Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series)

by Susan Fleet

  Sound from a radio or a TV drifted through an open window on the left. But no gunfire. Five-story buildings on both sides. Five floors of windows, dozens of vantage points. He glanced at Rafe. Rafe was eyeballing the windows, his dark-skinned face set in fierce concentration.

  They marched down the alley. Two heart-pounding minutes later they reached the other end. No gunfire. No gunslingers. No sign of the kid.

  Rafe lowered his Glock, looked at him and shrugged. “The little bugger got away.”

  “You think he lives here?”

  “No telling.” Rafe checked his watch and gave him a sardonic grin. “Now we got the excitement over with, want to grab breakfast? Come back in an hour, we can talk to the folks that live here.”

  Frank holstered his Sig Sauer. “Sounds like a plan.”

  ____

  Ten minutes later they were sitting in a booth at Waffles and Wings, a soul food diner on the lower end of Mass Ave, sipping the steaming black coffee the waitress had brought them without asking. They came there often and she knew them by sight. The odor of frying bacon and sausage permeated the air as harried waitresses delivered breakfast to hungry patrons.

  Other than a few white and Asian workers from Boston City Hospital, most were African-American. To their left, several diners perched on stools along a yellow Formica counter. A bell dinged as the chef slapped two plates onto the shelf behind the counter.

  “How’s my favorite horseback rider?” Rafe said, eyeing him over the rim of his coffee mug.

  His daughter Maureen rode at a stable in Milton and Rafe had attended several horse shows there. Unlike Frank’s house, the stable was in a ritzy section of Milton, and Rafe’s ebony skin stood out in the sea of white faces. Not that it bothered Rafe. Few things did. At twenty-nine, he was living the good life, owned a three-decker in Dorchester where he lived with his chic fashion-designer wife and their two cute-as-a-button kids.

  “Mo’s doing great,” he said, “made the Dean’s list her first semester.”

  “Uh-huh. Probably made the hit list, too, fine-looking girl like that. What I hear there’s plenty of horny pre-med students at Johns Hopkins.”

  The waitress, an older black woman with wiry arms and a world-weary air, delivered their breakfast: waffles and sausage for Frank; a three-egg omelet, sausage and grits for Rafe.

  “I gave her my birth-control lecture when I drove her down to Baltimore to get her settled in.”

  Rafe paused with a forkful of omelet halfway to his mouth. “You? Not Evelyn?”

  He poured maple syrup on his waffle, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. At last he said, “Be serious. Evelyn thinks birth control is evil. You know how it is with Catholics. Every sperm is sacred.”

  Rafe flashed a sly grin and started humming: “Every Sperm Is Sacred” from the Monty Python film, The Meaning of Life.

  “I got her a credit card, had the bills sent to me. I told her if I didn’t see a pharmacy charge for the pills every month, I’d cancel the card.”

  “And? So?” Rafe asked, methodically slicing his sausage into bite-sized portions.

  “So she’s taking them. She hasn’t mentioned any boyfriends, but at least she’s protected.” He grinned. “Wait till your daughter’s a teenager. Ten years from now you’ll be beating them off with a stick.”

  “You got that right. So, uh, how’s Evelyn doing?”

  He didn’t want to talk about Evelyn. Since he’d joined the District 4 hoop team ten years ago, he and Rafe had become close personal friends, but most of the confidences they shared about their personal lives came from Rafe, not him.

  “Not so hot now that Maureen’s gone. She used to take Evelyn shopping, you know, for clothes and whatever doodads women buy at the mall. Now she just mopes around the house.”

  “Hey, take her to a movie.”

  “She won’t go to movies. Too many people. Too many germs.”

  Rafe stopped chewing and stared at him. “Too many germs. Far out. Somebody better investigate that, find out where all those germs are.”

  “Hey, dummy, the germs are on the too-many people.”

  A cackling laugh from Rafe. To the Beatles tune “Lonely People,” Rafe sang in a low voice, “Ohhh, look at all those germs and people.” Drummed a riff on the table with his fingers.

  They cracked up, and several heads turned to see what they were laughing about. But talking about Evelyn’s hang-ups was one thing. Living with them was another.

  “I suggested a part-time job, figured it might distract her, but she said it would interfere with church. She goes to early Mass every day.”

  “You got a tough row to hoe, buddy.” Gazing at him over his coffee cup. “Hope you got something going on the side.”

  He ate a bite of sausage, took his time chewing. Rafe played a mean bass in a jazz combo. Much of their friendship revolved around their passion for jazz and basketball, activities that allowed them to forget the ugliness of the mean streets they policed every day. Rafe also had a mistress, a white woman he’d met at the steady jazz gig he played in Newport, his hometown.

  Frank had met her once. But no one knew about Gina, not even Rafe, and he intended to keep it that way.

  “What I’ve got is three dead lottery winners, all of them in New England.”

  Rafe cocked an eyebrow. “Lottery winners? What’s up with that?”

  Relieved to escape any more discussion about his personal life, he said, “Remember the FBI agent I told you about? The guy I met at Quantico? He’s convinced it’s a serial killer and asked me to help.”

  “Told you that course would load you up with more work. Like you don’t have enough already.”

  True. He thought about the black kid, the fear he’d seen in the boy’s eyes. He wanted to know why the kid was so scared, but the odds of finding him were slim. Too many cases, too little time.

  “I don’t mind. Ross is a good guy, and it never hurts to have a connection at the Bureau. He sent me the three case files.” The files that had kept him awake last night. Three elderly women murdered in their homes. If Ross was right, the killer was probably stalking his next victim right now.

  Frank pushed his plate aside. “You set?”

  Rafe grabbed the check. “I am. You set for the big game? We gonna whup those District 6 losers or what?” When it came to basketball, trash-talking Rafe had a killer-attitude.

  Amused, Frank said, “Beat ’em by twenty for sure.”

  But as they left the diner his mood darkened. He needed to change his clothes, but he didn’t want to go home and face Evelyn. “Where were you, Frank? I woke up and you were gone and you didn’t even leave me a note!”

  Screw that. He kept some spare clothes in his office at the District 4 station. A quick shave, a change of clothes, and he’d go back to the Mass Ave murder scene and talk to some residents. Any kind of luck, someone might know who the little black kid was.

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

  CHAPTER 3

  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.