Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) (18 page)

“For what?” Frank said, scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad.

“Got to contact the Georgia prison for that. I asked Josephine, she say she don’t know. I wouldn’t put money on it, but why bust the woman when I can get the info myself, plus a lot more, in a phone call?”

“So what’s he doing staying at her apartment?”

“Bada-bing. That’s what I said. She gives me, you know, The Look, says: Sometimes I need a favor, hafta do a favor back. Which I can dig, man, her living alone with her grandkid and all.”

“Okay, but I don’t like it. You think she’s letting gang members use her apartment as a safe house?”

“Exactly what I asked, but she said No, she didn’t want Jamal mixed up with some gang. So the good news is we got the skinny on Tyreke. Bad news is we don’t know his present whereabouts.”

“You think he’s the shooter?”

“I ask Josephine, Did Tyreke stay here the night of Tuesday April 24? She says she don’t remember. So I ask, Does she remember the young black man found two blocks from her apartment the next morning lying in the gutter, one shot to the head? That got her attention. She gives me a nod. So I say, Did Jamal see anything? She doesn’t answer so I get stern, say:
Did. Jamal.
See anything?
She says: No, but Jamal’s a light sleeper, might have heard Tyreke leave the apartment sometime during the night.”

“And saw the commotion when he went out the next morning, decided to take a look. Damn!”

“Yeah. But I can’t see Jamal having to testify if we make Tyreke for the hit. Judge would never let it in, hearsay, speculation, you know the drill.”

“Right. So we better find Tyreke.”

Rafe chuckled. “
You
better find him. It’s your case, man. I work drug enforcement.”

“Just what I need, another task on my overloaded do-list.”

“Aw, you poor thing. So here’s the good part. I call Jamal out of his room, pretend I been quizzing Grandmaw about his school attendance and does he do his homework and whatnot, say to him: My friend Detective Renzi tells me you’re a talented basketball player, how’d you like to go to a Celtics game with us? The kid’s eyes light up like a Christmas tree. Then I ask Josephine if it’s okay and can I have her cell phone number so I can call her when I get the tickets, heh, heh, sneaky way to get the number, in case we need to call her for something else, like a cop spots Tyreke and we need her to ID the man. Anyway, she says Yes, gives me the number, so it’s all set.”

“I like the idea, but where do we get the tickets?”

“Buddy of mine’s got seats five rows behind the Celtics bench, we pick a game where they’re playing some loser team stuck in the cellar, he’ll let me have three tickets for a yard apiece.”

“Man, you’re gonna break my bank,” Frank said, visualizing his dwindling bank balance. “I’m paying bills on a house I’m not living in, remember? Plus paying three bills a week for a motel room with no kitchen, eating all my meals out, which costs an arm and a leg.”

“Aw, come on. Be fun, take the kid to a Celtics game, he’ll have the time of his life.”

Frank had to laugh. “Okay, Rafe. Check the schedule and let me know. I’ll save my pennies, go halves with you on the tickets. See? You fell for the kid. I knew you would.”

“Hey, big brown eyes and those
hands,
man. He ever grows into ’em he’s gonna be big. So now we got the work and recreation settled, what’s up with the dead lottery winner in the North End?”

“Wish to hell I knew. Might be the Jackpot Killer, but I’m not sure.”

“What about the conductor? Saw him on the news, comes out of the station looking guilty as hell.”

“Gerry Mulligan thinks so, I can tell you that.”

“Mulligan, huh? Worked a case with him once, seemed like he was looking to clear it quick.”

“Maybe. Like I said, I’m not convinced, either way. Thanks for the info on Tyreke.”

“I’ll call the Georgia prison, see what brother Tyreke’s been up to. Talk to you later.”

____

Sandwich

At 11:10, he went upstairs and tiptoed into the kitchen. He knew she was still up. He could hear sounds from the television in the living room. He eased the lid off the box of Morrow’s Famous Chocolates on the counter. The top layer of candy was gone, but the empty wrappers remained. His mother counted them to track her one-piece-daily allotment. And to make sure he didn’t eat any. He lifted the cardboard to get at the bottom layer and the wrappers slid to one side with a crinkling sound.

The television went silent. “Billy? Is that you?”

How did she know? Sometimes he thought she had an invisible antenna that kept track of where he was. Preacher Everdon said God was watching them. He didn’t believe it, but he believed his mother was watching
him
. He put the cover back on the candy box.

“Come in the living room, Billy. I want you to watch something.”

He should have stayed in his room. The back of his hand itched like wildfire. He scratched it, went in the living room and stood by the wingchair in the corner. Seated in the wheelchair with her back to him, she gazed at the television screen. She had on her frayed blue bathrobe, and the ends of her blonde hair were wrapped around fat plastic rollers.

“I want you to watch a story on CNN, Billy. Some lottery winner up in Boston got murdered!”

His heart surged. Victoria was on the national news!

Now everyone would know.

“I told you gambling is bad, Billy. Gamblers are lazy. They want money, but they don’t want to work for it. Well, the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.” Her thin face pinched in a frown. “Remember that woman in Poughkeepsie two years ago? She won the lottery and she got murdered, too.”

“Yes, Mom.” Of course he remembered. Lucky Lulu. His first. He stifled a smile as his mother’s pale blue eyes bored into him. Did she suspect? No. He’d been careful. She didn’t know about Victoria, either. Yesterday he’d come home from work at the usual time.

But his date with Victoria hadn’t gone the way he’d planned. The back of his hand felt like bugs were crawling over it.

“Want a piece of candy, Mom?”

“I already had my piece of candy after dinner.”

Right, because the dinner you cooked was so bad even you couldn’t eat it
.

She turned back to the television and released the mute-button. Sound blared through the room. A car commercial. A red car speeding down a winding road. The sound and the speed sucked at his mind.

RED. DEAD. VICTORY. VICTORIA
.

He sank onto the wingchair, felt the excitement grow, picturing Victoria and her diamond ring. She fought him, but he had the power. Until the man called and ruined everything—

“Look, Billy! Here it is. I told you gambling is bad. Some girl won twelve million dollars, but she paid for it in the end.”

And there he was—the man in the suit, the one he’d seen at Victoria’s house!—leaving a police station, surrounded by reporters. The announcer said Victoria had played for the Boston Pops.

His heart surged with excitement. Everyone knew the Boston Pops. They played for the fireworks on the Fourth of July. Now he would get the fame he deserved. Everyone would know he could KILL and KILL!

“He killed her, Billy. He was after her money. Preacher Everdon says money is the root of all evil.”

His hands grew still. What did
she
know?

His mother was stupid if she thought—

“Questions have been raised,” said the announcer, “about Nigel Heath’s relationship with the victim. Sources close to the investigation say he has not been ruled out as a suspect.”

He stared at the screen in disbelief. How could they think that man killed her? Didn’t they know about the others? It wasn’t fair! Abruptly, he rose from the chair and started toward the kitchen.

“Billy!” his mother said, her pale blue eyes boring into him. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to bed, Mom. I have to go in early tomorrow.”

“You went in early yesterday. I didn’t even hear you leave. They can’t expect you to go in early every day. Why don’t you stand up to them? Your father would have.”

He ran downstairs to his room, went to the fish tank and stared at the name tag pasted on the side. Victoria. Fighting him, not doing what he said. He plunged his hand into the tank. The fish scattered, fins flailing, trying to hide. But they couldn’t. He grabbed Victoria and squeezed. Her eyes bulged and her mouth moved convulsively. He flung her on the floor, stomped her and stared at the ugly orange mess on the rubber-tiled floor. Disgusting.

The rest of his girls hovered near the bottom, Lulu and Tessa, Florence and Lilly, Betty and Rosie. Even Judy was hiding. But they couldn’t escape.

A haze of rage blinded him. He’d kill them all!

No. He would never hurt Judy. Beautiful, talented Judy. How he loved her voice, her crooked smile, her sad brown eyes.

“The cops are stupid, Judy. They think that conductor killed Victoria.”

He looked at the orange-red mess on the rubber-tile floor. Victoria.

His head throbbed with a dull ache. He wiped the sole of his shoe with a towel, got on his computer, logged onto the ’Net and clicked on the lottery page. Everybody thought that conductor killed Victoria. But he’d show them.

He’d find another lucky winner right away and this time he wouldn’t be fussy. He’d show them he could kill and kill and KILL!

And no one could stop him.

Wednesday, May 17

The calling hours for Vicky’s wake were 6:00 to 9:00. Gina got to the Demopoulos Funeral Home ten minutes early. Television trucks with satellite dishes were lined up outside, identified by their colorful logos: Court TV, Fox News, CNN and the local affiliates for CBS, NBC and ABC. A line of mourners stood outside the white Greek-revival building. A police officer stood at the door, to keep the reporters out, Gina assumed.

She circled the funeral home and parked in a large blacktopped area at the rear of the building. Outside a door on the lower level, a man in a suit stood outside, smoking. “Mind if I join you?” she said.

“Not at all. There’s a smoking room inside, but it’s stinks of smoke.” He tossed his butt on the ground and opened the door. She followed him inside. So much for police details.

She walked down a hall to a stairway, went upstairs to the foyer and entered the viewing room. Beyond rows of folding chairs, a mahogany casket stood in the front corner on the left, surrounded by banks of lilies and white roses. Even from the back she could smell the sickly sweet odor.

A large photograph stood on top of the casket: Vicky, posed with her clarinet, her dark smiling eyes clearly visible. Groups of people seated on folding chairs talked quietly as two young women spoke to the bereaved family members standing to the right of the casket: Vicky’s parents and her sister, Ophelia. Gina assumed the man beside Ophelia was her husband.

Unlike Vicky, Ophelia was tall and slender, dressed in a simple black sheath, her ash-blonde hair done in a French twist, a younger version of Vicky’s mother. Janet Stavropoulos was taller than her husband, and lines etched the corners of her eyes and mouth.

Vicky took after her father. Short and stocky, Constantine Stavropoulos had jet-black hair flecked with gray. His face was haggard, puffy folds under large dark eyes, framed by horn-rimmed glasses.

Gina took a seat in the back row and watched people offer their condolences to the family. Some murmured a few words; others, some in tears, hugged Vicky’s parents and spoke to them at length. Then they went to the casket to pay their respects to Vicky.

In the photograph Vicky looked gorgeous, dark hair, dark eyes and a beautiful smile, holding her clarinet. Gina’s eyes brimmed with tears. She’d covered a lot of murders, but the victims weren’t people she knew. Last Wednesday she’d shared a drink with Vicky. If she’d warned her about the Jackpot Killer, Vicky might still be alive.

She turned to check the line in the foyer. Would Nigel Heath come to the wake? Or was he holed up in a hotel, grieving in private, avoiding the reporters and cameras? Speculation about his relationship with Vicky was rampant, fueled by gossip about their alleged affair.

No wonder Vicky’s parents didn’t want reporters at the wake. Her father looked utterly exhausted. A sheen of sweat glazed his forehead, and his large dark eyes, reminiscent of Vicky’s, were bloodshot.

By 8:30, the line of mourners had dwindled to a trickle. Maybe Nigel wasn’t coming. Gina jotted down her impressions of Vicky’s family and the mourners. Fine, but she wanted to talk to Nigel. If she wrote a feature article about Vicky, she had to find out if they were having an affair.

Ten minutes later, when she had almost abandoned any hope of talking to Nigel, he entered the viewing room. His face had a deathly pallor, stark white against the dark circles under his eyes. He walked down a side aisle to the casket. Gina rose from her seat and followed him.

He stood at the casket, gazing at Vicky’s photograph. “What a tragedy,” Gina said. “I talked to her after she collected the lottery prize.”

Startled, he turned and gripped her hands. “You knew Vicky?” His blue eyes had a haunted look, but he managed a wan smile, one that faded quickly. “Would you mind . . . could I talk to you?”

Her heart surged. Unable to believe her luck, she said, “Of course. What an ordeal this must be for you.”

“It’s a bloody nightmare.” His face settled into a grim mask. “Now I’ve got to tell Vicky’s parents—” He took out a cigarette, then put it back. “Is there somewhere I can smoke?”

“There’s a room downstairs. Come on, I’ll show you.”

He clenched his jaw. “Not now. I need to speak with Vicky’s parents first. Meet you downstairs.”

She went down to the smoking parlor, a blue-carpeted room with plush easy chairs and crystal ashtrays on every table. Piped-in organ music played faintly, a solemn dirge. An older man in a dark suit sat in an easy chair with his arm around a violin case, seemingly lost in thought. The pungent aroma of his cigar filled the room. After a moment, he put his cigar in an ashtray, picked up his violin case and left.

Moments later, a tall blonde in a black suit entered the room. She took out a cigarette and said to Gina, “Could I borrow a light?”

Gina gave her a book of matches, and the woman lighted her cigarette, puffing nervously.

“Did you know Vicky well?” Gina asked.

“We were at New England Conservatory together. She’s a fabulous musician. Was, I mean. I still can’t believe she’s dead.” The woman’s eyes brimmed with tears.

“Do you play with the Pops?”

“Once in a while. I sub on second oboe.” She took out a tissue and blew her nose.

“Did you ever play for Nigel Heath?”

“Yes. He’s a great conductor.” The woman frowned. “On TV they said he found the body.”

“Do you think he and Vicky were . . . involved?”

“Vicky never said anything to me about it, but who knows? I’d better go speak with her parents.” She put out her cigarette and left.

Moments later Gina heard rapid footsteps, and Nigel burst into the room. “Thank goodness you’re still here. I was afraid you’d leave. What an ordeal! Vicky’s father was so broken up I couldn’t bring myself to tell him—”

He fired up a Winston and took a deep drag. His eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot, beseeched her. “How could anyone kill Vicky? Some monster beat her to death.” He took jagged puffs on his cigarette. “It was horrible. Everyone thinks I killed her, but I didn’t. I’d never kill anyone. Could we go somewhere and chat? I need to talk to someone that knew her.”

She was dying to talk to him, but she had to figure out a way to avoid the media mob outside.

“Never mind,” Nigel muttered. “I’m a bloody jinx. I’m bad luck for everyone, women especially.”

No, you’re not. You’re my inside source for a fabulous article.

“Come with me,” she said. “There’s a door down the hall that opens onto the rear parking lot. Wait there while I get my car and pull it up to the door. That way we can avoid the reporters.”

But avoiding reporters wasn’t her only problem. What would Nigel say when he found out she wrote for the
Boston Herald
?

____

She would have taken him to Orchid’s loft, but Orchid was in Santa Fe, and she didn’t dare take him to a bar. Someone might recognize him. Vicky’s murder was huge. Every newscast featured photos of Nigel conducting the Pops, followed by clips of him leaving the police station. She decided to take him to her beach house. During the fifteen-minute ride, Nigel slumped despondently in the passenger seat, silently chain-smoking.

She parked her red Mazda by the back door and hurried him into the kitchen. Her neighbor across the street was an elderly widow. Thelma always watched the news. No telling what she’d do if she saw a murder suspect entering the house across the street.

Gina dropped her keys on the kitchen counter. “Would you like a beer? A glass of red wine?”

“Got any Scotch? I could use a shot of courage.” He managed a wan smile, but his eyes were somber.

“Sure. I’ll join you.” She needed a shot of courage, too. How would he react when she told him she was a reporter? Would he be angry? Disgusted?

She filled two highball glasses with ice cubes, poured in a healthy amount of Dewar’s, and took him into the living room. The room was a mess, books and magazines scattered over the maple coffee table.

But Nigel didn’t notice. “A piano!” he exclaimed. “How marvelous!”

He set his glass on the coffee table, went to her baby grand and riffled the keys.

“It hasn’t been tuned lately,” she said.

“No matter, it’s just what I need.” With a look of rapturous bliss, he played a series of chords and launched into a tune. Could her neighbors hear it? Probably not. The windows were closed and Nigel had a light, deft touch. She sat on the futon and sipped her scotch, listening to him play. She knew the tune: “Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered.”

A reflection of his state of mind?

He looked over, effortlessly drifting into another tune. “D’you play?”

“A little, not much. The piano belonged to my mother.”

He broke off in the middle of a phrase, retrieved his glass from the coffee table, gulped some scotch, and paced the room, his expression tense.

“Nigel,” she said. “Come sit down. I’ve got something to tell you.”

He took out a Winston, lighted it and took a deep drag. “Not more bad news, I hope. I’ve had enough bad news this week to last a lifetime.”

“Nigel, please sit down. You’re making me nervous.”

Instantly contrite, he said, “Sorry. That won’t do. Here you’ve been good enough to rescue me from the news vultures.” He perched on the other end of the futon. “What did you want to tell me?”

“I rescued Vicky, too.” She smiled, hoping to soften the blow. “There were a lot of news vultures outside the lottery office after Vicky claimed the prize. I was one of them.”

Nigel gazed at her. She could see the wheels turning in his mind. There was an awkward silence.

“It was exciting,” she said hurriedly. “Running red lights to escape the other reporters, sort of like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. I took her to this little restaurant I know and bought her a drink to celebrate.” She took a deep breath. “I write for the
Herald
. Vicky said she liked my articles.”

Nigel gulped some scotch, gazing at her silently.

“When I heard there was a big Megabuck winner, I pitched an idea to my editor about writing a series on gambling and the problems it causes.”

He flinched and muttered, “Unbelievable.”

“We talked for a while, but Vicky was tired. She wanted to go home, but she promised to talk to me again. But when I called her Monday morning, she didn’t answer.”

“You called her Monday? What time?” Nigel’s blue eyes bored into her.

“I don’t know. Eight-thirty or so. Why?”

“Must have been after I spoke to her. I’d called her from the airport. If only I’d got there sooner.” He gulped more scotch. “You probably think I’m daft, asking to talk to you, but I feel like a bloody leper. Everyone thinks I killed Vicky, but I didn’t. You believe me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said. And she did. If ever a man was devastated by someone’s death, it was Nigel.

“Thank you. You’re about the only person who does.”

“How long had you known Vicky?”

“Since the first time I conducted Pops. Vicky was a fabulous musician. A wonderful person.” He gazed at her. His eyes were very blue and very sad. He rose and went to the window, parted the curtain and stood there for a full minute, staring into the darkness.

At last, he returned to the futon and sat down. “I loved her. We were going to be married. I didn’t tell the detectives right off. Big mistake, that. They found my shirts at her flat. By now they’ve probably checked the phone records.” He lighted another cigarette and massaged his eyes. “I must have rung Vicky a dozen times from Iowa and Las Vegas. And from my hotel.”

“Why didn’t you tell them?”

“I was in shock. I wasn’t thinking. We’d kept it secret, you see. Bloody green-eyed business, music. People would say she slept with the conductor to get the job. What a crock! Vicky was a marvelous clarinet player. But management frowns on that sort of thing.”

“What does your lawyer say?”

“Well, my solicitor in California—”

“California! Nigel, you need a lawyer here!”

“But when I spoke with him—”

“Is he a criminal lawyer?”

“But
I
didn’t kill Vicky! If I hire a criminal lawyer, it
looks
bad. They already sacked me for next week’s Pops concerts. Mealy-mouthed manager said it’s best for all concerned.” He puffed his cigarette and spewed smoke. “One whiff of scandal and the bloke runs for a hole like a mouse with a cat on its tail!”

She couldn’t believe he was worried about the Pops job. Didn’t he realize he was the prime suspect in Vicky’s murder? “Nigel,” she said, “tell me what happened. Did Vicky win the lottery?”

“No. I did, but I gave the ticket to Vicky so she could claim the prize.”

“Why?”

“If I claimed it, my ex-wife would get a big chunk. Last year some bloke divorced his wife after he hit the lottery and the judge awarded her the whole lot! The publicity might have cost me the Pops job, too. We were going to split the money and get married. I gave her a diamond!”