Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) (9 page)

Yes! Tonight’s Megabucks drawing had a winner.

Twelve million dollars. One winning ticket.

Now all he had to do was wait and see who claimed the prize.

_____

The Budget Inn pub was long and narrow and dimly lit. Fake plants with dusty green leaves lined the wall opposite the bar. Other than two men in business suits watching TV at the far end of the bar, the pub was deserted. Nigel slipped onto a stool beside the service area where plastic bins held olives and cherries and slices of lemon and lime.

A lanky bartender with a bushy brown mustache set a napkin in front of him. His arms were tanned and muscular, and he wore thick glasses. “Like a drink, sir?”

“Right-o. D’you have any single-malt scotch?”

“Single-malt? Let’s see.” The barman shoved his glasses against his nose and squinted at the bottles behind the bar. “Glenlivet okay?”

“Yes. I’ll have a double, on the rocks.” He lit a cigarette and checked his watch. 9:30. 10:30 in Boston. He wondered what Vicky was doing. Probably finishing up tonight’s Pops concert.

When the barman brought his drink, Nigel raised his glass. “Join me, why don’t you? On me.”

“Can’t. I’m working,” the man said, and pushed his glasses against the bridge of his nose.

“Pity. Pub masters in London would rather have a pint than a tip. Nice custom, that.”

The man gave him a dubious look and moved down the bar to chat up the businessmen.

He scooped some peanuts from a dish on the bar. They tasted stale. He washed them down with some Glenlivet. How would he get through the next three days without going mad? Bloody Christ, he’d won twelve million bean and he couldn’t tell anybody!

The bartender returned to the service area, took off his glasses and polished them with a napkin.

Nigel tapped his glass for a refill. “D’you know anything about lottery payoffs?”

“Why? Did you hit the lottery?” the man asked, and put on his glasses.

“Not bloody likely. No, a friend of mine did. I just wondered how they pay off.”

A knowing grin appeared on the man’s face. “Your friend owe you money?” He added ice to a fresh glass, poured Glenlivet over it and set the glass in front of Nigel. “Nothing but trouble, you ask me. I knew a guy hit the lottery once. Uncle Sam takes a big chunk up front.”

He gulped some scotch. Blast! He’d forgotten about the IRS. He already owed them a bundle.

“His ex-wife got most of the rest.”

Aghast, he stared at the man.

“Yup. Took him to court and got all but a million of it. If I won a million bucks, I’d buy me a farm.”

Nigel nodded morosely. Another hog farmer.

“The reporters hounded him for weeks. Poor guy got no peace. Everybody wanted a piece of the pie, his family, his friends.” The bartender moved down the bar, polishing the dark wood.

He sat there, stunned. The bloke was right. Joanna was already threatening to take him to court. If she found out he’d won twelve million bucks, she’d be after it like a cat lapping cream, and so would Hale. Not only that, the reporters would be after him like hounds at a fox hunt.

They’d spread it ’round all the papers and the telly. He could see the headline now:
BOSTON POPS GUEST CONDUCTOR HITS THE JACKPOT!

What if they found out about his gambling? And his debts?

The scandal rags would have a field day.

Bloody hell, it would be a disaster. He’d
never
get the Pops job!

A black cloud of despair descended upon him.

Thursday, May 4 — 6:35 a.m. — Milton

Frank loped past an elementary school, almost finished with his five-mile run. In two hours kids would be outside, zipping down slides or climbing the jungle gyms. Now the sun was just starting to peep through the trees behind the school. He loved running at dawn, feet pounding, arms pumping. The repetitive movements put him into a Zen-like zone, boosting his endorphins.

A great way to start the day. Clear your mind and focus on the work ahead. Drive to Rhode Island and interview the daughter of the murdered lottery winner he’d found.

He paused at an intersection, running in place until the traffic light changed. Sometimes when he couldn’t sleep, he went out and ran in the dark, jogging past elegant Victorians with carriage houses. Plenty of those in Milton, not to mention the million-dollar mansions near the golf course, their owners tucked in bed, protected by elaborate security systems in case any thugs from nearby Mattapan, a predominantly black, working-class town, invaded their ritzy neighborhood.

A large van pulled into the four-pump gas station on the corner. The driver got out and lugged bundles of the
Boston Globe
and the
Herald
into the store. Frank had only been inside once. It was a mini-gambling parlor, Keno players perched on stools, eyes fixed on monitors, older men mostly, the clerk selling scratch tickets from two dozen rolls on the wall behind the register.

When the light changed, he trotted across the street and put on a burst of speed, running flat out the last half-mile to his house. Winded but exhilarated, he unlocked the side door. Evelyn insisted that he lock the house before he did his run. “What if a burglar broke in while you’re gone?”

What if the house blew up? What if a meteor fell from the sky and hit Milton? He smiled at her nonsensical fears but quickly sobered.

What if Myra told her about Gina? But why tempt fate? He banished the thought and entered the kitchen. No coffee brewing, no sign of Evelyn. Strange. She was always up by now. He put a filter in the coffeemaker, spooned in coffee, filled the pot with water and dumped it in the machine. He pushed the Start button and heard footsteps behind him.

Evelyn entered the kitchen, wearing a charcoal gray skirt, a high-necked green blouse, and a grim expression. “I talked to a lawyer yesterday, Frank. Adultery is grounds for divorce.”

No
good morning
, no
hello
, just
adultery is grounds for divorce.

Like he was some tom-cat screwing around. He wasn’t. He’d been as faithful to Gina for the past nine years as he’d been to Janine the previous ten. But he couldn’t very well say this to Evelyn. His temperature was up after the run, and for an instant he felt lightheaded. He mopped sweat off his face with a kitchen towel and mustered his thoughts, biting back the angry words on the tip of his tongue.

“What’s his name? The lawyer.”

“
Her
name. Annette Mitchell. I told her about Gina.”

Another gut-punch, but he said nothing.
Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.

He took a Sam Adams out of the refrigerator, popped the cap and took a long swig. Nothing like a cold one before breakfast. Nothing like a divorce threat to make your mind go a hundred miles per hour.

“Told her what about Gina?”

“That you were having an affair with her. Don’t deny it. All those nights you don’t come home for dinner? Do you think I’m stupid?”

He didn’t think she was stupid, but for twenty years she’d been content to look the other way. Until Myra the Gossip Queen told her she’d seen him with Gina.

“Why didn’t you talk to me before you talked to the lawyer?” He took another swig of beer.

“Why? So you could make up excuses?” Standing ramrod stiff beside the sink, quivering with outrage.

He clamped his teeth together to keep from speaking the words raging in his mind.
What do you think I’ve been doing the last twenty years, jerking off in the shower? If I’d known you wanted to be a nun, I’d have found a more willing bed partner.

He held the beer bottle to his forehead. It felt cool against his skin. He had to be cool, had to tamp down the fury boiling into his throat. He still cared about her. She was the mother of his child. It wasn’t her fault. Part of it was her Catholic upbringing, and after Maureen was born, Evelyn suffered from post-partum depression. Her doctor had put her on Prozac.
Maybe if things had been different . . .

But they weren’t. After a year without sex, he’d found someone else, Janine for ten years, then Gina. He’d gone out of his way to be discreet, never meeting them anyplace Evelyn or any of their friends frequented.

Or so he’d thought. What did Myra say, he wondered, tell Evelyn to do something or she’d look like a fool?

Dreading the answer, he said, “What about Maureen? Did you tell her?”

Evelyn gave him her tight, pinched look. “Please have your things out of the house by Sunday night. My lawyer will be in touch with you.”

_____

Central Falls, RI — 11:00 a.m.

“He killed other women?” Donna Calvicchio said in a high-pitched voice, outrage evident in her large brown eyes. “Before he killed Mom?”

Frank shifted in his chair, hearing her unspoken question:
Why didn’t you stop him?
  “Yes. Since he murdered your mother two years ago, he’s killed four other lottery winners. I didn’t discover your mother’s case until this week.”

They were seated at her kitchen table in a modest ranch house in Central Falls, Rhode Island, a working-class city near the Massachusetts border. The kitchen was small but tidy. He detected the faint odor of anisette, a familiar aroma in many Italian households. It smelled like his grandmother’s kitchen.

Donna brushed long, dark hair behind her ears and shook her head. “Unbelievable.”

“I know this is upsetting. But anything you can tell me might help us find the killer.”

Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.
Like a broken record, the ominous words had played in his mind as he drove to Donna’s house, unable to concentrate, flummoxed by Evelyn’s accusations.

Adultery is grounds for divorce.
What would Maureen think?

Out of the house by Sunday
. Where the hell would he live?

He forced himself to concentrate on Donna, sitting there lost in thought. On the phone she’d said she was fighting a nasty custody battle with her about-to-be ex-husband. Just what he needed, another marriage on the rocks, another reminder of how fragile a marriage could be.

“You know,” she said with a wistful smile, “I talked to Mom the day she was murdered.”

“When? What time?”

FBI Agent Ross Dunn had sent him the autopsy report and the crime scene photos: a gray-haired woman dead on the floor, asphyxiated by a plastic bag. But no J&B nip. Was Tessa Calvicchio the Jackpot Killer’s first victim? Maybe he hadn’t yet developed his killer persona, started adding the J&B signature later.

“In the morning,” Donna said. “Around nine, I think.”

“Did she say she was expecting someone?”

“Not that I recall. She said her TV was messed up, but mostly we talked about my kids. I’ve got two, a boy and a girl.” Her eyes filled with tears. “They’re in school now, but back then they could be a handful.”

“Yeah? You got pictures?” He said it hoping to cheer her up and it did.

She actually smiled. “Of course.” She went in the living room and returned with two school portraits, a handsome dark-haired boy and a little girl with dark eyes, banana curls and a cute smile.

“Gorgeous kids,” he said. “They look like you.”

“Mom loved them, and they adored her.” Donna’s lips quivered and her eyes welled with tears.

“Was anything missing when you settled the estate?”

“I don’t think so. My brothers left it to me to go through Mom’s things. We sold the house last year.” Donna sighed. “That was hard. We grew up in that house. Dad died five years ago, so Mom was alone.” Her dark eyes hardened. “And some son-of-a-bitch killed her.”

“Where’d she buy the lottery ticket?”

“At the corner store. Every Sunday she’d buy the newspaper and drop ten bucks on lottery tickets. I used to tease her about it. You’ll never win, I said. But then she did.” Donna’s lips tightened. “But she didn’t get to enjoy it, because some bastard killed her! Why did he do it? He didn’t get the money.”

“It’s hard to say why serial killers do what they do.” Donna flinched when he said
serial killer.
“When you went through your Mom’s things, did you notice if anything was missing?”

Donna frowned. “You know, there was one thing. Dad gave her a pearl necklace for their thirtieth anniversary. Not that it was worth much. Dad was a fireman. He didn’t make a lot of money.”

“Could you describe it?”

“Just a single strand of pearls. Not a long strand, not a choker . . .” She shrugged.

“A string of pearls,” he said, naming the Glenn Miller tune. But she didn’t get it, just nodded. “I don’t suppose you’d have a picture of it, maybe taken on their anniversary?”

“I might. Let me go check. I’ve got a photo album.”

Adultery is grounds for divorce. I told her about Gina.

Would this day ever end? It was only 11:15 and it felt like he’d been up for twenty-four hours. His body felt like he’d done a triathlon: a stiff neck, tight muscles, his stomach sour with acid.

Donna came back, smiling now, and handed him a snapshot. “That’s Mom and Dad.”

He studied the photo. A typical Italian couple, they reminded him of his paternal grandparents: short and stocky, dark eyes, the man smiling broadly, the woman shyly gazing at her husband. Around her neck was a single strand of pearls. “Can I borrow this? I’ll get it right back to you after I make a copy.”

“Why?”

“We think he takes things from the victims, jewelry in a couple of cases.”

“The necklace wasn’t worth much.”

“That’s not why he takes it.” He didn’t tell her what the weirdo did with their trophies, jerking off over them, reliving their sexual fantasies and the sexual arousal they got from killing their victims.

“If it helps find the killer, I’m happy for you to take it.”

“I’ll get it back to you soon. Thanks for speaking with me, Donna. I know it’s been two years, but I’m sure it’s hard to talk about.”

Her lips trembled. She nodded, unable to speak.

“Did you and your brothers inherit the lottery money?”

“Yes,” she snapped, “and it brought nothing but trouble. Peter’s wife went through his share like a dose of salts, Eddie gambled his away at the racetrack, and my about-to-be-ex-husband wants half of mine. The bastard. People think hitting the jackpot is great, but sometimes it causes more problems than it’s worth.”

_____

He crossed the state line into Massachusetts and got off in Attleboro. Other than the beer this morning—his oh-so-nutritious breakfast—he hadn’t eaten. He still wasn’t hungry, but he needed a caffeine hit. He stopped at a Dunkin’ Donuts for an iced coffee and drank it in his car. His head throbbed with a dull ache. No food. Not much sleep. Too much tension. That kind of headache.

Now he had to tell Gina. When he called her on his cell, she picked up right away. Assuming she was at work and other people were around, he gave his customary greeting. “Hey, whaddaya know?”

“Hey, not too much, but I’m working on it.” Letting him know she was in her cubicle at the
Herald
.

“Can you step outside and call my cell? I’ve got some news for you.”

“That sounds excellent. Give me two minutes.”

He punched off, sipped his coffee and held the icy container against his forehead. It didn’t clear his head any. His cell rang and he punched on, heard Gina say, “Hey, Franco, what’s up?”

“Nothing good. Myra, the woman that saw us at the bar, told Evelyn. I came in from my run this morning and Evelyn dropped a bomb on me. She’s got a lawyer and she’s filing for a divorce.”

“Jesus! Are you serious?”

“Yes, and it gets worse. She said, and I quote,
adultery is grounds for divorce
. She told her lawyer about you. Gina, she said. I don’t know if she’s got your last name, but she might. Because of the
Herald
gig, you know?”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. More like fucked. Both of us.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “If her lawyer figures out your last name, you know, from the
Herald
gig, she can find out if you’re married. This could get messy.”

Silence on the other end. “Well, we’ll just have to deal with it, I guess.”

“And we will. Dig this. Evelyn wants me out of the house by Sunday.”