by Susan Fleet
Constantine Stavropoulos had pointed to his necktie: tiny clarinets in diagonal rows on a bright red background. “Victoria gave this to me. She was so thoughtful. She knew how proud I was of her talent. But when I ask the police who could do this to my Victoria, they give me no answers. They just ask about boyfriends. The only boyfriend Victoria ever mentioned was the one at Oberlin. And he wasn’t even a musician.”
“What about your wife? Sometimes girls talk to their mothers about things like that.”
“I doubt it. Janet is closer to my older daughter. Don’t misunderstand, Detective Renzi. I love Ophelia very much. She has given me two beautiful grandsons, but Victoria was like the son I never had. Now I must take her home for the services and the burial.” His bushy black eyebrows came together in a frown. “When I leave, the police will forget about her.”
Frank didn't blame him for being angry. What if it had been Maureen?
“When did Vicky tell you she’d won the lottery?” he asked.
“She didn’t. I don’t understand why she would keep this from me. I would have been thrilled.”
“Did Vicky have a will?”
Struggling to compose himself, Stavropoulos removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “My friend Demetrius owns an insurance business. Three years ago he told me about a family whose son died in a car accident. The boy was twenty and had no will. No one wants to think about their child dying, Demetrius said, but Victoria lives in a big city with a high crime rate. The next time she came home to visit, I took her to my lawyer and she made out a will.”
“Mr. Stavropoulos, I’m not going to forget your daughter. I’m going to find her killer, I promise.” Whereupon Stavropoulos, his face working with emotion, had gripped his hand and thanked him profusely.
Frank tapped his pen on the legal pad. Maybe Nigel did buy the winning ticket. Maybe he asked Vicky not to tell anyone until she claimed the prize. But her father didn't care about theories. He wanted justice. Vicky hadn’t told him she’d won the lottery, hadn’t told him about Nigel Heath, either.
But she had a will. Had she made any changes recently?
There were plenty of lawyers in Boston. What if she’d used one to make Nigel Heath her beneficiary? Another unanswered question.
But one thing was certain. He’d promised Constantine Stavropoulos that he wouldn’t forget Vicky and he’d meant it. No matter who killed her—Nigel Heath, the Jackpot Killer, or someone else—he was going to nail the bastard.
He rose from his desk and headed for Hank Flynn’s office.
____
The first words out of Hank’s mouth were, “How are you getting along with Gerry?”
“As well as can be expected,” Frank said, taking the chair beside Hank’s desk. “But I don’t know how long I’ll be able to fluff him off about the Jackpot Killer.”
Hank tapped his pen on the desk. “What’s your take on the Stavropoulos murder?”
“Gerry’s convinced the conductor did it. I’m not, but the MO’s different from the other Jackpot cases. She was young. Maybe it didn’t go the way he planned, he got pissed and hit her with something.”
“Damn shame.” Hank shook his head. “She wasn’t much older than my daughters. What’s your take on Nigel Heath? You think they were lovers?”
“According to Nigel they were. He says he bought the winning ticket and asked her to claim the prize.”
“Why would he do that?”
“That’s what Gerry asked him. Nigel said he was afraid his ex-wife would take him to court and get all the money. She’s an actress, lives in Hollywood.”
Sidetracked by the words “ex-wife” and “take him to court,” Frank thought: What would Hank say when he found out Evelyn was divorcing him? Pushing the thought aside, he said, “Nigel also said he was afraid the publicity would hurt his career.”
“Sounds fishy to me. He’s a Hollywood hotshot, guest conducts the Boston Pops, wants to do it on a permanent basis. Most musicians bend over backwards to grab the spotlight. How would it hurt his career?”
“Beats me. He claims he made Vicky sign the ticket. They were going to split the money.”
Hank shook his head, half-smiling. “Well, if that’s what really happened, I bet he’s sorry now.”
“Right. Unless Vicky changed the beneficiary of her will.”
Hank’s eyes widened. “If she did and made Nigel the beneficiary, he looks guilty as hell. Are you sure she had a will?”
“Yes. I talked to her father at the wake.”
“Must have been tough.”
“Brutal. He said he had his lawyer draw up a will three years ago, and Vicky signed it. I didn’t ask who the beneficiaries were, but I’m pretty sure Nigel Heath wasn’t one of them.”
“I’d be surprised if she changed her will,” Hank said. “Given all the publicity, her lawyer would have contacted the family by now. But if Nigel Heath didn’t kill her, we’ve got another Jackpot Killer murder.”
“Speaking of which, I just got off the phone with Ross Dunn. He found another victim back in 1998. Poughkeepsie, New York. Long story short, he’s got ten suspects, asked me to check three of them. One lives in Connecticut, two live in Massachusetts. Dig this, one of them lives in Sandwich.”
Hank let out a low whistle. “A hop skip and a jump from Chatham.”
“True, but a long haul from Poughkeepsie. Ross wants me to check out the others first. One lives in Chicopee, not far from the Connecticut suspect. I could do them in two days, stay over one night.”
“No problem. I’ll authorize the travel. We need to catch this guy. If he murdered Vicky three weeks after the Chatham kill, he’s escalating.”
“And Vicky’s murder was more violent than the one in Chatham, looked like a rage kill. If he sees the hype about Nigel being the prime suspect, he’ll do another one soon.” He felt his cell vibrate against his leg, took it out and saw a familiar number. “Hank, I gotta take this. I’ll call you if I get any new information.”
He left Hank's office, punched on and said, “Hey, whaddaya know?”
“Things are getting crazy,” Gina said.
He passed two detectives walking along the hall, tossed them a wave and kept walking. “Whose life are we talking about, yours or mine?”
Gina chuckled. “Mine, yours and Nigel Heath’s. He called me at home last night.”
Frank went in his office, shut the door and sat at his desk, unable to decide if he was pissed or worried. Nigel Heath. Killer or not? Making a play for Gina, or not? “Why is Nigel Heath calling you?”
“He’s got no one else to call. He’s emotionally distraught. The woman he loved is dead and everyone thinks he killed her. He said you and Gerry Mulligan raked him over the coals again.”
“So? He’s a murder suspect.”
“But I’m positive he didn’t kill Vicky. Can’t you talk to him? Not at the police station, somewhere else. No one will know. Please? Humor me, okay?”
A tempting idea. Get the man in a neutral setting, see what he had to say.
“I’ll think about it, but it won’t happen anytime soon. My FBI agent contact needs me to check out some Jackpot Killer suspects. I won’t be back until Wednesday night.” He checked his calendar. Thursday night he and Rafe were taking Jamal to a Celtics game. “I’m tied up Thursday, too, any kind of luck I might have drinks and dinner with my favorite woman on Friday.”
Gina chuckled. “Anyone I know?”
“Yeah, Gina Lollobrigida.”
“Ha! So can I set up a meeting with you and me and Nigel?”
Amused, he said, “You drive a hard bargain.”
“How’s this for a bargain? I’ll pick up a pepperoni and cheese pizza to go with the Carlo Rossi Chianti in your room, deliver it to the Dorchester Palace tonight around seven. I’ll help you pack for your trip.”
He started laughing. “Sounds good to me. Be careful, I might tuck you into my suitcase.”
CHAPTER 20
Fr
iday, May 19
“We talked to that bartender,” Detective Mulligan said, stone-faced, his blue eyes flinty. “The one in Iowa you told us about. He said you told him your friend won the lottery.”
Nigel shifted in his chair. “Well, I might have said that. But when all the numbers on my ticket matched the winning numbers, I could hardly believe it. I was chatting him up, having a scotch to celebrate.”
He’d been here an hour and they kept asking the same questions over and over, acting like he was some sort of demented killer, the tape recorder on the table, recording every word he said. The seat of the chair felt like a slab of granite under his butt, not a breath of air in the room, the window shut, secured by iron bars, a nasty reminder that they grilled criminals here.
“But you didn’t tell him you won, did you,” Mulligan said, flashing him a triumphant smile.
“But I did! I bought the Megabucks tickets! Two hundred of them!”
“Not according to the woman at Marie’s Variety,” Detective Renzi said.
“You talked to her? She remembered me?”
“Yeah,” Mulligan said, “she remembered you. Funny accent, she said. But she told us you bought twenty tickets, not two hundred.”
“I didn’t buy the whole lot there. I had a cabbie take me ’round to some other shops.”
“Where?” Renzi said. “What stores?”
“I don’t remember. The bloke driving the cab took me.”
“Where’d you get the cab?” Renzi asked.
“Outside North Station.”
“Okay, we’ll talk to the driver. What cab company was it?”
“How should I know? Why are you wasting time asking about cab companies? Why don’t you find Vicky’s killer?”
“What color was the cab? What did it look like?” Mulligan said, the two detectives working him like tag-team wrestlers, browbeating him.
“I don’t know! The driver was a black man. As I recall he had some sort of accent, West Indian or Jamaican, something like that.”
“Terrific,” Mulligan said sarcastically. “That really narrows it down. You don’t remember his name?”
“I take a million cabs! How can I remember—”
“Let’s talk about the money,” Mulligan said. “I checked your credit card receipt for the ring. The salesman at the store out in Iowa remembered you.”
“I told you he would. I’m telling the truth. Why don’t you believe me?”
“Because your story’s got more holes in it than Swiss cheese. Where’s the ring?”
“I don’t know. The killer must have taken it.”
“Why didn’t he take her money and her credit cards?” Mulligan said. “Speaking of credit, you got some problems in that area, don’t you?”
He slumped in the chair. It didn’t matter what he said. Answer one question and they hit him with something worse. He shouldn’t have agreed to come here. Maybe he should hire a criminal lawyer. That’s what the Herald reporter, Gina Bevilaqua, had said after the wake. Vicky’s wake.
His throat thickened. He took out a pack of Winstons and set it on the table. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Your ex-wife says you’re behind on your alimony payments,” Mulligan said. “Eight thousand dollars, currently.”
Bloody hell, they’d talked to Joanna? “Could I have a cigarette?
“Forget the cigarette.” Mulligan fixed him with an ugly stare. “You’re in hock up to your eyebrows, Mr. Heath, half a dozen collection companies breathing down your neck. We talked to your agent.”
“You talked to Hale?” Needles of pain stabbed his chest. He tried to get his breath, but his diaphragm was tight as a board. If they’d talked to Joanna, no telling what horrible things she’d said about him, and now they’d talked to his agent. No wonder Hale wouldn’t take his calls.
“He says you got a gambling problem,” Mulligan said. “Used to hit the blackjack tables in Vegas a lot.”
“Well, I used to. But not anymore.”
“You just buy lottery tickets,” Renzi said, implacable dark eyes boring into him. “Two hundred at a clip. Is that why you’re behind on your payments? Five credit cards, and you’re behind on all of them.”
He massaged his throbbing temples. He felt utterly helpless, felt like the detectives were driving him toward the Cliffs of Dover, hungry sharks waiting in the sea below, ready to eat him for dinner.
“Did Vicky know you were gambling?” Renzi asked.
“I told her about the debts, yes.”
“That’s not what I asked. Did she know you were gambling?”
Overwhelmed with exhaustion, he tried to get his breath. Impossible. He couldn’t take much more of this. He had a splitting headache and his stomach had gone sour as swill.
“Kind of ironic, her winning the lottery,” Mulligan said.
Smiling at him. The arse-wipe was enjoying this. “It was my bloody ticket that won.”
“You needed money,” Mulligan said. “I can understand that. Sometimes I get behind on my bills, too. Your girlfriend hit the jackpot, you argued about the money, and you killed her.”
“I didn’t!”
Mulligan rose from his chair, leaned down and got in his face. “What did you hit her with?”
“I’d like to call my solicitor.”
____
8:05 p.m.
“There was an item about you in yesterday’s Variety,” Hale said. “And another one in The Hollywood Reporter. Not good, Nigel. The cancellations are coming in left and right.”
Seated at the knee-hole desk in his room, Nigel flexed his shoulders, trying to work out the kinks. “I can’t control what the bloody Hollywood gossipmongers write. I didn’t kill Vicky. Somebody else did.”
“Maybe so,” Hale said, “but it looks like you’re the prime suspect in a murder case. You know how it is out here. Hollywood loves a good scandal. Remember Fatty Arbuckle?”
“That was years ago, back in the ’20s.”
“But people haven’t forgotten it. How about Lana Turner and Johnny What’s-his-face?”
“Hale, I’m short on cash. Can you send me an advance? A few hundred should do.” What a joke. Hundreds? He needed thousands.
“Your ex-wife’s been calling me twice a day,” Hale said. “She wants money, too.”
“What about the Iowa gig? Did they send you the check?”
“No.”
“Well, call them! Bloody hell, the only reason I took that gig was because I needed the money. You know that.”
“Okay. I’ll call and ask the manager to send me the check. Gotta go, Nigel. My other line’s ringing. Call your ex-wife. I didn’t tell her which hotel you’re staying at, but if she keeps badgering me, I might.”
A click sounded in his ear, then the dial tone.
Call Joanna? He’d rather have a root canal.
He poured more Glenlivet into the water glass—straight, no ice—went to the window and parted the curtain. Twinkling stars and a thin crescent moon were visible in the dusky sky. Six floors below him, a line of television vans stood in front of the Back Bay Inn. The bastards worked in shifts ’round the clock, day and night, waiting for him to come out. So they could pounce.
The telephone was his only link to the outside world, but it brought no comfort. Hale said cancellations were coming in left and right.
What would he do for money? The air left his lungs in a whoosh, as though some giant unseen hand were crushing his chest.
The detectives had mocked him this morning. Five credit cards, Renzi said, behind on all of them.
What could he say? It was true. He barely had enough cash to buy cigarettes. He’d charged the bottle of Glenlivet to his room. Add in the charges for his meals . . . How would he pay the bill?
His solicitor wanted money, too. A lot of it. Up front, Attorney Merrill Carr had said this afternoon, seated at his fancy mahogany desk in his swanky office, autographed photos of Boston sports and entertainment legends lining the walls.
/> Nigel belted down some scotch and sprawled on the bed. Nights were the worst. He couldn’t sleep. Nightmares plagued him, stern-eyed faces and pointing fingers, jolting him awake. He took the remote off the nightstand and turned on the telly. Maybe some mindless television show would put him to sleep. He wanted to sleep forever and never wake up.
What did he have to live for? Vicky, the love of his life, was dead.
He took a pull of scotch, set the glass on the nightstand beside the bottle of Glenlivet and channel surfed. Music burst from the speaker and the screen filled with musicians. Of all the bloody luck!
A Boston Pops concert, taped earlier in the season.
Music filled the room. The Brahms Academic Festival Overture. He knew what was coming. Soon the woodwinds would make their entrance. The clarinets. Vicky. The camera zoomed in on the woodwind section.
Nausea turned his guts to liquid. He couldn’t bear to watch, couldn’t bear not to. And there she was. His beloved Vicky, her sultry clarinet sound soaring through the speakers. His throat closed up and tears filled his eyes.
He would never see her again, never make love to her again, never hear her laugh at his silly jokes.
With a low moan, he hit the off-button and gulped some scotch.
Vicky was dead and it was his fault.
The detectives weren’t even looking for the bastard that killed her. They thought he killed her.
What the hell was he going to do? His money was gone, his debts piling up. Forget the Pops gig, everyone was canceling now. Hale couldn’t get him a gig leading a high school wind band. How would he pay the hotel bill? He couldn’t even go out, had to sit in his room, order up room service and send the bellhop out to buy cigarettes. And Glenlivet. He poured another finger of scotch and drank it down.
If only he could talk to someone. Maybe he’d call Gina Bevilaqua. After Vicky’s wake she’d been so thoughtful. She was the only one who listened, the only one who understood, the only one who believed him.
Everyone else thought he’d killed Vicky.
He took her card out of his wallet and studied it. Gina Bevilaqua wrote for the Boston Herald, one of the local rags. For all he knew, she was kissing up to him, angling for an exclusive interview. But what if she wasn’t?