by Susan Fleet
The siren grew louder, then wailed to a stop outside.
But he knew they were too late.
A sob tore at his throat, then another and another, his body shuddering uncontrollably, tears rolling down his cheeks.
He clenched his teeth.
The medics were here. He had to compose himself.
He wiped his eyes and went downstairs to let them in.
CHAPTER 16
Monday — 9:40 a.m.
When Frank got to the North End, he saw no reporters or television crews on the narrow one-way street, just police vehicles and nearby residents sitting on stoops or standing on the sidewalk. He’d half expected to see Gina. She had a police scanner but she might have missed the call. Soon reporters would be swarming the neighborhood like sharks on fish bait.
A murdered Megabucks winner? Guaranteed.
But that wasn’t his biggest worry. This wasn’t his territory. To view the crime scene, he’d have to make nice with the lead detective. He parked behind two squad cars with their passenger-side wheels on the sidewalk and tossed a BPD card on his dashboard. Flashing his ID at two officers posted outside a red-brick apartment building, he said, “Is Gerry Mulligan here?”
“He’s upstairs,” said one, jerking his thumb at the door. “Second floor, first door on the left.”
Frank climbed the stairs, brooding over Victoria Stavropoulos, last week’s Megabucks winner. Now she was dead. If he’d warned her about the Jackpot Killer, would she still be alive?
When he reached the second-floor landing, Detective Lieutenant Gerry Mulligan stood outside a door talking to a younger man in a dark suit, another detective Frank assumed. A glance through the open door told him the crime scene techs hadn’t arrived yet, no flashbulbs popping, no voices.
He’d met Gerry once at a Boston PD function but had never worked with him. Gerry looked like a heart attack waiting to happen: mid-sixties, white hair, florid face, a big gut, and a pack of Marlboros in his shirt pocket.
“Hey, Renzi, what are you doing here? This isn’t your jurisdiction.”
Rumor had it that Gerry, who supervised the District A1 detectives, favored traditional police methods, had no use for new investigative techniques, and like every other homicide dick in town, he could be territorial.
Gerry nudged the younger man and said, “Detective Renzi went down to Quantico last year, took one of those super-duper FBI courses.”
The man offered his hand. “Detective Palumbo, nice to meet you.”
“Same here,” Frank said, pumping his hand. “What’s up, Gerry?”
“A woman got her head bashed in, that’s what’s up.” Gerry looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to explain why he was here.
Gerry didn’t know about the Jackpot Killer, but he knew Hank Flynn supervised the D-3 Homicide Detectives. “Hank Flynn told me to get over here ASAP, said it might be related to a case I’m working.”
“Yeah? Well, this one’s gonna be a clusterfuck. The media hounds will be all over it.” Gerry turned to Palumbo and said, “Guard the door while I confer with my pal.”
They walked down an airless hall, dust balls on the wood floor, ancient wallpaper on the walls, and stopped outside another door. “Palumbo made detective last month, so I’m showing him the ropes.” Gerry jerked his head at the door. “Nobody home, I checked. Landlady says he works in the financial district. She lives downstairs, got home right after I got here. She flipped out when she saw the police cars, an elderly Italian woman.” He grinned. “No offense, Frank, but I never saw such weeping and wailing.”
“You never heard my Irish grandmother. No weeping and wailing, just a few choice expletives.” Make like they were buddies, maybe Gerry’d let him see the crime scene.
“Yeah, well, no swears from Mrs. Napoli. She was coming home from Mass at St. Leonard’s.”
“So she didn’t see anything.”
“No. She said Victoria used to have men visit her, but she didn’t see one this morning because she was in church saying her prayers. Ain’t that always the way? No wits.” Gerry took the box of Marlboros out of his pocket. “So, you got another case like this one? Single white female. Young?”
“Musician,” he said, hoping to throw Gerry off the track.
“This one collected a big lottery check last week.”
“I know.” He wondered how long he’d be able to keep a lid on the Jackpot Killer. A day, maybe two. The Chatham murder hadn’t made much of a splash in Boston, a brief item in the regional news, but some enterprising reporter was certain to dig it up. Then the shit would really hit the fan.
“What’s the deal with your case?” Gerry asked, and fished a Marlboro out of the box.
Frank smiled. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
Gerry’s blue eyes narrowed. Then he grinned. “Good one, Frank.”
“Who found her?”
“Nigel Heath, a Brit, judging by his accent. I hear he’s angling for the Pops conducting job. We go inside and I see a duffle bag on the floor inside the door. He said it was his.”
“How’d he get in?”
“Said the door was open when he got here, said he called the woman from Logan. I asked where he flew in from, but right about then he lost it. Did the Brit stiff-upper-lip thing at first, but . . .” Gerry waggled his bushy white eyebrows. “Seemed like he was emotionally involved with Victoria, if you get my drift.”
“I do. Where is he now?”
“I had two of my guys drive him to the station. Soon as I finish up here, I’ll interview him.”
He wanted in on the interview, but he’d ask about that later. “Did you find any cash? Credit cards?”
“You’re thinking robbery, forget it. Her purse was on the breakfast bar. I went through it looking for ID, found her DL in her wallet and realized who she was, recognized the name from the hoopla after she collected the lottery prize. She had fifty bucks in the wallet and two credit cards.”
That fit the Jackpot Killer MO. Frank filed the information away and said nothing.
“A crime of passion, pure and simple,” Gerry said. “Somebody bashed her head in. I dunno if it was the Brit or not, but it looks to me like the killer was in a rage, blood all over the place.”
He didn’t dare ask about a plastic bag or a J&B nip. “Mind if I take a look? Let your rookie detective guard the door, you go outside and grab a smoke?”
“Okay. But put on booties and gloves. I don’t want the forensic team screaming at me about disturbing the crime scene. They’re on their way and so’s the coroner, should be here any minute.”
Two minutes later, outfitted in latex gloves and shoe-booties, Frank stepped inside Vicky’s apartment and did a quick assessment, imagining how the killer might have seen it. Opposite the door, a breakfast bar separated the living room from a galley kitchen with dark-paneled cabinets.
The room was stuffy. Two windows on the wall to his left were closed, an ancient air-conditioner in one cranking out musty air. It didn’t do much to cool the room or dispel the fetid odor of death: the stench of blood and body wastes. In the middle of the room a two-cushion loveseat faced an older-model television on the right-hand wall. Beside the loveseat, a telephone and an answering machine sat on an end table.
A photo-montage poster of Athens mounted on one wall caught his eye. An homage to Vicky’s Greek heritage? Below it, sheet music sat on a black metal music stand. Beside the music stand a four-shelf bookcase held a clarinet case, boxes of clarinet reeds, sheet music, CDs and videocassettes.
Nothing unusual there. Victoria was a professional musician.
But she wouldn’t be playing her clarinet anymore.
Now she lay on her back in front of the television set. The sight sickened him, a visceral jolt accompanied by a sharp pang of regret. Blood spatter stained the lower half of the blue-painted wall between the television set and a chest of drawers, more spatter on the white-painted baseboard. The stains were confined to one area, no evidence of
a chase or an extended struggle. Did Vicky fight her killer? Was that why he beat her to death?
What a waste. He fought down his anger, got into professional mode and squatted to examine the body. A large amount of blood had pooled under her head, soaking the blue-and-gold Oriental rug. The source appeared to be a head wound, a crushing blunt trauma injury. Judging by the blood spatter, the killer had knocked her down and bludgeoned her head with a heavy object.
She was dressed in jeans and a navy-blue BSO T-shirt, no jewelry. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open as though she’d tried to scream.
No yellow plastic bag, no J&B nip, and no murder weapon, whatever it was. Something heavy enough to crush her skull.
If the Brit killed her, maybe he hid the weapon before he called 9-1-1. Frank did a hurried walk-through, but nothing in the bathroom down the hall from the kitchen, or the bedroom raised any red flags. No blood, no bloody hammer under the bed or in the closet. The crime scene techs would do a more thorough search, and he wanted to get out before they arrived.
He returned to the living room. The sight of Vicky’s body brought another bolt of anger. Every murder victim deserved justice, but this one hit him harder than most. He’d never met Vicky, but he’d watched her collect her prize on television. Gina had talked to her but she hadn’t thought to warn Vicky about the Jackpot killer. He should have called her himself to warn her.
He hadn’t, but he’d damn well find her killer.
Means, motive and opportunity. He considered the possibilities.
Vicky was used to living in an urban area, unlikely to let a stranger into her apartment. Did she know her attacker? At this point he wasn’t certain it was the Jackpot Killer. She knew Nigel Heath. Big bucks provided plenty of motive. Maybe Nigel Heath killed her. Or maybe Vicky had a lover. Maybe Mr. X was here this morning. When Nigel called, Mr. X got mad, killed Vicky and split before Nigel got here.
Last week Vicky had collected a multi-million-dollar prize. Who would inherit the money? A husband, sure, but a lover? Only if she’d specified it in her will. Frank made a mental note to check her beneficiaries.
He was pretty sure this wasn't a random break-in. A burglar would have taken the cash and credit cards. And the clarinet, for that matter. The instrument was probably worth big bucks.
What if it was the Jackpot Killer? He gets her to let him in; when Nigel calls, he panics, no time for the plastic bag. Vicky fights back. She’s younger and stronger than his other victims. He flies into a rage because it’s not going the way he planned and beats her head with some heavy object. There’s no time to pose the body, no time to leave the J&B nip, because someone’s coming, so he flees the scene.
Who killed Victoria Stavropoulos?
The Jackpot Killer? The conductor? Someone else?
Too many unanswered questions. When Gerry finished up here, he was going to interview Nigel Heath, and Frank intended to be there.
____
Two coppers took him to a police station and put him in a dreary little room with gray-painted walls. Metal bars criss-crossed the only window, and a faint odor permeated the room, as if someone had crapped their pants. A tape recorder sat in the center of a square wooden table with four straight-backed wood chairs. Exhausted, he sank onto one chair. A minute later one of the officers brought him a Styrofoam cup of hot water with a tea bag in it.
Bloody hell, he didn’t need tea, he needed a bottle of Scotch. Forget the glass, he’d drink it down straight.
They left him alone, but he had the feeling they were watching him through the window in the door. He set the cup of tea on the table and pulled out a cigarette, but when he took out his Bic to light it, one of the officers poked his head in the room and said, “Sorry, sir. You can’t smoke in here.”
He put away the cigarette and gritted his teeth, trying to control his emotions: anger, rage and fear, but above all grief. Hideous images flooded his mind. Vicky. Dead. Horribly dead. Her vacant staring eyes.
How could someone do that to his beloved Vicky?
He massaged his temples, but it didn’t relieve his pounding headache. Or the questions in his mind. What would happen now? The detectives would question him. What should he say? If he told them he and Vicky were lovers, what would they think? Bloody hell, what would the BSO bigwigs think?
And what about Hale? He wasn’t the greatest agent in the world, but he booked gigs for him. Any hint of scandal, Hale might dump him. Christ, he’d never get another gig as long as he lived.
For almost an hour the vexing questions tormented him. Then the door opened and two men entered the room, the portly white-haired detective who’d questioned him in Vicky’s and another man, taller and younger, with dark hair and dark eyes. Accusing eyes.
“Mr. Heath, I’m Detective Gerry Mulligan. We spoke in Victoria’s apartment.”
“Vicky. Is she . . . ?” Down deep he knew, but he had to ask. “She’s . . . gone, isn’t she.”
Mulligan took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. “I’m afraid so. I’m the lead detective so I’ll be running the investigation. This is Homicide Detective Frank Renzi. For the record, we tape all our interviews, that okay with you?” Without waiting for an answer, Mulligan punched a button on the machine in the center of the table, announced the date and time, his own name, then Renzi’s name.
“Could you state your name and address, occupation and so forth?” Mulligan said.
“Nigel Heath. I live in Hollywood actually, but I travel a lot. I’m a conductor.”
“You conduct the Boston Pops?” Mulligan asked.
“Sometimes, yes. Bloody Christ! How could anyone do such a thing?”
“That’s what we want to know. You want to call a lawyer?”
“A lawyer? Why would I need a lawyer?”
Mulligan shrugged. “Just a formality, Mr. Heath. You can call one if you want.”
“No, I guess not.”
“Okay,” Mulligan said. “What time did you get to Vicky’s apartment?”
The other man, Detective Renzi, gazed at him, expressionless, his dark eyes intent.
“I don’t remember exactly. Sometime after nine. I took a cab from Logan. When I got there, her front door was open. The door to her flat was open, too. That seemed odd.”
“Why?” Mulligan skewered him with his pale blue eyes. “Did you go there often?”
“Well . . . no. It just seemed odd. Most people don’t leave the door to their flat open.”
“What did you do then?” Renzi asked.
“I called out to her, but she didn’t answer. It was . . . could I . . . do you mind if I smoke?”
“This is a non-smoking building,” Mulligan said firmly.
Why was the bastard being such a stiff-neck? His clothes reeked of smoke and he had a pack of Marlboros in his shirt pocket.
“Cut him some slack, Gerry,” Renzi said. “He’s just had a very traumatic experience. You want a cup of coffee, Mr. Heath? A bottle of water?”
He nodded gratefully. “Water would be good, thank you. And a cigarette.”
“Okay,” Mulligan said to Renzi. “There’s bottled water in the cooler around the corner.”
Renzi left the room, came back with a bottled water and a tiny red-plastic ashtray.
“Thank you,” he said. He took out a cigarette and lighted it.
Renzi nodded, but didn’t smile. “What happened when you went inside Victoria’s apartment?”
“I saw Vicky—” Overwhelmed by the memory of that horrible moment, he couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. His throat closed up and sharp pain squeezed his chest.
“I know this is tough,” Renzi said, “but we need you to describe what you saw. Where was she exactly?”
“On the floor in the living room. Near the telly. I went over to her and—”
“Was she dressed?” Mulligan asked. “All her clothes were on?”
“Yes. Jeans and a T-shirt.”
“What happened then?” Mulligan said.
“I called 9-1-1.”
The detectives exchanged glances. Several seconds went by, endless seconds, the room silent as a tomb.
Finally Mulligan asked, “Did you touch her?”
“No. I couldn’t believe it at first. She was . . .” Willing himself not to break down, he covered his face with his hands. If he started to cry, he’d never stop. Aware of the silence, feeling their eyes on him, he lowered his hands. “She was lying on her stomach.”
“On her stomach,” Renzi said. “Did you turn her over?”
The question infuriated him. “Of course I did! It was horrible! I still can’t believe—”
“You just said you didn’t touch her,” Mulligan said. “Stop lying to us.”
“I’m not lying. I just—”
“Mr. Heath,” Mulligan said, “if you moved the body, it makes it harder to—”
“Body? It wasn’t a body, it was Vicky! She was hurt! I wanted to help her!”
Mulligan glowered at him. “This is a murder investigation, Mr. Heath. Don’t lie to us. Don’t tell us one thing and then change your story.”
Good Lord, why were they badgering him? Couldn’t they see how distraught he was?
“Why did you go there?” Mulligan asked. “Was she expecting you?”
“Well . . . yes. I’d called her from the airport.” He puffed his cigarette.
“What time was that?” Renzi asked, gazing at him, his dark eyes unblinking.
“Sometime after eight. Might have been quarter past. I don’t know.”
“What time did your plane get in?” Mulligan asked.
“Around eight.”
“What airline? Where’d you fly in from?”
“United. I flew in from Vegas on an overnighter.”
“Okay,” Mulligan said. “So you talked to her from the airport sometime after eight, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Well . . . to tell her I’d landed and that I was on my way to her flat.”
“How did she seem?” Renzi asked. “What was her demeanor?”
“She was happy.” His throat constricted. He could still hear her voice, his last conversation with his beloved Vicky. If only he’d known. If only he’d told her how much he loved her.