Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) (28 page)

And so it went for nine years.

He refilled his wineglass and looked at the clock. 2:40 a.m. He was still wide awake and now he had a headache to boot. The evils of sin. Wine, women and song. Janine wasn’t just eye-candy, she had a brain. After graduating from Cornell, she’d met Saul at a cocktail party. Janine was twenty-one; Saul was forty-six and divorced. Six months later they were married.

One time when he asked if she felt guilty, Janine had looked at him and said: “Of course, and so do you. But if we were getting what we needed from our spouses, we wouldn’t be here.”

She was right. He was happy to have sex with a willing partner who was intelligent and fun to be with. Janine enjoyed their love-making as much as he did. Evelyn was perfectly happy not to have sex with anyone.

But in 1992, Saul was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. At the age of sixty-six, he died, leaving forty-two-year-old Janine a widow. And everything changed. As it turned out, wild and adventurous Janine had a traditional side.

She wanted to be married. To Frank.

The night she laid it on him, he didn’t know what to say. He genuinely cared for Janine, but her world revolved around Boston Symphony concerts, art museums and dinners at posh restaurants. His world involved bloody corpses, gun-toting killers and late-night investigations.

Worse, if he divorced Evelyn, he might lose Maureen, and that would kill him. He adored her. He loved playing Monopoly with her and taking her to horseback-riding lessons on the weekends and Celtics games in the winter.

When he told Janine he wasn’t going to get a divorce, she got misty eyed, and they made love for what turned out to be their last time. It was as good as ever. Afterwards Janine said she cared for him, but she had to move on. She wanted to be married, and when Janine wanted something, she usually got it.

A month later she’d moved away and he never heard from her again. Sometimes he wondered if she ever had a child. If she did, maybe she would understand his decision. Either way, he hoped she’d found someone.

Janine was a good person. She deserved to be happy. So did Gina, but from the sound of things, her marriage was in rough shape.

Two years ago as they lay naked in bed one night, Gina had asked him if he thought they would get bored with each other. She knew about Janine. He’d told her about their affair and how it ended.

“In the movies,” Gina had said, “people who have affairs eventually go back to their spouses. God forbid they should get a divorce. Hollywood sends a message: have your fling, but marriage is best for everyone involved.”

But was it? Sometimes people were just incompatible.

He and Evelyn were proof of that, and he didn’t think Ryan would be thrilled to find out Gina was having an affair.

His cell phone jangled. He checked the time. 3:02 a.m.

He punched on and croaked, “Hello.”

“Hey, man, sorry to roust you outta bed at this hour,” said Rafe. “Got some interesting news.”

“That’s good. Three in the morning, I’m not in the mood to chat.”

“Tyreke Evans is lying on a sidewalk in Mattapan, one shot to the head.”

Frank sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “You there now?”

“Yup, but I’m heading home. My PO pal called me an hour ago, gave me the heads-up. When I got there, the lead detective said it looked like a Gunfight-at-the-OK-Corral-type thing. Tyreke was packing, but the other guy must have been a better shot. Here’s the interesting part. Tyreke’s gun is the same type as the one that killed your Mass Ave victim.”

“Did you tell the lead detective?”

“I did. He said he’d see what he could do about matching the slugs.”

“That’d be great, wouldn’t it?”

“No shit,” Rafe said. “Now we don’t gotta worry ’bout moving Jamal and Ms. Josephine out of that apartment, might even close a case for you.”

“Thanks, Rafe. I owe you one.”

Rafe chuckled. “Indeed you do. Big time.”

“Tell you what. Get three more Celtics tickets and we’ll take Jamal to another game. My treat.”

“Right on,” Rafe said. “Talk to you later.”

He shut his cell and massaged his bleary eyes. He was glad Tyreke would no longer be a threat to Jamal, and it would be great if this allowed him to close the Mass Ave murder case.

But it didn’t solve his divorce problem.

Tuesday, May 30 — Sandwich

Gina entered the historic town square and anxiously checked her watch. 11:10. She’d left the motel in Plymouth in plenty of time, but a bad accident on Route 3 had delayed her. She was late for her appointment.

Franco thought the Jackpot Killer might have taken Vicky’s diamond ring. Other than that she didn’t know what kind of evidence he needed for the search warrant.

Five minutes later she parked in front of the Karapitulik house, relieved that the white van wasn’t parked outside. She went up the walk, admiring the gleaming white lattice-work that boxed in the porch. Someone must have spent hours painting it. She rang the bell and heard a faint chime.

A full minute passed. The Venetian blinds on the front windows were closed. She checked her watch. 11:16.

At last the door opened and a woman in a wheelchair appeared. She had a thin pinched faced, wavy blonde hair and piercing pale-blue eyes.

“Mrs. Karapitulik? I’m Gina Bevilaqua. I’m sorry I’m late.”

“Oh, call me Mrs. Kay. Everyone does. I thought you weren’t coming, but come in, come in. You’ll have to get the door. Would you like a tour of the house? I tidied up as best I could.”

The words tumbled out in a torrent. Gina heaved a sigh of relief. The woman was a talker. That might make this easier.

She stepped into a hallway with a worn runner and said, “I’d love to see the house, but could we talk a bit first?”

“Well.” Mrs. Kay pursed her lips. “Come in the living room then. It’s not fancy, but it’s home.” Her thin shoulders hunched as she wheeled into the adjacent room. “Billy always shuts the blinds. I don’t know why. The girl that helps me with my bath was late today so I didn’t get a chance to open them.”

The wheelchair emitted a rhythmic squeak as Mrs. Kay went around opening the blinds. Sunlight streamed into the room, revealing the shabby furnishings. A brass-framed daybed with a tattered blue comforter and two throw pillows stood against one wall. Crude cross-stitching on the pillows said:
JESUS SAVES
. In the corner, a wingchair with frayed brown upholstery faced a television set.

Uncomfortably aware of the woman’s intense gaze, Gina perched on the wingchair. She’d worn casual clothes, a white blouse and black stretch pants, but Mrs. Kay had clearly put on her best outfit, a royal-blue pantsuit. The lower half of one pant leg was tacked up above the knee. Brass buttons lined the front of the jacket, and the bottom of the sleeves were frayed. A plain gold wedding band adorned the ring finger of her left hand.

No diamond ring.

“What a cozy little house,” Gina said, giving the woman a cheerful smile.

“Billy painted it last spring. We have to keep up appearances, you know, living near the Historic District. I bought it before the prices went through the roof. All these houses were a mess before the Historical Society spruced them up. I couldn’t afford to buy it now.”

“Are there more rooms upstairs?”

“Yes, but we don’t use them. It’s too expensive to heat in the winter. I sleep in here on the daybed. Billy’s room is downstairs in the basement.”

Gina ostentatiously scribbled notes on her steno pad. “When did you say you bought the house?”

“Nineteen years ago.” Mrs. Kay heaved a sigh. “A year after I had my accident.”

“How awful! What happened?”

“You don’t want to hear about that, you came to talk about the house.” Gazing at her, her pale-blue eyes intent.

“I do, but a house is only a house. I like to write about the people who live in them.”

“Oh. Well, I was in a bad car accident. Back then we lived in Lexington, Kentucky. My husband and my oldest boy were killed. Now it’s just Billy and me. I used the insurance to buy the house.”

“Is that where you’re from? Kentucky?”

“No, I grew up in Atlantic City. Where they hold the Miss America Pageant?” She smoothed her hair and soft waves fell around her narrow face. “In high school everybody said I should enter the Miss Atlantic City contest. But you have to do a talent routine.” Her lips pinched in a line.

Given her sour expression, Gina decided not to pursue that angle. “How did you meet your husband?”

Mrs. Kay’s lips softened and the lines around her mouth smoothed out. “Silas was a salesman for a big liquor distributor. He had all the Atlantic City casino accounts. Silas was so handsome, a real go-getter. I quit high school to marry him.” She stared into space. “We eloped to Kentucky. Then John was born.”

Gina nodded, reading between the lines. Fast-talking liquor salesman sweeps working girl off her feet and soon there’s a shotgun wedding.

“I had quite a life back then. We’d go dancing. Silas loved going to clubs. And he adored John.” Her thin lips pursed. “Then
Billy
came along.”

“Is that Billy?” Gina asked, gesturing at a framed photograph on a table, a handsome, dark-haired teenager smiling into the camera.

“Lord, no, that’s
John
!” Mrs. Kay beamed. “Isn’t he handsome? John took after his father. Billy was different.” Her smile faded. “Silas said he didn’t see how—” She looked away and scratched her nose. “What magazine did you say this was for?”

“
Boston Magazine
,” Gina said, jotting notes in her steno pad:
Father, Silas, liquor sales. Brother, John.
She wondered if any of this would help Franco.

“I did another interview once. A newspaper reporter came to see me after Billy—” Her lips tightened. “Anyway, that’s how we got the van. Billy drives me to church in it every Sunday. Are you a Christian?”

She glanced at the religious statues and pictures. She didn’t want to listen to any religious rants. “It must have been a terrible accident. How did it happen?”

“We were going to a Little League game. John was the star pitcher. He was riding in front with his dad. Billy and I were in back. We were late so Silas was driving fast. The insurance company said he’d been drinking.”

Gina felt a rush of compassion as Mrs. Kay stared into space, a bleak expression on her gaunt face.

“The good Lord spared me, but I almost bled to death. My leg was bleeding something awful. And Billy hurt his head real bad.”

“Do you have a picture of him?” Gina asked.

“Billy? No.” Mrs. Kay smiled at her. “Let’s have a cup tea, shall we?”

“Thank you. That would be lovely.” Gina followed her down a short hall.
Squeak, squeak
went the wheelchair. At the far end, Mrs. Kay pointed at a wide door. “That’s the bathroom. The door to the left goes downstairs to Billy’s room.”

“Can I see it?” Mrs. Kay couldn’t go downstairs, but she could. If she got into Billy’s room, maybe she’d find Vicky’s ring, or something else to give Franco what he needed for the search warrant.

“No, Billy keeps it locked. He never lets anyone in his room. Come in the kitchen and I’ll put some water on for tea.”

Gina wanted to scream in frustration. She made a mental note to tell Franco about Billy’s room, a
locked
room in the basement. Creepy.

Opposite the door to the basement, an archway opened onto a small kitchen with worn gray linoleum. The exterior of the house looked spiffy, but the interior bordered on squalid: a clunky old refrigerator on one side of the sink, an ancient gas stove on the other. A steaming teakettle sat on the stove. Along one wall, a chrome kitchen chair with a ripped yellow-plastic seat stood under a cheap card table.

“Too bad Billy’s not here,” Mrs. Kay said. “Maybe he’ll come home for lunch and you can meet him.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Jesus! Did he come home for lunch? Suddenly the little cottage seemed claustrophobic, not cozy. She didn’t want to meet Billy. What if he was the Jackpot Killer?

“I always tell Billy I’ll fix a nice lunch for him, but he says it’s too much trouble.” Mrs. Kay put teabags into two cups and poured hot water over them. “But I cook us a nutritious hot meal every night.”

“I’m sure you do.” Gina carried the teacups to the card table, sat on the chair with the torn seat and stirred her tea, wishing it were coffee, wishing she could smoke.

Wishing she could get what she needed and get the hell out of here.

Mrs. Kay wheeled herself to the table and set paper napkins beside the teacups. She pulled up the sleeve of her jacket and scratched her forearm. A dainty scarab bracelet hung from her bony wrist. It looked expensive, Gina thought, out of place, considering the shabby furnishings.

“That’s a beautiful bracelet, Mrs. Kay.”

“Thank you.” She held out her arm to show it off the bracelet: tiny oval scarabs in a delicate gold setting, amber stones alternating with green ones. “Billy gave it to me.”

Her heart sped up. That might be a clue. According to Franco, the Jackpot Killer had taken jewelry from some of his victims. “When was that?”

“A couple of months ago. For my birthday. Why?”

A rush of adrenaline upped her heart rate. “Did he say where he got it?”

Mrs. Kay gazed at her silently. “No. Billy can be thoughtful sometimes.”

Did he ever give you a diamond ring?
Gina wanted to ask. But she didn’t dare. A murder suspect lived here, and she was getting weird vibes. Scary vibes.

Casting about for something to say, she gestured at the calendar on the wall beside her. It had an excellent reproduction of a Matisse goldfish painting. “I like your calendar. Matisse is my favorite painter.”

“That’s Billy’s calendar. He’s crazy about goldfish. He’s got some in his room downstairs.” Mrs. Kay smirked. “His
girls
, he calls them. He gives them silly names. Tessa. Lulu. Florence. I could have sworn he named one of them Victoria, but he said he didn’t.”

An icy chill skittered down her spine. Victoria?

She said nothing and concentrated on the names, committing them to memory: Tessa. Lulu. Florence. And Victoria.

“Didn’t you say you’re from Boston? Where that girl got murdered? The girl that won the lottery?” Mrs. Kay shook her head. “Gamblers want money but they don’t want to work for it.”

“Vicky didn’t win the lottery.”

“Yes she did. It said so on the news. I saw it on TV.”

Why was Mrs. Kay so interested in Vicky’s murder? Gina wondered.

“Well, if she didn’t win it, who did?”

“A friend of hers.”

Mrs. Kay’s teacup clattered into the saucer. “That Pops conductor?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?” Fixing her with those intimidating pale-blue eyes.

“He’s a friend of mine.”

“Then he didn’t—” Mrs. Kay sipped her tea, avoiding Gina’s eyes.

Gina resisted an urge to look behind her. Was Billy downstairs in his room? No. She was imagining things. Franco said he worked during the week, and there was no van outside.

The doorbell rang, a loud clang that sent her heart racing.

“Now who could that be?” said Mrs. Kay. “Help me open the door.”

Reluctantly, Gina followed her down the gloomy hall, took a deep breath and opened the door. A husky UPS man in a tan uniform smiled at her and said, “Package for William Karapitulik.”

“What is it?” Mrs. Kay said in a querulous voice.

Hefting a shoebox-sized package in a plain brown wrapper, he said,  “Beats me. I need you to sign for it.” He handed the package to Mrs. Kay.

“Goodness, it’s heavy.” Mrs. Kay set it on her lap and signed the slip.

“Have a nice day,” the driver said, and hurried down the front steps.

“Could you put this in the living room?” Mrs. Kay said, thrusting the package at her.

Surprised at how heavy it was, she took the package in the living room, set it on the TV tray beside the wingchair with the frayed brown upholstery and studied the return address. Walker’s Sporting Goods. Dallas, Texas.

Sporting goods. Frightening possibilities flooded her mind. She had no clue where Vicky’s ring was, and everything Mrs. Kay had told her might be useless, but right now she didn’t care. She had to get out of this creepy house.

She returned to the hall. “I’ve got to be going, Mrs. Kay. Thank you for talking with me.”

“Oh, that’s all right. I don’t get much company. Maybe we can talk again sometime. Could I have your card? In case I forgot to tell you something?”

She didn’t want to leave her card, but she didn’t want to arouse the woman’s suspicions. Besides, what if Billy
was
the killer? Mrs. Kay was no Miss Congeniality, but she was in a wheelchair. Helpless.

Gina took out her business card and gave it to her. “If you think of something, give me a call.”

Mrs. Kay studied the card, then looked at her. Her pale blue eyes had a faraway look in them. “Yes,” she said slowly. “I will.”