Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series)

by Susan Fleet

  JACKPOT

  A FRANK RENZI NOVEL

  "Everyone's a winner in their own mind."

  — anonymous

  Susan Fleet

  Music and Mayhem Press

  ______

  Jackpot is a work of fiction. All names, characters, businesses, including the Boston Pops Orchestra, incidents and events, are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by Susan Fleet

  All rights reserved. Published by Music and Mayhem Press

  Excerpt of Natalie's Art, © 2013 by Susan Fleet

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission except in the case of brief quotations in articles or reviews. For information and permissions contact the author at: http://www.susanfleet.com

  ISBN-10 0984723552

  ISBN-13 978-0-9847235-5-3

  Cover photographs used with permission:

  Illustration of slot machine showing jackpot © stockshoppe at Fotalia

  Bullet Holes © andrew7726 at Fotalia

  Back cover author photo by Pete Wolbrette

  Printed in the United States of America

  ______

  For R. A. L.

  CHAPTER 1

  Tuesday, April 25, 2000 — Chatham, MA

  Florence peered out her living room window. What a dismal day. No sun, just sullen gray clouds like yesterday. And no sign of the cable company van. At 9:30 a man from the cable company had called and said they were having problems in her area. As if she didn’t know.

  Wavy lines filled the forty-six-inch screen of her new TV set, and static was hissing from the speakers. The man said he’d be here soon to fix it, but that was twenty minutes ago. Where was he? If he didn’t hurry up, she’d miss Regis and Kathie Lee. Poor Kathie Lee. Her husband had a roving eye.

  Florence and Chuck had been married forty years, and she was certain he hadn’t so much as looked at another woman until the day he died.

  She looked at the lumps of dirty snow on the driveway across the street. Ginny was in Florida and wouldn’t be back until Memorial Day. She sure did miss Ginny. This had been a long lonely winter, terrible storms, the snow piling up in huge drifts. Ever since Chuck died, she had to hire a man to plow her driveway so she could go out for groceries and visit her son.

  Her heart skipped a beat as the cable company van stopped in front of the house. Halleluiah! Maybe she'd get to watch Kathie Lee after all. A short chunky man in a blue uniform got out and came up the walk lugging a big metal toolbox. Goodness, why didn’t he wear a jacket? It was chilly today.

  She opened the front door, then the storm door. A gust of cold air made her shiver. “Thank goodness you’re here. Regis and Kathie Lee are on at ten and I’d hate to miss them.”

  The man glanced at an order form on his clipboard and smiled at her.

  “Don’t you worry, Florence. I’ll have it fixed in a jiffy. You don’t mind if I call you Florence, do you? My boss says it’s friendlier. We like to keep our customers happy.”

  What a nice young man, thick blond hair, chubby round cheeks. But beads of sweat dotted his forehead. Strange. “Your name is John. It says so on your pocket. Come in. It’s cold out there.”

  The man went in the living room, walked past her new recliner and set the toolbox down on the carpet in front of the television set.

  “What’s wrong with the cable connection?” she asked.

  “Just a little glitch. Don’t worry, I’ll fix it.” He knelt beside his toolbox and gazed up at her.

  His blue eyes had an odd look in them, like a cat about to pounce on a bird. Why was he looking at her like that? It made her nervous.

  “Could I have a drink of water? My boss sent me out early this morning because of the problems. I already helped three customers and I’m behind schedule.”

  Florence hesitated. She wanted to keep an eye on him while he fixed the TV, but she didn’t want to be rude. “Goodness, here I am thinking you’ve got such nice rosy cheeks and you’ve been hard at work all morning. Wait a minute and I’ll get you a glass of water.”

  She went in the kitchen and stood at the sink. She didn’t like being alone in the house with a stranger. Gary was worried about her. He said people might try to take advantage of her. Two days ago the ADT man was here, but he couldn’t install the security system until next week. Maybe she should call Gary and tell him a repairman was here. But what good would that do? Her son was miles away in a rehab facility. Her darling boy had come home from the Gulf War with both legs amputated above the knee.

  Now Gary was hooked on drugs. Her throat thickened and tears filled her eyes. Half the time when she went to see him he hadn’t even shaved. Overcome with sadness, she bit back a sob. Freckles still dotted Gary’s cheeks, but now his face was gaunt. It seemed like only yesterday that her smiling six-year-old had gazed up at her with his gap-toothed grin after he ate one of her chocolate chip cookies, put his skinny arms around her and said: “You’re the best mom in the whole world!”

  With a heavy sigh, she turned on the cold water. Lord knows she couldn’t change what happened to Gary. She’d give the repairman his glass of water and get him out of the house. That odd look in his eyes made her uncomfortable. But she was probably worrying over nothing.

  Still, her hand trembled as she filled the glass with water.

  _____

  Now that the old biddy had left the room he felt better. On his way to the door he’d put on a big smile. The smile was important. Reassuring. Before he rang the bell he’d made sure his name showed on the flap of his pocket. Then he’d delivered his bullshit lines to Florence. She let him in right away, but she’d been watching him like a hawk ever since.

  He hated that. His mother watched him too, whenever she could.

  He glanced around the room. Florence had money, but she had shitty taste. Her blue pantsuit was hideous. But she’d used her winnings to buy a sleek leather recliner and a big flat-screen TV. He assumed the beat-up sofa with the ugly blue-striped upholstery was headed for the dump.

  So was Florence. His lucky winner.

  He heard water running in the kitchen and opened his toolbox. Inside were the tools he needed to fix the cable connection. And the other items he brought along for his lucky winners. He took out a yellow plastic bag, spread open the drawstring cord and hid the bag behind the TV.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall. His heart thrummed in anticipation. He mopped his sweaty face with his shirtsleeve. His uniform shirt stuck to his back, damp with sweat.

  The old biddy came back and handed him a glass of water and gave him a prissy smile, a smile that disappeared when she saw the latex gloves on his hands. He gulped some water, made his eyes go wide with innocence and beamed her a big smile. “I’ve got eczema. My hands bleed sometimes. I wouldn’t want to mess up your carpet.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s thoughtful of you. It’s brand new and so is the television set. I wish my husband were here to enjoy it with me. He passed on three years ago.”

  “Pretty exciting hitting the jackpot, huh? Lucky you.”

  She bit her lip, frowning at him now, a stooped old woman with wispy white hair tinged yellow. Why didn’t she go to the hairdresser? She had plenty of money. He set the empty water glass on the table beside the recliner. “I’m about done, but I need you to help me finish.”

  “You do? Why?”

  “I need you to unplug the TV and plug it in again when I tell you.”

  Her frown deepened. “I don’t know . . . It’s hard for me to bend over. I’ve got
arthritis.”

  He gazed at her silently. Made his eyes go cold. Do as I say, you old biddy.

  The flesh on her cheeks quivered and her shoulders slumped. He loved it when they realized he had the power. She was old and weak. He was young and strong. Alone together in an isolated house. Exquisite. A shiver racked him and he felt himself grow hard.

  With a heavy sigh, she went to the electrical outlet on the wall. To steady herself, she held onto the table that held the TV set, got down on her knees and bent over the plug. Intent on her task, she didn’t hear him creep up behind her. Wisps of yellow-white hair curled over the collar of her blouse, and he could smell her perfume, a disgusting lilac scent.

  He plunged the plastic bag over her head, pushed her facedown on the floor and yanked the cord tight around her neck. She screamed, but the bag muffled the sound.

  She put up a struggle, thrashing violently. It took him by surprise. Before he could react, she rolled onto her back and lashed out at him, flailing her arms blindly. Her forearm slammed against his ear and sent pain shooting through his head.

  Enraged, he punched her face. Even through the plastic bag, he felt her nose crunch.

  She let out a muffled squawk and thrashed her legs, kicking at him.

  How dare she fight him? He couldn’t hold her down! He pulled his toolbox closer, grabbed a heavy wrench and slammed it down on her head.

  Her body went still. Moments later blood seeped out of a rip in the plastic bag. Disgusting.

  He yanked the drawstring tighter.

  Still she fought him, groping at the bag with both hands and moaning.

  How dare she fight him! Enraged, he yelled, “Stop fighting me!”

  With a mighty heave, he rolled her onto her stomach, pinned her arms behind her back and sat on her. She made grunting sounds and kicked her feet, thump-thump-thump, against the carpet.

  Blood soaked the carpet beneath her head. He pulled the cord tighter, trying not to look at the blood. He couldn’t stand the sight of blood. He studied the wavy lines on the TV screen instead, counting the seconds.

  Her struggles grew weaker. He pulled the drawstring tighter, savoring the power he had over her, feeling the ache build in his groin.

  At last she lay still.

  Aglow with triumph, he rose to his feet, unzipped his fly and stroked himself. His breathing grew ragged as the power swelled and intensified. The power and the glory.

  He shuddered as the spasm coursed through him. A glorious release.

  But there was no time to savor the moment.

  He rolled her onto her back. Blood had seeped into the carpet in a widening stain. The sight of it sickened him. But she’d brought it on herself, fighting him, making his head hurt.

  From his toolbox he took out the nip bottle of J&B with the red letters and the red cap. His autograph.

  In her desperate attempt to breathe, her mouth had sucked a deep hollow in the bag. Just like the others.

  He shoved the J&B nip into the hollow.

  “I guess you weren’t so lucky after all, right, Florence?”

  Now it was time to tidy up.

  It took him less than a minute to reset the cable connection. He checked the television screen. The picture was fine, Regis and Kathy Lee joking about something.

  Florence was lying face up on the floor with the yellow plastic bag over her head. He folded her arms over her chest and noticed the bracelet on her wrist, tiny oval scarabs in a gold setting.

  Beautiful. She’d want him to have it, he was sure.

  He undid the clasp, removed the bracelet and shoved it in his pocket.

  His eyes swept the room. The water glass!

  He put the glass in his toolbox and grabbed his clipboard.

  Everything was perfect. He blew Florence a kiss and left.

  Tonight he would look for his next lucky winner.

  CHAPTER 2

  Wednesday, April 26, 2000 — Milton, MA

  At 4:50 a.m. his cell phone went off like an air-raid alarm. Dead bodies seldom turned up at convenient times. He grabbed his cell phone off the bedside table and punched on to silence it.

  “Yo, Frank. Rise and shine, baby. Got a gang hit in your territory.” Detective Rafe Hawkins worked the Boston PD Narcotics Unit. He also served on a taskforce that targeted gangs. Rafe’s favorite saying: Drugs and guns go together like ham and eggs. Homicide Detective Frank Renzi tended to agree.

  Conscious of his wife stirring in the other bed, Frank got up and went in the bathroom and shut the door. “What’s up? Where are you?”

  “Uniform patrolling Mass Ave found a banger in the gutter, one shot to the head, called me a half-hour ago. I’m at the scene, three blocks up from Boston Med Center.”

  “Gimme fifteen and I’m there.” He splashed cold water on his face and gazed into the mirror over the sink. Surrounded by puffy skin, dark bloodshot eyes stared back at him. He’d been in his basement office until one a.m. poring over three new cases. When he got in bed, he couldn’t sleep, ugly crime scene photos dancing through his head like stills from a horror movie.

  He combed his fingers through his dark hair. No gray hairs yet, but he was only thirty-seven. If he didn’t start getting some sleep, he’d look like Methuselah. Dark stubble covered his cheeks and jaw, but he’d worry about that later. He brushed his teeth and crept into the bedroom. In the twin bed on the left, Evelyn was sound asleep, her auburn hair spread over the pillow.

  He put on his navy running suit, strapped on his Sig Sauer and left the house. The dusky light of dawn was creeping over his neighborhood in Milton. Two minutes later he got on the Southeast Expressway, the thirteen-mile divided highway that people south of Boston used to get into the city. Wondering which gangbanger caught a bullet this time, he took the Mass Ave exit and sat at a red light beside the sprawling Boston Medical Center complex. He yawned, wishing he'd stopped for a cup of coffee.

  The light turned green and he swung onto Mass Ave. Three blocks up, he parked behind a Boston PD cruiser, got out and flashed his badge at a BPD officer directing snarled traffic, sleepy-eyed folks headed for work clocking the sheet-covered body in the gutter.

  Elegant redbrick townhouses with bay windows lined this part of Mass Ave. Someone had tied yellow crime scene tape to a wrought-iron fence in front of one townhouse and fastened it to a telephone pole fifteen yards away. On the sidewalk numbered pieces of folded cardboard marked evidence. A dozen distraught women stood behind the tape in bathrobes and slippers, older black women, talking in low voices.

  A hulking six-foot-four wide-body with ebony skin and large dark eyes trotted up to him. Trash-talking Rafe Hawkins played center on the District 4 hoop team, a fearsome sight below a basketball hoop. Now he wore a gray running suit and a grim-faced expression. “We got a few shell casings, not much else.”

  Frank tilted his head at the onlookers. “Any wits?”

  “Nobody talks when cops are around. Too many eyes watching. Might get some later.”

  They ducked under the yellow tape and Rafe pulled back the covering on the body. A young black male, clean-shaven but for the soul patch under his bottom lip. He wore baggy sweatpants, a green hoodie and expensive sneakers. Blood pooled under his head, a ragged wound visible on one side of his face. In death he appeared young and defenseless. Another wasted life, Frank thought. Too many kids involved with gangs these days. When he caught the killer, another life would go in the toilet.

  “Heavy firepower,” Frank said. “Was he carrying?”

  “Had a Glock-nine in his hand. We bagged and tagged it. Won’t know if he got off a shot till they test his hands for residue.”

  “I don’t recognize him. Who is he?”

  “DeVon Jones, age twenty-three, busted for dealing, served most of a five-year stint at the House of Correction, released three weeks ago. We keep tabs on ’em, so I got an email. He runs with the Ashmont Hill gang in Dorchester. Bad move, coming here alone. Not his territory.”

  Frank scanned the c
rowd and saw a little black kid, nine or ten maybe, peeping around two older black women. The kid made eye contact, then turned and ran north on Mass Ave toward Symphony Hall.

  He nudged Rafe’s arm. “The kid knows something.”

  They ran after him, the kid scampering away like a frightened rabbit, skinny arms pumping. One block later he grabbed a wrought-iron fencepost and swung himself around a corner. He wasn’t big but he was fast.

  They reached the side street in time to see him dart into an alley. Most days Frank did a five-mile run, but Rafe had longer legs and outpaced him. Five feet from the alley, they stopped.

  “Looks young,” Rafe said, “but he could be packing.”

  True, and more gunslingers could be waiting in the alley. After eighteen years with Boston PD, Frank had two basic rules. Never let down your guard. Always assume the worst. He’d never forget his gut-churning fear when he responded to a homicide call—a Haitian woman with her throat slashed—and her husband attacked him with a machete.

  Another time two fleeing bank robbers emptied semi-automatics at him, slugs buzzing by his ear like deadly mosquitoes. Just last month a former mental patient with an AK-47 had taken a hostage in a South End tenement and held off an army of police officers for three hours.

  The memories flashed through his mind in a nanosecond, made his mouth go dry.

  They drew their service weapons and approached the alley.

  An adrenaline buzz jumped his heart rate. What awaited them around the corner? An innocent kid or a posse of gunslingers?

  Rafe sprinted to the opposite side of the opening. No shots.

  Frank gave a nod. Weapons raised, they sprang into the alley. The stink of rotted garbage from two overflowing dumpsters hit his nostrils. Still no shots, but the gunslingers might be watching inside an apartment, taking aim from a window.

  His heart pounded like a machine gun. He looked skyward, eyes darting from one five-story building to the other. Metal fire escapes zigzagged down the sides of both buildings. No one on the fire escapes. A pair of jeans and two polo shirts flapped on a clothesline outside a third-floor window.