Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) (35 page)

____

Gina lowered the car window, inhaled the salt sea air and stifled a yawn. She wanted to sleep for a week. Yesterday she’d crawled out of bed at 4:30 and, despite her fears, smuggled Nigel out of his hotel. Good thing. Scant hours later, Gerry Mulligan had gone there to arrest him. But Franco now believed the Jackpot Killer had murdered Vicky, not Nigel. Not only that, Franco seemed certain Billy was the Jackpot Killer.

She smiled, imagining the celebration they would have once Franco arrested Billy. They’d go out for drinks and dinner. After Franco told her about capturing Billy, she’d tell him about smuggling Nigel out of the hotel in the trunk of her car. Franco was sure to get a laugh out of it.

Squinting against the glare of the sun, she pulled into her driveway, parked in front of the garage and studied the house. All the curtains were closed. Good. Nigel had heeded her warning to stay out of sight.

She stifled another yawn. More than anything in the world, she wanted to sneak up the secret staircase to her bedroom and take a powernap. But Nigel was here, and he would want to talk.

When she got out of the car, an ocean breeze ruffled her hair. She glanced across the street. No sign of Thelma, thank goodness, but the sun was merciless, beating down on the driveway. She decided to put the car in the garage so that it wouldn’t be a blast furnace when she drove back to work.

____

Unable to control his excitement, Billy paced the room, gleefully watching his lucky winner. Nigel Heath sat on the futon, slumped forward, his face in his hands. His lucky winner was beaten. BEATEN. Victory was near. The thought exhilarated him, made his whole body tremble. Soon the cops would know who killed Victoria and so would everyone else.

He looked at the gun, remembering the loud bang it had made at the shooting range. But that wasn’t the worst part.

When he shot his lucky winner there would be blood.

If only he didn’t have to look at the blood.

He pictured the blood gushing from his mother’s mouth. Mouth-mother making pain—

He heard a sound and cocked his head, listening.

Nigel raised his head, his face twisted in a look of . . . what? Fear?

No. Not fear. His lucky winner’s face was frozen in a look of horror.

More sounds, coming from the kitchen. The back door.

Someone was coming!

His heart jolted. Was it the police?

Then he thought,
No. Gina Bevilaqua
.

The woman whose name was on the cable television account.

The woman who owned the house.

The reporter who’d come to his house asking questions.

Friend of Nigel Heath.

He stepped closer to Nigel, close enough to see beads of sweat on his lucky winner’s face.

Close enough to touch his head with the gun.

“Be quiet,” he hissed, “or I will KILL you!”

He heard a door open, then footsteps.

His heart beat a frenzy of excitement.

Beating. BEATING.

She unlocked the door and stepped into the kitchen. “Nigel?” she called.

No answer. Puzzled, she went to the doorway of the living room.

Seated on the futon, Nigel looked at her, eyes bloodshot, his face ashen. Standing beside him, a short blond man held a gun to his head.

She felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach. She clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming.

The room was utterly still.

“Sit over there beside Nigel,” the man said.

Fear blossomed inside her like a mushroom cloud. She stood there, panic-stricken, unable to move.

“Do what I tell you!” the man screamed.

She stared at him, trying to make sense of what was happening. Then it dawned on her. The man with the gun was Billy. But how could it be? Franco was supposed to arrest him today. Her heart slammed her chest.

Did Billy shoot Franco? Tears flooded her eyes, blurring her vision.

What if Franco was dead? The thought crushed her.

The shrill sound of the telephone made her jerk convulsively.

“Don’t answer it!” Billy screamed, wild-eyed, waving the gun.

“Look here,” Nigel said, “she got several phone calls last night and several more this morning. Why not be a good chap and let her answer it?”

Phone calls last night? Who had called her? Not Franco. She’d been with him at his motel. But forget phone calls. What about the gun? It looked like some kind of semi-automatic, dull-black and deadly-looking.

And Billy’s finger was on the trigger.

The phone kept ringing, a piercing sound that filled the room.

Was it Franco? Maybe he wasn’t dead. But why would he call the landline at her beach house? He didn’t know Nigel was here.

She had no idea what had happened in Sandwich, but one thing was clear. Now Billy was here, and he had a gun.

Chills radiated through her body. She tried to calm herself. The phone was on the end table beside the futon. Maybe it
was
Franco calling. Maybe she could grab the phone and warn him.

She edged forward, inching closer to the futon.

Billy’s face contorted with fury. “Don’t answer it!” he screamed, gesturing with the gun, his eyes glittering like blue agates. “Sit beside Nigel.”

Nigel shook his head, warning her not to. He was right. If she did, they’d be sitting together like ducks in a shooting gallery. Easy targets for Billy.

She edged away from the futon, inching toward the staircase to her right.

The phone stopped ringing.

Her answering machine clicked and whirred. Silence.

Tears blurred her vision. It didn’t matter who called. No one could help them now. The room was so quiet she could almost hear her heart beating against her ribs. She looked at the man with the gun.

“Billy,” she whispered.

He smiled, an evil smile, cruel and vindictive. “My mother told you about me, right?”

Gripping her leather purse with both hands, she shrank back, too terrified to speak.

“I know you talked to her. She told me you were there.”

“Where?” Nigel sat up straighter on the futon, staring at her intently.

“Billy lives in Sandwich,” Gina said. “With his mother.” She took a deep shuddering breath. “How’s your mother, Billy? Is your mother all right?”

He bared his teeth, a grotesque imitation of a smile, his blue eyes cold as death. “My mother’s fine. Fine and dandy.”

“Billy,” Nigel said, “be a good chap and put the gun down so we can—”

“Shut up!” Billy turned and aimed the gun at Nigel’s head. “Why did you always make fun of me? What kind of a father are you?”

Nigel frowned. “Look here, I’m not your father—”

“
Don’t say that
!” Billy’s face turned crimson. His hands trembled as he stepped closer to Nigel. Now the gun was inches away from Nigel’s head.

Her heart was a sledgehammer beating her chest. If she didn’t do something, Billy would shoot Nigel.

Her purse. She’d throw it at him. Wait. Her cell phone was in it. While Billy concentrated on Nigel, she slipped her hand into her purse, eased out her cell phone and held it behind her back.

“Nigel,” she said. “Billy killed Vicky.”

“No,” Nigel said in a low voice. “He didn’t kill Vicky. I’m the one that killed her.”

Billy’s face contorted in rage. “
You did not
! I killed Victoria! She tried to stop me but she couldn’t. No one can stop me! The cops think
you
killed Victoria, but I’m going fix that. I’m going to kill you. Then those stupid cops will know who’s got the power.”

Rivulets of sweat ran down Billy’s forehead and his flaming red cheeks. He turned to her and smiled, a smile more terrifying than his wild rant. “I’m going to fix you, too.”

Her legs turned to jelly. He was going to kill them. She gripped the cell phone in her sweaty hand. Could she dial 9-1-1? Would anyone get here in time to save them? If Billy realized she had a cell phone, he might shoot her. And then she remembered. After she left the Dorchester murder scene, she’d shut off her cell phone. Damn!

She felt for the On-button with her finger, but kept her eyes on Billy. Now he was backing away from Nigel. He stopped at a toolbox on the floor near her television set. She hadn’t noticed the toolbox before. She’d been too focused on Nigel and Billy. And the gun.

Billy reached into the toolbox and took out two nip bottles of J&B.

She recoiled in horror.

“No,” she whispered.

____

Frantic with worry, Frank raced up Route 3 toward Quincy, lights flashing, siren wailing. Gripping the wheel in his left hand, he dialed 9-1-1.

“Duxbury police, what is your emergency?” said a woman’s voice.

“This is Detective Frank Renzi, Boston PD. I need to talk to the Quincy police ASAP. It’s an emergency. There’s a hostage situation at a beach house in Squantum. Can you patch me through?”

“Right away, sir. One moment.”

Willing her to hurry, he whipped around a black SUV and accelerated to ninety, whizzing past slower-moving vehicles.

“Quincy police, what is your emergency?” the dispatcher said.

“Detective Frank Renzi, Boston PD. I just executed a search warrant at a murder suspect’s house in Sandwich. We found his mother dead. The suspect killed her. The Sandwich police chief will verify this. The suspect wasn’t there. We believe he’s going to a beach-front cottage in Squantum.”

“I’ll send an officer right away. Do you know the address?”

Frank gave her the address and said, “The suspect is armed and you may not have much time. We don’t know how long ago he left the house in Sandwich. Call Chief Duggan, he’ll give you the make and model of the suspect’s vehicle.”

“Yes, sir, Detective Renzi. I’ll alert Captain Abbott right away.”

Frank stomped the accelerator. The needle on the speedometer hit one hundred, trees along the roadside whipping past in blurred images.

Moments later he passed a sign:
QUINCY, 30 MILES

He’d be there in fifteen minutes. But that might not be soon enough.

____

Gina thought her heart would stop. J&B nips. She knew what that meant. The Jackpot Killer planted them on the lottery winners he murdered. Her stomach clenched, a painful knot.

Billy set the two J&B nips on the coffee table in front of the futon and looked at her, a terrifying image: hair matted with sweat, cheeks mottled red, a crazed look in his eyes. Worst of all, his hands gripped the gun.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

Smiling his terrible smile, Billy said, “I’m going to make sure the cops know who killed Victoria.”

She looked at Nigel, but Nigel wasn’t looking at her.

Leaning forward on the futon, Nigel was staring at Billy. Anger had transformed Nigel’s usual genial expression. Now his face bore a look of fury: jaw clenched, lips thinned in a line, eyes cold with anger.

“Run, Vicky! Run away!” Nigel yelled. Then he leaped off the futon and lunged at Billy.

“Nigel!” she screamed.

The gun went off, a deafening roar.

Too terrified to move, she watched Nigel grapple with Billy, both of them grunting as they lay tangled together on the floor, flailing at each other, fighting for control of the gun.

Nigel’s face contorted and blood spurted from his mouth. But his eyes remained fixed on Billy.

She heard a shrill sound, someone screaming, and realized it was her.

Nigel slammed his fist against Billy’s head, rolled on top of him and wrapped his hands around the gun. Bright red blood gushed from his mouth.

“Get off me!” Billy screamed. “You’re bleeding all over me!”

She had to do something. Call for help! She tried to open her cell, but her hands were shaking, slick with sweat.

Now Billy’s hands were on Nigel’s hands, clamped around the gun.

Another shot sounded.

Nigel’s head jerked back. Blood spurted from his neck.

“Vicky,” he moaned.

“Get off me!” Billy screamed.

Horror-stricken, she watched him try to push Nigel away. But Nigel was too heavy, slumped on top of him. Seconds later Billy squirmed out from under Nigel’s lifeless body, his face streaked with Nigel’s blood.

Holding the gun in his right hand, he swiped at the blood with his left.

Gasping for breath, he struggled to his knees and looked at her. His blood-streaked face looked like some hideous character in a horror film, but the look in his eyes was worse, crazed with rage and hate.

He was going to kill her! She had to get away!

But Billy stood between her and the front door, and she didn’t dare turn her back to run in the kitchen.

Clutching her cell phone in one hand, she threw her leather purse at him, whirled and bolted up the stairs.

“Stop,” he screamed. Then he shot at her.

The gunshot was loud, terrifying, but the shot went wide and missed her, slamming into the wall below her.

Panting, she reached the second-floor landing and bolted down the dark hallway. Her bedroom was at the far end. If she could just make it to her bedroom . . .

She heard sounds behind her. Billy’s footsteps on the stairs.

Driven by desperation, she sprinted to her bedroom, went inside and shut the door. But she couldn’t lock it. None of the bedroom doors had locks. She ran to the window beside her bed. Should she climb out the window onto the widow’s walk? Then she’d be trapped.

If he came to the window with the gun, she’d have to jump. Even if she didn’t break her leg, he could still shoot her.

“I’ll kill you!” Billy’s distant voice, shrill with rage and hate.

Her heart jackknifed into her throat. She was trapped.

She couldn’t breath, couldn’t think.

Frantic, she yanked open the closet door, shoved aside three pairs of slacks and plunged inside. Gasping for air, lightheaded and woozy, she tried to catch her breath but couldn’t, her heart racing out of control.

The hidden stairway to the pantry was her only refuge. She gripped the small black knob on the plywood door with one hand and yanked.

The door didn’t budge. Damn! It had been years since anyone used it.

“Where are you? I know you’re up here!” Billy’s voice. Closer.

Half-sobbing, she grabbed the small knob in her sweaty fingers and yanked again. Again, it didn’t budge.

She jammed her cell into the waistband of her pants, took the knob in both hands yanked again. The plywood door creaked open. Musty air seeped into the closet from a dark narrow stairway.

“I’ll find you, and when I do, you’ll be sorry.”

She redistributed her slacks on the clothes rod and hurriedly pulled the closet door shut. Her body trembled, rocked with icy chills. She squeezed through the narrow opening onto the hidden staircase. Crept down one step, then another, and pushed the plywood door shut.

The darkness was complete. Silence, except for her ragged breathing. She was panting as though she’d just run a mile in record time. Hugging herself, she took a series of short breaths, inhaling the musty air.

Ugly images flooded her mind. Nigel. Blood gushing from his mouth.

Her eyes brimmed with tears. If she didn’t call for help, Nigel would die.

And if Billy found her, she would die too.

“You can’t escape. I’m going to kill you.” Billy’s faint voice filtered through the closet door into the hidden stairway.

She opened her cell, about to dial 9-1-1, when the phone rang.

Within the enclosed space, the sound was so loud it scared her.

She punched on to silence it.

“Help,” she whispered.

“Gina? Is that you? Where are you?”