Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) (33 page)

Friday, June 2 — Sandwich

The two-story cottage looked like a picture-postcard, morning sun falling on the bright-blue clapboards and fresh white trim. But inside, Frank knew, was a locked basement room. Billy’s room. What dark secrets did it hold?

Earlier he had called the National Cable Company office and asked the manager if Billy was working today. Bad news. Billy had called in. His van wasn’t parked outside the house, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t here.

And what about the Wagner Sporting Goods package? Gina had said it was heavy. If Billy wanted to lift weights, he wouldn’t order dumbbells through the mail, he’d buy them at Wal-Mart. It had to be a gun.

Frank wished he had a bigger team to execute the search warrant. What he had was Chief Duggan, a gray-haired man in his sixties, and Officer Pell, another Sandwich policeman, standing with him at the front door. Last week, Duggan had seemed skeptical that a serial killer was living in his sleepy little town. Now that Frank had a search warrant, he was taking it seriously. Still, Frank wondered how long it had been since Duggan had drawn his service weapon. But Officer Pell, a strapping young redhead with a sunburned face, had a determined look in his eyes.

For the third time, Frank pressed the
doorbell.

Faint chimes echoed inside the house.

A frown grooved Duggan’s forehead. “All the blinds are closed,” he muttered. “That’s odd. Mrs. Kay should be up by now. She hardly ever goes out, except on Sunday.”

Frank said to Pell, “Get the battering ram. We’re going in. Chief, I need you to cover the back door, but be careful. Billy may be armed.”

Duggan went down the steps and disappeared around the side of the house. Pell ran to his squad car and came back lugging a three-foot piece of steel with two handles. Pell looked at him and Frank nodded.

Pell hit the door with the ram once, twice, three times.

The wood shattered and the door buckled.

Frank went in low and fast, yelling, “Police! Freeze!”

Then the stench of death hit his nostrils.

He looked in the room to the right of the door. Beside an overturned wheelchair, a woman’s body lay in a pool of congealed blood, one leg splayed to one side. Blood spatter on the walls, the television screen, the rug, and the woman’s bathrobe. Billy’s mother, Frank assumed, her face beaten to a pulp.

“Jesus!” Pell said, staring at the carnage. “What a bloodbath!”

“Rage,” Frank muttered, eyeing the bloody footprints on the runner in the hall.

The house was silent and still. Was Billy still here? The battering ram had made a helluva racket, and when Frank went inside, he’d yelled:
Police. Freeze
.

Was Billy lying in wait for them with a gun?

Frank signaled Pell to be quiet. Weapons drawn, they advanced down the hall to a wide door at the end.

To the right, an archway opened onto a small kitchen. No one was in there, but Chief Duggan stood at the rear door, motioning to him through the window in the upper half. Frank went to the door, opened it, and whispered, “Bad scene. The mother’s dead in the living room.”

“Mother of God,” Duggan muttered.

Frank shushed him and whispered, “The killer may still be in the house.”

They joined Officer Pell in the hallway outside the wide door.

Duggan positioned himself on one side, Pell on the other, and Frank burst inside. A bathroom, empty, no blood visible, nowhere to hide, just an old-fashioned claw-footed tub with handicap bars, a sink and a toilet.

According to Gina, the door opposite the kitchen led to Billy’s locked basement room. Frank pointed to the door and whispered, “Billy’s room is downstairs.” He turned the doorknob and pulled.

The door creaked open, revealing a dark stairway.

“Light switch,” Duggan breathed, pointing.

Frank flipped the switch. A bare bulb at the top and another at the bottom illuminated a flight of wooden stairs. Was Billy in his room? Frank waited a moment, heart pounding, hands sweaty on his Sig. No activity below him, no shots, no screams, just a musty odor, and the sound of ragged breathing, Duggan’s, Pell’s and his own.

With his Sig Sauer extended, Frank eased down the steps one at a time, aware that Duggan and Pell were following. At the foot of the stairs he stopped and listened. Silence. Here the musty odor was stronger.

To his left, a rickety wooden table held a plastic laundry basket and laundry detergent, beyond the table, a fake Christmas tree and boxes of decorations. Under the stairs, plastic shelves held overflow from the kitchen pantry: boxes of cereal, crackers, dry pasta, cans of soup. To his right, a door stood ajar. Dim light emanated from the room. Billy’s room.

“Cover me,” Frank mouthed to Pell and Duggan.

He slammed open the door and sprang into the room. No one there.

“Clear,” he said, and flicked on the overhead light.

Bloody clothes were strewn over a narrow bed. Beside the bed, a fluorescent light shone down on a rectangular fish tank. A mangled orange goldfish lay on the tile floor. Frank read the nametags on the fish tank and felt both revulsion and validation. Lulu. Tessa. Lilly. Betty. Rosie. Florence. Victoria. Ruthie. With slight variations, the names of eight murdered lottery winners. No doubt about it. Billy was the Jackpot Killer.

But another nametag was pasted to the tank: Judy. Who was Judy? Another lottery winner? According to Ross Dunn, Judy Garland was one of the featured women at the Poughkeepsie conference. Then Frank remembered Mrs. Karapitulik’s first name. Judith. Billy had killed her, too.

Pell and Duggan entered the room.

“Jesus,” Pell said, “look at the blood on those clothes.”

“Gotta be Billy’s,” Duggan muttered as he pulled on latex gloves. “What’s with the goldfish, I wonder?”

“He names them after his victims,” Frank said.

“Check
this
out.” Kneeling beside the bed, Duggan held out a magazine in his gloved hand. “Billy’s a Judy Garland freak. She’s on half the covers.”

Frank put on a pair of latex gloves and took the magazine. It was dated December, 1964. A tag on the front said
BOURNE CITY LIBRARY
. The librarian was right. Billy had stolen it.

“I better get a forensic team over here,” Duggan said, “so we keep control of the scene.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe Billy beat his mother to death. I wonder where he is.”

“I don’t know,” Frank snapped, “but we need to find him. Put out a BOLO on his van. Alert every patrol car on the Cape. You got any idea where he might go?”

Duggan grimaced. “Not a one.”

Frank gestured at the computer on the desk beside the fish tank. “Maybe the computer will tell us.”

____

Nigel poured coffee beans into the grinder and pressed the button. The noise rattled through his head like a fortissimo drum roll. Bloody hell, what a hangover! He eyed the nearly-empty bottle of Dewars on the counter. Should he have a pick-me-up? P’rhaps not. He’d had a skinful last night.

The phone rang. Who the bloody hell kept calling?

He’d finally fallen asleep at 4:00 a.m., but the phone had woken him at 8:00. He’d tried to doze, but five minutes later the phone rang again.

Now it was 9:30 and the bloody phone was ringing yet again.

Mercifully, after four rings, it stopped.

He parted the window curtain above the kitchen sink. Bright sunlight bounced off the water and hit his eyes, sending stabbing pains into his head. He poured the coffee grounds into a filter, filled the machine with water and sat down at the table. He was feeling a bit peckish, hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday noon.

The memory of his last breakfast with Vicky flashed in his mind. The blueberry scones she’d bought him. Lovely scones. Lovely Vicky.

The sweetest girl in the world.

Tears filled his eyes. How would he live without her?

He massaged his temples, but it didn’t ease the pain, the mother of all headaches.

What would happen when his solicitor found out he’d flown the coop?

Merrill Carr was a bloody hypocrite, talking tough to the detectives, then turning on him. Demanding his retainer. Telling him to ante up or he’d land in jail. And the bloody detective was worse. Gerry Mulligan.

The bastard was probably looking for him right now.

The doorbell chimed. His heart shot into his throat.

Good Christ, the coppers were here to haul him in!

____

Dorchester

Gina stood with a group of reporters outside a rundown three-decker. Smelly trash barrels beside the front steps gave off a putrid odor. A dozen police vehicles were parked along the narrow side street. Two hours ago a man had broken into the second-floor apartment and attacked his estranged wife. Neighbors heard her screams and called 9-1-1. When the cops arrived, the man had shot himself.

Now it was 9:30. The woman was dead, and the cops were still inside processing the scene. Like the other three-deckers along the street, this one had a flat roof, a vertical stack of bay windows on one side, and front porches on each floor. Nearby residents had gathered on the opposite sidewalk, talking among themselves.

Gina was in a great mood, but trying not to show it. Considering what happened to the woman, that would be disrespectful. Last night she’d stayed with Franco at his motel. The judge had signed the application for the warrant to search Billy’s house, and they had a mini-celebration, take-out pepperoni pizza accompanied by Chianti. She’d been sorely tempted to tell Franco that Nigel was staying at her beach house, but she hadn’t.

Why jump the gun? If Franco arrested Billy today, the police might drop the murder charge against Nigel.

“Hey Gina,” said a
Boston Globe
reporter, finger-combing his bushy brown hair. “About time you did a series on domestic violence.” Gesturing at the house, he said, “Here’s your hook.”

“I might,” she said. “Too many of these guys get pissed off at their wives and kill them.”

A chill skittered down her spine. What would Ryan do when he came home to an empty house at four o’clock? Ryan had an explosive temper, and he could be unpredictable. What if he went to the beach house to see if she was there?

Unwilling to think about it, she left the group of reporters and went over to a cluster of women on the opposite sidewalk. A middle-aged white woman with a pinched look on her face stood to one side by herself. “Excuse me,” Gina said to her. “Did you know the woman that was murdered?”

“Knew her well enough to know she had big problems with that asshole.” The woman’s mouth quirked in disdain. “Before she threw him out, I’d hear them fighting all the time.”

“Just yelling? Or did he hit her?”

“A lotta yelling and screaming. Gave her a black eye once.”

“Could I have your name?” Gina said. “So I can quote you? I write for the
Herald
.”

“Jesus, no! I’m hiding from my ex-boyfriend. He finds out I’m living in Dorchester, he’ll track me down and hurt me!”

Gina touched the woman’s arm. “Okay. I’m sorry for your trouble.”

She spotted two police officers leaving the three-decker and ran back to join the other reporters. Both officers appeared shaken: faces drawn, lips set in grim lines, eyes squinty. As the TV crews filmed them for the noon news, reporters yelled questions. But the officers gave them a curt
No Comment
and headed for their squad cars. She recognized one officer and ran after him.

“Tom! Gina Bevilaqua! You got anything for me?” Three years ago when Tom was working homicides in the Mission Hill area, he’d given her some choice quotes.

“Hi, Gina,” he said, and kept moving.

Running to keep up, she said, “What’s it like in there?”

He reached his squad car and opened the door. “Ugly. He must have stabbed her thirty times, mostly in the face and chest. She didn’t have a chance. The guy weighed two hundred pounds. Then he put a gun under his chin and blew off the top of his head. Blood everywhere.”

“Can you give me a name?”

“Negative. Not until we notify the next of kin.” Tom swung into the driver’s seat, looked up at her and winked. “Now I’m gonna go get me a Big Mac with lotsa ketchup. Wanna come?”

She laughed. “Tom, you are so baaad.”

“Good to see you, Gina. What I said is off the record.”

She gave him a thumbs up. “Thanks, Tom. No names, I promise.”

She got in her Mazda, scribbled notes in her steno pad, sat for a moment to compose the lead and called the
Herald
copy desk. She dictated her story, including the details she’d obtained from “a source close to the investigation.”

Within the hour, her story would go up on the
Herald
website as a Breaking News Item. She checked the time. 9:55. Franco had to have gotten into Billy’s house by now. When they’d left his motel at 7:30, he was driving directly to Sandwich. On her way to work she’d caught the domestic violence call on her police scanner and had driven straight to the scene.