Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series)

by Susan Fleet

  “Nigel,” Gina said, “it’s okay. We’re on your side.”

  She had on a casual but eye-catching outfit, a V-necked maroon top over a pair of white culottes, short dark hair combed behind her ears. But he had to keep his eye on the ball. Gina might be on Nigel’s side, but he wasn’t. He needed solid evidence to prove Nigel innocent.

  He glanced around the room: embossed blue-patterned wallpaper, thick carpeting, plush easy chairs, a king-sized bed and a large television set.

  “Nice room,” he said. A lot nicer than mine.

  “But I feel like a prisoner, all those reporters outside. It’s like a bloody death watch. I can’t even go out to buy a pack of cigarettes.” Nigel looked at him, a pleading look. “What can I tell you? Ask me anything you want.”

  “Tell me what exactly happened when you got to Vicky’s apartment. Don’t leave anything out. The tiniest detail could be important.”

  There was a silence. Somewhere outside a siren sounded in the distance.

  As Nigel began to speak Frank watched him, evaluating his manner as much as his words. Nigel stayed calm until he got to the part about finding Vicky. Then he stopped and massaged his temples. “Sorry. It was awful. I’m still having nightmares.”

  If Nigel was lying, Frank thought, he deserved an Academy Award.

  “Would you mind if I smoked?”

  “Go ahead.” Whatever it took to keep him talking.

  When Nigel lighted a cigarette, Gina did, too. Surprised, Frank looked at her. Her eyes met his, expressionless, then shifted to Nigel.

  “Did you notice a plastic bag anywhere near Vicky’s body?” Frank asked.

  “Plastic bag? Not that I recall. Why?”

  “Think carefully. A yellow plastic bag you maybe picked up and threw in the trash?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  That answered one question. “Was Vicky expecting you?”

  “Yes. I’d called her from the airport. I told her I’d made an appointment with a financial planner. We were going to meet with him that afternoon so he could draw up the financial agreement.”

  That was new. Nigel hadn’t said anything about a financial planner at the police station. “Okay, Nigel. Here’s the million-dollar question. Tell me the truth. Who won the lottery, you or Vicky?”

  “I did. I bought the winning ticket at that shop near Vicky’s flat, but when I got back from Iowa I gave it to Vicky.” Nigel gazed at him, his expression bleak. “It’s true, I swear it! We were going to split the money. Bloody hell, if I didn’t ask her to claim the prize, she’d still be alive.”

  “Nigel!” Gina exclaimed. “Stop blaming yourself. Just tell Frank what happened. He’s going to help you.”

  She looked at him and raised her chin. His ever-feisty Ace Reporter.

  Unwilling to get her hopes up, Frank gave her a warning look and turned to Nigel. “You said you called Vicky twice. What happened the second time?”

  “I called her mobile first, but it went to voicemail. I thought she might have shut it off, so I called her landline. But she didn’t answer that either.”

  “Did you leave a message?”

  “Yes, on her answer-phone. I said I was at the shop ’round the corner and I’d be there soon, something like that. But Detective Mulligan said the message tape wasn’t in the machine. He says it’s missing.”

  Frank visualized the machine on the table beside Vicky’s loveseat. When Nigel called, maybe the Jackpot Killer was there, heard the message, realized someone was coming and panicked. Forget the plastic bag and the J&B nip. The killer beat her to death and split. But why take the message tape?

  “Tell me about the ring. Was Vicky wearing it when you found her?”

  Nigel heaved a sigh. “I asked her not to wear it until after she claimed the prize. Then we were going to announce our engagement. But she knew I was coming that day. Maybe she was wearing it. I can’t remember.”

  “Did you see anyone else when you got there? In the hall, on the stairs, outside the building?”

  “Not that I recall, no.”

  “Think carefully. It’s important.”

  Nigel snubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Not a bloody soul.”

  “When you walked to Vicky’s apartment from the store, did any cars or vans drive by you?”

  “Not that I recall, but I might not have noticed. I couldn’t wait to see Vicky.” His face crumpled in despair. “If only I’d gotten there sooner.”

  “Did Vicky have cable?”

  “I believe so, yes.” Nigel frowned. “You know, there was one thing. I didn’t mention it before, but . . .”

  “What?” Frank said, hunching forward in his chair.

  “I was so distraught about Vicky.” He looked at Gina. “It was horrible. I went to lift her head and she was bleeding and the blood got on my hands.”

  “Nigel,” Frank said sharply. “What were you going to tell me?”

  “After I washed my hands, I heard this hissing sound. That’s when I noticed that the telly was on. But there was no picture, just wavy lines and the static. So I shut it off.”

  Frank stared at him, incredulous. Jesus, the smoking gun. Vicky had cable and her TV was screwed up, just like the Rhode Island lottery winner’s.

  “What?” Gina said, picking up on his intent expression. “Is that important?”

  “It might be. Nigel, I need to make absolutely sure. Vicky’s television was on when you got there?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t notice it, you see—”

  “I understand. You were too concerned about Vicky. But after you called 9-1-1, you noticed the television was screwed up and you shut it off.”

  “After I washed my hands, yes. The hissing noise was driving me mad.”

  Frank nodded. The jigsaw puzzle was coming together. “Okay, I think that’s enough for tonight.”

  “If it proves that Nigel’s innocent,” Gina said, “shouldn’t you talk to his lawyer?”

  “No.” He gave Nigel a stern look. “Don’t tell your lawyer I talked to you. I need to check some things.”

  Nigel eyed him anxiously. “D’you think they’ll arrest me?”

  Gina rose from her chair, went to Nigel and grasped his hands. “You have to think positive, Nigel. I’m sure things will work out.”

  “Thank you, Gina, you’re such a dear.” Nigel raised her hand to his lips and brushed it with a kiss.

  A courtly gesture, Frank thought, nothing erotic about it.

  Still, it annoyed him.

  “Gina, we’d better go. It’s late.” When they got back to his motel, he had to tell Gina about the divorce papers. Another worry. He had no idea how she would react.

  “Quite right,” Nigel said and gave him a wan smile. “Thank you for coming, Detective Renzi.”

  ____

  Desperate for fresh air after Nigel’s smoke-filled room, Frank lowered the car windows. After talking to Nigel, he was almost certain the Jackpot Killer murdered Vicky, but how would he prove it? If Vicky was wearing the ring, maybe the killer took it. But why take the incoming-message tape?

  When they entered his motel room, Frank opened the window, still craving fresh air. A cool breeze billowed the filmy inner curtain, bringing now-familiar sounds: a car door slamming, a truck rattling past the motel, a distant siren on the Expressway.

  Gina poured two glasses of Chianti and sat on the lone easy chair. “What do you think, Franco? Are they going to arrest Nigel for Vicky’s murder?”

  “Why are you so desperate to rescue Nigel?”

  She combed locks of hair behind her ears and stared into space. “You never met Vicky, but I did. We talked after she claimed the prize, but I didn’t think to warn her about the Jackpot Killer. Now the police think Nigel killed her. Tuesday night I talked to Nigel at his hotel, at the rooftop bar.” She gulped some wine. “Nigel told me his mother committed suicide when he was eighteen. He was away at a piano competition and he felt terribly guilty, like he should have been the
re for her.”

  Frank didn’t see the relevance, but waited, letting her play it out.

  Abruptly, she got up and paced the room. When she came back and sat down, the skin around her eyes was tight. “Ryan and I had a huge fight last Sunday. I’ve been sleeping at the beach house. Wednesday night when I went home to get some clothes, Ryan called.”

  “What happened?” Judging by the look on her face, it had to be bad.

  “Ryan wanted me to go away for a romantic weekend. While we were talking on the landline, Nigel called my cell. Ryan overheard me talking to him.” Her lips tightened. “Ryan thinks I’m sleeping with Nigel, but I’m not.”

  Wait long enough, they always came out with the vital details. But he could tell she wasn’t done. His always-effervescent lover looked like she was ready to cry. He took her hand, led her to the bed, sat her down and put his arms around her. “Talk to me,” he said.

  In a low voice, she said, “When Ryan and I started having these horrible fights, I thought it was my fault.” She looked at him, her dark eyes enormous. “Because I was having an affair.”

  “Hey, don’t beat up on yourself.” Now he knew why she identified with Nigel. Guilt, the great common denominator. He felt guilty, too. His wife was divorcing him and his daughter wouldn’t talk to him. “What are we supposed to do? Slog through life in an unhappy marriage until one of us dies?”

  Gina’s eyes glinted with tears. “I told Ryan I wasn’t going anywhere with him this weekend. I can’t stand to be around him anymore.”

  Maybe now wasn’t the time to tell her about the divorce papers. Time to lighten up. “Was your father a writer?”

  Gina looked at him, puzzled. “No. He worked for a construction company, operating one of those big cranes. Why?”

  He shrugged. “You’re a writer. I thought maybe it ran in the family.”

  “Yeah? Was your father a cop?”

  “No. But my mother was an FBI agent.”

  “Get out. She was not!”

  He grinned. “Right, but she was tough enough to be one.”

  It got a smile out of her, a smile that quickly faded. “Franco, I’m really worried about Nigel. You saw how despondent he was tonight.”

  Frank gave her a stern look. “I think the Jackpot Killer murdered Vicky, but you can’t tell Nigel, or anyone else. I don’t want it splashed over any front pages. This killer watches the news.”

  “How soon do you think you’ll catch him?”

  “I’m not sure. My FBI agent liaison has a prime suspect, too, a Newark librarian, plus three more suspects to investigate. I eliminated two of my three, but I like the last guy a lot. He lives on Cape Cod.”

  “Why don’t you arrest him?”

  “Way too soon to do that. Judges used to hand out search warrants like lollipops, but not these days. This guy fits the profile, but all I’ve got is hunches. He works for a cable company.”

  Gina’s eyes lit up and she smiled. “So that’s why you got excited when Nigel said Vicky’s TV was messed up.”

  “That’s one reason. My suspect lives with his mother. I want to interview her while he’s at work, but Monday’s Memorial Day, and Tuesday I’ve got to testify in court. And this afternoon I got a nasty surprise. A Sheriff’s Deputy served me with divorce papers.”

  “Damn.” Gina put her arm around him. “I’m sorry, Franco.”

  “Yeah. I need to find a good divorce lawyer. Evelyn’s lawyer’s being a bitch.” He barked a curt laugh. “The grounds are adultery, which any lawyer in the state of Massachusetts will tell you is almost impossible to prove. You can’t just allege that the spouse had sex with someone, you have to prove it.”

  “Prove it? How?”

  “Pictures.” He grinned at her. “Aren’t you glad we never took any during our wild sex orgies?”

  But she didn’t crack a smile. “I still can’t believe this happened because that woman saw us.”

  “Well, it did, but I’m not going to let it ruin our relationship.”

  “Don’t worry, it won’t. But if Ryan hears about it . . .”

  “Why? Did he threaten you?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “Did he hit you? Is that why you’re sleeping at the beach house?”

  “Ryan’s got a temper, that’s for sure. He wants me to quit my job and have a baby.” She heaved a sigh. “He doesn’t know I’m taking birth control pills, but if he finds out . . .”

  “How would he find out? Stop worrying. You got too many things messing up your mind.”

  She hugged him. “You know what? You’re right. When are you going to talk to your suspect’s mother?”

  “Wednesday. I want to get into the house and take a look around. To get a search warrant I need specifics.”

  “Like what?”

  “Some serial killers take trophies. I think he took Vicky’s ring.”

  “That would explain why it’s missing! Franco, you have to arrest him. Then Gerry Mulligan will stop thinking that Nigel killed Vicky.”

  Amused by her enthusiasm, he said, “I’d love to arrest him, but it’s not that simple.”

  “Where does he live, this guy you’re so hot on?”

  “Sandwich.”

  “Nice town. I’ve been there a few times. What’s his name?”

  “Why?”

  “Just curious. Don’t worry, I won’t blab about it.” Her lips twitched in a smile. “Come on, Franco, tell me his name. Maybe he’s my long-lost cousin or something.”

  “I doubt it. Not with a name like William Karapitulik.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Sunday, May 28

  A sharp rap sounded on his office door. Gerry Mulligan checked his watch. 10:25. Fifteen minutes ago, he’d called a local reporter and said he had a scoop for him. It killed him to do it, but he needed a friendly reporter.

  “Come in,” he yelled.

  The door opened and Peter Starr burst into his office. A little runt with a Hollywood-handsome face, Starr had been around for years. Gerry knew for a fact the mop of hair on his head was a toupee. His name was probably fake, too. Starr wasn’t too bright, but he had a million sources and was often the first television reporter on the scene of a major crime.

  “What’s up?” Starr said eagerly, taking a seat in the visitor chair. “You get a break in the Megabucks winner murder?”

  “What I got is this.” Gerry picked up the tabloid on his desk and thrust it at Starr. “One of your rivals rousts me out of bed this morning and asks for a comment. Which is why I’m in my office on a Sunday, Memorial Day weekend no less, instead of playing with my grandson at the beach.”

  Eyes narrowed, Gerry watched Starr scan the front page of the Inquirer. Even upside-down, he could read the headline: Serial Killer Targets Lottery Winners. Starr flipped pages, found the story, and began to read. Gerry knew what it said because the fucking reporter had quoted it to him.

  Is a serial killer targeting lottery winners? That’s what some law enforcement officials believe, following last week’s murder of a Nashua, NH, lotto winner. Sources close to the investigation say four other lottery winners in New England have recently been murdered, and they believe the same person is responsible.

  Starr looked up and said, “You think this is credible?”

  “Who gives a fuck? The Police Commissioner’s already got lottery officials crawling up his ass. Every media outlet in the country’s gonna jump on this.” He took out a Camel and lighted it.

  “I thought smoking was prohibited in police stations,” Starr said.

  “Only if you get caught.” Gerry fixed him with an icy stare. “Thanks to this cockamamie serial killer hogwash I gotta do a press conference tomorrow, so you better feed me the right questions.”

  “Okay, but what do I get in return?”

  His desk phone rang. Gerry grimaced, and let it ring.

  “What about Vicky Stavropoulos?” Starr said. “You think a serial killer did it?”

  “No, I don’t,” he snapped. “But how come
Detective Frank Renzi shows up at the crime scene? It’s not his territory. He works District 4. He got his boss to call and ask me to let him sit in on the Nigel Heath interviews. So I extend him this courtesy, which I was not obligated to do. But does Renzi tell me he’s working another lottery winner murder? No. Now I find out there’s four of them. Maybe more.”

  His phone stopped ringing. “Fuckin’ vultures,” he muttered.

  “You still think Nigel Heath killed Vicky Stavropoulos?”

  “Damn right, I do.” He snatched the tabloid and ran his finger down the article. “They found a yellow plastic bag and a nip bottle of J&B planted on some of the victims. Most of them were asphyxiated, with the plastic bag, allegedly.” He dropped the tabloid on his desk. “Our case is different. Crime of passion, pure and simple. The Pops conductor beat her to death.”

  “But what about this serial-killer theory? You have to admit it’s intriguing.”

  “For you, maybe, not for me.” Gerry ticked off points on his fingers. “Nigel Heath’s prints were all over her apartment. We found some of his clothes in her bedroom closet, and we got phone records of him calling her from all over hell and gone. Not only that, he admitted he got blood on his hands. Our crime scene techs took blood samples from her kitchen drain.”

  “Did they match them to Nigel Heath?”

  Gerry flinched as a sharp pain stabbed his gut. “We need to get a DNA sample, but his lawyer won’t allow it. Merrill Carr. Christ, that guy never met a TV camera he didn’t like. He’s worse than F. Lee Bailey. But we’ll get it, one way or the other.” He smiled tightly. “And now we’ve got a new witness.”

  “Great!” Starr exclaimed, scribbling furiously in his notepad. “Who?”

  Barely able to hide his disgust, Gerry watched him. He could read the little squirt’s mind. Starr figured the District A4 Chief of Detectives was under the gun. Starr figured if he asked the right questions at the press conference, Gerry Mulligan would owe him big time. The little shit.

  “Who’s the new witness?” Starr said again.

  “Henry Polanski, financial planner.” He puffed his Camel and blew smoke. “Took his own sweet time contacting us, but I guess his conscience got to him. He called me yesterday, said Nigel Heath had an appointment to see him the day of the murder, but he never showed up. Polanski was supposed to draw up a pre-nup for Nigel and his bride-to-be. Victoria Stavropoulos, winner of twelve million bucks.”