Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) (13 page)

“You can buy any condo you want. You could do a solo recording.”

That brought a smile to her face. Encouraged he said, “We’ll do one together, clarinet and piano!”

Her eyes lit up. “Really? Promise?”

“Absolutely. It’ll be smashing. When the critics hear it, your career will take off like a bloody missile.” He took the winning ticket out of his wallet. “Look, I didn’t even sign it.” He turned it over and showed her.

“Twelve million dollars, Vicky.” He took out a pen. “Sign it and half of it’s yours.”

She took the pen. “Honest?”

“I want you to have it, luv.”

She gazed at him silently for several seconds. An agonizing eternity.

At last, she scribbled her name on the ticket. He stared at her signature.

Victoria Stavropoulos. He loved the name. Victoria was a winner!

Exultant, he raised his glass. “Here’s to us, Vicky. You and me, forever!”

Wednesday, May 10

Vicky wandered aimlessly through her apartment. She couldn’t decide what to do. It was driving her crazy. Sunday night after Nigel proposed, they’d made love and stayed up till the wee hours of the morning, drinking champagne and fantasizing about how to spend the money. As a result, they overslept. Nigel had an early flight to Las Vegas so he didn’t even have time for coffee. “I won’t even
look
at a slot machine,” he’d promised as he dashed out the door.

Now it was Wednesday, almost time for the noon news. Not that she planned to watch it. The blank screen of her television set was a mocking reminder: Every newscast led with a story about the big Megabucks prize no one had claimed and speculation about the winner.

She went to her music stand. The clarinet part for the Brahms
A-minor Trio
was on it. Next week she was playing it on a chamber music program. But practicing wouldn’t solve her problem. Earlier, halfway through the piece, her mind had flitted to the Megabucks ticket, and her fingers refused to cooperate, stumbling over notes she’d played perfectly a million times.

The sweet aroma of chocolate drew her to the kitchen. Brownies were baking in the oven. Beside the stove her Pillsbury Doughboy cookie jar sat on the counter. She lifted the lid, took out the Megabucks ticket and studied her signature. The ticket was hers now. Nigel would fly back to Boston next Monday. She’d promised to claim the prize before he returned.

A chill made her shiver, the hot-cold sensation she sometimes got before a big performance. She put the ticket back in the cookie jar.

What would she tell her parents? Her father would be thrilled. He owned a successful accounting firm in Cleveland. He wasn’t a musician, but he sang in a community chorus. One of her earliest memories was listening to his melodious voice when he sat her on his lap and sang to her.

The oven buzzer went off. She took out the pan of brownies and set it on a rack to cool. Her mouth watered. Sweets were her biggest weakness, thwarting her constant attempts to diet. But today she needed comfort food. She pulled off a tiny corner and popped it in her mouth. The morsel melted on her tongue. Perfect, with a little help from Betty Crocker.

Her sister would have made them from scratch. Ophelia was tall and slender and blonde, like Mom. Ophelia had a husband, two kids and a house in the suburbs. She had no interest in a career, content to stay home and cook gourmet meals. Ophelia was a fantastic cook.

Like Mom. In January when Vicky had visited her parents, she’d gained five pounds, feasting on stuffed grape leaves, Chicken Souvlaki and Eggplant Moussaka. Mom wasn’t Greek, but she cooked to please her husband. She seldom asked about Vicky’s love life or her career.

Ophelia was her pride and joy. Her domesticated daughter.

Vicky took out a knife, cut the brownies into squares and dug out a corner piece with a spatula. If only she could confide in someone and tell them her misgivings about claiming the prize. But who? Not her parents and certainly not Ophelia. No. Her only confidante was Nigel.

Should she claim the prize today? She bit into the brownie. Savoring the warm chocolate, she went in the living room and looked out the window. Dark clouds filled the sky. Two stories below her, raindrops splattered the windshields of passing cars. Maybe she should call the lottery office and find out how to claim the prize. She sat on the loveseat and stared at the phone on the end table. As if by magic, the phone rang.

Her heart surged. Was it Nigel? She let it ring. Unwilling to pay extra for Caller-ID, she screened her calls with her answering machine. She waited tensely through her outgoing message.
Please let it be Nigel.

A man’s voice came through the speaker: “Hello, I’m calling on behalf of the Boston Ballet to ask if you’d care to make a donation.”

“Just what I need,” Vicky muttered, “people asking for money.”

When the machine clicked off, she called the Massachusetts State Lottery office and got a recorded message. To claim a prize worth more than fifty thousand dollars, winners had to go to the Lottery office in Braintree, twelve miles south of Boston.

She went in the kitchen and cut another brownie. Her gig book lay on the breakfast bar. She opened it and checked her schedule: Pops concerts Thursday, Friday and Saturday night. But not tonight. Maybe she should get it over with and go now. Recalling Nigel’s excitement, she smiled. He was so sweet. He didn’t care if she was five-foot-three and weighed 140 pounds. She held her hand under the light above the breakfast bar. The diamond glittered, sending sparkles across the counter. At least she could wear it at home.

Soon their engagement would be official. Then she’d never take it off.

They hadn’t decided where to get married, or when. The sooner the better, Nigel said. His parents were dead and he had no close relatives, so whatever she wanted was fine with him. Bermuda might be nice. She pictured them beside a swimming pool, sipping exotic drinks festooned with little umbrellas and toothpicks with candied fruit. It would be romantic, and they’d have plenty of money, enough to fly her whole family there for the wedding.

She returned to the window. What a gloomy day. She didn’t feel like driving to Braintree. Maybe she’d wait until Nigel got back.

But what good would that do? He wouldn’t come with her. He was afraid some reporter might recognize him. She had to go alone.

She returned to the kitchen and gazed at the pan of brownies.

She couldn’t decide.

Should she go today?

She cut another brownie.

____

At nine on a Wednesday night Lonny’s Tavern in Dorchester was noisy, working-class guys relaxing with a cool one after work. Or avoiding their spouses, Frank thought. Rafe’s three-decker was two blocks away, and they were sitting at the bar, rehashing the game, Rafe saying now, “You seemed distracted, let that pathetic excuse for a point guard blow by you for a layup.”

“Got a few things on my mind,” he said, and stifled a yawn.

“You tired?”

“That, too.”

Rafe drank some beer, his narrow face darkly handsome, the lights over the bar glancing off his angular cheekbones. “Told you we’d whup those District 16 losers, ran their sorry-ass center ragged with my tomahawk slams, blocked his shots at the other end.”

Amused, Frank stifled a smile. They’d only won by four points, but Rafe was always pumped after a win and tended to exaggerate.

“You know any ’bangers named Tyreke?”

“Not ringing any bells.” Rafe set his beer mug on the bar. “Why?”

“A few days ago I caught up with the kid we chased after the Mass Ave hit, took him for a ride.”

Rafe looked at him, deadpan. “What
kind
of ride?”

Frank grinned. “Not that kind. Took him to shoot some hoop. Jamal Wilkes, age ten, lives with his grandmother, Josephine Wilkes, age forty-one. The city directory lists them as residents of an apartment near Mass Ave, also lists Jamilla Wilkes, age twenty-five, Jamal’s mother, I presume, currently bunking at the women’s prison in Framingham. Nothing about his father.”

“Too many kids in bad situations like that,” Rafe said. “How’d you get Tyreke’s name?”

“Jamal let it slip, seemed upset afterwards. Well, more like terrified.”

“You think Tyreke’s the shooter?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t want to lean on Jamal too much at first, took him out for a burger, coaxed him into another shoot-around on Sunday morning. That time I got his great-grandma’s name, last name Robinson, no first name. Can you check your gangbanger rolodex, see if you find a Tyreke Robinson or Tyreke Wilkes?”

“Sure,” Rafe said. “What’s your take on Jamal?”

“Good kid. Ten years old, not running with a gang, or so he said. Said Grandma’d kill him if he did. I don’t know anything about Tyreke. He’s not listed at that address, but maybe he bunks with Jamal’s grandma sometimes.”

“Exerting a negative influence on Jamal.”

“Exactly, and it’s a shame. The kid is smart. I caught him cutting school, told him he better not do that if he wanted to go to college.”

Rafe’s eyes widened. “College? You think?”

“If he gets a basketball scholarship. He’s small for his age, but he’s got talent, good shooter, knows how to handle the ball. But he’s got no one to make him tow the line. Grandma works at Boston Med Center, probably too tired when she gets home from work to ride herd on him.” He waited a beat and said, “How about you go talk to her? You being a brother, you might get some info out of her.”

Rafe eyed him over the rim of his beer mug. “I know where you’re headed, Renzi, get me involved with the cute little black kid that stole your heart.”

“He didn’t steal my heart.” Frank grinned. “Okay, he did. But I can’t take him under my wing, not on a regular basis anyway. I’ve got too much on my plate right now.”

“Whass’up, Renzi? Look like you haven’t slept in a week, bags under your sexy bedroom eyes.” Rafe cackled a laugh. “Your girlfriend running you ragged?”

Stunned, Frank looked at him. “What girlfriend?”

Rafe poked his chest with one of his foot-long fingers. “You got the look of a man with serious shit on his mind. Why don’t you spill it, man? You don’t trust me?”

It was tempting. He could talk to Gina, but right now he needed to talk to a guy, and he couldn’t talk to Hank Flynn. Hank was his boss. “Evelyn wants me out of the house by Sunday.”

Rafe looked at him, eyes serious. “There’s a shocker. How come?”

“How’d you know I’ve got a girlfriend? Did someone tell you?”

“No. I just figured, you know, all the problems with Evelyn, you got somebody on the side.”

He signaled the bartender for another round. “I do. But it’s not something I talk about.”

“That’s cool. You know I got something going. Only reason I told you, we been friends for what, nine, ten years? I figure you won’t blow the whistle on me.”

“I won’t, but someone blew the whistle on me.” The bartender set their beers on the bar. Frank grabbed one and took a big gulp. In the corner, raucous laughter sounded, a group of guys at a table watching the big-screen television on the wall, a sit-com wrapping up.

“One of Evelyn’s girlfriends saw me and Gina in a bar and told Evelyn.”

“Damn! That sucks.”

“Yeah. So Evelyn talked to a lawyer and now she’s filing for divorce.” He couldn’t bring himself to tell Rafe she’d told Maureen about Gina. “Laid it on me last Thursday, said she wanted me out by Sunday.”

“You can stay at my place, sleep on the couch.”

He waved his hand. “I’d be in the way. You got any vacant apartments?”

“No, but I’ll ask around, see if anybody I know has one.” Rafe put a huge hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Any way I can help, just say the word, man.”

“Thanks. Believe it or not, just talking about it makes me feel better.”

“Yeah, I can see you’re dying to get up and dance.”

He glanced at the TV, saw a breaking news headline:
Boston Pops musician claims Megabucks prize!

He nudged Rafe and jerked his head at the TV. “We got a Megabucks winner.”

“Twelve million bucks,” Rafe said. “Man, I could use some of that.”

Me, too, now that I’m homeless,
Frank thought, watching the TV screen.

A young woman with curly dark hair, her dark eyes enormous behind round-rimmed glasses, held up a huge check—the one Lottery officials used for show, not the real one—and smiled tentatively at the cameras. Reporters surged forward, shouting questions. Frank studied her reaction.

A Pops musician, the headline had said, but she didn’t seem too comfortable in the spotlight. A young woman who’d just won twelve million bucks.
Young
being the key word. Maybe she’d be okay. If her luck held, maybe the Jackpot Killer would wait for an older winner.

____

Braintree

Gina lurked behind the mob of reporters in the Lottery Office, elated but anxious. Yesterday when she’d pitched her idea for a gambling series to her editor, he had okayed it. But interviewing a big winner was key. Now, after days of speculation, the Megabucks winner was here to claim her prize.

Victoria Stavropoulos. An interesting winner, a clarinetist with the Boston Pops. The instant she appeared, the reporters pressed forward, crowding around the stage. All of them wanted an interview, but Gina figured they didn’t have her chutzpah. Or determination.

Last year when her Spotlight Report on gangs won an award, her boss had given her a raise. If her gambling series increased circulation, she’d ask for a bigger one. Then she wouldn’t have to fend off Ryan’s constant sexual demands and worry about his violent temper. She could kiss Ryan goodbye.

She focused on the winner: twelve million bucks, eight million and change after they withheld taxes. Victoria was short, maybe five-four, and a bit plump, dressed in brown stretch pants and a loose-fitting gold top that set off her olive complexion and dark hair. Her face was gorgeous, a pert nose and huge dark eyes, reflecting her Greek heritage perhaps, gazing at the media mob from behind round-rimmed glasses.