by Susan Fleet
Pell and Duggan entered the room.
“Jesus,” Pell said, “look at the blood on those clothes.”
“Gotta be Billy’s,” Duggan muttered as he pulled on latex gloves. “What’s with the goldfish, I wonder?”
“He names them after his victims,” Frank said.
“Check this out.” Kneeling beside the bed, Duggan held out a magazine in his gloved hand. “Billy’s a Judy Garland freak. She’s on half the covers.”
Frank put on a pair of latex gloves and took the magazine. It was dated December, 1964. A tag on the front said BOURNE CITY LIBRARY. The librarian was right. Billy had stolen it.
“I better get a forensic team over here,” Duggan said, “so we keep control of the scene.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe Billy beat his mother to death. I wonder where he is.”
“I don’t know,” Frank snapped, “but we need to find him. Put out a BOLO on his van. Alert every patrol car on the Cape. You got any idea where he might go?”
Duggan grimaced. “Not a one.”
Frank gestured at the computer on the desk beside the fish tank. “Maybe the computer will tell us.”
____
Nigel poured coffee beans into the grinder and pressed the button. The noise rattled through his head like a fortissimo drum roll. Bloody hell, what a hangover! He eyed the nearly-empty bottle of Dewars on the counter. Should he have a pick-me-up? P’rhaps not. He’d had a skinful last night.
The phone rang. Who the bloody hell kept calling?
He’d finally fallen asleep at 4:00 a.m., but the phone had woken him at 8:00. He’d tried to doze, but five minutes later the phone rang again.
Now it was 9:30 and the bloody phone was ringing yet again.
Mercifully, after four rings, it stopped.
He parted the window curtain above the kitchen sink. Bright sunlight bounced off the water and hit his eyes, sending stabbing pains into his head. He poured the coffee grounds into a filter, filled the machine with water and sat down at the table. He was feeling a bit peckish, hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday noon.
The memory of his last breakfast with Vicky flashed in his mind. The blueberry scones she’d bought him. Lovely scones. Lovely Vicky.
The sweetest girl in the world.
Tears filled his eyes. How would he live without her?
He massaged his temples, but it didn’t ease the pain, the mother of all headaches.
What would happen when his solicitor found out he’d flown the coop?
Merrill Carr was a bloody hypocrite, talking tough to the detectives, then turning on him. Demanding his retainer. Telling him to ante up or he’d land in jail. And the bloody detective was worse. Gerry Mulligan.
The bastard was probably looking for him right now.
The doorbell chimed. His heart shot into his throat.
Good Christ, the coppers were here to haul him in!
____
Dorchester
Gina stood with a group of reporters outside a rundown three-decker. Smelly trash barrels beside the front steps gave off a putrid odor. A dozen police vehicles were parked along the narrow side street. Two hours ago a man had broken into the second-floor apartment and attacked his estranged wife. Neighbors heard her screams and called 9-1-1. When the cops arrived, the man had shot himself.
Now it was 9:30. The woman was dead, and the cops were still inside processing the scene. Like the other three-deckers along the street, this one had a flat roof, a vertical stack of bay windows on one side, and front porches on each floor. Nearby residents had gathered on the opposite sidewalk, talking among themselves.
Gina was in a great mood, but trying not to show it. Considering what happened to the woman, that would be disrespectful. Last night she’d stayed with Franco at his motel. The judge had signed the application for the warrant to search Billy’s house, and they had a mini-celebration, take-out pepperoni pizza accompanied by Chianti. She’d been sorely tempted to tell Franco that Nigel was staying at her beach house, but she hadn’t.
Why jump the gun? If Franco arrested Billy today, the police might drop the murder charge against Nigel.
“Hey Gina,” said a Boston Globe reporter, finger-combing his bushy brown hair. “About time you did a series on domestic violence.” Gesturing at the house, he said, “Here’s your hook.”
“I might,” she said. “Too many of these guys get pissed off at their wives and kill them.”
A chill skittered down her spine. What would Ryan do when he came home to an empty house at four o’clock? Ryan had an explosive temper, and he could be unpredictable. What if he went to the beach house to see if she was there?
Unwilling to think about it, she left the group of reporters and went over to a cluster of women on the opposite sidewalk. A middle-aged white woman with a pinched look on her face stood to one side by herself. “Excuse me,” Gina said to her. “Did you know the woman that was murdered?”
“Knew her well enough to know she had big problems with that asshole.” The woman’s mouth quirked in disdain. “Before she threw him out, I’d hear them fighting all the time.”
“Just yelling? Or did he hit her?”
“A lotta yelling and screaming. Gave her a black eye once.”
“Could I have your name?” Gina said. “So I can quote you? I write for the Herald.”
“Jesus, no! I’m hiding from my ex-boyfriend. He finds out I’m living in Dorchester, he’ll track me down and hurt me!”
Gina touched the woman’s arm. “Okay. I’m sorry for your trouble.”
She spotted two police officers leaving the three-decker and ran back to join the other reporters. Both officers appeared shaken: faces drawn, lips set in grim lines, eyes squinty. As the TV crews filmed them for the noon news, reporters yelled questions. But the officers gave them a curt No Comment and headed for their squad cars. She recognized one officer and ran after him.
“Tom! Gina Bevilaqua! You got anything for me?” Three years ago when Tom was working homicides in the Mission Hill area, he’d given her some choice quotes.
“Hi, Gina,” he said, and kept moving.
Running to keep up, she said, “What’s it like in there?”
He reached his squad car and opened the door. “Ugly. He must have stabbed her thirty times, mostly in the face and chest. She didn’t have a chance. The guy weighed two hundred pounds. Then he put a gun under his chin and blew off the top of his head. Blood everywhere.”
“Can you give me a name?”
“Negative. Not until we notify the next of kin.” Tom swung into the driver’s seat, looked up at her and winked. “Now I’m gonna go get me a Big Mac with lotsa ketchup. Wanna come?”
She laughed. “Tom, you are so baaad.”
“Good to see you, Gina. What I said is off the record.”
She gave him a thumbs up. “Thanks, Tom. No names, I promise.”
She got in her Mazda, scribbled notes in her steno pad, sat for a moment to compose the lead and called the Herald copy desk. She dictated her story, including the details she’d obtained from “a source close to the investigation.”
Within the hour, her story would go up on the Herald website as a Breaking News Item. She checked the time. 9:55. Franco had to have gotten into Billy’s house by now. When they’d left his motel at 7:30, he was driving directly to Sandwich. On her way to work she’d caught the domestic violence call on her police scanner and had driven straight to the scene.
Why hadn’t Franco called? Another chill prickled her neck. She hadn’t forgotten the odd look in Mrs. Kay’s eyes when she asked for her card. Or the Wagner’s Sporting Goods package. What if Billy had a gun?
What if he shot Franco?
If anything happened to Franco, she didn’t know what she would do.
She tried to think positive. Maybe he had found enough incriminating evidence to arrest Billy. Maybe he was with the Sandwich police right now, taking Billy into custody. She pulled away from the curb, drove two blocks,
turned onto the main road and stopped at a traffic light.
Given Nigel’s need to talk, she was surprised he hadn’t called her. Last night on the news, Gerry had issued a statement about the arrest warrant and his inability to locate Nigel Heath. Yesterday Nigel had said he didn’t want to watch television, so maybe he hadn’t seen it.
But maybe he had. She didn’t want to talk to him while she was driving, didn’t want to talk to her editor, either. She took her cell out of her purse and shut it off. If Franco called, he would leave a message.
When the light changed, she entered a rotary and took the entrance to the Expressway headed south. Now that she’d filed her murder-suicide story, why rush back to the office?
It would take fifteen minutes to get to her beach house. By then Franco would probably have called her with the good news about Billy.
When she got to the house, she could tell Nigel and put his mind at ease.
CHAPTER 36
The doorbell chimed again.
The sound sent pain rocketing into his head. Bloody hell, how could he talk to the cops when he had this vicious hangover? His mouth was dry as toast, his stomach was queasy, and his head was fuzzy.
He went in the living room and crept to the front window. Dreading what he would see, he parted the curtain and let out a sigh of relief.
A stocky bloke with a thatch of blond hair stood outside the door, holding a toolbox. He had on a blue uniform shirt, but not the sort the police officers wore, no gun strapped to his belt.
Who was he? Gina’s husband? Bit short for her, if he was. Young, too.
The bell chimed insistently.
A sense of foreboding made him hesitate.
Gina hadn’t said she was expecting any visitors. Trying to quell his trepidation, he cautiously approached the door. Should he open it?
The doorbell clanged again.
He took a deep breath and opened the door. “Help you?” he said.
The man smiled at him, looked like a cherub with his round face and chubby pink cheeks.
“I’m the cable man. I’m here to repair the cable box.” Maintaining his smile, the man stared up at him.
There was something unnerving about his implacable gaze. Was that a hint of recognition in those blue eyes?
Bloody hell, did the bloke know he was hiding from the cops? Lord knows his picture had been all over the telly for the last two weeks.
“D’you have some identification?”
The man’s eyes flickered and his smile disappeared. He pointed to the pocket of his uniform shirt and said, “My customers know me.”
Nigel studied the name on the pocket. John. He hesitated, undecided.
He didn’t want to let anyone in the house, but he didn’t want to interfere with Gina’s cable repair. She hadn’t mentioned it, but maybe she’d forgotten.
He opened the screen door, let the man into the living room and shut the door. “What’s wrong with the telly?” he said.
The man didn’t answer, just walked past Gina’s piano and set his toolbox down on the rug in front of the telly.
What was wrong with the bloke? Why didn’t he answer?
The man knelt down, opened the toolbox, took something out and rose to his feet. It looked like a gun.
Bloody hell, it was a gun!
His heart thumped his ribs. He let out a nervous laugh. “I say, old boy, you’re full of surprises. That’s quite a little pop gun you’ve got there.”
“Don’t call me little!” The man’s eyes hardened into blue agates. “That’s what you always said. Be a big boy like John, you said.”
What in bloody hell was he talking about? “Look here, I think you’ve made a mistake—”
“I don’t make mistakes. Sit down over there.” Holding the gun with his right hand, the man wiped sweat off his forehead with his left. Ugly scabs disfigured his hands. Did the bloke have some kind of illness?
And why was he pointing that gun at him?
Nigel carefully lowered himself onto the futon and sat very still.
“Where’s Gina Bevilaqua?”
“She’s not here. She had to go—” Wait. Don’t tell him anything.
How did he know Gina? Who was this lunatic?
The phone rang.
“Don’t answer it!” the lunatic screamed.
The ringing telephone seemed to send him into a frenzy, pacing back and forth, agitated, aiming the gun at him. “Sit there and don’t move.”
“Not to worry,” he said, to humor him. “The machine is on.”
For some reason that reminded him of the answer-phone in Vicky’s living room. His beloved Vicky. But he couldn’t think about that now, not while this lunatic was aiming a gun on him.
And who the bloody hell kept calling? Was it Gina? Her husband? Who?
Keeping the gun trained on him, the lunatic backed up until he reached his toolbox. Then he bent down and took out a long-handled wrench. What the hell was the bastard up to?
Then he saw the stains on the wrench.
Ugly brown stains that looked like blood.
“Look here, be a good chap and tell me what you want. I haven’t much money, but you can take—”
“You’ve got plenty of money!”
“I don’t!” Bloody Christ, who was this lunatic?
“Yes you do. Don’t lie to me!” His blue eyes blazed with fury. “You won the lottery, not Victoria.” The man lowered his left hand, the hand with the wrench, and scratched it. Then he paced the room, the gun in one hand, the wrench in the other, staring at him, his eyes glittering with malice.
“You tried to fool me, but you can’t.”
Nigel sat very still, thoughts flitting through his mind like furry gray bats. Was this some friend of Vicky’s who wanted to punish him?
“Look here,” he said, “I gave the ticket to Vicky—”
“Victoria.” The man smiled, an evil smile, frightening to behold. “You tried to trick me, but you couldn’t. I know you won the lottery. That’s why I have to kill you.”
Kill you. Nigel flinched. This lunatic was going to kill him.
The lunatic marched to his toolbox, took out a small white envelope and came back, standing five feet away now. Close enough for Nigel to smell his rank body odor. Then he took something out of the envelope.
“See this?” he said, and smiled his evil lunatic-smile.
Nigel stared in disbelief. Bloody hell, Vicky’s diamond ring!
He felt like a giant hand had crushed him. His throat heaved in a convulsive swallow. He tried to take a breath but couldn’t, lungs constricted, heart pounding. Bloody hell, was he having a heart attack?
“You?” he gasped, his heart raging in his chest. “You killed Vicky??”
It was too monstrous to comprehend.
“Why? Why did you have to kill Vicky? She never did anything to you. She was a dear sweet—”
“I thought she won the lottery. Winners are lucky. Lucky winners get punished.” The lunatic smiled. Droplets of blood oozed from the cracked skin on the knuckles of his right hand, the hand with the gun. “John was a winner, too, and he got punished. He got exactly what he deserved.”
Frozen with fear, mesmerized by the crazed look in the man’s eyes, Nigel took shallow breaths, his calming pre-concert routine. But this was infinitely more terrifying than playing a piano solo.
“You tried to make me think Victoria won, but she didn’t. You won, and you’re going to pay.”
“I’ve already paid,” Nigel moaned. “Vicky’s dead.”
Overcome with despair, he buried his face in his hands. It was his fault. He deserved to die. He’d let his mother down, let his father down, too. He was a loser. A failed soloist. A wretched gambler. Bloody Christ, he’d won twelve million dollars and he was still a loser. Vicky was dead. Murdered.
He raised his head and looked at the blond man with the round face and the glittering blue eyes.
The bastard was right. It was his fault Vicky was dead and
he wanted to die, too. What did he have to live for?
____
“Ross!” Frank said into his cell phone. “I’m at the Sandwich suspect’s house with two local police officers. Billy Karapitulik murdered his mother.”
“Jesus, when?” Ross said.
“Last night or early this morning, hard to tell. No sign of the suspect.”
“Gotta be our guy. I’ll hop on a plane and get there as soon as I can. Any idea where he is?”
Frank glanced at Chief Duggan, who was listening to his end of the conversation. Officer Pell was upstairs, securing the scene. “No. The police chief put out a BOLO on Billy’s vehicle. He’s got a computer, but it’s password protected. If I can get into it, maybe I can figure out what he’ll do next. Are there any FBI agents nearby that could hack into it?”
“Closest office is in Boston,” Ross said, “might take awhile to get there. I’m no computer whiz, but try this. Type in “administrator” for the username. Don’t enter a password, just hit Enter. That might do it.”
Frank did what Ross said, hit Enter and held his breath.
The computer whirred and the Windows desktop appeared.
“Ross,” he said, “I’m in. Hold on.”
Chief Duggan came over and stood behind him. “What have you got?”
Frank clicked the Libraries icon, then Documents, and saw three folders: one labeled RESUMES, one labeled JUDY, another labeled WINNERS. He clicked on the WINNERS folder and studied the files.
Behind him, Duggan said, “Looks like the file names are in code.”
“Right,” Frank said, “but the numbers might be dates.”
“What’s going on?” Ross said impatiently, clearly frustrated that he was miles away and out of the loop.
“I’m opening the first file,” Frank told him. “F-dash-4-dash-25.” He waited until the Word document opened. “It’s the Chatham victim. Florence, murdered April 25. The files are coded.”
“What about the Nashua lotto winner?” Ross asked. “Ruth Bennett.”
He scrolled down to a file labeled R-5-23 and opened it.
“Got it, Ross. Ruth Bennett, murdered May 23rd. Hold on a second while I see if there’s a file that starts with V for Vicky.” He hit the scroll bar and saw V-5-15.
