by Susan Fleet
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!”
“Did you tell the police?”
“Yes, but they don’t believe me!”
“Did you tell anybody else you won?”
“No.” His eyes lit up. “Wait! I talked to that bartender in Iowa. Maybe he’d remember.”
“You told him you hit the lottery?”
“Not exactly. But we were talking about it.” He shrugged. “You see? It’s hopeless.”
“What about the store where you bought the ticket? Wouldn’t they remember you?”
“But I can’t prove the winning ticket was mine. I didn’t sign it, Vicky did. And now she’s dead.” His face contorted in anguish. “You’ve no idea how awful it was.”
“Where’d you get the ring?” Gina said. “Can you prove you bought it?”
“I gave the receipt to the bloody detective, but if they check my credit, they’ll find out—” He heaved a sigh. “I couldn’t bear to tell Vicky’s parents the ticket was mine. I’d give all the money in the world—every penny!—if it would bring Vicky back.” He looked at her, his expression desolate. “It’s my fault Vicky’s dead.”
“Nigel, you can’t blame yourself. You didn’t kill Vicky, but somebody did and we have to find out who.”
“That’s up to the coppers, isn’t it?” He drained the last of his Dewar’s. “You’ve been very kind, but it’s late and I don’t want to impose. I’d best get back to my hotel. Can I get a cab ’round here?”
“I can drive you.”
“No. The paparazzi will be waiting. I don’t want to put you through that. Be a dear and call me a cab. “
____
After Nigel left, she poured more scotch in her glass. Nigel was in denial, unable or unwilling to admit he had a problem. He didn’t even have a lawyer. Forget the Pops job. They’d never hire him now.
Forget her gambling series, too. Vicky’s murder was the big story.
Still, she had just befriended Vicky’s lover. People were saying that Nigel murdered Vicky for the money. But they hadn’t talked to him. They hadn’t seen the anguish in his eyes or his desolate expression.
Yesterday Franco had told her the lead detective, Gerry Mulligan, was convinced Nigel killed Vicky, but he’d warned her not to talk about it, saying that wasn’t for publication. But that was yesterday. Maybe he’d know more now. She got on her cell phone and called him.
“Hey, whaddaya know?” he said in his deep resonant voice.
“Not half as much as you,” she said, smiling into the phone.
“I saw you talking to Nigel at the funeral home.”
“You were there? I didn’t see you.”
“What did he say?”
“Hmm. How about a quid pro quo. Whaddaya got for me?”
A soft chuckle. “You come to my motel, I’ll show you what I got.”
“Oooh, tempting. Gimme fifteen and I’m there.”
“Wait. I need to give you directions.”
“I know where it is. I was there last week, remember?”
“Yeah, but that was the Dorchester Ritz. Too expensive. Now I’m at the Dorchester Palace. Take the Neponset Ave exit off the Expressway. Two blocks up on Gallivan Boulevard on the left.”
“Does it have a red roof?”
“Hey, you been following me?”
Gina laughed. “Yeah, I’m getting to be quite a detective.”
“When you get there, detect your way around back to Room 44.”
/> “And then?” she said.
“Better get here quick. I’m pouring you a glass of the Dorchester Palace’s finest wine.”
She waited for the punch line.
Franco didn’t disappoint. “Carlo Rossi Chianti.”
____
Frank heard a tap on the door and looked out the peephole. Gina, looking sexy as hell, even in a black outfit. He opened the door, pulled her inside and kissed her, a long lingering kiss to make up for the fact that he hadn’t seen her in a week.
When they came up for air, Gina looked around and said, “Charming decor. Like the Red Roof Inn.”
He gestured at two easy chairs he’d pulled up to a low table in the corner. “Your wine is poured, madam. The Dorchester Palace only puts plastic cups in the rooms, so I went out and bought real glasses.”
“What a guy,” she said, laughing.
“Want ice? There’s some in the cooler in the bathroom.”
“No, this is fine.” She took off her jacket and sat on one of the chairs.
One look at her curvy figure, he wanted to grab her and take her to bed. He restrained himself and said, “How’d you get into the funeral home? The family didn’t want any reporters at the wake.”
She grinned. “The ace reporter always finds a way.”
He took the other easy chair and raised his wineglass. “Congratulations. What did he say?”
“Not much at the funeral parlor, but I squirreled him out the back and took him to the beach house.”
He stared at her, appalled. “Jesus! Are you crazy? He’s a murder suspect!”
“Franco, he didn’t kill Vicky.”
“How do you know? Not a good idea, Gina. The guy keeps changing his story. Gerry figures they argued about the money, Nigel went into a rage and killed her.”
“But he’s devastated about Vicky. He told me he bought the winning ticket, but he asked Vicky to claim the prize. They were going to split the money and get married. What makes you so sure he killed Vicky? What about the Jackpot Killer?”
He gave her a stern look. “You didn’t tell Nigel about the Jackpot Killer, did you?”
“Of course not. I never talk about stuff you tell me until you say it’s okay.”
“Good. Because it’s not okay. This is a high-profile case. Gerry wants to close it fast and take the credit. If the Jackpot Killer story hits the headlines, Gerry will go ballistic.”
He sipped his wine recalling what he’d told Gerry: This might be related to a case I’m working. Another lie that might come back to haunt him.
He glanced at the double bed. It looked inviting and so did Gina, sexy as hell in her V-neck black jersey. But he wanted to know what Nigel said.
“What else did Nigel tell you?”
“He talked to a bartender when he was in Iowa. He didn’t tell him he hit the lottery, just hinted at it. He said the bartender told him a friend of his hit the lottery and his ex-wife got most of the money.”
“Did he tell you he owes his ex-wife a lot of back alimony?”
“He didn’t mention that. But if you talked to him, Franco, you’d believe him. I could set up a meet, just the three of us, at my beach house. Then you’d get a better idea of who he is. You can’t do that in an interview room at a police station.”
“Gina, you know I can’t do that. One, it’s not ethical. Two, Nigel knows I’m a detective. Not to mention the fact that I can’t afford to be seen there.”
Gina’s mouth quirked. He knew that look. She was pissed but trying not to show it.
“What about your wife?” she said. “Have you talked to her?”
“No.”
“Have you talked to her lawyer?”
“No.” He didn’t want to discuss it. “What’s up with Ryan? You still thinking about moving out?”
Gina gazed at him, somber-eyed. “It was a long weekend. Let’s leave it at that. If I move out, Ryan will shut me off like a faucet. That’s why I pitched the gambling series to my boss. I figured it would get me a raise, but now my big winner is dead and so is my gambling series. Vicky’s murder is the hot story now, so I figured I’d write a big feature article about it. But to do that I need an exclusive interview with Nigel.”
“Gina, I don’t want you spending time alone with Nigel. Maybe he killed Vicky and maybe he didn’t, but right now he’s a murder suspect.”
She set her wineglass on the table and stood. “I better go. It’s late.”
He rose to his feet and adopted his grim-faced policeman look. “Ms. Bevilaqua, I can’t possibly allow you to get in your car and drive. You just consumed a fair amount of wine.”
She looked at him, half-smiling. “Is that right, Mr. Police Detective?”
“Yes. I would be delinquent in my duty if I allowed you to get behind the wheel. There’s only one solution. You’ll have to sleep here tonight.”
Gina grinned at him. “Well, since you put it that way . . .”
CHAPTER 19
Thursday, May 18 — 4:15 p.m.
“All the other victims were killed on weekdays,” Ross Dunn said, “but the Poughkeepsie woman was murdered on a Sunday.”
Holding the phone in his left hand, Frank jotted notes on the legal pad on his desk. Ten minutes ago his FBI liaison had called to tell him he’d found another Jackpot Killer victim. “Maybe he lives with someone, needs an excuse to be out of the house on the weekend.”
“That’s what I figure,” Ross said. “His wife or a girlfriend or his parents, for all we know. Poughkeepsie isn’t exactly a hotbed of activity, but Vassar hosted a conference that weekend, a two-day workshop sponsored by the Northeast Chapter of the American Library Association. A lot of women go to Vassar, so the focus was on books related to women in popular culture.”
Recalling Vicky’s massive head injuries, Frank said, “You think our killer’s a librarian?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. The workshop was open to anyone who paid the entry fee. I got a list of the registrants, a lot of Vassar students, sixty ALA members and seven others.”
“That’s a lot of suspects.”
“Yes, but I eliminated the Vassar students and the female attendees. That left nineteen male librarians and three miscellaneous males.”
“Still,” he said. “Twenty-two suspects? Can you eliminate any of them geographically? All the other victims lived in New England.”
“I already did, narrowed it down to ten males between the ages of twenty-five and forty-five. I doubt that our killer has hit forty, but I erred on the side of caution. Four live in New York City. Two live in Jersey, one in Newark, the other in Hoboken.” Ross paused. “His name is Sinatra.”
“Well, I guess it isn’t Nancy, whose boots were made for walkin’.”
Ross chuckled. “No, and it isn’t Frank either. His boots are no longer walking anywhere. There’s also a guy in Philly, not a librarian, one of the miscellaneous signups.”
“Philly’s quite a hike from New England. I don’t picture this guy hopping on a plane, seems like he drives to the victim’s homes.”
“I agree,” Ross said, “but this guy’s a registered sex offender, Level Two. I don’t want to eliminate him without giving him a once-over. Tell me about the Chatham location. There’s an airport in Hyannis, right?”
“Yes, but not many flights go there, and he’d have to rent a car.” He heard Ross yawn on the other end. “You losing sleep over this, Ross?”
Ross laughed. “No, but I’m wiped out today. Had a birthday party for my twin boys this weekend.”
“How old are they?” Envying him. He still hadn’t talked to Maureen.
“Thirteen. Scary. In a couple of years they’ll be driving. We had a good time, though. My wife’s parents flew in and stayed with us.” Ross chuckled. “Her father can drink me under the table, kept asking me to mix up another pitcher of Manhattans.”
Frank smiled, recalling how they’d met. The night after classes ended at Quantico, he’d run into FBI Agent Ross Dunn at the airport bar. In h
is late thirties, Ross was married with twin sons, and he was wild about basketball. They discussed the current woes of the Boston Celtics and the Washington Wizards. Inevitably, the discussion turned to law enforcement. Frank said he worked a fair number of Boston gang hits, and Rafe, the center on the D-4 basketball team, was on a gang taskforce. At that point Ross had asked for his card, saying he liked to keep in contact with cops who had special expertise.
“Here’s the deal,” Ross said. “I’ll check the suspects in New York, New Jersey and Philly. Can you do the other three? One lives in Connecticut. Two live in Massachusetts, but one lives near the guy in Connecticut. You could do them together, with an overnight. The other one lives on Cape Cod.”
“Where? It’s been a month since the Chatham victim and the State cops have no leads.”
“He lives in Sandwich. What’s your take on the Boston case? I’m seeing a lot of chatter about this British conductor. Twelve million bucks? Plenty of people would kill for less. You think he did it?”
“I’m not sure. If it was the Jackpot Killer, there were significant differences. The victim was young, thirty-three. No J&B nip, no plastic bag. Someone beat her to death.”
“If the Jackpot Killer did it and sees the hype about the conductor—”
“He’ll do another one soon.” Frank checked his watch. “Let me go talk to my boss. I need to get travel clearance so I can check your three suspects.”
“Great. I’ll email you their names, addresses and DL photos. Tomorrow I’ll do the guy in Philly, fly to New York, check out those four suspects, then head to Jersey and talk to Mr. Sinatra. First name, Anthony.”
“Okay, Ross. I’ll call you when I get the travel clearance.” He rang off and massaged his eyes, thinking about his meeting with Vicky’s father at the wake last night. A brutal conversation that remained vivid in his mind.