Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) (23 page)

He nodded. Already he felt sick to his stomach and his fingers were icy claws. He needed a cigarette to settle his nerves, but the detectives probably wouldn’t let him smoke, the bastards.

Merrill forged his way through the reporters, his silvery-haired head held high. “Let us through please. My client has no comment and neither do I.”

Not “My client is innocent,” Nigel thought, sinking into a pit of despair. Didn’t anyone believe him?

Mulligan was waiting in the lobby. He didn’t seem happy to see Merrill Carr. When they went in the interrogation room, Detective Renzi wasn’t there. Another man with dark hair and dark eyes sat at the table. Mulligan didn’t introduce him.

Nigel sank onto the chair opposite the younger detective. Merrill took the chair beside him. The moment Mulligan turned on the tape recorder, Merrill said, “This is harassment, pure and simple, Detective Mulligan. My client gave you his statement already.
Without
benefit of counsel, I might add.”

“We offered to let him call a lawyer but he declined,” Mulligan said. He turned to the other detective and said, “Detective Palumbo, get Mr. Heath and Attorney Carr a cup of coffee.”

“Sure thing,” Palumbo said. “What’ll it be, Mr. Heath? Cream? Sugar?”

“Black is fine, thank you.” The friendly gesture encouraged him. The last time they hadn’t offered him so much as a drink of water.

“None for me,” Merrill said. “Detective Mulligan, are you prepared to press charges against my client?”

“No, but we’ve got questions for him. This is a high-profile murder. We need to find the killer.”

“Well, it wasn’t me,” Nigel said. “Why don’t you find the bugger that—”

Merrill put a hand on his arm and squeezed. “Detective Mulligan, I fail to see what further questions you could possibly have for my client.”

Mulligan coughed, a smoker’s hack, Nigel thought, judging by the nicotine stains on his fingers. Damned if he’d beg the bastard to let him smoke, though. Detective Palumbo returned and set a mug of coffee in front of him. Nigel took a sip. It was so hot it burned his tongue, but at least it warmed his hands.

“We need to go over the timeline,” Mulligan said. “What time did your plane get in from Las Vegas?”

He set down the mug. “My flight got in at 7:55.”

“And you didn’t check any bags?”

“Whether my client did or did not check baggage is irrelevant,” Merrill said.

“Merrill, we need to establish what time Mr. Heath got to Victoria’s apartment.”

“I
told
you!” Nigel said. “I took a cab from Logan—”

“Wait for the
question
,” Merrill said in his nasal voice. “If I want you to answer, I’ll
tell
you.”

“Mr. Heath,” Mulligan said, “what time did you call Vicky from the airport?

He glanced at Merrill, who nodded. “Might have been eight-fifteen or so. I can’t remember exactly.”

“But it could have been
earlier.
”

“Detective Mulligan, my client answered your question to the best of his
recollection
. Let’s move on.”

“What did you and Vicky talk about?” Mulligan said.

“That’s privileged,” Merrill snapped. “My client will not answer.”

He looked at Merrill, but Merrill’s eyes were fixed on Gerry Mulligan. He tried his coffee. It had cooled a bit, just the right temperature now. He sipped it gratefully, cupping the mug with his hands.

“You took a cab to Victoria’s apartment?” Mulligan said.

“Yes. I told you that before.”

Detective Palumbo spoke for the first time. “We checked every cab company that services Logan Airport, but we didn’t find any cab driver that remembers taking you to the North End.”

“That means nothing,” Merrill snapped.

Mulligan frowned. “Yes it does. It means he could have gotten to the North End
earlier
.”

“My client will not answer any further questions about how he got to the North End. He took a cab. It’s not
his
responsibility to locate the driver. That’s
your
job.”

“What time did you call Vicky from the store?” Mulligan said.

“Around nine. The traffic was bad—”

“Nigel, just answer the
question
.” Merrill glared at him, his eyes hard as granite.

“The woman in the store doesn’t remember seeing you,” Detective Palumbo said.

“She wasn’t
there
that day. I
told
you—”

“Detective Mulligan, this is a fishing expedition, pure and simple. You have no evidence to charge my client. He’s already given you a complete and accurate statement. Mr. Heath is a busy man, so—”
             

“Hold it!” Mulligan’s face got red. “He can’t leave town. He’s a primary witness. I’ll get a judge—”

“That won’t be necessary.” Merrill rose to his feet. “My client has no plans to leave Boston. I suggest you get busy and find the
real
murderer. My client did
not
kill Victoria Stavropoulos.”

A surge of hope rippled through him. At last Merrill had spoken the words he longed to hear.

But Merrill said nothing as they returned to the taxi, his face grim as they fought through the mob of reporters.

When they drove off, Nigel said, “That went pretty well, didn’t it?”

Merrill skewered him with a look. “Not now. Wait till we get to your hotel.”

They rode in silence the rest of the way. At the Back Bay Inn Merrill forged his way through another mob of reporters and television cameras, barking, “No comment.”

When they got to his room, Merrill didn’t sit down. Nor did he smile.

“Nigel, I always level with my clients, so I’ll give it to you straight. You’re the prime suspect in the murder of Victoria Stavropoulos. Mulligan hasn’t got his ducks lined up in a row yet, but when he does, he’s going to charge you. My guess is, it’ll be murder one.”

Frank got to the Nashua crime scene in thirty-eight minutes flat. A Nashua police cruiser stood outside the victim’s house, a one-story bungalow painted pale green. The front door opened and a rugged-looking older man stepped outside.

“Detective Renzi? Steve Huff. You made good time.”

“Thanks to your directions. Nice to meet you. Frank Renzi.”

Huff pumped his hand and said, “Brace yourself. This one’s brutal.”

He put on the booties and latex gloves Huff gave him and went inside. Ignoring the stench, he surveyed the room, gathering impressions. A woman sprawled on the floor. A yellow plastic bag over her head. On the carpet under her head, a large dark bloodstain. Inside a hollow in the plastic bag, a J&B nip stood out like a red flag. The Jackpot Killer had left his calling card.

This time there was another victim. Near the woman’s body, a small dog, some sort of terrier by the looks of it, lay on its side. Blood matted the fur on its head, and dark-brown bloodstains marred the carpet underneath the dog.

“Any idea how long they’ve been dead?” he asked Huff.

“At least twenty-four hours I'd guess. I didn’t touch the woman, but I tried to move one of the dog’s legs. The dog appeared to be in full rigor. Assuming they were killed at the same time, I’d say she is, too.”

“Who found her?”

“We got a wellness-check call from her daughter this morning. She lives in Billerica, just over the line in Massachusetts, said she’d called her mother three times yesterday, got no answer, same thing this morning. We sent a patrol officer. He couldn’t see much through the window, tried the front door and it was unlocked. It was obvious this was a homicide, so he called me.”

“Looks like he hit her with something heavy.”

Huff nodded, his expression grim. “I see a lot of rage here. He beat her head to a pulp.”

Like Vicky, Frank thought. The Jackpot Killer was losing control.

“You’re hunting a serial killer, right?” Huff said.

“Is that what Ross Dunn told you?” He didn’t want to reveal too much. Ross wanted it kept quiet.

Huff shrugged. “Not in so many words, but I worked in the Bureau for twenty years. Agent Dunn sent an email asking for an immediate call about any unexplained lottery winner deaths.” Huff gave him a pointed look. “I watch the news. A lottery winner was murdered in Boston. I figure that’s why you’re here. Agent Dunn said you were his liaison on some recent murders.”

“True. This one didn’t go the way he planned. Looks like the dog tried to protect her, so he killed the dog, too. How’d you know she was a lottery winner?”

Huff didn’t answer, just took him in the kitchen and showed him a newspaper clipping on the table. “That’s what tipped me off. I need to call the forensic team. I held off till you got here like Agent Dunn asked, but it’ll take them a half-hour to get here.”

“Go ahead,” Frank said, scanning the news clip. Last week, Ruth Bennett, age sixty-three, had hit the NH Lotto and won forty-five thousand dollars. She worked at a nursing home, but didn’t plan to quit her job. “Those folks need someone to take care of them,” she’d told the reporter. “I love my job. It makes me feel good to help people.” Doodled around the article were smiley faces in red ink. The sight tugged at his heart.

Huff closed his cell phone and gestured at the article. “Sad, isn’t it?”

Frank nodded, thinking:
They’re all sad.
A
week ago, he’d been consoling Vicky’s father at her wake. Now, another Jackpot Killer murder. The interval between kills was getting shorter. The bastard was escalating.

“No forced entry,” Frank said. “Why do you think she let him in?”

“Could be a trade person, electrician or a plumber maybe, or some kind of delivery man.” Huff grimaced. “Hate to say this, but the killer could be someone with police ID.”

Frank doubted this. Of the seven Jackpot Killer victims so far, eight if he included Vicky, none of the neighbors had reported seeing a policeman or a police cruiser. “The Boston victim’s head was beaten, too.”

“What about the Pops conductor, the guy that found her? Judging from the news reports I see, seems like the investigation is focused on him.”

“That might change when the lead detective gets wind of this one.” He locked eyes with Detective Huff. “Do me and Agent Dunn a favor, okay? Keep the details of this case quiet, especially the J&B nip.”

“I’ll do my best, but I can’t control the forensic people or the coroner. You know how it is.”

“I do. Could you send the autopsy report and whatever else you get to Agent Dunn and copy it to me?”

“No problem,” Huff said. “We need to catch the bastard.”

“The sooner the better,” Frank agreed. “Before he kills another one.”

____

Westwood — 8:30 p.m.

Gina finished packing more clothes into her suitcase, zipped it shut and lugged it down to the kitchen. An open bottle of Shiraz stood on the counter. She poured the last of it into a wineglass. Why waste it? Ryan didn’t drink, didn’t smoke and didn’t swear. The perfect altar boy, except when it came to sex. Never again would she watch porn videos with Ryan on the big-screen television that faced their king-sized bed.

But forget Ryan. Focus on the book.

Too edgy to sit, she paced the kitchen, thinking about Vicky and Nigel. She felt like a vulture. She’d been too focused on interviewing a big lottery winner for her gambling series to warn Vicky about the Jackpot Killer. When Vicky was murdered, Nigel became the prime suspect.

Now she was using him, too.

On the 6:00 p.m. news, she’d seen footage of him leaving the police station with his lawyer earlier today, his mouth set in a grim line. She didn’t know what happened, but she was glad he'd hired a criminal defense lawyer.

She sipped her wine, thinking about what Nigel had told her last night about his mother. Even now, twenty-three years later, he appeared devastated. When a family member committed suicide, it stayed with you for a lifetime.

Her telephone rang, startling her. Who was calling at this hour? Franco never called her landline, only her cell. She checked Caller ID. An icy chill froze her in her tracks. Ryan, calling from Texas. He never called during the week. She hadn’t spoken to him since Sunday night.

But better to talk to him by phone than in person.

She picked up and said, “Hello?”

“Hey, Gina, how you doing?” Ryan said jovially, acting like nothing was wrong.

“Okay. How are you?” As if she cared.

“I had a great day today, picked up a new client. But that’s not why I called. I was kind of rough on you last Sunday, might have said some things I shouldn’t have.”

Might have? Grabbing her, shoving her against the wall and kissing her? Telling her to quit her job, have a baby and act like a real wife?

“Hello? You still there, babe?”

“I’m listening.” Waiting for an apology. Not that she’d ever get one from Ryan.

“I’m coming home early on Friday so we can go away for the long weekend.”

Go away for the weekend? Was he out of his mind?

Maybe he thought he’d get her pregnant. Fat chance. She’d been taking birth control pills for the past six years. Ryan would flip if he knew. God knows what he’d do if he found out she was having an affair with Franco.

“Want to go to the Cape? New York City? Your choice.”

My choice would be
Take a hike, Ryan
. But she didn't dare say it.

Her cell rang. Her stomach tensed, but then she thought:
It’s Franco
.

“Hold on a second, Ryan. My cell phone’s ringing.”

But it wasn’t Franco, it was Nigel. “Hope I’m not calling at a bad time. Got time to chat for a bit?”

Pressing the landline receiver against her thigh, she said softly, “Let me call you back, Nigel. I’m talking to someone on my landline.”

“Blast! Sorry to be such a bother. The detectives had another go at me today. My lawyer says I’m the prime suspect. He says they might throw me in jail any day now.”

“Hold on, Nigel.” She raised the landline receiver and heard Ryan yell, “Gina! Don’t leave me hanging!”

She could pictured him, his mouth set in a line, his blue eyes flinty.

She spoke into her cell. “Nigel, I’ve got to go. Call you back in a half hour, I promise.” She punched off and spoke into her landline: “Sorry, Ryan. Something about work.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Ryan said, his tone venomous. “You were talking to Nigel Heath.”

Damn. He must have heard her say Nigel’s name. She took out a cigarette and lighted it. “So?”

“Seems like you and Nigel are pretty cozy these days.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What I said. His girlfriend’s dead, so now he’s got a new one. You’re sleeping with him.”

“I am not!”

“What’s the attraction? He’s a big-shot conductor? Not anymore. I saw him on the news tonight. He looked like an old man. He’s washed up, Gina.”

“Ryan, I’m a reporter. He’s in the news. I’m working on a story.”

“Forget the story. Stay away from him.”

“Don’t tell me who I can talk to!”

“I knew it. You’re sleeping with him.”

She drank some wine and puffed her cigarette. Why bother to respond? Ryan’s mind was made up, and when he made up his anal-retentive mind about something, nothing would change it.

“Listen up, Gina. I already booked my return flight from Austin. When I get home Friday at four o’clock, you better be there. Think about where you’d like to go. It’s a holiday weekend, so hotel reservations will be tight. If I don’t hear from you by noon tomorrow—”

“Ryan, I’m not going anywhere with you this weekend.”

Silence on the other end. Her heart pounded as she waited for the explosion. None came. Ryan disconnected and the dial tone droned.

Her hands trembled as she gulped some wine. She had no idea where she’d be at 4:00 on Friday, but it wouldn’t be here. What would Ryan do when he came home to an empty house? She realized she didn’t care. Any feelings she might have had for him had disappeared years ago.

She got on her cell and called Franco. The man she loved. The man who called her his Ace Reporter.

The man who spoke into her ear in his deep melodious voice. “Hey, I was just thinking about you.”

“Miss me?” she said.

“Always.”

Her eyes misted with tears and her throat closed up.

“What’s up, Gina?”

“Nigel Heath just called me. He said Gerry Mulligan gave him another hard time today.”

“Damn! Gerry knew I’d be out of town. What happened?”

“Nigel’s lawyer thinks they’re going to arrest him. Can’t you talk to him? Please?”

“I’m flat out for the next two days. Another lottery winner got murdered in Nashua.”

“No!” she gasped. “Was it the Jackpot Killer?”

“Looks like it, but that’s not for publication, so mum’s the word. Earliest I could talk to Nigel would be Friday night.”

“That would be fantastic! Where and when?”

“We better go to his hotel, but make sure his lawyer isn’t there.”

“Okay. I’ll come to the Dorchester Palace at 9:00 and we can drive in together. How does that sound?”

“Sounds great.” A soft chuckle. “Then I can bring you back to my room and have my way with you.”

She burst out laughing. “That’s my Franco. Always the wise guy.”