Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series)

by Susan Fleet

  “Have you worked for the cable company long?” Ruthie said.

  “A couple of years. My boss is a real terrier. I mean terror.”

  “Oh, that’s a good one!” She giggled, exposing the gap in her dentures.

  He gave her his sad-look. “He’s always on my case. You know how bosses are.”

  “Do I ever! My supervisor at the nursing home is a dragon lady.”

  But you’ve got money now. You’re an idiot to keep that crummy job.

  “How come you’re still working?” The words came out before he could stop them. Stupid! He’d made a mistake!

  Her forehead wrinkled in a frown. “I guess you heard,” she said slowly. “About me winning the Lotto last week?”

  “That’s exciting. Why don’t you quit your job?”

  “I thought about it, but those old folks in the nursing home depend on me. Besides, the prize didn’t amount to much. By the time they take out taxes—”

  “I think you should quit your job.” He rose to his feet.

  The dog snarled and jumped against the gate.

  “Squeaky, stop that!” Ruthie looked at him apologetically. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her today.”

  Eager to get it done, he opened his toolbox and studied the yellow plastic bag and the long-handled wrench. Ruthie had told them about the cable repair. And if her stupid dog didn’t stop yapping . . .

  “I need you to unplug the TV,” he said.

  The phone rang. It startled him and he flinched.

  She looked at him uncertainly.

  “Ruth,” he said. “I need your help now. Unplug the TV.”

  “Well,” she said, frowning, “I really should answer the phone.”

  Why wouldn’t she do what he said?

  Why couldn’t everything go smoothly, the way he’d planned?

  His cheeks flushed with anger. He stared at her, not smiling.

  The phone kept ringing. The yap-yap-yapping dog leaped against the wooden gate.

  “Oh all right,” she said. “It’s probably a salesman or something.” She went to the electrical outlet on the wall beside the television and bent down to pull out the plug.

  He reached her in one quick stride and slammed the wrench against back of her head. With a loud groan, she fell forward onto the floor.

  The phone stopped ringing, but now the dog was barking worse than before, yap-yap-yap. The sound made his head hurt.

  He sat on her back, pulled the bag over her head and tightened the drawstring. Her fingers plucked feebly at the bag. The skin on her hands was rough and chapped. He pushed her hands away and yanked the cord tight.

  With a savage snarl, the dog crashed against the wooden gate, knocked it to the ground and charged, ears flat to its head, eyes barely visible behind tufts of brown fur, teeth bared.

  His mouth went dry and his legs turned to jelly.

  Panic stricken, he grabbed the wrench, swung hard, felt it connect. The dog yelped and scampered away. But Ruthie kept calling for help, her words muffled by the plastic bag.

  Enraged, he slammed the wrench down on the yellow plastic.

  The dog lunged at him, snarling viciously.

  He swung the wrench and hit the dog’s head. The dog fell to the floor, yelping. He hit it again. At last the dog lay still.

  Rage consumed him, and pain pounded his head. Why couldn’t Ruthie behave? Ruthie and her yappy dog. Ruth-less. He had to be RUTHLESS. He pounded her head with the wrench, beating the yellow plastic until a jolt of pain shot up his forearms. When he stopped, his breath came in gasps.

  Smears of bright red blood covered the wrench and the latex gloves. His stomach heaved. He ran in the kitchen, found a towel beside the sink and wiped his gloved hands on the towel. Looking at blood made him sick.

  He wrapped the bloody towel around the wrench and checked the time. 10:55. He was late! If he didn’t call his customers, they’d complain to his boss.

  And he still had to leave his autograph.

  He ran back to the living room and fixed the cable connection. Then he rolled Ruthie over, folded her arms across her chest and jammed the J&B nip into the hollowed plastic in her mouth.

  J&B. John and Billy. John was always first. Billy was last. Least.

  You make me sick, his father had said.

  He looked at the dog. Sickening. A pool of blood had formed under its head, staining the braided rug.

  Ruthie and her dog had fought him, but they couldn’t defeat him.

  Now the cops would know he could KILL. Power surged into his groin.

  His hand went to the zipper of his workpants. Then he saw the stains, blood spatters on both pant legs!

  How could he go to work with blood on his pants?

  It was all Ruthie’s fault, Ruthie and her stupid dog. His head throbbed with a dull ache. It made him dizzy. He closed his eyes.

  He had to change his pants before he went to work.

  Blood. Blood. BLOOD.

  The letters fell into place in his mind. BOLD. He had to be BOLD.

  ____

  Manchester, Connecticut

  It was almost noon when Frank drove into Manchester. Theoretically the trip from Boston should have taken two hours, but parts of the highway were under construction, so it took almost three. Ten miles east of Hartford, Manchester was home to fifty-five thousand residents, most with incomes higher than the national average. Homes on the main street looked expensive, large brick-front houses with attached garages and sprawling green lawns.

  Anxious to get on the road, he’d skipped breakfast, had polished off a large Dunkin’ Donuts coffee on his way down. Now it was almost noon and his stomach had that hollow feeling. Time for lunch. Then he’d check out his suspect at the public library. Timothy McDermott lived and worked in the same city as Betty McMillan, the fourth Jackpot Killer victim.

  Frank ate a burger and some sweet potato fries at a cafe on Main Street, then walked to the library. Faint thunder sounded in the distance. Here it was sunny, but off to the east, dark clouds filled the sky.

  A young female librarian was tending to patrons at the circulation desk. Thanks to the driver’s license data and photo Ross Dunn had sent him, Frank figured Timothy McDermott would be easy to spot: age thirty-two, six-foot-four, blue eyes, brown hair, unsmiling in the DL photo. Frank went in the stacks near the desk and paged through a book, waiting, watching.

  A minute later McDermott emerged from the elevator and carried an armful of books to the circulation desk. Tall and gaunt, he wore dark trousers and a short-sleeved shirt, arms like sticks, looked like a male version of Twiggy. Except Twiggy didn’t have a pronounced limp like McDermott.

  A man that tall and that thin, with an obvious limp, would not go unnoticed. If McDermott was the Jackpot Killer, he’d had an unbelievable streak of luck.

  After McDermott returned to the elevator, Frank went to the desk. The librarian, a young woman with a pixie haircut, gave him a pleasant smile.

  “Is the head librarian in?” Frank asked.

  “Ms. Farnum? Yes, she’s in her office.” The woman pointed to a glassed-in cubicle in the corner with waist-high wood paneling.

  Frank thanked her, went to the cubicle and tapped on the open door.

  Ms. Farnum, a small, bird-like woman with gray hair, looked up and cocked her head like a sparrow. “Can I help you?”

  “Detective Frank Renzi, Boston PD.” He showed her his ID. “I have some questions about one of your employees. Timothy McDermott.”

  Ms. Farnum frowned and her hands fluttered nervously. “Goodness, is there a problem?”

  To avoid towering over her, he sat on the chair beside her desk. “How long has he worked here?”

  “For almost eight years. Why? Has Tim done something wrong?”

  “Have you had any problems with him?”

  Her frown deepened. “Problems? No. His performance reviews are excellent.”

  “I understand he attended a workshop in Poughkeepsie, New York, a cou
ple of years ago.”

  “Yes. Tim’s our popular culture expert. I rely on his advice about which books and media to acquire. Tim’s a devout Christian. He says there’s too much sex and violence in the movies these days. I agree.”

  Frank wondered if she had watched the sex orgy in Eyes Wide Shut. Somehow, he doubted it. “Tim is single?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “He lives alone?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Any girlfriends?”

  Her lips pursed. “Tim’s a very private person. If he had a girlfriend, I very much doubt that he’d mention it to me.”

  “Ever see him lose his temper?”

  “Tim? Lord, no. All our patrons love him.” Another big frown. “What’s this about?”

  He gave her a sheet of paper with a list of the Jackpot murder dates. “Could you check and see if Tim was working on these dates and fax me the information?”

  Ms. Farnum glanced at the dates. “Well, I can tell you he wasn’t working on January 19th of this year. He had a bad car accident during that big snow storm we had, broke his leg in three places. He was out of work for five weeks. When he came back, he was on crutches.”

  That accounted for the limp. Nix Timothy McDermott for the murder of Jackpot victim number four.

  “Thank you, Ms. Farnum. No need to mention to Mr. McDermott that we’ve talked.”

  “Everything’s all right then?” she said anxiously.

  “Thanks for your help, Ms. Farnum.”

  Disappointed, he went out and got in his car. Cross McDermott off the suspect list. One down two to go, next stop Fitchburg, Massachusetts, eighty miles away. He got out his highway map and studied the route. Barring any major traffic tie-ups, he’d be in Fitchburg around four. Rush hour.

  A bad time to investigate his next suspect. He’d check into a motel, call Ross and see how he was doing with his suspects.

  ____

  The health aide’s car wasn’t parked out in front when he got home. Excellent. His mother was alone. After he left Ruthie’s house in Nashua, he’d used his disposable cell phone to call his customers, saying he’d been delayed by an emergency. Fortunately, none of them had called his boss to complain.

  Now all he had to do was change his pants. His bloody pants. He eased open the front door, slipped inside and listened. Silence greeted him. He peeked in the living room. She wasn’t in there. Where was she?

  The bathroom door at the end of the hall was shut. She must be in there. If he hurried, he could change his pants and leave without her seeing him.

  He crept down the hall, tiptoed past the bathroom and went downstairs to his room. He turned on the light and took off his work pants, careful not to touch any of the ugly brown spots, the disgusting blood.

  In the fish tank, his girls swam languidly through the water. Including Ruthie. Ruthie, the trouble-maker. Ruthie and her obnoxious yappy dog.

  He pulled on a pair of clean chinos. He’d better ditch the dirty ones. He folded them carefully to hide the blood stains, tucked them under his arm and smelled the sour, sweat-stink on his shirt. Disgusting, but he had no time to change his shirt. He had to get out before his mother saw him. He locked the door to his room, crept upstairs and paused on the top step, listening.

  The bathroom door was still shut. He heard the toilet flush.

  Hurrying now, he walked down the hall to the front door and reached for the doorknob.

  “Billy!”

  His heart fluttered wildly, like a moth at a flame. He turned and saw his mother wheeling herself down the hall, pale blue eyes fixed on his, lips pursed. “What are you doing home?”

  He pasted on a smile. “Gee, Mom, your hair looks nice. Did you get it done today?”

  “Doris did it yesterday.” She patted the soft waves into place, then frowned. “Why aren’t you at work? Why were you sneaking out without speaking to me?”

  “I left my afternoon work schedule in my room. I didn’t want to disturb you in the bathroom, Mom.” He half-turned, angling his body so she couldn’t see the bloody pants under his arm.

  “What’s that you’re carrying?”

  His head throbbed. He stared at her mouth. The mouth that was never still. The mouth that never gave him any peace.

  He opened the door. “I have to go. I’m late for my next customer.”

  “Well, do a good job, and they’ll pay you better. That’s what you should do, Billy. Ask for a raise!”

  He went out and shut the door hard, like he wanted to shut his mother’s mouth.

  His heart beat furiously, sending shooting pains into his head.

  MOTHER making pain in his HEAD.

  Mouth always moving.

  Shooting words at him.

  Making mouth-moving-pain in his HEAD.

  Words. Stop the words.

  RUTHLESS. MOTHER-LESS. HEAD-LESS.

  CHAPTER 23

  Tuesday, May 23 — 10:45 p.m.

  “Fancy another glass of wine?” Nigel rattled the ice cubes in his glass.

  “No, thanks,” Gina said, “but you go ahead.” She’d barely touched her Merlot, but Nigel had already downed two glasses of scotch.

  “Be right back,” he said, flashing her a smile as he left their table.

  Gina watched him as he went to the bar. Nigel would play a major role in her book, but so far the essence of the man eluded her. After Vicky’s wake he’d been eager to talk. Tonight, not so much.

  An hour ago, fearing some local reporter might recognize her red Mazda, she’d parked two blocks away and walked to the Back Bay Inn. Avoiding the media mob outside the entrance, she entered through the parking garage. The hotel catered to business travelers, and at 9:30 the lounge on the first floor had been jammed. But the rooftop bar wasn’t. Few people knew about it. The bar closed for the winter and re-opened in the spring, but only in fair weather. When it rained, the rooftop bar was closed

  She sipped her Merlot, enjoying the fresh air. The view was spectacular, lights on the buildings in Copley Square and beyond. In the distance, she could see the lights at Fenway Park. The bar had no wait staff; a bored older man tended a short bar with no barstools.

  Most important, no reporters occupied the half-dozen tables. Aside from a young couple seated at another table, she and Nigel were the only ones here, and the young lovebirds had eyes only for each other.

  Tonight Nigel looked worse than he had at Vicky’s wake, deathly pale, bloodshot eyes. Still, apart from the receding hairline, he was a good-looking man. She could understand why Vicky had fallen for him: a talented musician, intelligent and undeniably charming. As soon they sat down with their drinks, Nigel had asked how long she’d worked for the Herald and did she do any other sort of writing? He seemed genuinely interested, gazing at her with his startlingly blue eyes.

  But he hadn’t said much about himself. She’d already gathered the basic facts about his life and career, but she wanted the lowdown on his Hollywood years with his ex-wife, the actress, and the unexplained interval between his abandoned solo career and his days at the Royal College of Music.

  She pulled out the CD she’d found at a used record store. Released on an obscure European label, it featured Nigel improvising jazz standards. His picture was on the front, seated at a piano in a London club.

  When he came back with a tall glass of scotch and sat down, she set the CD on the table. “This is terrific, Nigel. Ever think of doing another one?”

  He seemed pleased, smiling at her. “Where’d you find that?”

  “I’m a big jazz fan. You’re really good. Any other jazz players in your family? Brothers? Sisters?”

  His expression grew somber. She thought British men were supposed to be stoic, stiff-upper-lip types, but Nigel’s face clearly signaled his emotions.

  “I’m an only child. Mum was the musician in the family. She sang opera before she married my father.” He shrugged. “That was the end of that.”

  Gina nodded. A familiar scenario for ear
lier generations of talented women. They set aside their careers in order to marry and raise a family.

  “Did you play jazz when you were a kid?”

  “Not bloody likely. Not when my father was around, that’s for sure. Just practice, practice, practice, and play the competitions.”

  “But you were a prodigy. Didn’t you win a big competition when you were twelve?”

  Nigel didn’t answer. She had assumed he’d be eager to talk about his glory days, but maybe a piano prodigy’s life had its drawbacks.

  “That must have put a lot of pressure on you,” she said.

  “Right. Win the competitions, play the recitals, smile for the cameras.”

  She tried to imagine him as an adolescent. Talented, sensitive and what? Tortured?

  “And if you don’t win, it’s hell?”

  His eyes regarded her steadily for several moments. Finally he said, “You’re a good listener, Gina. Very perceptive.” He sipped his scotch. “This is off the record, okay? Can't have you writing about this.”

  Her heart sank. Damn! He was going to tell her something juicy, and she couldn’t write about it?

  She didn’t say anything, but he didn’t seem to notice. “When I was eighteen my father entered me in a big competition in Belgium. He said if I won, my career would take off like a shot. I did okay, breezed through the early rounds and made it to the finals. But the night before the final competition, Mum called me from London, terribly distraught.”

  “Why? Was she ill?”

  “No. Well, not physically. But like a lot of opera singers, Mum was a bit high-strung. She said she was dying of boredom, sick of staying home to keep house for my father. He ran a local music shop, open six days a week, dawn to dark. I wasn’t too sympathetic, I’m afraid. I had to play the finals the next day and I had some stiff competition.”

  He gulped some scotch and massaged his eyes. After a moment, he said, “The next morning, my father couldn’t wake her. She’d taken some pills. He rushed her to the hospital, but they couldn’t save her.”

  “Nigel!” she gasped. “How awful! You must have felt terrible.”

  “Yes, well, I try not to think about it. When my father called to tell me, I was devastated. Here Mum had called me looking for sympathy and I’d more or less blown her off. My father told me to carry on with the competition. He said that’s what Mum would have wanted.” Nigel belted down some scotch. “Heartless bastard. As if he knew what Mum wanted.”