by Susan Fleet
“His mother nags him about his job sometimes, though.”
Out of the mouths of waitresses. “Where does he work?”
“He works for National Cablevision. I’m not sure what he does.”
Dumbstruck, he stared at her. Television. Cable connections.
If Billy was a cable technician, he could probably get into most any house with no trouble at all. Then he remembered what the daughter of the RI lottery winner had said: the day she was murdered, her mother had complained that her TV was messed up.
“But I guess the job doesn’t pay very well,” Arlene went on. “That’s what his mother says, anyway.”
He wanted to kiss her. “Thanks, Arlene, you’ve been a big help.” He locked eyes with her and said sternly, “This is a police investigation. Please don’t tell anyone that I asked about them.”
“Okay,” she said, eyes serious now. “I won’t.”
____
Boston — 7:15 p.m.
When Rafe picked him up outside the D-4 station, Jamal was in the shotgun seat. Rafe winked at him and said, “Sorry, Frank. Jamal’s my co-pilot this evening. Hop in back.”
Frank pushed file-folders and empty coffee containers aside, the usual police car detritus, and climbed into the back seat. “How you doing, Jamal? All set for the big game? Got your cheers ready? Go Celtics!”
Jamal turned and gave him a big smile. “Yes, sir, Mr. Frank. Go Celtics!”
“Very good,” Rafe said, eyeing Frank in the rearview. “Had to explain the proper mode of address to Jamal, don’t want him saying Detective Hawkins or Detective Renzi, ruin our evening, not to mention spoil things for the folks nearby, thinking there’s cops sitting beside them.”
He grinned. Rafe’s enthusiasm was contagious. He stretched his legs and tried to relax. Forget the Jackpot Killer. Shove his looming divorce and financial problems down to the bottom of his worry pile. Get to the Garden, show Jamal a good time and have fun.
Rafe parked behind a Boston PD squad car, put a Boston PD card on the dashboard and said, “Okay, Celtics fans, let’s hit it!”
With Jamal trotting beside them, they entered the Garden. Rafe gave their tickets to the man at the turnstile, and they joined the mob surging toward an escalator. When they reached the upper level, Jamal’s eyes widened, drinking in the huge posters and on the concession stands. The odor of popcorn and grilled hot dogs filled the air.
Rafe said to Jamal, “Who’s your favorite Celtic?”
“Paul Pierce.”
“Good choice,” Frank said. “Can’t go wrong with the captain.”
“You got that right,” Rafe said. “Hold on while I get you a Paul Pierce T-shirt with Number 34 on the back.” He eyed Jamal. “A medium might be a little big, but it’ll shrink in the wash.”
While Rafe strolled over to a man selling Celtics T-shirts out of a pushcart, Frank waited with Jamal. A steady stream of Celtics fans dressed in Celtic green—hats, T-shirts and sweatpants—passed them, chattering happily as they walked along the concourse to the doors that led to their seats.
When Rafe came back with a Paul Pierce T-shirt, Jamal’s eyes lit up. “Thank you, Mr. Rafe.”
“Put it on over the one you’re wearing,” Rafe said, “see how it fits.”
Jamal pulled it over his head and tugged it down. It was way too long. The bottom fell to his crotch, but so what?
“Looks great,” Frank said. “Let’s go grab our seats.”
“Not so fast, partner,” Rafe said. “We got to think about nourishment. Can’t have this young man cheering on an empty stomach. Also needs a drink to wet his throat, in case he gets hoarse from yelling. I’ll get the food. You take Jamal and get the drinks. I’ll have an extra-large Pepsi. What’ll it be, Jamal? You want a hamburger? A pizza? A hot dog?”
“A hot dog, please,” Jamal said, unable to stand still, stutter-stepping around, gazing at the people and the Celtics posters and the flashing lights.
Watching him, Frank stifled a smile. Wait till he got inside and saw the flashing lights on the JumboTron scoreboard.
“Great idea, Rafe. I’ll have a burger and fries.”
Ten minutes later they reached their seats. Jamal’s eyes almost popped out of his head. Rafe had promised good ones, and they were, ten rows behind the Celtics bench. They sat Jamal between them and got their food organized. Jamal ignored his hot dog, sipping his Pepsi, his eyes fixed on the Celtics doing their shoot-around before the game. Frank couldn’t decide what was more fun, watching the Celtics or watching Jamal watching the Celtics.
A loud buzzer went off, and the players cleared the court. The announcer introduced the Washington Wizards to a polite spatter of applause. Then the JumboTron flashed big scarlet letters: NOISE, NOISE, NOISE. The place went dark and spotlights bobbed and weaved around the arena. When it settled on the alleyway near the Celtics bench, the crowd erupted in cheers.
The announcer introduced the Celtics starters, his voice booming, culminating in a primal scream: And now, number thirty-four, the Celtics captain, PAUL PIERCE!!
Transfixed, Jamal stared as Pierce trotted through a tunnel of his teammates, high-fives all around, and joined the other four starters.
Rafe looked over, waggled his eyebrows, mouthed: Having fun?
He gave Rafe a thumbs-up. Better than fun. For a couple of hours at least he could forget about his problems, relax and enjoy himself.
Jamal sipped his Pepsi and let out a little burp. He glanced at Rafe and said, “Excuse me.”
“Excuse you?” Rafe said in mock-horror. “Puny little burp like that?” He took a big gulp of Pepsi and let out an enormous belch: Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrup!
Jamal started laughing.
“Okay, Mr. Frank,” Rafe said. “Your turn.”
He sucked up some Pepsi and let out the best burp he could muster, no where near the size of Rafe’s monster belch, but Jamal laughed anyway.
Then it was tip-off time, so they focused on the game.
Two minutes before halftime the Celtics were up by ten, and as Rafe had predicted, Jamal was having the time of his life.
“You tired, Jamal?” Rafe said. “Want us to take you home now?”
“I’m not tired,” Jamal said, eyes fixed on Paul Pierce doing his fancy spin move, cutting through two defenders and laying the ball in the hoop.
Frank looked at Rafe, who gave him a big wink. “Okay,” Frank said. “But we don’t want to hear you were too tired to go to school tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry. I’m gonna wear my Paul Pierce T-shirt to school.”
It was after eleven by the time they dropped Jamal off at his grandmother’s apartment. Frank waited in the car while Rafe took the boy inside. Five minutes later, Rafe came back, jumped in the car and drove off, saying, “Got some info on Tyreke Evans from my PO pal yesterday.”
“Parole officer? I thought you said Tyreke didn’t have a sheet up here, only in Georgia.”
“Correct. My PO pal got it from one of his other offenders, you know, toss out a bribe, not have to come in and pee in a cup three times a week, cut it down to two. Like that.”
Frank laughed and shook his head. “Ah, the ways of the criminal justice system and the wily men who administer it. So what’s up with Tyreke?”
Rafe looked over, frowning. “Bad news. The man said Tyreke’s back in town.”
“Very bad news. We don’t want him messing with Jamal and his grandmother.”
“Exactly. So when I was upstairs just now, I took Ms. Josephine aside, said Tyreke’s back and I don’t want him anywhere near the boy. Had her program my cell number into her speed dial. If Tyreke shows up here, I said, or even if he just calls you, don’t talk to him. Push that button and I’m here in ten minutes.”
“And she said?”
“She says: Thank you for bringing happiness into my boy’s life, Mr. Rafe, and don’t you worry, I will push that button the minute I hear a whisper about Tyreke.”
The tight knot in Frank’s gut re
turned, twisted even tighter.
“I don’t know,” he said. “We might have to find Josephine and Jamal a new place to live. She pushes the button, fine, but a lot can happen in the ten minutes it takes you to get here.”
CHAPTER 26
Friday, May 26
Frank went through his notes, underlining the important points with a red pen. The Bourne librarian thought Billy Karapitulik was a creep and fired him, but the Sandwich police chief, who’d known Billy for twenty years, considered him harmless. So did the waitress at the diner, but she’d added an important piece to the puzzle. Billy worked for a cable company, which might allow him to access the homes of lottery winners. The waitress said Billy had named one of his goldfish Tessa.
But none of this proved Billy was the killer.
Working Homicide could be a downer: grisly corpses, grieving families and hours of work, much of it frustrating. Taking Jamal to the Celtics game with Rafe last night had cost him a bundle, but watching the kid’s excitement was worth it. He leaned back in his chair, wondering how Jamal’s classmates reacted when he came to school today wearing a Paul Pierce T-shirt.
His desk phone rang and he picked up: “Detective Renzi, Homicide.”
“Frank,” said Ross Dunn, “our Jackpot Killer theory made the front page of the Huffington Post.”
He groaned. “Shit.”
“My sentiments exactly. We got a leak. Somebody talked about the J&B nip and the plastic bag. By tomorrow it’ll be all over the news, CNN, Fox News, and all the rest.”
“Well, we knew it might happen. A lot of people working the scenes, somebody blabs, over and out.”
“Exactly. How’s it going with your three suspects?”
“Forget the guy in Connecticut and the Fitchburg librarian, but I like the guy in Sandwich. He works for a cable company. If he screwed up the cable connections, that might be why the women let him in. Once he got off the Cape he could hop on the Interstate and get to most of the crime scenes within an hour or two.”
“Where was he on the Poughkeepsie murder date?”
“Hold on.” Frank scanned his notes and located the information he’d obtained from the manager of the National Cablevision office. “He took vacation days the Friday before and the Monday after the murder.”
“What about the Boston case?”
“He called in sick that morning, came to work late. I talked to the Sandwich police chief. He can’t picture the guy as a killer, but he said he’d keep an eye on him. Karapitulik lives with his mother. She’s disabled, uses a wheelchair. The chief said she was in a car accident somewhere in Kentucky before they moved to Sandwich twenty years or so ago. Can you dig up some information about the accident?”
“I can ask my assistant to check the police reports for any major accidents before 1980, but without a specific date and location, it might take awhile. Did you talk to the mother?”
“Not yet. I want to talk to her while he’s at work, but Monday’s a holiday, and Tuesday I’ll be in court testifying on another case, might be there all day. I’ll talk to the mother on Wednesday. How’s it going on your end?”
“Man, these road trips are a killer. I talk to my boys every night on the phone, but they’re upset that I won’t be home for the holiday weekend.”
Frank envied him. At least Ross could talk to his sons. He’d left several messages for Maureen, asking her to call him: I know you love your mother, and she needs your support, but there are two sides to every story. But she still hadn’t called. Nineteen days. An eternity. He’d never gone this long without talking to her.
“How’s it going with your suspects?” Frank asked.
“Forget the Philly librarian and forget Anthony Sinatra in Hoboken, too. He’s a thirty-two-year-old librarian obsessed with Tina Turner. That’s why he went to the conference in Poughkeepsie, which, as you may recall, featured, among other lovelies, Madonna, Judy Garland, and Tina Turner.”
“Hey, I like Tina Turner.”
“Not as much as this guy. He's got all kinds of Tina Turner memorabilia, posters, concert programs, recordings, DVDs, you name it. But I don’t see him as our killer. Anthony’s a big fella, must weigh three hundred pounds. A guy that big? One of the victims’ neighbors would have noticed him.”
“Okay, forget Anthony and the guy in Philly. What about the others?”
“The Newark librarian is looking good. He lives near the New York state line, hop on the Interstate he could be most anywhere in New England in a few hours. His boss thinks he’s got a gambling problem.”
“You think he’s got a hard-on for lottery winners?”
“Frank, I’ve investigated a lot of serial killers, and I have no idea what goes on in their minds. But I can tell you this. The Newark librarian is missing, AWOL from his job, nobody’s seen him for two weeks.”
A sharp rap sounded on his door. Frank turned and saw a Sheriff’s department deputy standing in the doorway with a clipboard and some paperwork. “Hold on, Ross. Someone’s at my door.”
He left his desk and approached the deputy, an older man dressed in standard deputy attire, a light blue shirt, dark blue pants. The man squinted at him and said, “Franklin Sullivan Renzi?”
He got a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Yes.”
The deputy thrust a sheaf of papers at him. “Consider yourself served, Mr. Renzi. Your wife, Evelyn Renzi, has filed a Complaint for Divorce in the Norfolk County Family Court. Your lawyer can access any documents filed there. If you wish, you can file an answer to the charges at that courthouse.” The deputy checked off a box on his clipboard and said, “Have a nice day.”
Stunned, he stood there holding the papers. He’d been expecting it, but getting served with the legal document was a shock. Evelyn had made good on her threat. He started to thumb through the papers, then realized he’d left Ross hanging on the phone. He tossed the divorce papers on the desk, sat in his chair and picked up the receiver. “Ross, you still there?”
“I am. What’s up? Not another murder, I hope.”
“No. My wife just had me served with divorce papers.”
After a shocked silence, Ross said, “Whoa! Did you see it coming?”
“She threatened to do it a couple weeks ago, but I figured she’d come to her senses.” Figured or hoped? Denial had put him into wishful-thinking mode. In a way he was glad it was out in the open. Lying was never his first choice when it came to personal interactions, and he’d been lying to Evelyn for years, most of their married life.
But deep down, he never thought she’d go through with it.
“Maybe we should finish this conversation another time,” Ross said.
“No, let’s wrap it up now.” He uttered a sardonic laugh. “Then I can go out and tie one on.”
“Okay. I crossed one of my New York City suspects off the list. That leaves three, but given the holiday, I may not finish until Tuesday. Want to talk again Tuesday night?”
“Wednesday night would be better. By then I’ll have talked to Billy’s mother. The lead detective on the Boston case is convinced the Pops conductor killed Vicky, but he doesn’t know about the Jackpot Killer. Well, he didn’t the last time I saw him.”
“He’ll know all about it tomorrow. You can take that to the bank.”
“Right, but the Nashua crime scene was like the Boston murder, brutal and bloody. I think the Jackpot Killer murdered Vicky Stavropoulos, which means the Pops conductor got there right after the killer left.” He decided not to tell Ross that he’d be talking to Nigel tonight. And not at the police station.
“If he killed the Boston woman and did the woman in Nashua eight days later, he’s escalating. Call me right away if you get anything.”
“Damn it, Ross, we know he’ll do another one soon, and we’ve got no clue who it will be.”
“I hear you, but that’s how it is with serial killers, especially when the victims aren’t confined to a specific geographical area. Keep an eye on the big lottery winners.”
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“Now that the Jackpot Killer theory is out in the open, maybe women that win the lottery will be more careful about who they let into their homes.”
“Let’s hope so,” Ross said. “Have a drink and try and relax.”
Frank hung up. Relax? He couldn’t imagine it. Acid was chewing a hole in his gut. Now he had to hire a divorce lawyer, and worry about what might happen if Gina’s husband found out they were having an affair.
Worst of all, it was Memorial Day weekend, the first Memorial Day since his mother died. On Monday he would pick up his father so they could put flowers on her grave. Afterwards, if he had the guts, he’d tell his father about the divorce. A nightmare. He had no idea what he would say.
____
At 9:30, Frank tapped on the door of Nigel’s hotel room and glanced at Gina. Now that he’d agreed to talk to Nigel she appeared happy. He tried to psyche himself up for the interview, but he was in a rotten mood. He was pissed about the divorce papers, Maureen wouldn’t call him, and he was sick of living in a crummy motel room with a stained carpet and dingy wallpaper.
When Nigel opened the door, Gina said, “Hi Nigel, say hello to Frank Renzi. You met him at the station.”
“Thank you for coming,” Nigel said, grasping Frank’s hands. “Gina said you might be able to help me.”
“I can’t promise anything, but let’s talk.” The conductor’s hands were cold and clammy, slender hands with long thin fingers, a pianist’s hands. Frank wondered if he ever played jazz.
The room reeked of cigarette smoke. A butt-filled ashtray stood beside a half-empty bottle of Glenlivet on a cherry-wood writing desk. Nigel gestured at two easy chairs grouped around a low table and sank onto the high-backed swivel chair near the desk. Frank studied the man. Below bloodshot blue eyes, purplish circles stood out against his pale skin, and his royal-blue blazer smelled of cigarette smoke. An anxious man, clearly troubled. Was he guilty?
Nigel rubbed his hands together, gazing at him earnestly. “All I can do is tell you what happened. Seems like that Mulligan bloke is convinced I killed Vicky, but I didn’t!”
