Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) (34 page)

Why hadn’t Franco called? Another chill prickled her neck. She hadn’t forgotten the odd look in Mrs. Kay’s eyes when she asked for her card. Or the Wagner’s Sporting Goods package. What if Billy had a gun?

What if he shot Franco?

If anything happened to Franco, she didn’t know what she would do.

She tried to think positive. Maybe he had found enough incriminating evidence to arrest Billy. Maybe he was with the Sandwich police right now, taking Billy into custody. She pulled away from the curb, drove two blocks, turned onto the main road and stopped at a traffic light.

Given Nigel’s need to talk, she was surprised he hadn’t called her. Last night on the news, Gerry had issued a statement about the arrest warrant and his inability to locate Nigel Heath. Yesterday Nigel had said he didn’t want to watch television, so maybe he hadn’t seen it.

But maybe he had. She didn’t want to talk to him while she was driving, didn’t want to talk to her editor, either. She took her cell out of her purse and shut it off. If Franco called, he would leave a message.

When the light changed, she entered a rotary and took the entrance to the Expressway headed south. Now that she’d filed her murder-suicide story, why rush back to the office?

It would take fifteen minutes to get to her beach house. By then Franco would probably have called her with the good news about Billy.

When she got to the house, she could tell Nigel and put his mind at ease.

The doorbell chimed again.

The sound sent pain rocketing into his head. Bloody hell, how could he talk to the cops when he had this vicious hangover? His mouth was dry as toast, his stomach was queasy, and his head was fuzzy.

He went in the living room and crept to the front window. Dreading what he would see, he parted the curtain and let out a sigh of relief.

A stocky bloke with a thatch of blond hair stood outside the door, holding a toolbox. He had on a blue uniform shirt, but not the sort the police officers wore, no gun strapped to his belt.

Who was he? Gina’s husband? Bit short for her, if he was. Young, too.

The bell chimed insistently.

A sense of foreboding made him hesitate.

Gina hadn’t said she was expecting any visitors. Trying to quell his trepidation, he cautiously approached the door. Should he open it?

The doorbell clanged again.

He took a deep breath and opened the door. “Help you?” he said.

The man smiled at him, looked like a cherub with his round face and chubby pink cheeks.

“I’m the cable man. I’m here to repair the cable box.” Maintaining his smile, the man stared up at him.

There was something unnerving about his implacable gaze. Was that a hint of recognition in those blue eyes?

Bloody hell, did the bloke know he was hiding from the cops? Lord knows his picture had been all over the telly for the last two weeks.

“D’you have some identification?”

The man’s eyes flickered and his smile disappeared. He pointed to the pocket of his uniform shirt and said, “My customers know me.”

Nigel studied the name on the
pocket. John. He hesitated, undecided.

He didn’t want to let anyone in the house, but he didn’t want to interfere with Gina’s cable repair. She hadn’t mentioned it, but maybe she’d forgotten.

He opened the screen door, let the man into the living room and shut the door. “What’s wrong with the telly?” he said.

The man didn’t answer, just walked past Gina’s piano and set his toolbox down on the rug in front of the telly.

What was wrong with the bloke? Why didn’t he answer?

The man knelt down, opened the toolbox, took something out and rose to his feet. It looked like a gun.

Bloody hell, it
was
a gun!

His heart thumped his ribs. He let out a nervous laugh. “I say, old boy, you’re full of surprises. That’s quite a little pop gun you’ve got there.”

“Don’t call me little!” The man’s eyes hardened into blue agates. “That’s what you
always
said. Be a big boy like John, you said.”

What in bloody hell was he talking about? “Look here, I think you’ve made a mistake—”

“I don’t make mistakes. Sit down over there.” Holding the gun with his right hand, the man wiped sweat off his forehead with his left. Ugly scabs disfigured his hands. Did the bloke have some kind of illness?

And why was he pointing that gun at him?

Nigel carefully lowered himself onto the futon and sat very still.

“Where’s Gina Bevilaqua?”

“She’s not here. She had to go—” Wait. Don’t tell him anything.

How did he know Gina? Who
was
this lunatic?

The phone rang.

“Don’t answer it!” the lunatic screamed.

The ringing telephone seemed to send him into a frenzy, pacing back and forth, agitated, aiming the gun at him. “Sit there and don’t move.”

“Not to worry,” he said, to humor him. “The machine is on.”

For some reason that reminded him of the answer-phone in Vicky’s living room. His beloved Vicky. But he couldn’t think about that now, not while this lunatic was aiming a gun on him.

And who the bloody hell kept calling? Was it Gina? Her husband?
Who
?

Keeping the gun trained on him, the lunatic backed up until he reached his toolbox. Then he bent down and took out a long-handled wrench. What the hell was the bastard up to?

Then he saw the stains on the wrench.

Ugly brown stains that looked like blood.

“Look here, be a good chap and tell me what you want. I haven’t much money, but you can take—”

“You’ve got plenty of money!”

“I don’t!” Bloody Christ, who was this lunatic?

“Yes you do. Don’t lie to me!” His blue eyes blazed with fury. “
You
won the lottery, not Victoria.” The man lowered his left hand, the hand with the wrench, and scratched it. Then he paced the room, the gun in one hand, the wrench in the other, staring at him, his eyes glittering with malice.

“You tried to fool me, but you can’t.”

Nigel sat very still, thoughts flitting through his mind like furry gray bats. Was this some friend of Vicky’s who wanted to punish him?

“Look here,” he said, “I gave the ticket to Vicky—”

“
Victoria
.” The man smiled, an evil smile, frightening to behold. “You tried to trick me, but you couldn’t. I know you won the lottery. That’s why I have to
kill you
.”

Kill you
. Nigel flinched. This lunatic was going to kill him.

The lunatic marched to his toolbox, took out a small white envelope and came back, standing five feet away now. Close enough for Nigel to smell his rank body odor. Then he took something out of the envelope.

“See this?” he said, and smiled his evil lunatic-smile.

Nigel stared in disbelief. Bloody hell,
Vicky’s diamond ring
!

He felt like a giant hand had crushed him. His throat heaved in a convulsive swallow. He tried to take a breath but couldn’t, lungs constricted, heart pounding. Bloody hell, was he having a heart attack?

“You?” he gasped, his heart raging in his chest. “
You
killed Vicky??”

It was too monstrous to comprehend.

“Why? Why did you have to kill Vicky? She never did anything to you. She was a dear sweet—”

“I thought
she
won the lottery. Winners are lucky. Lucky winners get punished.” The lunatic smiled. Droplets of blood oozed from the cracked skin on the knuckles of his right hand, the hand with the gun. “John was a winner, too, and he got punished. He got exactly what he deserved.”

Frozen with fear, mesmerized by the crazed look in the man’s eyes, Nigel took shallow breaths, his calming pre-concert routine. But this was infinitely more terrifying than playing a piano solo.

“You tried to make me think Victoria won, but she didn’t.
You
won, and you’re going to pay.”

“I’ve already paid,” Nigel moaned. “Vicky’s dead.”

Overcome with despair, he buried his face in his hands. It was his fault. He
deserved
to die. He’d let his mother down, let his father down, too. He was a loser. A failed soloist. A wretched gambler. Bloody Christ, he’d won twelve million dollars and he was
still
a loser. Vicky was dead. Murdered.

He raised his head and looked at the blond man with the round face and the glittering blue eyes.

The bastard was right. It was his fault Vicky was dead and he wanted to die, too. What did he have to live for?

____

“Ross!” Frank said into his cell phone. “I’m at the Sandwich suspect’s house with two local police officers. Billy Karapitulik murdered his mother.”

“Jesus, when?” Ross said.

“Last night or early this morning, hard to tell. No sign of the suspect.”

“Gotta be our guy. I’ll hop on a plane and get there as soon as I can. Any idea where he is?”

Frank glanced at Chief Duggan, who was listening to his end of the conversation. Officer Pell was upstairs, securing the scene. “No. The police chief put out a BOLO on Billy’s vehicle. He’s got a computer, but it’s password protected. If I can get into it, maybe I can figure out what he’ll do next. Are there any FBI agents nearby that could hack into it?”

“Closest office is in Boston,” Ross said, “might take awhile to get there. I’m no computer whiz, but try this. Type in “administrator” for the username. Don’t enter a password, just hit Enter. That might do it.”

Frank did what Ross said, hit Enter and held his breath.

The computer whirred and the Windows desktop appeared.

“Ross,” he said, “I’m in. Hold on.”

Chief Duggan came over and stood behind him. “What have you got?”

Frank clicked the Libraries icon, then Documents, and saw three folders: one labeled
RESUMES
, one labeled
JUDY
, another labeled
WINNERS.
He clicked on the
WINNERS
folder and studied the files.

Behind him, Duggan said, “Looks like the file names are in code.”

“Right,” Frank said, “but the numbers might be dates.”

“What’s going on?” Ross said impatiently, clearly frustrated that he was miles away and out of the loop.

“I’m opening the first file,” Frank told him. “F-dash-4-dash-25.” He waited until the Word document opened. “It’s the Chatham victim. Florence, murdered April 25. The files are coded.”

“What about the Nashua lotto winner?” Ross asked. “Ruth Bennett.”

He scrolled down to a file labeled R-5-23 and opened it.

“Got it, Ross. Ruth Bennett, murdered May 23rd. Hold on a second while I see if there’s a file that starts with V for Vicky.” He hit the scroll bar and saw V-5-15.

“Got it. Vicky was murdered May 15th.” He clicked on the file.

A Word document opened:
Victoria Stavropoulos. $12 million. Megabucks. Boston, MA.

Duggan let out a low whistle. “Unbelievable. He kept a file on all of his victims.”

Frank scanned the document and his heart sank.
Nigel Heath = real winner
.

The next line made his stomach turn over.
Reporter.

Jesus! Did Billy’s mother tell him about Gina?

“Ross! Billy found out Nigel Heath bought the winning ticket. He might go after him next. I need to warn Nigel and the reporter that talked to Billy’s mother.”

“Do it and call me back,” Ross said. “I’m heading for the airport.”

Frank ended the call and wiped sweat off his forehead, planning his moves. If he didn’t hurry, Nigel might die. No sense calling his hotel. Nigel wasn’t there. No sense calling Gerry Mulligan, either. Mulligan had no clue where Nigel was. But Gina might.

He dialed her cell phone and waited, willing her to answer. After four rings her voicemail came on: “Sorry I can’t take your call right now. Please leave—”

He clicked off, punched in the number for the
Herald,
then Gina’s extension and waited, his palms sweaty on the phone. He got her voicemail and hung up. Where the hell was she?

He redialed the main number for the
Herald
and waited through five rings, fists clenched.

Finally a woman’s voice said, “
Boston Herald
, how may I assist you?”

“This is Detective Renzi, Boston PD. I need to speak to Gina Bevilaqua immediately. I just called her extension and got her voicemail. Can I speak to her editor?”

“Certainly, sir. She might be covering that murder-suicide in Dorchester. Hold on.”

Frazzled, he glanced at Chief Duggan, who had resumed bagging and tagging the magazines he’d found under Billy’s bed.

After an eternity, a voice said, “Dirk Marshal, Metro editor.”

“This is Detective Frank Renzi, Boston PD. I need to talk to Gina Bevilaqua ASAP. Do you know where she is?”

“She was covering a murder-suicide in Dorchester this morning, called the copy desk awhile ago and filed her story. She should be back soon.”

“Okay, thanks.” Cursing silently, he clicked off.

Gina had already called in the murder-suicide story. Why wasn’t she back in her office? He wiped sweaty hands on his pants, considering possibilities. She decided to eat lunch before she went back to the office. She was at her house in Westwood. Neither possibility seemed plausible.

His gut was telling him that Nigel was at her beach house. He jumped up and headed for the stairs. “Chief, I think Billy might be headed into Boston, looking for Nigel Heath. Alert your patrols.”

He raced upstairs, jumped in his squad car and cranked the engine. Before he peeled out, he punched in the number for Gina’s landline at the beach house, but after four rings, he got her voicemail.

Damn! If Nigel was there, why the hell didn’t he answer? If Billy found him, he’d kill him. Then a more devastating possibility rocked him.

What if Gina was already at the beach house?