Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series)

by Susan Fleet

  Observing his torment, Gina felt a certain sense of kinship. She knew the anguish death by suicide could cause, and she didn’t like to think about it either. “Something similar happened to me when I was eighteen.”

  Nigel touched her hand. “I’m sorry to hear it. Want to talk about it?”

  Did she? She’d never told anyone about Denise, not even Franco. But Nigel had bared his soul to her. Maybe she should do the same.

  “I was co-editor of my high school yearbook. Denise, my co-editor, was really smart, but she was running with a tough crowd. One day we were alone in the office and she told me she was pregnant.”

  Gina sipped her wine, remembering the awkward scene. “I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t feel like it was my place to tell her what to do. When I said her parents would help her, she started crying. She said she couldn’t tell them. They’d disown her, something like that. Anyway, she got up and left. Two days later, she borrowed her mother’s car and drove it into a bridge abutment. They said she had to be going a hundred miles an hour.”

  Nigel shook his head. “And she was only eighteen? What a waste.”

  “I felt so guilty. I didn’t know her parents, but I should have been more supportive. I felt like I should have done something, helped her somehow.”

  “Hindsight is always a killer,” Nigel said, and gulped some scotch.

  “What happened at the piano competition?”

  “I fell apart, fingers froze up, it was a bloody train wreck. When I got home, I had a colossal row with my father and went off to London.”

  He stared into space, his expression desolate. “I haven’t talked about Mum in years. She had this way about her. Even in a roomful of people, she made you feel like you were the most important person in the world.” He shook his head. “Sorry to go on about it. P’rhaps we should call it a night.”

  Damn! She needed more. Down and dirty details. More juicy revelations.

  “Okay, but can we can talk again?”

  Nigel heaved a sigh. “Sure. Provided the cops don’t throw me in jail.”

  _____

  Wednesday, May 24 — Fitchburg — 10:10 a.m.

  Frank entered the Fitchburg library, a three-story red-brick building that had seen better days. A male librarian stood behind the circulation desk. Pitted with acne scars, his narrow ferret-face fit the DL photo Ross Dunn had sent him. John Lipton, age twenty-eight, five-foot-ten, blue eyes, brown hair. Two years ago Lipton had been charged with soliciting a prostitute but got off on a technicality.

  Frank went to the desk, but the man ignored him, staring at the computer. “Mr. Lipton?”

  “Yeah?” Lipton didn’t look up.

  “I’d like to speak with the head librarian.”

  “She’s not in today.”

  “Can you give me her phone number? I need to speak to her.”

  Lipton’s eyes met his briefly, then flicked away. “We don’t give out personal information.”

  He flashed his ID. “Boston PD. I need her name and phone number.”

  Lipton flipped through a Rolodex on the counter, his expression sullen, wrote a name and phone number on a slip of paper, shoved the slip at Frank and stared at the computer screen, ignoring him.

  John Lipton didn’t like having a cop visit his workplace.

  Anxious to wrap up the Lipton investigation, Frank left the library. Tomorrow he would drive to Sandwich and check out his last suspect.

  When he called Jean Halliwell, the head librarian, she agreed to meet him at a Dunkin’ Donuts near the library in ten minutes. Frank ordered an iced coffee and a blueberry muffin and grabbed a table facing the door. He was just finishing the muffin when an attractive woman in black slacks and a red blouse came in and headed his way, exuding an air of vitality and confidence.

  “Detective Renzi?” she said. “Jean Halliwell. Nice to meet you.”

  “My pleasure. Thanks for meeting me on your day off.”

  “It’s not every day a Boston police detective comes calling. What can I do for you?”

  “How about I buy you a coffee? Then you can tell me about John Lipton.”

  “Oh. John.” Her smile faded. “Okay, I’ll have a small iced coffee.”

  When he returned with her coffee, she took a sip, gazing at him, her eyes somber. “John has worked at the library for three years, but I don’t know him well. His work is adequate, but . . .” She sipped her coffee. “Have you spoken with him?”

  This woman was sharp. Frank hoped she’d be candid. “I have.”

  “We’re there to serve the public. John’s biggest failing is dealing with patrons. He can be rather curt.”

  “Is he married?”

  “No, but he has a girlfriend. I met her at our Christmas party last year.”

  His cell phone rang. He checked it and saw Ross Dunn’s number. “Sorry. I need to take this.” He left the table, stepped outside and answered.

  “Frank,” Ross said. “The Jackpot Killer got another one.”

  “Damn! Where?”

  “Nashua, New Hampshire. The lead detective called me. He’s a former FBI agent, remembered the email alert I sent to police departments around New England asking them to notify me immediately about any unexplained lottery winner deaths.”

  “Ross, I’m in Fitchburg checking one of our suspects. I could be in Nashua in forty-five minutes. Any way you can get him to preserve the crime scene till I get there?”

  “Sure. I’ll call him back and tell him you’re on your way. Detective Sergeant Steven Huff.”

  He wrote down the detective’s name and cell phone number, and went back inside.

  Jean Halliwell saw his expression and said, “Looks like you got bad news.”

  “I did. Sorry, but I need to leave.”

  “Does your emergency have anything to do with John Lipton?”

  He thought for a moment. Lipton was working today, but he didn’t know when the Nashua woman had been murdered. “I doubt it, but could you check and see if he was working yesterday and call me?”

  “No need to call,” she said. “I was at the library all day yesterday and so was John Lipton.”

  Anxious to leave, he said, “Thanks for your help.”

  ____

  Nigel glanced at Merrill Carr, seated beside him in the taxi, examining his manicured nails as they drove to the police station. His high-powered defense attorney had on a gray pinstriped Versace suit and a red power tie. The bloke’s nasal voice grated on his ears, but Merrill was the best criminal defense lawyer in Boston. Or so he’d claimed. Merrill said he specialized in high-profile cases and charged accordingly. Which no doubt paid for his expensive suit.

  He was desperate for a cigarette, but the sign in the cab said: No Smoking. Bloody hell, what if the cops arrested him? Not a peep out of Merrill. Maybe he was planning his strategy.

  He’d told Merrill everything. Well, not everything, not about the gambling and the debts. When he’d said, “I didn’t kill Vicky, I loved her. You believe me, don’t you?” Merrill had said, expressionless, “Wrong question, Nigel. It doesn’t matter if I believe you. The question is, can I get you off?” Smiling tightly, he’d said, “And I almost always get my clients off. That’s what they pay me for.”

  Merrill wanted a five-thousand-dollar retainer, up front. He’d promised to give it to him. God knows where he’d get it. This morning he’d called Hale again to ask him to send an advance. Hale’s secretary said he wasn’t in.

  Bullshit. He didn’t believe it.

  The cab pulled up to the station. The inevitable mob of newshounds and television cameras were waiting. Merrill told the cabbie to wait and to keep the meter running. Then he turned his frosty-gray eyes on Nigel and said, “Not a word out of you, unless I say so, understand?”

  He nodded. Already he felt sick to his stomach and his fingers were icy claws. He needed a cigarette to settle his nerves, but the detectives probably wouldn’t let him smoke, the bastards.

  Merrill forged his
way through the reporters, his silvery-haired head held high. “Let us through please. My client has no comment and neither do I.”

  Not “My client is innocent,” Nigel thought, sinking into a pit of despair. Didn’t anyone believe him?

  Mulligan was waiting in the lobby. He didn’t seem happy to see Merrill Carr. When they went in the interrogation room, Detective Renzi wasn’t there. Another man with dark hair and dark eyes sat at the table. Mulligan didn’t introduce him.

  Nigel sank onto the chair opposite the younger detective. Merrill took the chair beside him. The moment Mulligan turned on the tape recorder, Merrill said, “This is harassment, pure and simple, Detective Mulligan. My client gave you his statement already. Without benefit of counsel, I might add.”

  “We offered to let him call a lawyer but he declined,” Mulligan said. He turned to the other detective and said, “Detective Palumbo, get Mr. Heath and Attorney Carr a cup of coffee.”

  “Sure thing,” Palumbo said. “What’ll it be, Mr. Heath? Cream? Sugar?”

  “Black is fine, thank you.” The friendly gesture encouraged him. The last time they hadn’t offered him so much as a drink of water.

  “None for me,” Merrill said. “Detective Mulligan, are you prepared to press charges against my client?”

  “No, but we’ve got questions for him. This is a high-profile murder. We need to find the killer.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me,” Nigel said. “Why don’t you find the bugger that—”

  Merrill put a hand on his arm and squeezed. “Detective Mulligan, I fail to see what further questions you could possibly have for my client.”

  Mulligan coughed, a smoker’s hack, Nigel thought, judging by the nicotine stains on his fingers. Damned if he’d beg the bastard to let him smoke, though. Detective Palumbo returned and set a mug of coffee in front of him. Nigel took a sip. It was so hot it burned his tongue, but at least it warmed his hands.

  “We need to go over the timeline,” Mulligan said. “What time did your plane get in from Las Vegas?”

  He set down the mug. “My flight got in at 7:55.”

  “And you didn’t check any bags?”

  “Whether my client did or did not check baggage is irrelevant,” Merrill said.

  “Merrill, we need to establish what time Mr. Heath got to Victoria’s apartment.”

  “I told you!” Nigel said. “I took a cab from Logan—”

  “Wait for the question,” Merrill said in his nasal voice. “If I want you to answer, I’ll tell you.”

  “Mr. Heath,” Mulligan said, “what time did you call Vicky from the airport?

  He glanced at Merrill, who nodded. “Might have been eight-fifteen or so. I can’t remember exactly.”

  “But it could have been earlier.”

  “Detective Mulligan, my client answered your question to the best of his recollection. Let’s move on.”

  “What did you and Vicky talk about?” Mulligan said.

  “That’s privileged,” Merrill snapped. “My client will not answer.”

  He looked at Merrill, but Merrill’s eyes were fixed on Gerry Mulligan. He tried his coffee. It had cooled a bit, just the right temperature now. He sipped it gratefully, cupping the mug with his hands.

  “You took a cab to Victoria’s apartment?” Mulligan said.

  “Yes. I told you that before.”

  Detective Palumbo spoke for the first time. “We checked every cab company that services Logan Airport, but we didn’t find any cab driver that remembers taking you to the North End.”

  “That means nothing,” Merrill snapped.

  Mulligan frowned. “Yes it does. It means he could have gotten to the North End earlier.”

  “My client will not answer any further questions about how he got to the North End. He took a cab. It’s not his responsibility to locate the driver. That’s your job.”

  “What time did you call Vicky from the store?” Mulligan said.

  “Around nine. The traffic was bad—”

  “Nigel, just answer the question.” Merrill glared at him, his eyes hard as granite.

  “The woman in the store doesn’t remember seeing you,” Detective Palumbo said.

  “She wasn’t there that day. I told you—”

  “Detective Mulligan, this is a fishing expedition, pure and simple. You have no evidence to charge my client. He’s already given you a complete and accurate statement. Mr. Heath is a busy man, so—”

  “Hold it!” Mulligan’s face got red. “He can’t leave town. He’s a primary witness. I’ll get a judge—”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Merrill rose to his feet. “My client has no plans to leave Boston. I suggest you get busy and find the real murderer. My client did not kill Victoria Stavropoulos.”

  A surge of hope rippled through him. At last Merrill had spoken the words he longed to hear.

  But Merrill said nothing as they returned to the taxi, his face grim as they fought through the mob of reporters.

  When they drove off, Nigel said, “That went pretty well, didn’t it?”

  Merrill skewered him with a look. “Not now. Wait till we get to your hotel.”

  They rode in silence the rest of the way. At the Back Bay Inn Merrill forged his way through another mob of reporters and television cameras, barking, “No comment.”

  When they got to his room, Merrill didn’t sit down. Nor did he smile.

  “Nigel, I always level with my clients, so I’ll give it to you straight. You’re the prime suspect in the murder of Victoria Stavropoulos. Mulligan hasn’t got his ducks lined up in a row yet, but when he does, he’s going to charge you. My guess is, it’ll be murder one.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Frank got to the Nashua crime scene in thirty-eight minutes flat. A Nashua police cruiser stood outside the victim’s house, a one-story bungalow painted pale green. The front door opened and a rugged-looking older man stepped outside.

  “Detective Renzi? Steve Huff. You made good time.”

  “Thanks to your directions. Nice to meet you. Frank Renzi.”

  Huff pumped his hand and said, “Brace yourself. This one’s brutal.”

  He put on the booties and latex gloves Huff gave him and went inside. Ignoring the stench, he surveyed the room, gathering impressions. A woman sprawled on the floor. A yellow plastic bag over her head. On the carpet under her head, a large dark bloodstain. Inside a hollow in the plastic bag, a J&B nip stood out like a red flag. The Jackpot Killer had left his calling card.

  This time there was another victim. Near the woman’s body, a small dog, some sort of terrier by the looks of it, lay on its side. Blood matted the fur on its head, and dark-brown bloodstains marred the carpet underneath the dog.

  “Any idea how long they’ve been dead?” he asked Huff.

  “At least twenty-four hours I'd guess. I didn’t touch the woman, but I tried to move one of the dog’s legs. The dog appeared to be in full rigor. Assuming they were killed at the same time, I’d say she is, too.”

  “Who found her?”

  “We got a wellness-check call from her daughter this morning. She lives in Billerica, just over the line in Massachusetts, said she’d called her mother three times yesterday, got no answer, same thing this morning. We sent a patrol officer. He couldn’t see much through the window, tried the front door and it was unlocked. It was obvious this was a homicide, so he called me.”

  “Looks like he hit her with something heavy.”

  Huff nodded, his expression grim. “I see a lot of rage here. He beat her head to a pulp.”

  Like Vicky, Frank thought. The Jackpot Killer was losing control.

  “You’re hunting a serial killer, right?” Huff said.

  “Is that what Ross Dunn told you?” He didn’t want to reveal too much. Ross wanted it kept quiet.

  Huff shrugged. “Not in so many words, but I worked in the Bureau for twenty years. Agent Dunn sent an email asking for an immediate call about any unexplained lottery winner de
aths.” Huff gave him a pointed look. “I watch the news. A lottery winner was murdered in Boston. I figure that’s why you’re here. Agent Dunn said you were his liaison on some recent murders.”

  “True. This one didn’t go the way he planned. Looks like the dog tried to protect her, so he killed the dog, too. How’d you know she was a lottery winner?”

  Huff didn’t answer, just took him in the kitchen and showed him a newspaper clipping on the table. “That’s what tipped me off. I need to call the forensic team. I held off till you got here like Agent Dunn asked, but it’ll take them a half-hour to get here.”

  “Go ahead,” Frank said, scanning the news clip. Last week, Ruth Bennett, age sixty-three, had hit the NH Lotto and won forty-five thousand dollars. She worked at a nursing home, but didn’t plan to quit her job. “Those folks need someone to take care of them,” she’d told the reporter. “I love my job. It makes me feel good to help people.” Doodled around the article were smiley faces in red ink. The sight tugged at his heart.

  Huff closed his cell phone and gestured at the article. “Sad, isn’t it?”

  Frank nodded, thinking: They’re all sad. A week ago, he’d been consoling Vicky’s father at her wake. Now, another Jackpot Killer murder. The interval between kills was getting shorter. The bastard was escalating.

  “No forced entry,” Frank said. “Why do you think she let him in?”

  “Could be a trade person, electrician or a plumber maybe, or some kind of delivery man.” Huff grimaced. “Hate to say this, but the killer could be someone with police ID.”

  Frank doubted this. Of the seven Jackpot Killer victims so far, eight if he included Vicky, none of the neighbors had reported seeing a policeman or a police cruiser. “The Boston victim’s head was beaten, too.”

  “What about the Pops conductor, the guy that found her? Judging from the news reports I see, seems like the investigation is focused on him.”