find Vicky’s killer?”

“What color was the cab? What did it look like?” Mulligan said, the two detectives working him like tag-team wrestlers, browbeating him.

“I don’t know! The driver was a black man. As I recall he had some sort of accent, West Indian or Jamaican, something like that.”

“Terrific,” Mulligan said sarcastically. “That really narrows it down. You don’t remember his name?”

“I take a
million
cabs! How can I remember—”

“Let’s talk about the money,” Mulligan said. “I checked your credit card receipt for the ring. The salesman at the store out in Iowa remembered you.”

“I
told
you he would. I’m telling the
truth
. Why don’t you believe me?”

“Because your story’s got more holes in it than Swiss cheese. Where’s the ring?”

“I don’t know. The
killer
must have taken it.”

“Why didn’t he take her money and her credit cards?” Mulligan said. “Speaking of credit, you got some problems in that area, don’t you?”

He slumped in the chair. It didn’t matter what he said. Answer one question and they hit him with something worse. He shouldn’t have agreed to come here. Maybe he should hire a criminal lawyer. That’s what the
Herald
reporter, Gina Bevilaqua, had said after the wake. Vicky’s wake.

His throat thickened. He took out a pack of Winstons and set it on the table. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Your ex-wife says you’re behind on your alimony payments,” Mulligan said. “Eight thousand dollars, currently.”

Bloody hell, they’d talked to Joanna?
“Could I have a cigarette?

“Forget the cigarette.” Mulligan fixed him with an ugly stare. “You’re in hock up to your eyebrows, Mr. Heath, half a dozen collection companies breathing down your neck. We talked to your agent.”

“You talked to
Hale
?” Needles of pain stabbed his chest. He tried to get his breath, but his diaphragm was tight as a board. If they’d talked to Joanna, no telling what horrible things she’d said about him, and now they’d talked to his agent. No wonder Hale wouldn’t take his calls.

“He says you got a gambling problem,” Mulligan said. “Used to hit the blackjack tables in Vegas a lot.”

“Well, I used to. But not anymore.”

“You just buy lottery tickets,” Renzi said, implacable dark eyes boring into him. “Two hundred at a clip. Is that why you’re behind on your payments? Five credit cards, and you’re behind on all of them.”

He massaged his throbbing temples. He felt utterly helpless, felt like the  detectives were driving him toward the Cliffs of Dover, hungry sharks waiting in the sea below, ready to eat him for dinner.

“Did Vicky know you were gambling?” Renzi asked.

“I told her about the debts, yes.”

“That’s not what I asked. Did she know you were gambling?”

Overwhelmed with exhaustion, he tried to get his breath. Impossible. He couldn’t take much more of this. He had a splitting headache and his stomach had gone sour as swill.

“Kind of ironic, her winning the lottery,” Mulligan said.

Smiling at him. The arse-wipe was enjoying this. “It was
my bloody ticket
that won.”

“You needed money,” Mulligan said. “I can understand that. Sometimes I get behind on my bills, too. Your girlfriend hit the jackpot, you argued about the money, and you killed her.”

“I didn’t!”

Mulligan rose from his chair, leaned down and got in his face. “What did you hit her with?”

“I’d like to call my solicitor.”

____

8:05 p.m.

“There was an item about you in yesterday’s
Variety
,” Hale said. “And another one in
The Hollywood Reporter
. Not good, Nigel. The cancellations are coming in left and right.”

Seated at the knee-hole desk in his room, Nigel flexed his shoulders, trying to work out the kinks. “I can’t control what the bloody Hollywood gossipmongers write. I didn’t kill Vicky. Somebody else did.”

“Maybe so,” Hale said, “but it looks like you’re the prime suspect in a murder case. You know how it is out here. Hollywood loves a good scandal. Remember Fatty Arbuckle?”

“That was years ago, back in the ’20s.”

“But people haven’t forgotten it. How about Lana Turner and Johnny What’s-his-face?”

“Hale, I’m short on cash. Can you send me an advance? A few hundred should do.” What a joke. Hundreds? He needed thousands.

“Your ex-wife’s been calling me twice a day,” Hale said. “She wants money, too.”

“What about the Iowa gig? Did they send you the check?”

“No.”

“Well, call them! Bloody hell, the only reason I took that gig was because I needed the money. You know that.”

“Okay. I’ll call and ask the manager to send me the check. Gotta go, Nigel. My other line’s ringing. Call your ex-wife. I didn’t tell her which hotel you’re staying at, but if she keeps badgering me, I might.”

A click sounded in his ear, then the dial tone.

Call Joanna? He’d rather have a root canal.

He poured more Glenlivet into the water glass—straight, no ice—went to the window and parted the curtain. Twinkling stars and a thin crescent moon were visible in the dusky sky. Six floors below him, a line of television vans stood in front of the Back Bay Inn. The bastards worked in shifts ’round the clock, day and night, waiting for him to come out. So they could pounce.

The telephone was his only link to the outside world, but it brought no comfort. Hale said cancellations were coming in left and right.

What would he do for money? The air left his lungs in a whoosh, as though some giant unseen hand were crushing his chest.

The detectives had mocked him this morning. Five credit cards, Renzi said, behind on all of them.

What could he say? It was true. He barely had enough cash to buy cigarettes. He’d charged the bottle of Glenlivet to his room. Add in the charges for his meals . . . How would he pay the bill?

His solicitor wanted money, too. A lot of it. Up front, Attorney Merrill Carr had said this afternoon, seated at his fancy mahogany desk in his swanky office, autographed photos of Boston sports and entertainment legends lining the walls.

Nigel belted down some scotch and sprawled on the bed. Nights were the worst. He couldn’t sleep. Nightmares plagued him, stern-eyed faces and pointing fingers, jolting him awake. He took the remote off the nightstand and turned on the telly. Maybe some mindless television show would put him to sleep. He wanted to sleep forever and never wake up.

What did he have to live for? Vicky, the love of his life, was dead.

He took a pull of scotch, set the glass on the nightstand beside the bottle of Glenlivet and channel surfed. Music burst from the speaker and the screen filled with musicians. Of all the bloody luck!

A Boston Pops concert, taped earlier in the season.

Music
filled the room. The Brahms
Academic Festival Overture.
He knew what was coming. Soon the woodwinds would make their entrance. The clarinets. Vicky. The camera zoomed in on the woodwind section.

Nausea turned his guts to liquid. He couldn’t bear to watch, couldn’t bear not to. And there she was. His beloved Vicky, her sultry clarinet sound soaring through the speakers. His throat closed up and tears filled his eyes.

He would never see her again, never make love to her again, never hear her laugh at his silly jokes.

With a low moan, he hit the off-button and gulped some scotch.

Vicky was dead and it was his fault.

The detectives weren’t even looking for the bastard that killed her. They thought
he
killed her.

What the hell was he going to do? His money was gone, his debts piling up. Forget the Pops gig, everyone was canceling now. Hale couldn’t get him a gig leading a high school wind band. How would he pay the hotel bill? He couldn’t even go out, had to sit in his room, order up room service and send the bellhop out to buy cigarettes. And Glenlivet. He poured another finger of scotch and drank it down.

If only he could talk to someone. Maybe he’d call Gina Bevilaqua. After Vicky’s wake she’d been so thoughtful. She was the only one who listened, the only one who understood, the only one who believed him.

Everyone else thought he’d killed Vicky.

He took her card out of his wallet and studied it. Gina Bevilaqua wrote for the Boston
Herald
, one of the local rags. For all he knew, she was kissing up to him, angling for an exclusive interview. But what if she wasn’t?

She hadn’t said much about herself. He hadn’t thought to ask if she had a family. She might be married, might even have children. Calling her on a Friday night would be inconsiderate.

Maybe he’d call her tomorrow.

Visions of Vicky swam before his eyes.

How would he live without her?

He poured more scotch into the glass.

Sunday, May 21 — Sandwich

“There you go, Billy, pot roast special,” Arlene said, setting his plate down. Beaded earrings dangled from her ears almost down to her shoulders. “Here’s your roast beef, Mrs. Kay. Well done. Enjoy!”

He looked at the gravy puddling over his mother’s mashed potatoes and thought: Uh-oh. Trouble ahead.

His mother’s lips tightened. “Arlene, didn’t I tell you no gravy? I’m sure I did.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I put it on the order, but we’re so busy today. I’ll take it back.”

“No, that’s all right.” His mother sighed, one of her long-suffering-victim sighs.

Arlene’s forehead wrinkled in a frown. “Are you sure? It’s no trouble.”

“It’s fine, Arlene.” Smiling her sanctimonious smile.

Driving rain spattered the window beside their table. It was no day for the beach so the Seaside Diner was more crowded than usual. He glanced at the two cops sitting at the counter, wondering what they were talking about.

Soon they’d be talking about
him
.

He speared a piece of pot roast, dipped it in the gravy and ate it. Delicious. His mother was toying with her food. He knew she’d never eat any, not with that gravy all over it.

“Preacher Everdon gave a marvelous sermon today,” she said. “Honor thy father and thy mother. He said families should look after each other.”

His thumb started to itch. He forced himself to ignore it and took a roll out of the basket.

“I’ve always looked after you, isn’t that right, Billy?”

“Yes, Mom.” He buttered the roll and took a bite.

“I feel bad for Arlene, poor thing, losing her husband, and four boys to bring up. That’s why I didn’t make her take my dinner back.” His mother scraped gravy off her roast beef, cut a tiny piece and chewed, her teeth clicking. “She forgot to tell them about the gravy, but I’m not going to blame her for it. Preacher Everdon says if parents teach their children the proper respect . . .”

He tuned her out and studied the pattern the raindrops made on the window, thinking about his girls.

“Billy! Are you listening to me? I said remember how your pa used to take you and John to Little League games?”

Remember? He clenched his fists. How could he forget? Pa whacking him in the head when he struck out, telling him to keep his eye on the ball, and why couldn’t he be more like John. Big brother John, making fun of him when he fell and hurt his knee and started crying.

Arlene came to the table with a mug of coffee and ran a hand over her close-cropped carrot-colored hair. “Gee, it’s so busy today I haven’t had time to visit with you.” She pulled out the chair opposite his mother and sat down. “I love your dress, Mrs. Kay. That color blue goes great with your eyes.”

“Thank you, Arlene. I was just saying to Billy it’s too bad his pa and his brother aren’t with us. John would be thirty-five now.”

Arlene nodded sympathetically, the freckles on her cheeks standing out on her pale skin like little red-orange gnats.

“John was five years older than Billy, a big strapping boy. Sometimes I wonder what he’d look like now. John took after his father. So athletic.”

He hid his hands under the table and scratched.

“John was the star pitcher for his Pony League team. He’d have been a success no matter what he did, just like his Pa. Silas was a liquor salesman. We had plenty of money then.” His mother shrugged. “Billy’s job at the cable company barely keeps us in groceries.”

But it lets me find people
. Addresses. Phone numbers. His mother didn’t know about that.

“Can you believe that woman up in Boston?” Arlene said. “She hits the lottery, collects twelve million bucks and a week later she gets murdered!”

“She shouldn’t have been gambling. I saw her picture on television. Victoria, her name was. A cute little thing, but so chubby! There’s something weird about the man who found her. That conductor. Billy, what’s his name? I forgot.”

He set down his fork and put his hands in his lap.

“Nigel Heath,” Arlene said. “I saw him on TV once. My son Timmy plays trombone and we watched him conduct a Pops concert—”

“Mark my words, Arlene. He killed that girl!”

He scratched his hand. Stupid, stupid, stupid! His mother was an idiot.

She didn’t know about his skill and the power it gave him. Neither did the cops, yet. But he’d show them.

“I was watching Geraldo Rivera last night,” Arlene said. “He said there might be a serial killer on the loose.” She nodded, and her beaded earrings swayed. “Murdering lottery winners. He said there were other cases, before that girl up in Boston. It’s scary! One of them was in Chatham!”

“Really?” his mother said. Her pale blue eyes regarded him thoughtfully.

Why was she looking at him like that? Did she suspect? No. She was stupid. He was smarter than she was. Smarter than the cops, too, especially that cop on the news, hinting that Nigel Heath killed Victoria.

“What do you think, Billy?” Arlene said, gazing at him with an earnest expression. “You think the conductor killed that girl?”

“I don’t know. Mom’s probably right. She usually is.”

“We should be going, Billy.” His mother smirked at Arlene. “He’s taking me to Morrow’s so we can buy a box of their low-fat chocolates.”

“Oh, Billy, you’re so sweet.”

“Then we’re going to the pet store. Billy wants to buy a new goldfish.” His mother frowned. “What did you name the last one? Wasn’t it—”

“Janice,” he said quickly.

“I thought you named it Vic—”

“No, Mom. Janice.” He gave Arlene his sad look. “Janice died, so I have to buy a new one.”

“You sure do love those goldfish,” Arlene said.

He nodded. “I’ve already got a name for the new one.”

____

Westwood

Gina pushed stalks of asparagus and broiled scallops around her plate. She had no interest in food. She wanted a cigarette, but Ryan would flip out if she smoked. When she'd talked to Nigel at her beach house after Vicky's wake, she’d given him her card, but four days later he still hadn’t called. It was maddening. An exclusive interview with Nigel would be a key element in the feature article she planned to write.

“How come you’re not eating?” Ryan said. “You seem distracted.”

“I’m writing an article about a young jazz trumpeter. He grew up in Roxbury surrounded by gangs. Now he’s playing the Living Room in New York.” A total fabrication, of course, but Ryan would never know. He was a country-western fan, and he never read her articles, he just ridiculed them.

“Busy week for me, too. There’s a company up in Chicago, grossing eight or ten mil a year, that’s about to fold. Might be my next project. I talked to the CEO.”

“Mmmm. That’s nice.” She stifled a yawn.

“Yeah, it went really well.” He pushed back his chair and gave her one of his seductive looks. “Let’s go upstairs, babe. I’m ready for some loving.”

Last night she’d endured one of his disgusting love sessions. She had no intention of doing it again tonight. She carried their plates in the kitchen, put them in the sink and opened the drawer with her hidden stash of Marlboros. She took one out and lighted it.

Ryan came in the kitchen and looked at her, clearly annoyed. “What’s with the smoking? You know I hate the smell.”

She took a bottle of Chardonnay out of the refrigerator and poured herself a glass.

His face set in a frown. “What’s up, Gina? Worried about something?”

As if he gave a shit.
You bet, Ryan. Worried about how to tell you I’m leaving
.

She rubbed her forehead. She really was getting a headache. “I’ve got a migraine. I need to take a nap.”

His eyes narrowed and his lips thinned in a line. “Sorry, honey, I’ve got a headache?”

Her cell phone rang. Saved by the bell. She grabbed her cell off the counter and answered it.

“Hello, Gina? Nigel Heath here. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not at all,” she said, turning away so Ryan wouldn’t see her jubilant expression. “How are you doing?”

“The coppers raked me over the coals again on Friday. So I took your advice, told them I wanted to call a solicitor.”

“Good for you,” she said.

“Gina,” Ryan said, in the warning tone he used when he was angry. “I’m waiting.”

She ignored him and puffed her cigarette, heard Nigel say: “Could we meet some night this week? So we could talk again?”

“That sounds excellent,” she said. “Call me tomorrow around five and we’ll set it up.”

“Thanks ever so much,” Nigel said. “Talk to you soon.”

She closed her phone and put it in her purse. When she turned, Ryan was holding her wineglass. He poured the wine down the sink. “We need to talk and you need to be sober.”

She puffed her cigarette, her stomach churning like a cement mixer.

“Put the cigarette out. It stinks up the house.”

“Don’t tell me what to do. I’m not your slave.”

“Who was that on the phone?”

“None of your business.”

His face turned crimson. “Gina, I’m your husband. You get a phone call eight-thirty on a Sunday night, have this cryptic conversation, and tell me it’s none of my business?”

He reached for her arm, but she pulled away. “Don’t touch me, Ryan. I warned you, remember?”

He ground his teeth the way he always did when he was angry, his chest rising and falling, breathing hard like he’d just finished a workout at the gym.

She put out the cigarette and picked up her purse. Her car keys were in it. If he tried anything—

In one swift motion, he grabbed her, his hands gripping her biceps, and shoved her against the wall. Then he leaned down and kissed her, forcing her lips open with his tongue, sticking it into her mouth. She wrenched her head away, but his fingers dug into her arms, holding her in place.

“Gina, I’m done begging you for sex. You’re a pathetic excuse for a wife. It’s time we had a baby. Then you can stay home and take care of it. I’ll give you a week to quit your job.”

She stared at him, incredulous. The sight of him made her skin crawl. She realized she was holding her breath. She sucked air into her lungs and tried to speak calmly. “Let go of me, Ryan. You’re hurting me.”

His blue eyes narrowed. “I'll hurt you a lot worse if you don’t quit that stupid job at the
Herald
. When I come home from Austin next weekend, you better tell me you did.” He released her arms and stood there, glaring at her.

She grabbed her purse, hurried out of the house and got in her car. Her heart thumped her ribs and her hands were shaking. Should she call Franco and tell him what happened? No. Ryan had a temper, but so did Franco, and Franco despised men who abused women.

Still, she’d never seen Ryan this angry. He was out of control. She had to find somewhere else to live. Permanently.

She got on the Expressway and headed for her beach house. She could stay there for now, but not in the winter. Her brothers had installed an electric heat pump to prevent the pipes in the kitchen and the bathroom from freezing, but the cottage was freezing in the winter, especially upstairs. During cold spells, she and Franco made love on the futon in the living room.

She’d have to rent an apartment. But she was still paying for the Mazda and apartments in Boston were expensive. One month’s rent would eat her entire paycheck. She’d never admit it to Ryan, but her job at the Herald didn’t pay that well. Maybe her boss would give her a raise if her feature article about Vicky and Nigel attracted a lot of readers. She had already planned it.

Start with rescuing Vicky after she claimed the lottery prize, detail their conversation at Mama Leone’s, then hit the emotional core of the story: Nigel’s devotion to Vicky, his grief after her murder, and his feelings of guilt.

But would a feature article warrant a big raise? Probably not.

She got off the Expressway and set out for Squantum, thoughts swirling in her mind. She was positive Nigel didn't kill Vicky, but someone had. Maybe it was the Jackpot Killer. She still felt bad about not warning Vicky.

Then it hit her. Forget a feature article, she’d write a book!

Why didn’t she think of it before? Plenty of reporters wrote books about serial killers:
Helter Skelter
, about Charles Manson and his followers, Ann Rule’s book about Ted Bundy. Why not a book about the Jackpot Killer?

What a story that would make! She already had an inside track. This week Franco was investigating some new suspects. He and his FBI agent colleague were closing in on the Jackpot Killer. Once they captured him, she’d be in a perfect position to write a book.

The Lottery Winner Murders
. That had a nice ring to it.

She’d already done some preliminary research on gambling and the problems it caused. She’d had a brief meeting with Vicky after she collected the lottery prize, and Nigel was dying to talk to her.