Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) (29 page)

Suffolk County Criminal Court — 2:10 p.m.

From the witness stand, Frank stared at the defendant, but the scumbag wouldn’t look at him. Dwayne “Top Dawg” Davis had on a suit and a tie today. He’d put on a few pounds since Frank had last seen him. Thanks to the code of the street—no snitching, don’t talk to cops, don’t testify in court—Davis had avoided justice for five years.

Now, after an endless series of pre-trial motions and postponements, Davis was on trial for the murder of Luciana Martinez.

Frank’s goal was simple: Put Dwayne Davis away for life.

This morning, prior to his testimony, the prosecutor, DA Kevin Turley, had asked him about his experience as a Boston PD homicide detective. To demonstrate his sensitivity to racial issues, Turley noted the award he’d received for his work with African-American boys. His testimony about apprehending Davis had gone well, but at that point the defense team asked for a lunch recess, no doubt hoping the jury would forget Frank’s damning testimony. The judge had granted the request.

Frank had eaten a turkey sandwich, ruminating about the case. Luciana's mother, Elena Martinez, had custody of Luciana’s daughter. Last night, he’d gone to see them. Every day on the job he saw despair on the faces of homeless people, captured criminals, anguished parents of dead children. But never had he seen the look of despair he’d seen on Elena’s face last night.

Tia-Maria was seven now, brain damaged by the slug that remained in her head. Small for her age and plump, she sat on the living room rug, her eyes dull and unfocused, her movements spastic, eating a chocolate-chip cookie. Elena, a thin woman with a careworn face, thanked him for coming and said, “I hope you put that piece of scum in jail forever, what he did to my daughter. I do what I can for Tia-Maria, but she don’t care about nothing, just the cookies.”

“I’ll do my best,” he’d said, and left, knowing Elena was never going to have a carefree day.

Now, Attorney Rockland Wallace, a slender black man with graying hair and a grim expression, rose from the defense table and strolled past the jurors: five black females, four Hispanic females, and three Hispanic males.

Wallace approached the witness stand. “Detective Renzi, when you arrived at the murder scene on the evening of July 21, 1995, did you know that Luciana Martinez was a drug dealer?”

“Objection!” DA Turley said. “Calls for speculation from the witness.”

“Sustained,” said the judge, a sharp-featured woman with long dark hair, peering at Wallace over the top of her granny glasses.

“I’ll rephrase. Were you given information about Luciana Martinez’s drug related activities?”

Frank waited in case Turley wanted to object. When no objection came, he said, “I received a private investigator’s report stating that on one occasion in 1995 Luciana Martinez was observed in what appeared to be a transaction involving drugs.”

Wallace jerked his head affirmatively as though he’d hit a home run. “Now, you stated that on the night you arrested Mr. Davis, he behaved in a suspicious manner. What attracted your attention?”

“I flagged down his car, but he failed to stop. When I followed the car, he jumped out and ran away.”

“At that time did you draw your service weapon?”

“No, I did not.”

Wallace put on a skeptical look. “This was in the Mission Hill Housing Project, correct?”

“Yes.”

“What time was it?”

“Approximately nine-fifteen at night.”

“At that time it was dark, correct?”

“It was dark, but the street lights were on.”

“How did you know it was Mr. Davis?”

Frank thought about Tia-Maria, seven years old and motherless, because when her mother saw Davis, she had shielded Tia-Maria with her body, absorbing six lethal slugs, one of which pierced Tia-Maria’s brain.

“When I saw him drive by in his Toyota Camry, I recognized him. He was wearing a purple hoodie and he gave me the finger.”

Wallace frowned. “Was Mr. Davis known to you at that time?”

“Yes. I had previously arrested him for assaulting—”

“Just answer the question,” Wallace said. “Don’t embellish.”

“Yes, I knew Mr. Davis.”

“Many young men wear hoodies, Detective Renzi. How could you be certain it was Mr. Davis?”

“Two weeks prior, he was wearing the same purple hoodie when I arrested him for assault and battery with a dangerous weapon.” Spitting it out fast before Wallace could stop him.

Wallace glowered at him. “After Mr. Davis got out of the Toyota Camry, what did you do?”

“I yelled for him to stop, but he didn’t, so I chased him. After he ran approximately twenty yards, he pulled out a gun and shot at me.”

A long-suffering expression appeared on Wallace’s face. “Did you fire back at him?”

“No, I did not. He tripped over something, fell down on the sidewalk and dropped his weapon.”

“Detective, isn’t it true that as Mr. Davis lay defenseless on the ground you struck him in the face?”

He bit back an angry response. Be calm. Stay cool. “At no time did I strike Mr. Davis. When I reached him, his forehead was bleeding from a superficial cut where his head hit the concrete when he fell.”

“Did you render first aid to my client, Detective Renzi?”

Hell, no, I wanted to beat the shit out of him,
Frank thought but didn’t say.

“After I secured Mr. Davis’s weapon, I searched him and found drug paraphernalia and a large amount of cash in his pockets. I cuffed him and called for a patrol wagon and medical assistance.”

He locked eyes with Attorney Wallace. “The EMTs arrived and rendered first aid to Mr. Davis.”

____

Sandwich — 6:30 p.m.

He forked up a bite of meatloaf, rolled the mushy glop around his mouth and swallowed. His mother was watching him. Aware of her laser-beam stare, he fixed his eyes on his plate.

He would not look at her.

“Do you like it? I got the recipe out of a magazine at the doctor’s office.
Family Circle
had an article about thrifty meals. Bread crumbs make the meat go further.”

That’s what it tasted like, bread soaked in salt water.

“It’s nice, Mom. Tasty.”

He went to the refrigerator and took out a carton of skimmed milk. He hated skimmed milk. He poured some into a glass and returned to the table.

“What did you do today?” She bit into a celery stick and chewed rapidly.
Click, click, click
went her teeth.

“The usual. Repairs, a few installations.” He ate some boiled potato and waited for her to make him tell her
exactly
how many repairs,
exactly
when he had lunch—

“I talked to a reporter today.”

He put his hands in his lap, scratching furiously. “A reporter? Why?”

“For an article about architecture,” she said, smirking at him.

“Why? We’re not in the Historic District.”

“She liked the way you painted the house. She liked your calendar, too. We had a cup of tea, and she was admiring it. I told her about your goldfish.”

A sharp pain burst inside his head like a cloud of fireworks, brilliant red and yellow pain. “Did she go downstairs?”

“No. I told her your room was locked.”

“How long was she here?”

His mother smiled. “We had a nice chat. I told her about the accident. Then we got talking about that murder up in Boston. She said the girl that got murdered didn’t even
win
the lottery.”

He clenched his fists. “Yes she did. It was on TV.”

“No. She said that man won. The conductor. Maybe he didn’t kill her after all.”

He took his plate to the counter and scraped the entire plateful into the garbage.

“Billy, it’s rude to leave the table when I’m talking.”

He stood at the sink, the fireworks pounding his head. The scab on his thumb was bleeding. He ran the cold water, rinsed off the blood, returned to the table and sat down. And hid his hands in his lap.

“How does this reporter know the conductor won?”

“He’s a friend of hers.” Watching him with her watery blue eyes.

“What’s her name?”

His mother’s gaze shifted away. “I forget. She was pretty. Short dark hair and slim legs. She liked the bracelet you gave me for my birthday.”

He stared at her wrist. Florence’s bracelet. She’d told some reporter about Florence’s bracelet? How could she?

Abruptly, he rose from the table and ran downstairs.

Why did his mother always have to ruin everything? The conductor won the lottery? No! It had to be a mistake. Victoria won. Lucky Victoria.

What was a reporter doing
here
at
his
house? Noticing things.

The bracelet. Did the cops know about the bracelet?

Seething with anger, he went in his room. Pain pounded his temples as he watched his girls swim around the fish tank, flicking their filmy orange-red fins. Tessa and Florence and Ruthie. And Judy.

He plunged his hand in the tank, captured Tessa, flung her on the floor and stomped her. Lulu was next. Lucky Lulu, trying to hide at the bottom of the tank, but she couldn’t. None of them could. He grabbed Lulu, squeezed hard and flung her on the floor beside Tessa.

Florence and Ruthie cowered at the bottom of the tank. And Judy.

He would never hurt Judy.

Beautiful Judy with her glorious voice. His best girl.

He grabbed Florence in one hand, Ruthie in the other, squeezed hard and dropped them on the floor.

Now Judy was alone. Lonely. They were so much alike.

Judy had suffered, too. Her father died, and her mother was mean. Her mother made her take diet pills when she was just a little girl.

He opened his desk drawer and took out Victoria’s diamond ring and the answering machine tape. He put the tape in his boom box, re-wound it and pressed play.

“Hi, luv, it’s Nigel. I’m at the airport—” There was a beep, then silence.

Nigel Heath. The conductor.
The man who hit the jackpot
.

He forwarded the tape and hit play. “Hi, Vicky, it’s Gina Bevilaqua. Hope you’re feeling better. You said to call you next week so—” He hit Stop and forwarded to the next message.

And heard his own voice. “Victoria? This is—”

He advanced the tape again and hit Play. “Hi, luv, are you there? It’s Nigel. I’m ’round the corner at the grocery shop, thought I’d call to see if you needed anything. Be there in half a mo.”

Interrupting him. Ruining his triumph. Preventing him from leaving his autograph. That’s why the cops thought Nigel killed Victoria.

But the reporter had told his mother that Nigel won the lottery.

How did she know? Because he was a friend of hers.

He powered up his computer, opened his Victoria file, scrolled down to the end and typed:
Nigel Heath = real winner
. Then he typed:
Reporter?

He saved the file and closed it. His head throbbed with a dull ache. He had to find out who the reporter was. How could his mother talk to a reporter and not get her name? Why did she come to
his
house? Could his mother have called her? No. His mother didn’t suspect.

He picked up Victoria’s diamond ring and shut his eyes, savoring the memory, the moment when he’d seen it on her hand. Her limp, dead hand. Victoria had fought him but she couldn’t win. He had BEATEN HER.

But
Nigel
Heath
was the lucky winner, and he was still alive. The cops thought Nigel killed Victoria. There was only one way to fix that.

He’d never killed a man. Men were dangerous. Powerful, like his father.

But now he had a weapon. He dragged the Wagner’s Sporting Goods box out from under his bed. If he shot the conductor, there would be blood.

He would never forget the blood gushing over his face and his neck. Years ago, but it felt like yesterday.

Men were powerful, but now that he had a gun that wouldn’t stop him.

He would find the conductor and shoot him. Then Lucky Nigel would be DEAD. Then the cops would know who killed Victoria.

Then everyone would know.

Maybe that would make his mother’s mouth be still.

____

Dorchester — 7:35 p.m.

Frank dumped the remnants of his take-out BBQ chicken in the trash bin outside his room, went back inside and lay on the bed. Testifying in court today had taken its toll. He had a massive headache. Man, he had to start getting some sleep.

His cell phone rang. He grabbed it, checked the ID and smiled.