Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) (21 page)

After she put together a book proposal, she’d discuss it with her editor. If she signed with the right agent, she might get a big advance to write the book. The
Herald
might even run a series of excerpts.

Her euphoria fizzled like a punctured balloon.

That all sounded great, but cold hard reality was different. She didn't have an agent, didn't have a book contract, and the Jackpot Killer was still at large. She couldn’t even write the book, much less pitch it to an agent.

And cold hard reality was equally certain. Ryan would never change. What was he doing now? Working off his fury at the gym? Watching a porn movie on the big-screen television in their bedroom?

She had no idea how any of this would eventually play out, but one fact was crystal clear in her mind.

No more porn videos and no more sex with Ryan.

Tuesday, May 23 — Nashua, NH

He took his toolbox out of the van and studied Ruthie’s dilapidated bungalow. The trim needed painting, the front steps sagged, and the railing looked like it was about to fall down. Ruthie must have been hard up for money. Until last week.

His heart fluttered anxiously and his hands itched like wildfire inside the latex gloves. He didn’t know what she looked like. Her picture hadn’t made the paper. Prizes under a million were no big deal these days.

The article in the Nashua paper said Ruthie was a fifty-nine-year-old widow. She worked at a nursing home, but he’d called her early this morning in case she hadn’t quit her job yet. He checked his watch. 10:35. Later than he’d planned, but the traffic had been horrendous.

It was risky, sneaking out of work. After he finished, he’d better call his customers so they wouldn’t contact his boss and complain that he was late.

He went up the walk and set his toolbox down by the front door. This time he’d brought a heavier wrench, in case Ruthie didn’t do what he said. In case she fought back, like Victoria.

This time he’d leave his autograph so the cops would know it was him.

He got his clipboard ready and rang the bell.

A dog began to bark.

His heart jolted in a spasm of fear. A dog! Why didn’t he think of that?

The yapping grew louder and he heard a voice on the other side of the door. “Squeaky! Stop that barking right now.”

His hands grew sweaty inside the gloves.

The door opened and a stout gray-haired woman in navy slacks and a polka-dot blouse said, “Goodness, you got here fast. Come in.”

“Thank you, Ruth.” He smiled as hard as he could. “Mind if I call you Ruth? My boss says it’s friendlier. We like to keep our customers happy.”

“Isn’t that nice!” She peered at the name on his shirt. “Come in, Billy.”

But when she started to open the door, the dog snarled. He shrank back.

“Could you put the dog in another room? Dogs scare me.”

“Oh, don’t worry. Squeaky’s very friendly. Fox terriers are all bark and no bite!” She smiled broadly, displaying yellowed dentures. An upper tooth was missing on the left side.

“Please, could you put him in another room?”

“Her. Squeaky’s a girl. That’s why she makes so much noise,” Ruthie chortled. “But I can tell you’re not a dog lover. Wait here while I put her in the kitchen. Come on, Squeaky, be a good girl. Behave yourself.”

He mopped sweat off his forehead with his shirtsleeve. The dog was messing up his plan, and he had no time to waste. He glanced at the house next door. What if Ruthie’s neighbors were home and saw him?

She came back and opened the door. “You can come in now. I put Squeaky in the kitchen so she can’t bother you.”

In the living room a lumpy brown sofa faced the television set. He set his toolbox down on the oval braided rug that covered the floor.

“I hope this won’t take long,” she said.

“Don’t worry, Ruth. Ten minutes, tops.”

“That’s good. I called and told them I’d be late for work. They know I’m wild about my cable TV. Not much else to do at night when you live alone.”

He stared at her. How
dare
she tell them he was coming! He opened the toolbox, took out a screwdriver and knelt down beside the television. Sweat beaded his forehead, and his hands itched like crazy.

The dog yapped furiously. He could see the stupid little mutt in the kitchen, scampering back and forth behind the low wooden gate that blocked the doorway.

“Have you worked for the cable company long?” Ruthie said.

“A couple of years. My boss is a real terrier. I mean terror.”

“Oh, that’s a good one!” She giggled, exposing the gap in her dentures.

He gave her his sad-look. “He’s always on my case. You know how bosses are.”

“Do I ever! My supervisor at the nursing home is a dragon lady.”

But you’ve got money now. You’re an idiot to keep that crummy job.

“How come you’re still working?” The words came out before he could stop them. Stupid! He’d made a mistake!

Her forehead wrinkled in a frown. “I guess you heard,” she said slowly. “About me winning the Lotto last week?”

“That’s exciting. Why don’t you quit your job?”

“I thought about it, but those old folks in the nursing home depend on me. Besides, the prize didn’t amount to much. By the time they take out taxes—”

“I think you should quit your job.” He rose to his feet.

The dog snarled and jumped against the gate.

“Squeaky, stop that!” Ruthie looked at him apologetically. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her today.”

Eager to get it done, he opened his toolbox and studied the yellow plastic bag and the long-handled wrench. Ruthie had told them about the cable repair. And if her stupid dog didn’t stop yapping . . .

“I need you to unplug the TV,” he said.

The phone rang. It startled him and he flinched.

She looked at him uncertainly.

“Ruth,” he said. “I need your help
now.
Unplug the TV.”

“Well,” she said, frowning, “I really should answer the phone.”

Why wouldn’t she do what he said?

Why couldn’t everything go smoothly, the way he’d planned?

His cheeks flushed with anger. He stared at her, not smiling.

The phone kept ringing. The yap-yap-yapping dog leaped against the wooden gate.

“Oh all right,” she said. “It’s probably a salesman or something.” She went to the electrical outlet on the wall beside the television and bent down to pull out the plug.

He reached her in one quick stride and slammed the wrench against back of her head. With a loud groan, she fell forward onto the floor.

The phone stopped ringing, but now the dog was barking worse than before,
yap-yap-yap
. The sound made his head hurt.

He sat on her back, pulled the bag over her head and tightened the drawstring. Her fingers plucked feebly at the bag. The skin on her hands was rough and chapped. He pushed her hands away and yanked the cord tight.

With a savage snarl, the dog crashed against the wooden gate, knocked it to the ground and charged, ears flat to its head, eyes barely visible behind tufts of brown fur, teeth bared.

His mouth went dry and his legs turned to jelly.

Panic stricken, he grabbed the wrench, swung hard, felt it connect. The dog yelped and scampered away. But Ruthie kept calling for help, her words muffled by the plastic bag.

Enraged, he slammed the wrench down on the yellow plastic.

The dog lunged at him, snarling viciously.

He swung the wrench and hit the dog’s head. The dog fell to the floor, yelping. He hit it again. At last the dog lay still.

Rage consumed him, and pain pounded his head. Why couldn’t Ruthie behave? Ruthie and her yappy dog. Ruth-less. He had to be RUTHLESS. He pounded her head with the wrench, beating the yellow plastic until a jolt of pain shot up his forearms. When he stopped, his breath came in gasps.

Smears of bright red blood covered the wrench and the latex gloves. His stomach heaved. He ran in the kitchen, found a towel beside the sink and wiped his gloved hands on the towel. Looking at blood made him sick.

He wrapped the bloody towel around the wrench and checked the time. 10:55. He was late! If he didn’t call his customers, they’d complain to his boss.

And he still had to leave his autograph.

He ran back to the living room and fixed the cable connection. Then he rolled Ruthie over, folded her arms across her chest and jammed the J&B nip into the hollowed plastic in her mouth.

J&B. John and Billy. John was always first. Billy was last. Least.

You make me sick
, his father had said.

He looked at the dog. Sickening. A pool of blood had formed under its head, staining the braided rug.

Ruthie and her dog had fought him, but they couldn’t defeat him.

Now the cops would know he could KILL. Power surged into his groin.

His hand went to the zipper of his workpants. Then he saw the stains, blood spatters on both pant legs!

How could he go to work with blood on his pants?

It was all Ruthie’s fault, Ruthie and her stupid dog. His head throbbed with a dull ache. It made him dizzy. He closed his eyes.

He had to change his pants before he went to work.

Blood. Blood. BLOOD.

The letters fell into place in his mind. BOLD. He had to be BOLD.

____

Manchester, Connecticut

It was almost noon when Frank drove into Manchester. Theoretically the trip from Boston should have taken two hours, but parts of the highway were under construction, so it took almost three. Ten miles east of Hartford, Manchester was home to fifty-five thousand residents, most with incomes higher than the national average. Homes on the main street looked expensive, large brick-front houses with attached garages and sprawling green lawns.

Anxious to get on the road, he’d skipped breakfast, had polished off a large Dunkin’ Donuts coffee on his way down. Now it was almost noon and his stomach had that hollow feeling. Time for lunch. Then he’d check out his suspect at the public library. Timothy McDermott lived and worked in the same city as Betty McMillan, the fourth Jackpot Killer victim.

Frank ate a burger and some sweet potato fries at a cafe on Main Street, then walked to the library. Faint thunder sounded in the distance. Here it was sunny, but off to the east, dark clouds filled the sky.

A young female librarian was tending to patrons at the circulation desk. Thanks to the driver’s license data and photo Ross Dunn had sent him, Frank figured Timothy McDermott would be easy to spot: age thirty-two, six-foot-four, blue eyes, brown hair, unsmiling in the DL photo. Frank went in the stacks near the desk and paged through a book, waiting, watching.

A minute later McDermott emerged from the elevator and carried an armful of books to the circulation desk. Tall and gaunt, he wore dark trousers and a short-sleeved shirt, arms like sticks, looked like a male version of Twiggy. Except Twiggy didn’t have a pronounced limp like McDermott.

A man that tall and that thin, with an obvious limp, would not go unnoticed. If McDermott was the Jackpot Killer, he’d had an unbelievable streak of luck.

After McDermott returned to the elevator, Frank went to the desk. The librarian, a young woman with a pixie haircut, gave him a pleasant smile.

“Is the head librarian in?” Frank asked.

“Ms. Farnum? Yes, she’s in her office.” The woman pointed to a glassed-in cubicle in the corner with waist-high wood paneling.

Frank thanked her, went to the cubicle and tapped on the open door.

Ms. Farnum, a small, bird-like woman with gray hair, looked up and cocked her head like a sparrow. “Can I help you?”

“Detective Frank Renzi, Boston PD.” He showed her his ID. “I have some questions about one of your employees. Timothy McDermott.”

Ms. Farnum frowned and her hands fluttered nervously. “Goodness, is there a problem?”

To avoid towering over her, he sat on the chair beside her desk. “How long has he worked here?”

“For almost eight years. Why? Has Tim done something wrong?”

“Have you had any problems with him?”

Her frown deepened. “Problems? No. His performance reviews are excellent.”

“I understand he attended a workshop in Poughkeepsie, New York, a couple of years ago.”

“Yes. Tim’s our popular culture expert. I rely on his advice about which books and media to acquire. Tim’s a devout Christian. He says there’s too much sex and violence in the movies these days. I agree.”

Frank wondered if she had watched the sex orgy in
Eyes Wide Shut
. Somehow, he doubted it. “Tim is single?”

“That’s correct.”

“He lives alone?”

“I believe so.”

“Any girlfriends?”

Her lips pursed. “Tim’s a very private person. If he had a girlfriend, I very much doubt that he’d mention it to me.”

“Ever see him lose his temper?”

“Tim? Lord, no. All our patrons love him.” Another big frown. “What’s this about?”

He gave her a sheet of paper with a list of the Jackpot murder dates. “Could you check and see if Tim was working on these dates and fax me the information?”

Ms. Farnum glanced at the dates. “Well, I can tell you he wasn’t working on January 19th of this year. He had a bad car accident during that big snow storm we had, broke his leg in three places. He was out of work for five weeks. When he came back, he was on crutches.”

That accounted for the limp. Nix Timothy McDermott for the murder of Jackpot victim number four.