Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) (31 page)

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.

He took off her sunglasses, put them on the counter and set his duffle bag on the floor. “Good to get out of that trunk,” he said. 

“I’m sure it is. Let’s get you settled.”

She took him upstairs to a small bedroom with twin beds. “You can use this room. There’s no TV set but you can watch the one in the living room.”

“Forget the telly. Nothing but bad news there.” He set his duffel on one bed. “You’ve no idea what a relief it is to get out of that bloody hotel. You’re a life saver, Gina. I’ll make it up to you someday, I promise.”

Someday she would hold him to the promise and ask him to give her some juicy material for her book. But now was not the time to do it.

“There’s no bathroom up here, just the one downstairs, but it has a shower. Wait here while I get you some towels.”

She went to her bedroom, opened the bottom drawer of her bureau, took out a set of towels and took them back to Nigel’s room. He gave her a smile, but the smile seemed forced and his sky-blue eyes were bloodshot. He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

When they went down to the living room, Nigel went straight to the piano, sat down and riffled the keys.

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Gina said. “My neighbor.”

“Right. Sorry. I forgot.” Crestfallen, he sat on the futon, took a magazine off her coffee table and thumbed through it. He looked so forlorn she almost told him to go ahead and play, but she was afraid Thelma might hear him.

She checked the time. 7:15. Later than she had planned. By the time she got to the Expressway, traffic headed into Boston would be stop and go. She was going to be late for work. Maybe she’d wait until rush hour was over.

“Would you like coffee, Nigel? It’ll just take a minute to brew a pot.”

“Love a cup.” Nigel rose from the futon and pointed to a Turner reproduction on the wall. A painting of an early nineteenth-century British warship, it featured Turner’s trademark atmospherics: a slice of blue sky, mist rising from the water, a glowing orange sun.

“That’s one of my favorite Turner paintings,” he said. “When I was a kid, Mum used to take me ’round to all the London art galleries.”

She filed the tidbit away for her book and went in the kitchen. Nigel sat at the table while she ground the coffee beans. Once the coffee was brewing, she said, “Excuse me, but I’ve got to check my messages.”

“Of course. Don’t let me upset your routine. Sorry to be such a bother.”

“You’re not a bother, Nigel. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

She went in the living room and checked her cell phone. One missed call, but no message. Damn! Had Franco called her?

____

“This woman went there by herself?” Hank said, his blue eyes flinty.

Frank squirmed in the chair beside his boss’s desk. This was going to be a tough sell. And Hank hated early morning meetings. “The suspect works during the week. She wasn’t in any danger.” Not true, of course. Billy could have come home from work early. Christ, anything could have happened.

Hank said nothing, expressionless. Frank figured he had maybe thirty seconds to make his case. “His mother was wearing a scarab bracelet. I’m almost certain it’s the one he stole from the Vermont victim. That gives us probable cause for a search warrant.”

“Frank, if this ever goes to trial, a good defense lawyer will nail us for an illegal search and say this reporter was acting as your surrogate.”

“But she wasn’t. I didn’t ask her to go there. She did it on her own.”

“How’d she get the name?”

He had no answer for that one. When in doubt, change the subject. “The suspect works for the cable company. I think that’s how he gets the women to let him in. The daughter of the Rhode Island winner told me her mother said her television was screwed up the morning of the murder.”

Hank’s face remained stony.

“His father was a liquor salesman and his brother’s name was John. J&B, get it? John and Billy.” The realization had hit him as he lay in bed, unable to sleep after Gina told him she’d gone to Billy’s house. “Nigel Heath swears he gave Vicky a diamond ring, but Gerry didn’t find it in her apartment. I think the Jackpot Killer took it. The hype about Nigel being Vicky’s killer pissed him off, so he killed the woman in Nashua.”

“Maybe,” Hank said grudgingly. His telephone rang. Hank answered and listened for several seconds, stone-faced. Frank could hear someone on the other end, yelling. After a moment, Hank said, “What time was this?” After a long silence, Hank said, “Okay, thanks for letting me know.”

Hank ended the call and said, “Gerry Mulligan. He got a judge to issue an arrest warrant for Nigel Heath, but when Gerry and his troops went to his hotel this morning, Nigel was gone. The desk clerk said Nigel didn’t order his usual room-service breakfast. Gerry got the manager to let him into the room. Nobody home, over and out.” Hank smiled tightly. “Needless to say, Gerry is bullshit.”

“How did he sneak out of the hotel with all those reporters around?”

“That’s what Gerry wants to know.” Hank tapped his pen on his desk. “He’s pissed that you didn’t tell him about the Jackpot Killer, too. What else did this reporter get?”

“The suspect keeps goldfish. His mother said he gives them women’s names. Florence, like the victim in Chatham. Tessa, the Rhode Island victim. She said he named one goldfish Victoria, but later he denied it.”

Hank let out a low whistle. “You think the mother suspects?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can this reporter I.D. the bracelet?”

“I’ve got jeweler’s pictures from the victim’s son. It’s custom made and the setting is unique. If she can identify the bracelet, can we go for a search warrant?”

“Okay,” Hank said. “But make sure she’s positive. She might have to testify in court.”

“I will.” Frank left and hurried back to his office. He’d already done the paperwork for the search warrant. Now all he had to do was get Gina to identify the bracelet. He sat at his desk, about to call Gina, when his cell phone rang. He checked the ID and his heart did a cartwheel inside his chest.

He punched on. “Hi, Maureen, great to hear from you.”

“Hi, Dad. Sorry I didn’t return your calls. Grampa Sal called me last night and we talked for a while. You know, about the divorce. He said I should call you.”

“I’m glad you did. I know it was a shock, Maureen. I don’t blame you for being upset.”

“Well, I am upset, but I miss talking to you. Grampa Sal said I shouldn’t make harsh judgments. He said I didn’t have enough experience, you know? Because I’ve never been married.”

A warm glow filled his chest.
Thank you, Dad
.

“Maureen, your mother and I both love you very much. A divorce isn’t going to change that.”

“I love you, too, Dad.”

A great weight lifted off his shoulders. “I’m about to wrap up a case. As soon as I do, I’ll fly to Baltimore for the weekend so we can talk, okay?”

“Sounds great, Dad. Just call and let me know when you’ll be here.”

____

When Gina returned to the kitchen, Nigel stood at the counter, pouring coffee into two mugs. He brought them to the kitchen table, sat down, and said, “Mind if I smoke?”

“Go ahead. I’ve been smoking a lot myself lately.” Too much, she thought as she opened the kitchen window. She joined him at the table and took a pack of cigarettes out of her purse. “Must be the stress.”

“I know what you mean.” His shoulders sagged and he rubbed his eyes. He looked exhausted, his face drawn and pale, droopy bags under his eyes.