Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) (22 page)

“Thank you, Ms. Farnum. No need to mention to Mr. McDermott that we’ve talked.”

“Everything’s all right then?” she said anxiously.

“Thanks for your help, Ms. Farnum.”

Disappointed, he went out and got in his car. Cross McDermott off the suspect list. One down two to go, next stop Fitchburg, Massachusetts, eighty miles away. He got out his highway map and studied the route. Barring any major traffic tie-ups, he’d be in Fitchburg around four. Rush hour.

A bad time to investigate his next suspect. He’d check into a motel, call Ross and see how he was doing with his suspects.

____

The health aide’s car wasn’t parked out in front when he got home. Excellent. His mother was alone. After he left Ruthie’s house in Nashua, he’d used his disposable cell phone to call his customers, saying he’d been delayed by an emergency. Fortunately, none of them had called his boss to complain.

Now all he had to do was change his pants. His bloody pants. He eased open the front door, slipped inside and listened. Silence greeted him. He peeked in the living room. She wasn’t in there. Where was she?

The bathroom door at the end of the hall was shut. She must be in there. If he hurried, he could change his pants and leave without her seeing him.

He crept down the hall, tiptoed past the bathroom and went downstairs to his room. He turned on the light and took off his work pants, careful not to touch any of the ugly brown spots, the disgusting blood.

In the fish tank, his girls swam languidly through the water. Including Ruthie. Ruthie, the trouble-maker. Ruthie and her obnoxious yappy dog.

He pulled on a pair of clean chinos. He’d better ditch the dirty ones. He folded them carefully to hide the blood stains, tucked them under his arm and smelled the sour, sweat-stink on his shirt. Disgusting, but he had no time to change his shirt. He had to get out before his mother saw him. He locked the door to his room, crept upstairs and paused on the top step, listening.

The bathroom door was still shut. He heard the toilet flush.

Hurrying now, he walked down the hall to the front door and reached for the doorknob.

“Billy!”

His heart fluttered wildly, like a moth at a flame. He turned and saw his mother wheeling herself down the hall, pale blue eyes fixed on his, lips pursed. “What are you doing home?”

He pasted on a smile. “Gee, Mom, your hair looks nice. Did you get it done today?”

“Doris did it yesterday.” She patted the soft waves into place, then frowned. “Why aren’t you at work? Why were you sneaking out without speaking to me?”

“I left my afternoon work schedule in my room. I didn’t want to disturb you in the bathroom, Mom.” He half-turned, angling his body so she couldn’t see the bloody pants under his arm.

“What’s that you’re carrying?”

His head throbbed. He stared at her mouth. The mouth that was never still. The mouth that never gave him any peace.

He opened the door. “I have to go. I’m late for my next customer.”

“Well, do a good job, and they’ll pay you better.
That’s
what you should do, Billy. Ask for a raise!”

He went out and shut the door hard, like he wanted to shut his mother’s mouth.

His heart beat furiously, sending shooting pains into his head.

MOTHER making pain in his HEAD.

Mouth always moving.

Shooting words at him.

Making mouth-moving-pain in his
HEAD
.

Words. Stop the words.

RUTHLESS. MOTHER-LESS. HEAD-LESS
.

Tuesday, May 23 — 10:45 p.m.

“Fancy another glass of wine?” Nigel rattled the ice cubes in his glass.

“No, thanks,” Gina said, “but you go ahead.” She’d barely touched her Merlot, but Nigel had already downed two glasses of scotch.

“Be right back,” he said, flashing her a smile as he left their table.

Gina watched him as he went to the bar. Nigel would play a major role in her book, but so far the essence of the man eluded her. After Vicky’s wake he’d been eager to talk. Tonight, not so much.

An hour ago, fearing some local reporter might recognize her red Mazda, she’d parked two blocks away and walked to the Back Bay Inn. Avoiding the media mob outside the entrance, she entered through the parking garage. The hotel catered to business travelers, and at 9:30 the lounge on the first floor had been jammed. But the rooftop bar wasn’t. Few people knew about it. The bar closed for the winter and re-opened in the spring, but only in fair weather. When it rained, the rooftop bar was closed

She sipped her Merlot, enjoying the fresh air. The view was spectacular, lights on the buildings in Copley Square and beyond. In the distance, she could see the lights at Fenway Park. The bar had no wait staff; a bored older man tended a short bar with no barstools.

Most important, no reporters occupied the half-dozen tables. Aside from a young couple seated at another table, she and Nigel were the only ones here, and the young lovebirds had eyes only for each other.

Tonight Nigel looked worse than he had at Vicky’s wake, deathly pale, bloodshot eyes. Still, apart from the receding hairline, he was a good-looking man. She could understand why Vicky had fallen for him: a talented musician, intelligent and undeniably charming. As soon they sat down with their drinks, Nigel had asked how long she’d worked for the
Herald
and did she do any other sort of writing? He seemed genuinely interested, gazing at her with his startlingly blue eyes.

But he hadn’t said much about himself. She’d already gathered the basic facts about his life and career, but she wanted the lowdown on his Hollywood years with his ex-wife, the actress, and the unexplained interval between his abandoned solo career and his days at the Royal College of Music.

She pulled out the CD she’d found at a used record store. Released on an obscure European label, it featured Nigel improvising jazz standards. His picture was on the front, seated at a piano in a London club.

When he came back with a tall glass of scotch and sat down, she set the CD on the table. “This is terrific, Nigel. Ever think of doing another one?”

He seemed pleased, smiling at her. “Where’d you find that?”

“I’m a big jazz fan. You’re really good. Any other jazz players in your family? Brothers? Sisters?”

His expression grew somber. She thought British men were supposed to be stoic, stiff-upper-lip types, but Nigel’s face clearly signaled his emotions.

“I’m an only child. Mum was the musician in the family. She sang opera before she married my father.” He shrugged. “That was the end of that.”

Gina nodded. A familiar scenario for earlier generations of talented women. They set aside their careers in order to marry and raise a family.

“Did you play jazz when you were a kid?”

“Not bloody likely. Not when my father was around, that’s for sure. Just practice, practice, practice, and play the competitions.”

“But you were a prodigy. Didn’t you win a big competition when you were twelve?”

Nigel didn’t answer. She had assumed he’d be eager to talk about his glory days, but maybe a piano prodigy’s life had its drawbacks.

“That must have put a lot of pressure on you,” she said.

“Right. Win the competitions, play the recitals, smile for the cameras.”

She tried to imagine him as an adolescent. Talented, sensitive and what? Tortured?

“And if you don’t win, it’s hell?”

His eyes regarded her steadily for several moments. Finally he said, “You’re a good listener, Gina. Very perceptive.” He sipped his scotch. “This is off the record, okay? Can't have you writing about this.”

Her heart sank. Damn! He was going to tell her something juicy, and she couldn’t write about it?

She didn’t say anything, but he didn’t seem to notice. “When I was eighteen my father entered me in a big competition in Belgium. He said if I won, my career would take off like a shot. I did okay, breezed through the early rounds and made it to the finals. But the night before the final competition, Mum called me from London, terribly distraught.”

“Why? Was she ill?”

“No. Well, not physically. But like a lot of opera singers, Mum was a bit high-strung. She said she was dying of boredom, sick of staying home to keep house for my father. He ran a local music shop, open six days a week, dawn to dark. I wasn’t too sympathetic, I’m afraid. I had to play the finals the next day and I had some stiff competition.”

He gulped some scotch and massaged his eyes. After a moment, he said, “The next morning, my father couldn’t wake her. She’d taken some pills. He rushed her to the hospital, but they couldn’t save her.”

“Nigel!” she gasped. “How awful! You must have felt terrible.”

“Yes, well, I try not to think about it. When my father called to tell me, I was devastated. Here Mum had called me looking for sympathy and I’d more or less blown her off. My father told me to carry on with the competition. He said that’s what Mum would have wanted.” Nigel belted down some scotch. “Heartless bastard. As if he knew what Mum wanted.”

Observing his torment, Gina felt a certain sense of kinship. She knew the anguish death by suicide could cause, and she didn’t like to think about it either. “Something similar happened to me when I was eighteen.”

Nigel touched her hand. “I’m sorry to hear it. Want to talk about it?”

Did she? She’d never told anyone about Denise, not even Franco. But Nigel had bared his soul to her. Maybe she should do the same.

“I was co-editor of my high school yearbook. Denise, my co-editor, was really smart, but she was running with a tough crowd. One day we were alone in the office and she told me she was pregnant.”

Gina sipped her wine, remembering the awkward scene. “I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t feel like it was my place to tell her what to do. When I said her parents would help her, she started crying. She said she couldn’t tell them. They’d disown her, something like that. Anyway, she got up and left. Two days later, she borrowed her mother’s car and drove it into a bridge abutment. They said she had to be going a hundred miles an hour.”

Nigel shook his head. “And she was only eighteen? What a waste.”

“I felt so guilty. I didn’t know her parents, but I should have been more supportive. I felt like I should have done something, helped her somehow.”

“Hindsight is always a killer,” Nigel said, and gulped some scotch.

“What happened at the piano competition?”

“I fell apart, fingers froze up, it was a bloody train wreck. When I got home, I had a colossal row with my father and went off to London.”

He stared into space, his expression desolate. “I haven’t talked about Mum in years. She had this way about her. Even in a roomful of people, she made you feel like you were the most important person in the world.” He shook his head. “Sorry to go on about it. P’rhaps we should call it a night.”

Damn! She needed more. Down and dirty details. More juicy revelations.

“Okay, but can we can talk again?”

Nigel heaved a sigh. “Sure. Provided the cops don’t throw me in jail.”

_____

Wednesday, May 24 — Fitchburg — 10:10 a.m.

Frank entered the Fitchburg library, a three-story red-brick building that had seen better days. A male librarian stood behind the circulation desk. Pitted with acne scars, his narrow ferret-face fit the DL photo Ross Dunn had sent him. John Lipton, age twenty-eight, five-foot-ten, blue eyes, brown hair. Two years ago Lipton had been charged with soliciting a prostitute but got off on a technicality.

Frank went to the desk, but the man ignored him, staring at the computer. “Mr. Lipton?”

“Yeah?” Lipton didn’t look up.

“I’d like to speak with the head librarian.”

“She’s not in today.”

“Can you give me her phone number? I need to speak to her.”

Lipton’s eyes met his briefly, then flicked away. “We don’t give out personal information.”

He flashed his ID. “Boston PD. I need her name and phone number.”

Lipton flipped through a Rolodex on the counter, his expression sullen, wrote a name and phone number on a slip of paper, shoved the slip at Frank and stared at the computer screen, ignoring him.

John Lipton didn’t like having a cop visit his workplace.

Anxious to wrap up the Lipton investigation, Frank left the library. Tomorrow he would drive to Sandwich and check out his last suspect.

When he called Jean Halliwell, the head librarian, she agreed to meet him at a Dunkin’ Donuts near the library in ten minutes. Frank ordered an iced coffee and a blueberry muffin and grabbed a table facing the door. He was just finishing the muffin when an attractive woman in black slacks and a red blouse came in and headed his way, exuding an air of vitality and confidence.

“Detective Renzi?” she said. “Jean Halliwell. Nice to meet you.”

“My pleasure. Thanks for meeting me on your day off.”

“It’s not every day a Boston police detective comes calling. What can I do for you?”

“How about I buy you a coffee? Then you can tell me about John Lipton.”

“Oh. John.” Her smile faded. “Okay, I’ll have a small iced coffee.”

When he returned with her coffee, she took a sip, gazing at him, her eyes somber. “John has worked at the library for three years, but I don’t know him well. His work is adequate, but . . .” She sipped her coffee. “Have you spoken with him?”

This woman was sharp. Frank hoped she’d be candid. “I have.”

“We’re there to serve the public. John’s biggest failing is dealing with patrons. He can be rather curt.”

“Is he married?”

“No, but he has a girlfriend. I met her at our Christmas party last year.”

His cell phone rang. He checked it and saw Ross Dunn’s number. “Sorry. I need to take this.” He left the table, stepped outside and answered.

“Frank,” Ross said. “The Jackpot Killer got another one.”

“Damn! Where?”

“Nashua, New Hampshire. The lead detective called me. He’s a former FBI agent, remembered the email alert I sent to police departments around New England asking them to notify me immediately about any unexplained lottery winner deaths.”

“Ross, I’m in Fitchburg checking one of our suspects. I could be in Nashua in forty-five minutes. Any way you can get him to preserve the crime scene till I get there?”

“Sure. I’ll call him back and tell him you’re on your way. Detective Sergeant Steven Huff.”

He wrote down the detective’s name and cell phone number, and went back inside.

Jean Halliwell saw his expression and said, “Looks like you got bad news.”

“I did. Sorry, but I need to leave.”

“Does your emergency have anything to do with John Lipton?”

He thought for a moment. Lipton was working today, but he didn’t know when the Nashua woman had been murdered. “I doubt it, but could you check and see if he was working yesterday and call me?”

“No need to call,” she said. “I was at the library all day yesterday and so was John Lipton.”

Anxious to leave, he said, “Thanks for your help.”

____

Nigel glanced at Merrill Carr, seated beside him in the taxi, examining his manicured nails as they drove to the police station. His high-powered defense attorney had on a gray pinstriped Versace suit and a red power tie. The bloke’s nasal voice grated on his ears, but Merrill was the best criminal defense lawyer in Boston. Or so he’d claimed. Merrill said he specialized in high-profile cases and charged accordingly. Which no doubt paid for his expensive suit.

He was desperate for a cigarette, but the sign in the cab said: No Smoking. Bloody hell, what if the cops arrested him? Not a peep out of Merrill. Maybe he was planning his strategy.

He’d told Merrill everything. Well, not everything, not about the gambling and the debts. When he’d said, “I didn’t kill Vicky, I loved her. You believe me, don’t you?” Merrill had said, expressionless, “Wrong question, Nigel. It doesn’t matter if I believe you. The question is, can I get you off?” Smiling tightly, he’d said, “And I almost always get my clients off. That’s what they pay me for.”

Merrill wanted a five-thousand-dollar retainer, up front. He’d promised to give it to him. God knows where he’d get it. This morning he’d called Hale again to ask him to send an advance. Hale’s secretary said he wasn’t in.

Bullshit. He didn’t believe it.

The cab pulled up to the station. The inevitable mob of newshounds and television cameras were waiting. Merrill told the cabbie to wait and to keep the meter running. Then he turned his frosty-gray eyes on Nigel and said, “Not a word out of you, unless I say so, understand?”