by Susan Fleet
She drifted down Bittersweet Lane and slowly drove past Number 14, a two-story cottage with blue-painted clapboards and a small front porch.
A white van was parked in the driveway beside the house.
William Karapitulik’s van, Gina assumed.
An icy chill rippled through her. Was he the Jackpot Killer?
But she wasn’t interviewing Mrs. Karapitulik today. This was Memorial Day, a holiday. Her appointment was at eleven tomorrow morning.
Franco’s suspect wouldn’t be home tomorrow, he’d be working.
____
Dorchester
Frank poured himself another glass of wine and glanced at the clock. 2:05 a.m. He’d been lying on the bed in his motel room since midnight, unable to sleep. Now that he’d read through the divorce papers, his mind was grinding away like a blender chopping nuts. How had it come to this?
When Evelyn got pregnant, he was thrilled. Evelyn seemed happy, too. Maureen arrived in February 1983. The first few months went by in a blur. Evelyn was breastfeeding so he didn’t get up for the late-night or early-morning feedings, but he didn’t get much sleep either.
In November he turned twenty-two. He was horny as hell, but Evelyn wasn’t interested. She was too tired. She had a headache. Whatever.
The third time she rebuffed him, he asked her what was wrong. He didn’t think it was normal for a couple their age to stop making love. She said her gynecologist had diagnosed her with post-partum depression. She’d been on Prozac for three months. It annoyed him that she hadn’t told him before, but he didn’t want to seem unsympathetic.
He decided to let her make the first move. After five months passed, he decided nothing was going to happen. Restless with energy, he walked the streets of Boston. He loved the activity, the streets alive with young couples and college kids. When that got old, he started going to movies, losing himself in fantasyland, Jennifer Beals dancing seductively in Flashdance, Richard Gere and Debra Winger getting it on in An Officer and a Gentleman.
In April 1984 he caught a burglary call one Saturday night. Saul Bergman let him into his fourth-floor condo on Marlboro Street, took him in the living room and introduced him to his wife. Janine Bergman was a knockout, wearing a fancy black dress with sequins, the low-cut neckline showing a generous amount of cleavage.
Frank figured the dress cost more than he made in a week.
Janine appeared to be in her late twenties. Saul had to be twenty-five years older. A distinguished-looking man with silvery hair, Saul had the air of confidence that accompanied significant wealth. Condos on Marlboro Street cost big bucks, and their two-bedroom unit was luxurious: plush wall-to-wall carpeting, granite countertops in the kitchen, a king-sized bed and built-in teak bookcases in both bedrooms.
They showed him the circular hole the burglar had cut in one bedroom window above the supposedly burglar-proof lock. Several items of jewelry were missing, Saul’s diamond-studded cufflinks, Janine’s pearl necklace and matching bracelet. “We should have left at intermission,” Saul said.
“We were at a Boston Symphony concert,” Janine explained, gazing at Frank with her big brown eyes.
“The Brahms violin concerto was the only thing worth hearing,” Saul said, and stifled a yawn.
Janine said to Frank, “I kind of liked the Rite of Spring. Decadent.”
Her expression didn’t change, but he felt something pass between them.
When Janine escorted him to the door, he wrote his cell phone number on his card and said, “If you think of anything important, call me.”
A tiny flicker appeared in her eyes. “Thank you, I will.”
Three days later at 4:15 on a Tuesday afternoon, she called and said she had something important to tell him. When he went to her condo, she led him into the living room and gestured for him to sit on the couch. Fancy cocktail napkins were tastefully arranged on the smoked-glass coffee table.
Was she having a party? She had on a clingy mauve top and a pair of black stretch pants, toying with her long dark hair as she sat down beside him on the couch. He got a hard-on just looking at her.
But he was here on police business.
“You said you had something important to tell me?”
“Yes,” she said, gazing at him with her expressive brown eyes. “Saul’s in Phoenix all week.”
It took him a second to get it. When he started to laugh, Janine did, too.
He gestured at the cocktail napkins. “You expecting someone?”
“Yes. Would you like a beer or would you prefer a glass of Merlot?”
And so on a Tuesday afternoon in April 1984, their affair began.
In February 1985 Maureen turned two. She was cuter than any kid had a right to be, talking up a storm. Frank was totally captivated, but equally captivated by Janine. Saul was a real estate developer and traveled a lot. When Saul was out of town, he and Janine would meet for dinner and then go to her condo. She had a gorgeous body, full breasts with dark-pink nipples, a slender waist and a gorgeous ass. But her enthusiasm was the biggest attraction. She enjoyed sex and wasn’t afraid to show it.
And so it went for nine years.
He refilled his wineglass and looked at the clock. 2:40 a.m. He was still wide awake and now he had a headache to boot. The evils of sin. Wine, women and song. Janine wasn’t just eye-candy, she had a brain. After graduating from Cornell, she’d met Saul at a cocktail party. Janine was twenty-one; Saul was forty-six and divorced. Six months later they were married.
One time when he asked if she felt guilty, Janine had looked at him and said: “Of course, and so do you. But if we were getting what we needed from our spouses, we wouldn’t be here.”
She was right. He was happy to have sex with a willing partner who was intelligent and fun to be with. Janine enjoyed their love-making as much as he did. Evelyn was perfectly happy not to have sex with anyone.
But in 1992, Saul was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. At the age of sixty-six, he died, leaving forty-two-year-old Janine a widow. And everything changed. As it turned out, wild and adventurous Janine had a traditional side.
She wanted to be married. To Frank.
The night she laid it on him, he didn’t know what to say. He genuinely cared for Janine, but her world revolved around Boston Symphony concerts, art museums and dinners at posh restaurants. His world involved bloody corpses, gun-toting killers and late-night investigations.
Worse, if he divorced Evelyn, he might lose Maureen, and that would kill him. He adored her. He loved playing Monopoly with her and taking her to horseback-riding lessons on the weekends and Celtics games in the winter.
When he told Janine he wasn’t going to get a divorce, she got misty eyed, and they made love for what turned out to be their last time. It was as good as ever. Afterwards Janine said she cared for him, but she had to move on. She wanted to be married, and when Janine wanted something, she usually got it.
A month later she’d moved away and he never heard from her again. Sometimes he wondered if she ever had a child. If she did, maybe she would understand his decision. Either way, he hoped she’d found someone.
Janine was a good person. She deserved to be happy. So did Gina, but from the sound of things, her marriage was in rough shape.
Two years ago as they lay naked in bed one night, Gina had asked him if he thought they would get bored with each other. She knew about Janine. He’d told her about their affair and how it ended.
“In the movies,” Gina had said, “people who have affairs eventually go back to their spouses. God forbid they should get a divorce. Hollywood sends a message: have your fling, but marriage is best for everyone involved.”
But was it? Sometimes people were just incompatible.
He and Evelyn were proof of that, and he didn’t think Ryan would be thrilled to find out Gina was having an affair.
His cell phone jangled. He checked the time. 3:02 a.m.
He punched on and croaked, “Hello.”
“Hey, m
an, sorry to roust you outta bed at this hour,” said Rafe. “Got some interesting news.”
“That’s good. Three in the morning, I’m not in the mood to chat.”
“Tyreke Evans is lying on a sidewalk in Mattapan, one shot to the head.”
Frank sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “You there now?”
“Yup, but I’m heading home. My PO pal called me an hour ago, gave me the heads-up. When I got there, the lead detective said it looked like a Gunfight-at-the-OK-Corral-type thing. Tyreke was packing, but the other guy must have been a better shot. Here’s the interesting part. Tyreke’s gun is the same type as the one that killed your Mass Ave victim.”
“Did you tell the lead detective?”
“I did. He said he’d see what he could do about matching the slugs.”
“That’d be great, wouldn’t it?”
“No shit,” Rafe said. “Now we don’t gotta worry ’bout moving Jamal and Ms. Josephine out of that apartment, might even close a case for you.”
“Thanks, Rafe. I owe you one.”
Rafe chuckled. “Indeed you do. Big time.”
“Tell you what. Get three more Celtics tickets and we’ll take Jamal to another game. My treat.”
“Right on,” Rafe said. “Talk to you later.”
He shut his cell and massaged his bleary eyes. He was glad Tyreke would no longer be a threat to Jamal, and it would be great if this allowed him to close the Mass Ave murder case.
But it didn’t solve his divorce problem.
CHAPTER 29
Tuesday, May 30 — Sandwich
Gina entered the historic town square and anxiously checked her watch. 11:10. She’d left the motel in Plymouth in plenty of time, but a bad accident on Route 3 had delayed her. She was late for her appointment.
Franco thought the Jackpot Killer might have taken Vicky’s diamond ring. Other than that she didn’t know what kind of evidence he needed for the search warrant.
Five minutes later she parked in front of the Karapitulik house, relieved that the white van wasn’t parked outside. She went up the walk, admiring the gleaming white lattice-work that boxed in the porch. Someone must have spent hours painting it. She rang the bell and heard a faint chime.
A full minute passed. The Venetian blinds on the front windows were closed. She checked her watch. 11:16.
At last the door opened and a woman in a wheelchair appeared. She had a thin pinched faced, wavy blonde hair and piercing pale-blue eyes.
“Mrs. Karapitulik? I’m Gina Bevilaqua. I’m sorry I’m late.”
“Oh, call me Mrs. Kay. Everyone does. I thought you weren’t coming, but come in, come in. You’ll have to get the door. Would you like a tour of the house? I tidied up as best I could.”
The words tumbled out in a torrent. Gina heaved a sigh of relief. The woman was a talker. That might make this easier.
She stepped into a hallway with a worn runner and said, “I’d love to see the house, but could we talk a bit first?”
“Well.” Mrs. Kay pursed her lips. “Come in the living room then. It’s not fancy, but it’s home.” Her thin shoulders hunched as she wheeled into the adjacent room. “Billy always shuts the blinds. I don’t know why. The girl that helps me with my bath was late today so I didn’t get a chance to open them.”
The wheelchair emitted a rhythmic squeak as Mrs. Kay went around opening the blinds. Sunlight streamed into the room, revealing the shabby furnishings. A brass-framed daybed with a tattered blue comforter and two throw pillows stood against one wall. Crude cross-stitching on the pillows said: JESUS SAVES. In the corner, a wingchair with frayed brown upholstery faced a television set.
Uncomfortably aware of the woman’s intense gaze, Gina perched on the wingchair. She’d worn casual clothes, a white blouse and black stretch pants, but Mrs. Kay had clearly put on her best outfit, a royal-blue pantsuit. The lower half of one pant leg was tacked up above the knee. Brass buttons lined the front of the jacket, and the bottom of the sleeves were frayed. A plain gold wedding band adorned the ring finger of her left hand.
No diamond ring.
“What a cozy little house,” Gina said, giving the woman a cheerful smile.
“Billy painted it last spring. We have to keep up appearances, you know, living near the Historic District. I bought it before the prices went through the roof. All these houses were a mess before the Historical Society spruced them up. I couldn’t afford to buy it now.”
“Are there more rooms upstairs?”
“Yes, but we don’t use them. It’s too expensive to heat in the winter. I sleep in here on the daybed. Billy’s room is downstairs in the basement.”
Gina ostentatiously scribbled notes on her steno pad. “When did you say you bought the house?”
“Nineteen years ago.” Mrs. Kay heaved a sigh. “A year after I had my accident.”
“How awful! What happened?”
“You don’t want to hear about that, you came to talk about the house.” Gazing at her, her pale-blue eyes intent.
“I do, but a house is only a house. I like to write about the people who live in them.”
“Oh. Well, I was in a bad car accident. Back then we lived in Lexington, Kentucky. My husband and my oldest boy were killed. Now it’s just Billy and me. I used the insurance to buy the house.”
“Is that where you’re from? Kentucky?”
“No, I grew up in Atlantic City. Where they hold the Miss America Pageant?” She smoothed her hair and soft waves fell around her narrow face. “In high school everybody said I should enter the Miss Atlantic City contest. But you have to do a talent routine.” Her lips pinched in a line.
Given her sour expression, Gina decided not to pursue that angle. “How did you meet your husband?”
Mrs. Kay’s lips softened and the lines around her mouth smoothed out. “Silas was a salesman for a big liquor distributor. He had all the Atlantic City casino accounts. Silas was so handsome, a real go-getter. I quit high school to marry him.” She stared into space. “We eloped to Kentucky. Then John was born.”
Gina nodded, reading between the lines. Fast-talking liquor salesman sweeps working girl off her feet and soon there’s a shotgun wedding.
“I had quite a life back then. We’d go dancing. Silas loved going to clubs. And he adored John.” Her thin lips pursed. “Then Billy came along.”
“Is that Billy?” Gina asked, gesturing at a framed photograph on a table, a handsome, dark-haired teenager smiling into the camera.
“Lord, no, that’s John!” Mrs. Kay beamed. “Isn’t he handsome? John took after his father. Billy was different.” Her smile faded. “Silas said he didn’t see how—” She looked away and scratched her nose. “What magazine did you say this was for?”
“Boston Magazine,” Gina said, jotting notes in her steno pad: Father, Silas, liquor sales. Brother, John. She wondered if any of this would help Franco.
“I did another interview once. A newspaper reporter came to see me after Billy—” Her lips tightened. “Anyway, that’s how we got the van. Billy drives me to church in it every Sunday. Are you a Christian?”
She glanced at the religious statues and pictures. She didn’t want to listen to any religious rants. “It must have been a terrible accident. How did it happen?”
“We were going to a Little League game. John was the star pitcher. He was riding in front with his dad. Billy and I were in back. We were late so Silas was driving fast. The insurance company said he’d been drinking.”
Gina felt a rush of compassion as Mrs. Kay stared into space, a bleak expression on her gaunt face.
“The good Lord spared me, but I almost bled to death. My leg was bleeding something awful. And Billy hurt his head real bad.”
“Do you have a picture of him?” Gina asked.
“Billy? No.” Mrs. Kay smiled at her. “Let’s have a cup tea, shall we?”
“Thank you. That would be lovely.” Gina followed her down a short hall. Squeak, squeak wen
t the wheelchair. At the far end, Mrs. Kay pointed at a wide door. “That’s the bathroom. The door to the left goes downstairs to Billy’s room.”
“Can I see it?” Mrs. Kay couldn’t go downstairs, but she could. If she got into Billy’s room, maybe she’d find Vicky’s ring, or something else to give Franco what he needed for the search warrant.
“No, Billy keeps it locked. He never lets anyone in his room. Come in the kitchen and I’ll put some water on for tea.”
Gina wanted to scream in frustration. She made a mental note to tell Franco about Billy’s room, a locked room in the basement. Creepy.
Opposite the door to the basement, an archway opened onto a small kitchen with worn gray linoleum. The exterior of the house looked spiffy, but the interior bordered on squalid: a clunky old refrigerator on one side of the sink, an ancient gas stove on the other. A steaming teakettle sat on the stove. Along one wall, a chrome kitchen chair with a ripped yellow-plastic seat stood under a cheap card table.
“Too bad Billy’s not here,” Mrs. Kay said. “Maybe he’ll come home for lunch and you can meet him.”
Her breath caught in her throat. Jesus! Did he come home for lunch? Suddenly the little cottage seemed claustrophobic, not cozy. She didn’t want to meet Billy. What if he was the Jackpot Killer?
“I always tell Billy I’ll fix a nice lunch for him, but he says it’s too much trouble.” Mrs. Kay put teabags into two cups and poured hot water over them. “But I cook us a nutritious hot meal every night.”
“I’m sure you do.” Gina carried the teacups to the card table, sat on the chair with the torn seat and stirred her tea, wishing it were coffee, wishing she could smoke.
Wishing she could get what she needed and get the hell out of here.
Mrs. Kay wheeled herself to the table and set paper napkins beside the teacups. She pulled up the sleeve of her jacket and scratched her forearm. A dainty scarab bracelet hung from her bony wrist. It looked expensive, Gina thought, out of place, considering the shabby furnishings.
“That’s a beautiful bracelet, Mrs. Kay.”
“Thank you.” She held out her arm to show it off the bracelet: tiny oval scarabs in a delicate gold setting, amber stones alternating with green ones. “Billy gave it to me.”