Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) (3 page)

After lunch he’d dig into the files FBI Special Agent Ross Dunn had sent him. The Jackpot Killer files.

Suffolk Downs, East Boston

“Ladieeees and gentlemen! The fifth race post parade is about to begin!”

Booming over the clubhouse loudspeaker, the announcement brought a familiar thrill of excitement. Nigel Heath looked down at the horses, dappled in sunlight, jockeys in bright-colored silks coaxing their mounts to show off for the gamblers at the rail. The tote board flashed: Post time: twelve minutes.

“I thought this morning’s rehearsal went well,” Vicky said, beaming at him. “I love the Gershwin, especially the
Rhapsody in Blue
.”

He smiled at her, his beloved Vicky, super-talented and gorgeous, liquid brown eyes, sensuous lips, and smooth olive skin, set off to perfection by her gold-print dress.

“I chose it for the clarinet solo and you played it spot on.” He caressed her forearm and murmured, “Seductive and sexy, like you.”

She ran her tongue over her lips suggestively and grinned.

He glanced around Legends Bar and Grill. No Pops musicians at Suffolk Downs on a Wednesday, just hard-core gamblers. If the BSO bigwigs found out about their affair, his shot at the Pops conducting job was over. Conductors weren’t supposed to get romantically involved with the players.

“I wish you were in Boston more often,” she said. “Maybe you’ll get the Pops gig.”

“A middle-aged Brit with a bald spot? No chance, luv. They want a matinee idol like that flashy bloke that’s conducting next week. Give him a screen test, he’ll be the next teen heartthrob.”

He checked the tote board. Post time: ten minutes. His pulse quickened. He’d studied the racing form this morning. The six-horse in this race was the only nag worth betting on.

“But you’re a better conductor, Nigel. The players love you, and you’re great with the audience. Must be that British charm.”

Touched by her loyalty, loath to admit how badly he wanted the job, he said, “Doesn’t charm the BSO bigwigs. They think I’m a Hollywood hack because I conduct film scores. And the Vegas gigs don’t help.”

“You must be on the short list. What does your agent say?”

“Hale’s a smooth operator, but he’s not ICM. They manage the superstars. Hale deals the jack-of-all-trade blokes like me. I’d better call him. Just past noon in L.A., he’s not swimming in the martini-pool yet.”

Vicky’s eyes grew somber. “You’re not going to bet, are you?”

“Not me. Quit that months ago.”

“I saw you checking the tote board. Maybe we shouldn’t come here.”

“Go on, luv, it’s good fun.” He rose to his feet and took out a pack of Winstons. “I need a cigarette. Bloody stupid you can’t smoke in here. I’ll pop outside for a butt, call Hale on my mobile, be back in no time.” Vicky rarely smoked, after a romp in bed, perhaps, or when she was anxious about something.

“Tell him to get you the Pops gig!” she called after him.

Her words echoed in his mind as he left the restaurant, but landing the Pops gig wouldn’t solve his current crisis. He rushed downstairs, thinking of all the wagers he’d put on horses over the years. But this was different. Intent on reaching the betting booths, he pushed through a swinging door and bumped into a slim woman in a stylish red dress.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “How clumsy of me!”

She eyed his blue shirt and tailored slacks. Apparently he passed muster. Her frown melted and she flashed a saucy grin. “What’s that accent? British?”

“Dead right.” He smiled and saw a flicker of interest in her eyes. God knows what women saw in him. He was no Robert Redford, but he’d discovered long ago that his smile made women melt. No time for flirting now, though. Goldilocks was waiting. He nodded pleasantly and walked away.

Goldilocks was the four-year-old filly he’d spotted in the racing form. The morning line had her at three to one, but the tote board was showing
nine
to one. It was clearly an overlay, much higher odds than would normally be expected. The morning line was only the handicapper’s prediction, nothing sacred about it, but odds like this were hard to resist.

“Five minutes to post time,” the announcer said, urging people to place their bets.

The fifth race was a mile and an eighth. According to the racing form, Goldilocks had made strong stretch runs in her three previous races, and her jockey was tops. The favorite was a big gray. Gray was his lucky color, but the gray was in position four. Goldilocks was in slot six, his lucky number.

Through a large plate-glass window he watched Goldilocks prance down the track. She looked ready to run. He checked the board. Bloody hell! Now the odds on Goldilocks were
twelve
to one! The bettors were backing the favorite, which didn’t have a chance, in his opinion.

Flushed with excitement, he went to the hundred-dollar window where the high rollers did business. After Hale threatened to pull the plug on the Vegas gigs, he’d promised to stop gambling. He’d made the same promise to his ex-wife, but bloody hell, she was the cause of his current difficulty. Joanna wanted five grand by the end of the month, had threatened to haul him into court if she didn’t get it.

Panic hit him like a fist. He didn’t have it, behind on all his credit cards, paying off more loans than he could count. He joined the queue at the hundred-dollar window behind two men in flashy suits. Maybe he’d split his bet between Goldilocks and the favorite. That way he couldn’t lose.

Four minutes to post time
. The queue moved forward, and the man ahead of him began placing his bet.

Guilt crept into his heart like a poisonous fog. Vicky thought he’d quit gambling. He’d fallen in love with her the first time he conducted Pops two years ago. He was forty-one, eight years older than Vicky, but that didn’t seem to matter. He’d told her about his previous problems, though not the size of his debts, and she had convinced him to stop. Vicky thought gambling was stupid. He hated to let her down.

Three minutes to post time.
The man in front of him left the window and Nigel stepped forward.

“What’ll it be?” the clerk said.

“Fifth race. Three thousand to win on the six-horse.”

The clerk’s eyes darted to the bills Nigel put down, then to his face. “Yes, sir. Fifth race, three thousand to win on number six.” The man counted his money, punched the computer and handed him the ticket.

He left the window with the sickening feeling he’d done something stupid. But it was out of his hands now. A burning sensation seared his chest as he raced upstairs to the restaurant.

Vicky was staring at the track, nibbling her thumbnail. He kissed her cheek and slid into his seat.

She beamed him a radiant smile. It made his heart ache. Raven-black hair curled in ringlets around her face, and round black-rimmed glasses framed her velvety-brown eyes.

“I got us a hot-fudge sundae,” she said. “With mocha ice cream. But I only ordered one. We can split it. If I don’t take off ten pounds—”

“You’re gorgeous the way you are, luv. Who wants a skinny little string bean?” Nothing wrong with Vicky’s appetite, but he loved women with healthy appetites.

“What did Hale say?”

“Same old California-speak. He just booked me a gig in Cincinnati. That’s the good news.”

“And?”

“My ex-wife is badgering him. Badgering me, actually. I’m a bit behind on alimony, and her career’s on the skids. Joanna’s forty-six. Hollywood’s not keen on older actresses.”

Vicky reached over and stroked his hand. “If you’re really short, I can lend you—”

“Not a chance, luv, wouldn’t hear of it.”

The announcer’s agitated voice came over the loudspeakers: “They’re in the gate!”

“Let’s watch the race,” he said. “Should be a good one.”

His palms dampened with sweat.
Come on, Goldilocks, win one for Nigel.

The favorite broke in front, followed by a cluster of four horses. Goldilocks was on the outside, running easily, clear of the pack. So far so good.

“This ice cream is delicious,” Vicky said.

Her words barely registered. He focused on Goldilocks. Going into the first turn she stumbled. His heart leapt into his throat. Bloody hell, if she tossed her jockey, he was done for.

But no, she recovered. Now she was off and running again.

“Have a bite, Nigel.”

He stared at the chocolate sauce and the mountain of whipped cream. Just looking at it made him queasy, but he managed a smile. “I’ll have the cherry.”

Holding the stem, Vicky fed him the cherry. He sucked it into his mouth and concentrated on the race. Bloody hell! Goldilocks was running third, four lengths off the pace. But she was a sprinter. The jockey was probably saving her for the stretch run.

“Nigel,” Vicky said quietly.

“Mmmm,” he said, unable to tear his eyes off Goldilocks. The crowd roared as the horses rounded the final turn. Coming into the stretch, Goldilocks passed the two-horse. His heart pounded. Goldilocks was in second at the eighth pole with two hundred yards to go. But the favorite was two lengths ahead. Why didn’t the stupid sod of a jockey whip her?

“Nigel, this is delicious. You should try some.”

He held his breath as Goldilocks moved up on the leader. The jockey was whipping her now. About time. And it worked! She was gaining on the favorite.
Come on, Goldilocks, you can do it!

The crowd went wild as Goldilocks and the gray horse raced neck and neck to the finish line. They crossed it together, so close he couldn’t tell who won. Exhausted, he sank back in his chair and wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers. A photo finish. Fractions of an inch would decide his fate.

A monumental dread swept over him.

“Nigel, what’s wrong? Your face is all sweaty. You didn’t bet, did you?”

He forced a smile. “Of course not.”

A roar went up from the crowd. He didn’t dare check the board.

What if Goldilocks lost?

Terrified of the answer, he forced himself to look.

Bloody hell, the gray horse was the winner!

Numbed by the disaster that had just befallen him, he slumped in his chair. Now the three-thousand-dollar advance from his credit card was gone, and Joanna wanted another five. He wanted to smash his head against the wall. He’d gone back on his word and lied to Vicky. He’d lost control and acted stupid.

He vowed never to bet on another horse as long as he lived.

“Look at that gray horse in the winner’s circle,” Vicky said, pointing down at the track. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

_____

Seated at his desk with a telephone clamped to his ear, Frank watched a screen-saver airplane swoop across his computer monitor. A low hum purred from a ceiling vent, sending recycled air through his office. The voice on the phone droned on: “. . . no reason to kill her. My kids are devastated.”

Loath to interrupt, he swiveled his chair and studied a brass plaque on the wall. Anything to avoid the ugly crime scene photographs on his desk.

The plaque cited Detective Franklin Sullivan Renzi for his work with underprivileged children. When he wasn’t busy hunting killers, he coached a middle-school basketball team in Mattapan.

Now, two thick murder books sat on his desk.

A third case file lay open in front of him. Five minutes ago he’d called the victim’s son. He stifled a yawn. It had been a long day but he didn’t feel like going home, didn’t want to deal with more problems there.

A muscle worked in his jaw as the son’s voice, full of anguish and rage, said, “They keep asking for Grammy. Why can’t you catch the bastard?”

“George, I’m very sorry about your mother—” And listened to another litany of sorrows.

He studied a snapshot on his desk, a photo of him with his arms around two boys, his rangy six-foot-one frame dwarfing them. The twins played on the basketball team he coached. Their proud mom had taken the picture and sent him a copy. Dad was AWOL, like a lot of black fathers these days. Too bad he wasn’t coaching them now. That was a lot easier than listening to the grief-stricken son of a dead lottery winner.

“Her necklace is missing.”

Instantly alert, Frank picked up his pen and jotted a note. Last year his boss had sent him to the FBI Academy to take a course on serial killers. The behavioral analysis instructor said serial killers often took trophies, a souvenir they used to relive their crimes later. The most depraved killers took body parts. Some took underwear, panties or bras. Others took jewelry.

“You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. It was a birthday gift. She wore it when we went out for dinner. I took her picture.”

“A picture? Great! Can you send it to me?”

George agreed to Fed-Ex the photo, and Frank promised to call if he had any news.

Sickened by the brutal murders, he rubbed his eyes. Ross Dunn, the FBI agent he’d met at Quantico, had asked him to act as liaison on the case. Three murders in Vermont, Connecticut and, most recently, a town west of Boston. Three Caucasian females, the youngest fifty-nine, the oldest sixty-seven. Two were widows, one had never married, all lived alone.