Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) (24 page)

Thursday, May 25 — Sandwich

Frank drove alongside the Cape Cod Canal from Bourne to Sandwich, enjoying the scenic view. It was a gorgeous day, sunny and mild. No traffic yet, but tomorrow it would be brutal, the start of the holiday weekend. He might have to finish investigating his third suspect next week.

This morning he had spoken to the head librarian at the Bourne Library.

A no-nonsense woman with thin lips and a long nose, she’d said: “Billy only worked here three months. I used to find him in the stacks reading movie magazines. I think he stole some of them. He’s a creep. One day I caught him in the ladies’ room. Well! That was it. I gave him his marching papers and good riddance!”

That was three years ago. Frank tried not to get too pumped up over it. But two years ago William Karapitulik, then twenty-eight, had registered as a librarian at the Poughkeepsie conference. Still, they needed a lot more than that to peg him as the Jackpot Killer.

At 12:15 Frank parked on a side street in Sandwich and walked back to Number 14. William Karapitulik’s house. Near the ocean it was cooler, and a pleasant breeze riffled budding green leaves on maple trees along the street. Most of the houses were Victorians, fresh paint, gingerbread trim, manicured lawns. When he stopped to let a car back out of a driveway, the woman driver smiled and waved at him.

Nice neighborhood. Friendly folks. Was one of them a killer?

He slowed his pace as he passed Number 14, a small two-story cottage, blue-painted clapboards, white shutters around the windows. All the shades were drawn, looked like nobody was home. Maybe Karapitulik had found another job. He could ring the bell and find out, but he was pressed for time. He and Rafe were taking Jamal to a Celtics game tonight, and Chief Duggan was expecting him.

When he entered the police station, Chief Duggan was waiting by the front desk. Tall and gaunt with thinning gray hair, Duggan looked to be in his early sixties. “What can I do for you, Detective Renzi?”

Frank glanced at the officer behind the desk and said, “Could we talk in your office?”

“Sure thing, follow me.”

At the end of a short hall they entered a sunlit room with two large windows, a metal desk and several file cabinets. The chief motioned him into the visitor chair, sat at his desk and looked at him expectantly.

“I’m working a murder case, and I need information on a Sandwich resident. William Karapitulik.”

“Billy?” Duggan seemed surprised, almost amused. A far cry from the Bourne librarian’s reaction.

“Yeah, you know him?”

“Sure. He’s lived here for, oh, maybe twenty years or so. He lives with his mother.”

Frank’s antenna went up. Maybe he was on the right track. Other than the Poughkeepsie woman, all the victims had been murdered on weekdays during the daytime. Ross thought the killer might live with someone and couldn’t manufacture an excuse to go out at night or on weekends.

“Could you give me some background on them?”

“Can’t say I know them well, but Mrs. Kay . . .” Duggan shrugged. “That’s what everybody calls her. Karapitulik is a mouthful. Anyway, Mrs. Kay’s disabled, had a leg amputated after she was in a car accident. She uses a wheelchair to get around. Don’t guess she’d be murdering anybody.”

“Where was the accident? Here in Sandwich?”

“No. It happened before they moved here, someplace in Kentucky, I think she said.” Duggan frowned. “You got Billy pegged as a suspect in a murder case?”

“Right now I’m checking several leads. You know how it is.”

“Well, Billy’s a little guy, sort of on the plump side. He’s no Charles Atlas, that’s for sure. Hard to picture him as a killer.”

Frank had encountered that reaction before, even from law enforcement people, but over the years he’d encountered some brutal killers who looked like the boy next door. “Where does he work?”

“I don’t know. Can’t say I ever had a conversation with him. I could ask around and find out for you.”

“Thanks Chief. That would help.” Ross could get the information faster, but he wanted to keep Duggan involved. If the lead panned out, a local pair of eyes might be useful.

“His mother’s a born-again Christian. Billy takes her to some Pentecostal church up near Brockton every Sunday. Afterwards they have dinner at the Seaside Diner.” Duggan stroked his jaw. “You might try talking to the waitresses at the diner. Arlene’s the one usually waits on them.”

“Thanks, I will. Has Billy ever been in trouble? Peeping Tom, anything like that?” Ross had already run the name through the FBI’s VICAP database and got nothing, but a misdemeanor peeping-tom charge wouldn’t show up.

“Not that I’m aware of, and believe me, I’d know if he got in trouble, him being a year-round resident. Summer folks and tourists, that’s another story. I hear that murder in Chatham was brutal. Does this have anything to do with that case?”

Unwilling to tip his hand, Frank said, “Right now I’m working another investigation.” Not a total lie. He was working a lot of cases: Vicky’s murder, the Jackpot Killer, the Mass Ave gang hit and several others.

“Uh-huh,” Duggan said. “Damn shame about the woman in Boston that hit the Megabucks. Collects a big prize, gets murdered a week later. You working for Boston PD, I figure you’d know something about it.”

He put on his blank face. Like everyone else, Duggan watched the news, had already made the connection between the Chatham winner and Vicky. Sooner or later some sharp-eyed reporter would dig up the Nashua case, connect the dots and run with the story.

If Billy turned out to be the Jackpot Killer, he might need Duggan’s help, but at this point he didn’t want to tell him Billy was a suspect. It was way too soon for that. He gave Duggan his card.

“I’d rather you didn’t tell anyone I was here. Could you keep an eye on Billy and call me if you notice anything unusual?”

“Sure thing. Nobody’ll hear it from me,” Duggan said, but his eyes had a speculative look.

“Thanks for your help, Chief. Let’s keep in touch.”

____

Billy balled up the wrapper and tossed it on the floor on the passenger side. A cool breeze floated through the van window. He’d parked under a shade tree behind McDonald’s. Last night his mother had fixed her usual rotten dinner. He figured she’d feed him the leftovers tonight so he’d ordered a Big Mac, a large order of fries and a chocolate shake.

While he waited for his order, he’d watched CNN on the television set mounted on the wall. Nothing about a dead lottery winner, just some story about a big airline merger, United and US Airways. As if he cared.

Early this morning, he’d read the Nashua
Telegraph
online. Ruthie’s picture was front and center. The Nashua cops said they had no suspects. Liars. They had to know it was him. He’d left his autograph. The article didn’t mention the J&B nip, but the cops didn’t always tell the reporters everything.

He picked at the eczema scab on his thumb and thought about Ruthie and her yappy little dog, remembering how badly the dog had scared him.

What if the dog had been bigger? What if it had been an attack dog? What if the dog had bitten him?

But next time he wouldn’t need to worry about that. He picked up the
Soldier of Fortune
magazine on the passenger seat, folded open to an advertisement for the New Mark II. The picture was striking. He loved the description. Rugged. Reliable. That’s what he needed, a rugged reliable gun.

The specifications? Steel construction, chambered for the .380 ACP cartridge. Affordably priced at $280, each pistol comes with two ten-round magazines, a field cleaning rod, and a handy padded carrying case.

Perfect. He’d already ordered one.

When he chose his next lucky winner, it wouldn’t matter if she had a dog, not even if it was an attack dog. In fact, it wouldn’t matter if his lucky winner was young or old, a man or a woman.

Once he had his New Mark II, he could make his lucky winner do exactly what he said.

____

Frank parked outside the Seaside Diner, a converted boxcar with rustic red siding and a flat shingled roof. Contrary to what the name indicated, the diner was nowhere near the ocean. Red canvas awnings shaded the windows along the front, and a wooden wheelchair ramp led to the door.

He went inside and sat at the counter three stools away from two older men eating pie and ice cream. They appeared to be hard of hearing, loudly debating the pennant chances of the Boston Red Sox this year.

A young dark-haired waitress in a short black skirt and a white blouse handed him a menu. “Thanks,” he said, “but I’m not having lunch. Is Arlene in? I’d like to talk to her.”

“Hold on.” The waitress pushed open a swinging door behind the counter and yelled, “Arlene! Someone here to see you.”

Moments later a skinny woman in a similar outfit, short black skirt, white blouse, came through the door. She had spiky carrot-red hair, and freckles dotted her cheeks. She appeared to be in her forties, though her dangle earrings hinted at a young-at-heart personality. She beamed him a smile.

“Hi. I’m Arlene. You wanted to talk to me?”

“Frank Renzi,” he said, returning her smile. “Could we talk someplace private? Chief Duggan said you might be able to help me out with some information.”

“Oh. Okay. There’s a table open in the back. Want some coffee?”

“Thanks. That would be great.” He waited while she poured coffee into two mugs. They sat at the table in the back corner. Arlene sipped her coffee, eyeing him over the rim.

“Chief Duggan said you wait on William Karapitulik and his mother sometimes.”

She nodded and her big-hoop earrings swayed. “They come in every Sunday after church. I feel sorry for Mrs. Kay, being in a wheelchair and all. Billy’s a cute little guy.” She grinned. “I keep telling him some girl’s gonna go for him in a big way.”

“Ever hear them argue about anything?”

Her eyes widened. “Billy and his mom? Never. Billy’s real polite. He’s devoted to his mother, always taking her places. What’s this about, anyway?”

He showed her his ID. “I’m checking some leads related to a murder case.”

“Well, you can forget Billy. He’d never hurt a fly. He’s a sweet little guy. He collects goldfish, buys a new one almost every month. He even gives them names.”

“Such as?”

“Let’s see,” she said, frowning in thought. “I think he named one of them Tessa. I forget the others.”

The back of his neck prickled. Tessa. The murdered lottery winner in Rhode Island.

“His mother nags him about his job sometimes, though.”

Out of the mouths of waitresses. “Where does he work?”

“He works for National Cablevision. I’m not sure what he does.”

Dumbstruck, he stared at her. Television. Cable connections.

If Billy was a cable technician, he could probably get into most any house with no trouble at all. Then he remembered what the daughter of the RI lottery winner had said: the day she was murdered, her mother had complained that her TV was messed up.

“But I guess the job doesn’t pay very well,” Arlene went on. “That’s what his mother says, anyway.”

He wanted to kiss her. “Thanks, Arlene, you’ve been a big help.” He locked eyes with her and said sternly, “This is a police investigation. Please don’t tell anyone that I asked about them.”

“Okay,” she said, eyes serious now. “I won’t.”

____

Boston — 7:15 p.m.

When Rafe picked him up outside the D-4 station, Jamal was in the shotgun seat. Rafe winked at him and said, “Sorry, Frank. Jamal’s my co-pilot this evening. Hop in back.”

Frank pushed file-folders and empty coffee containers aside, the usual police car detritus, and climbed into the back seat. “How you doing, Jamal? All set for the big game? Got your cheers ready? Go Celtics!”

Jamal turned and gave him a big smile. “Yes, sir, Mr. Frank. Go Celtics!”

“Very good,” Rafe said, eyeing Frank in the rearview. “Had to explain the proper mode of address to Jamal, don’t want him saying Detective Hawkins or Detective Renzi, ruin our evening, not to mention spoil things for the folks nearby, thinking there’s cops sitting beside them.”

He grinned. Rafe’s enthusiasm was contagious. He stretched his legs and tried to relax. Forget the Jackpot Killer. Shove his looming divorce and financial problems down to the bottom of his worry pile. Get to the Garden, show Jamal a good time and have fun.

Rafe parked behind a Boston PD squad car, put a Boston PD card on the dashboard and said, “Okay, Celtics fans, let’s hit it!”

With Jamal trotting beside them, they entered the Garden. Rafe gave their tickets to the man at the turnstile, and they joined the mob surging toward an escalator. When they reached the upper level, Jamal’s eyes widened, drinking in the huge posters and on the concession stands. The odor of popcorn and grilled hot dogs filled the air.

Rafe said to Jamal, “Who’s your favorite Celtic?”