by Susan Fleet
“She was in a bad car accident years ago in Lexington, Kentucky. Her husband and their older son were killed. The father’s name was Silas. He was a liquor salesman. The older son’s name was John. She said Billy hurt his head and one of her legs was mangled. They had to amputate. I felt sorry for her.”
He jotted notes in his memo pad. Accident: Lexington, Kentucky. Father’s name, Silas, a liquor salesman. Was that what the J&B nips were about? He felt like he was missing something, but he’d worry about that later.
“Anything else?”
“The house was a mess, peeling wallpaper, ancient appliances, junky furniture. Billy’s mother had on this chintzy pants suit, but the weird thing was, she was wearing this expensive-looking bracelet.”
It sucked the breath out of him. “What did it look like?”
“It was a really nice scarab bracelet.”
“Jesus, that’s it! He stole a scarab bracelet from one of the earlier victims. Gina, this is great, but you took an incredible risk.”
“Franco, stop worrying. I’m fine. Can you get the search warrant now?”
He wanted to kiss her for getting the information, but if something had happened to her, he couldn’t imagine how guilty he’d feel.
“Gina,” he said sternly, “what you did was very dangerous. Don’t you ever pull a stunt like that again.”
After a long silence Gina said, “Well, it was kind of scary, but it’s worth it if you can prove Nigel’s innocent. How soon can you arrest this creep?”
If her information was accurate, Karapitulik was probably the Jackpot Killer, but arresting him wouldn’t be quick and easy. Hank Flynn had to okay the search warrant application, and he’d go ballistic when he found out a civilian had been snooping for information at a murder suspect’s house. On the other hand, Hank was as anxious as Frank was to nail the Jackpot Killer.
“First I have to get a search warrant. That could take a day or so.”
“Why?”
“I’ll try and get it tomorrow, but it’s up to the judge.”
“Okay,” Gina said, clearly disappointed. “How’d it go in court today?”
“Very well. I’m pretty sure they’ll convict the bastard and put him away.” He glanced at his watch. “Gotta go, Gina. I want to call my FBI contact and give him the information.”
He clicked off, called Ross Dunn and relayed the information Gina had given him.
“Great,” Ross said. “The names will help. I’ll tell my assistant to focus on accidents in Lexington, Kentucky. Let me know what happens with the search warrant.”
“I will. How’s it going with your suspects?”
“I eliminated the ones in New York,” Ross said. “I still like the New Jersey librarian, but if your information on Billy Karapitulik is accurate, he might be our Jackpot Killer. ”
“As soon as I get the search warrant,” Frank said, “I’ll go to his house. Hopefully, tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 31
Wednesday, May 31 — Bourne, MA
He put on the earmuffs, picked up the gun and stared at the target. His heart was beating so hard he could hear the blood pounding in his ears. Blood. If he shot someone, there would be blood. Just thinking about it made his stomach feel queasy.
An hour ago he’d managed to leave without waking his mother and slip out the front door into the inky darkness. When he got to the shooting range, the sun was a faint glow on the horizon. The man behind the counter looked like a giant Sequoia. A sleeveless T-shirt exposed multi-colored tattoos on his biceps, and his armpits gave off a musky odor.
“You’re early, got the whole place to yourself.” He took out a pair of earmuffs and adjusted the sliding band on the top. “Little guy like you, we better make sure they fit.”
Making fun of him, because of his size.
But no one else was here, no one to make fun of him if he missed. He stared at the Mark II with the dull-blue steel finish and the seven-round magazine. Rugged and reliable. His hands were shaking. There were scabs on his knuckles where he’d scratched the eczema. But no blood.
He looked at the target, willing himself to shoot. His hands were sweaty, slippery on the gun.
The man at the counter had said to squeeze the trigger gently.
He closed his eyes and visualized the lucky winner. Nigel Heath.
He opened his eyes and squeezed the trigger. Gently.
BAM! Even with the earmuffs, the noise hurt his ears. He squinted at the target, ten yards away.
“Start with it close,” the man had said. “You’ll get the hang of it.”
But he hadn’t. He’d missed the target completely.
An acrid odor burned his nose and throat, making him gag.
He clamped his hand over his mouth so he wouldn’t puke, and sucked in air through his nostrils. He had to do better.
He raised the gun. Aimed. Fired.
The sound reverberated in his head. Dull pain pulsed his temples. After the accident, the doctors had said the pain would go away, but it hadn’t.
He looked at the target and felt a surge of excitement. He’d hit it!
Methodically, he emptied the gun at the target.
The noise made the pain worse, mouth-mother pain beating his head, hearing her voice say, “Silas, you’re going too fast! Slow down!”
“Don’t tell me how to drive!” His father’s loud voice, scaring him.
“Billy, stop crying! Judy, will you shut him up? He’s such a little cunt-sissy.”
“Watch your mouth, Silas.”
“Why can’t he be a tough guy like John? Gonna pitch a helluva game tonight, right John-boy?” His father turned and saw the tears running down his cheeks. “Jesus! Look at the little brat! That’s what he is, Judy. A sniveling little brat. Your little brat, not mine!”
“Don’t say that!”
“Well, he is. Ain’t no son of mine! You and your flirty ways.”
“Liar!”
“It’s true! You flirt with every Tom, Dick and Harry—”
“I do not. Don’t say that!”
“Stop whining, Judy. You sound just like your little brat. You make me sick, both of you!”
“I’m sorry I ever had him! Oh my God! Silas, watch out for that truck!”
And then the dump truck hit them. His head slammed against the door and he wet his pants. His mother’s blood gushed over him, spilling over his face into his eyes and nose. He tried to wipe it off, but the blood got on his hands. Stinking. Slimy. Disgusting. He tried to push her away, but he couldn’t. He was weak. His father was strong. Ain’t no son of mine. Your little brat, not mine!
Now his father was dead. But his mother wasn’t. I’m sorry I ever had him!
He ejected the empty clip and inserted the spare, his heart pounding, out of control, just like their car had spun out of control and he wet his pants and his mother’s blood spurted over his face.
Blood. Stinking. Slimy. Disgusting. Blood.
If only he could forget the BLOOD.
He was glad his father was dead.
Soon his lucky winner would be dead, too.
Everyone thought Nigel Heath killed Victoria, but he’d show them.
He raised his rugged, reliable gun and fired.
Now he could kill and kill and kill, and no one could stop him.
____
10:15 p.m. — Squantum
Gina sank onto the futon in her beach house. On her stereo, Chet Baker was singing “My Funny Valentine,” a sad song that matched her mood. She opened a fresh pack of cigarettes. Already the ashtray on the coffee table held four butts. She was smoking too much, but dammit, she was sick of waiting.
Why couldn’t Franco hurry up and get the search warrant? Earlier he’d called and said he hoped to get it tomorrow. The cops were convinced Nigel killed Vicky. She was positive he hadn’t, and now Franco agreed with her. But how long would it take to arrest the Jackpot Killer? How could she get what she needed to write a book if Nigel was in jail?
&n
bsp; She hadn’t been back to her house in Westwood since last Wednesday. Orchid kept urging her to leave Ryan. Fine, but she needed money. They had joint bank accounts. In theory, half the money was hers, but if she withdrew her share, Ryan would go ballistic. Orchid was in Arizona at a trade show.
Gina smiled, imagining Orchid’s reaction to her Sandwich adventure. She’d be green with envy. When Orchid got back from the trade show, she’d take her out for a drink and give her the gory details.
Her cell phone rang. Thinking it was Franco, she punched on.
“Gina? Nigel here. I hate to bother you, but you’re the only one I can talk to.”
Not Franco, but Nigel was almost as good. He'd just admitted that she was his only confidant, and she wanted to make sure it stayed that way.
“No problem, Nigel. What’s up?”
“More bad news. The bloody hotel’s pestering me for payment.”
“Can’t you put it on your credit card?”
“A bit overloaded there, I’m afraid. My agent finally sent me a check for the Iowa gig, but it doesn’t amount to much, nowhere near what I need. And that’s not the worst of it. That Mulligan bloke had another go at me today. My lawyer thinks they might arrest me tomorrow.”
“Jesus! How can they?” She gnawed her lip. Should she tell him about Billy? No. She’d promised Franco she wouldn’t. “Nigel, if you can hang in there for a couple of days—”
“They’ll lock me up and throw away the key.”
His flat tone made her uneasy. “What does your lawyer say?”
“He wants his bloody retainer, but I haven’t got it! All these legal blokes care about is money. If I don’t pay him, I’m done for. The cops think I killed Vicky. I’ll rot in prison for the rest of my life.”
Gina massaged her forehead. Her life had turned into an endless tunnel of stress. Franco was living in a motel in Dorchester, and she was living at her beach house. Soon or later the shit would hit the fan with Ryan. Lord knows what would happen then.
“I’ll never play a piano again. Never conduct another concert.”
“Nigel, don't think like that. You have to stay positive.”
“The cops will put me in jail forever. I’d be better off dead.”
Her heart jolted. Better off dead? Was this a desperate cry for help?
“Nigel, don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s true. Save the bastards the trouble.”
His dull monotone sent off alarm bells. He sounded suicidal. After her high school friend committed suicide, she’d done some research on the topic. Most of the studies said anyone with a family member who’d committed suicide was more likely to do it themselves. For heavy drinkers, the statistics were worse, and Nigel was drinking up a storm.
“Nigel, I want you to come and stay at my beach house.”
“No. You’d get in trouble and it would be my fault.”
“I’ll pick you up at the hotel.”
“No. I’ve caused enough trouble already. Look what happened to Vicky.”
“You have to stop thinking like that. I want you to stay at my beach house until things get sorted out. I’ll come to the hotel right now and sneak you out through the parking garage in my car.”
A long silence. A heavy sigh. “Well, I s’pose we could give it a go. At least I could play your piano. That would be a comfort.”
“It’s settled then. I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”
“Bit late, isn’t it? You must be tired. Let’s wait till morning.”
She assessed his tone. He still sounded despondent, but at least he wasn’t talking about being better off dead. Suddenly she felt utterly weary.
“Okay, but only if you promise not to do anything rash tonight. If you did, I’d feel terribly guilty. And you know what that’s like.”
After a moment, Nigel said, “Yes, I do. What time will you pick me up tomorrow?”
“Early. Meet me at six o’clock on the second level of the garage near the elevator.”
“Thank you, Gina. You’re a wonderful friend. I’ll make this up to you someday, I promise.”
She replaced the receiver and massaged her eyes.
What the hell had she gotten herself into?
She’d just invited Nigel Heath, the man the cops were about to arrest for the murder of Vicky Stavropoulos, to stay at her beach house.
She had no idea how soon Franco would arrest the killer.
Billy Karapitulik. The weirdo who named the goldfish in his locked basement room after the women he murdered.
CHAPTER 32
Thursday, June 1
Sleep-deprived and squinty-eyed, Gina drove down Huntington Avenue and passed New England Conservatory at 5:50. Ahead of her, the rising sun cast a rosy-red glow over the glass facade of the John Hancock Tower. Traffic was sparse at this hour, but five minutes later when she got to the Back Bay Inn three television crews and several reporters stood outside.
Fortunately they were focused on the hotel entrance, not the street. She sped past them and entered the parking garage. How would she sneak Nigel out past those sharp-eyed reporters?
She stopped at the ticket dispenser, took a ticket, continued up to the second level and parked in a space near the elevator. She checked her watch. 6:02. Nigel, please don’t keep me waiting.
A minute later he stepped out of the elevator, dressed in a white shirt and navy slacks, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His face lit up in a smile when she got out of the car. His smile faded when she said, “There’s a mob of reporters out front. You’ll have to hide in the trunk.”
But when she opened the trunk, a carton of office supplies and an emergency repair kit filled most of the space.
“Hurry,” she said urgently. “Put the carton in the back seat!”
Alert for the sound of approaching vehicles, she shoved the repair kit to one side. Fortunately, no cars passed them. She helped Nigel get in the trunk.
“Good thing I’m not claustrophobic. How long must I stay in here?”
“Fifteen minutes or so, depending on traffic. Will you have enough air?”
“Close the lid and we’ll see.”
She shut the lid and wiped sweat off her forehead. As a crime reporter she’d had her share of adventures, but nothing like this. Could she really smuggle a murder suspect out of his hotel in the trunk of her car?
She put her mouth close to the lid and said, “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” came the faint reply.
She jumped in the car, drove down to the toll booth and paid the attendant. What if a reporter recognized her distinctive red Mazda? She sank low in the seat and averted her face as she drove past the hotel entrance, her hands sweaty on the wheel.
A minute later she eyed the rearview. No one was following her, but another problem loomed. Thelma, the woman who lived across the street from her beach house, watched television day and night, especially the news.
If Thelma saw Nigel, she would recognize him immediately.
Fifteen minutes later Nigel banged on the trunk, asking to get out. By then they were only a mile from her beach house. She found a restaurant that was closed for repairs, parked out back and opened the trunk.
“Bit cramped in here,” Nigel said.
“Sorry. It was the only way I could sneak you past the reporters.”
Blinking in the sun, he spotted the restaurant sign. “Can we have a spot of breakfast? It’s been ages since I’ve had a meal outside the hotel.”
He seemed rather cheerful for a man who’d claimed he’d be better off dead last night. Then again, she wasn’t the one who’d been cooped up in a hotel for two weeks.
“Not now,” she said. “Someone might recognize you. Stay in the trunk. In five minutes we’ll be at my beach house. When we get there, you need to wear sunglasses. I don’t want my neighbor to recognize you.” She shut the trunk and got back in the car.
At 6:35 she pulled into the driveway alongside her beach house, thankful that she’d left the
garage door open. She drove into the garage and got out, but before she could close the garage door, a voice called, “Good morning, Gina! Goodness, you’re out early. Why are you coming home at this hour?”
Her heart sank. Shading her eyes against the dazzling sunlight, she looked across the street. Thelma waved to her from a second-floor window, dressed in a blue terrycloth robe, her snow-white hair neatly combed. Thelma kept an eagle eye on the neighborhood, a plus ordinarily, but not today.
“Want coffee?” Thelma called. “I just made a pot.”
“Thanks, Thelma, but I can’t. I’ve got things to do.”
“I’ve got blueberry coffee cake,” Thelma wheedled.
Thelma loved having company. “Not right now,” Gina said firmly. “I have to get back to work.”
Clearly disappointed, Thelma said, “All right. I guess I’ll go do my laundry.”
Too bad her garage didn’t have a secret way to get into the house, Gina thought. A hidden staircase in the pantry led to a closet in her second-floor bedroom. In 1878 when the sea captain had built the house, fishing was hazardous. Wives watched for their husband’s ships from porches on the upper floors. Some never returned, hence the term widow’s walk. As a child, she loved climbing the secret staircase. She’d spent hours on the widow's walk, staring through her grandfather’s binoculars. But that was years ago.
Now she had to smuggle a murder suspect into her house. She closed the garage door and let Nigel out of the trunk. She gave him the pair of oversized sunglasses she used at the beach and led him to the door that faced her cottage. “I don’t want the woman across the street to see you. Wait here till I wave you in.”
Without a word, Nigel put on the sunglasses. He seemed happy to have her in charge, a lot happier than she was. But she had to think positive and keep her eyes on the prize—a lucrative book contract. Franco would get the search warrant for Billy’s house, find enough incriminating evidence to arrest him, and Nigel would be in the clear.
She unlocked the side door, checked to make sure Thelma wasn’t watching and waved to Nigel. In three long strides he was inside her kitchen.
