by Susan Fleet
He took off her sunglasses, put them on the counter and set his duffle bag on the floor. “Good to get out of that trunk,” he said.
“I’m sure it is. Let’s get you settled.”
She took him upstairs to a small bedroom with twin beds. “You can use this room. There’s no TV set but you can watch the one in the living room.”
“Forget the telly. Nothing but bad news there.” He set his duffel on one bed. “You’ve no idea what a relief it is to get out of that bloody hotel. You’re a life saver, Gina. I’ll make it up to you someday, I promise.”
Someday she would hold him to the promise and ask him to give her some juicy material for her book. But now was not the time to do it.
“There’s no bathroom up here, just the one downstairs, but it has a shower. Wait here while I get you some towels.”
She went to her bedroom, opened the bottom drawer of her bureau, took out a set of towels and took them back to Nigel’s room. He gave her a smile, but the smile seemed forced and his sky-blue eyes were bloodshot. He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks.
When they went down to the living room, Nigel went straight to the piano, sat down and riffled the keys.
“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Gina said. “My neighbor.”
“Right. Sorry. I forgot.” Crestfallen, he sat on the futon, took a magazine off her coffee table and thumbed through it. He looked so forlorn she almost told him to go ahead and play, but she was afraid Thelma might hear him.
She checked the time. 7:15. Later than she had planned. By the time she got to the Expressway, traffic headed into Boston would be stop and go. She was going to be late for work. Maybe she’d wait until rush hour was over.
“Would you like coffee, Nigel? It’ll just take a minute to brew a pot.”
“Love a cup.” Nigel rose from the futon and pointed to a Turner reproduction on the wall. A painting of an early nineteenth-century British warship, it featured Turner’s trademark atmospherics: a slice of blue sky, mist rising from the water, a glowing orange sun.
“That’s one of my favorite Turner paintings,” he said. “When I was a kid, Mum used to take me ’round to all the London art galleries.”
She filed the tidbit away for her book and went in the kitchen. Nigel sat at the table while she ground the coffee beans. Once the coffee was brewing, she said, “Excuse me, but I’ve got to check my messages.”
“Of course. Don’t let me upset your routine. Sorry to be such a bother.”
“You’re not a bother, Nigel. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
She went in the living room and checked her cell phone. One missed call, but no message. Damn! Had Franco called her?
____
“This woman went there by herself?” Hank said, his blue eyes flinty.
Frank squirmed in the chair beside his boss’s desk. This was going to be a tough sell. And Hank hated early morning meetings. “The suspect works during the week. She wasn’t in any danger.” Not true, of course. Billy could have come home from work early. Christ, anything could have happened.
Hank said nothing, expressionless. Frank figured he had maybe thirty seconds to make his case. “His mother was wearing a scarab bracelet. I’m almost certain it’s the one he stole from the Vermont victim. That gives us probable cause for a search warrant.”
“Frank, if this ever goes to trial, a good defense lawyer will nail us for an illegal search and say this reporter was acting as your surrogate.”
“But she wasn’t. I didn’t ask her to go there. She did it on her own.”
“How’d she get the name?”
He had no answer for that one. When in doubt, change the subject. “The suspect works for the cable company. I think that’s how he gets the women to let him in. The daughter of the Rhode Island winner told me her mother said her television was screwed up the morning of the murder.”
Hank’s face remained stony.
“His father was a liquor salesman and his brother’s name was John. J&B, get it? John and Billy.” The realization had hit him as he lay in bed, unable to sleep after Gina told him she’d gone to Billy’s house. “Nigel Heath swears he gave Vicky a diamond ring, but Gerry didn’t find it in her apartment. I think the Jackpot Killer took it. The hype about Nigel being Vicky’s killer pissed him off, so he killed the woman in Nashua.”
“Maybe,” Hank said grudgingly. His telephone rang. Hank answered and listened for several seconds, stone-faced. Frank could hear someone on the other end, yelling. After a moment, Hank said, “What time was this?” After a long silence, Hank said, “Okay, thanks for letting me know.”
Hank ended the call and said, “Gerry Mulligan. He got a judge to issue an arrest warrant for Nigel Heath, but when Gerry and his troops went to his hotel this morning, Nigel was gone. The desk clerk said Nigel didn’t order his usual room-service breakfast. Gerry got the manager to let him into the room. Nobody home, over and out.” Hank smiled tightly. “Needless to say, Gerry is bullshit.”
“How did he sneak out of the hotel with all those reporters around?”
“That’s what Gerry wants to know.” Hank tapped his pen on his desk. “He’s pissed that you didn’t tell him about the Jackpot Killer, too. What else did this reporter get?”
“The suspect keeps goldfish. His mother said he gives them women’s names. Florence, like the victim in Chatham. Tessa, the Rhode Island victim. She said he named one goldfish Victoria, but later he denied it.”
Hank let out a low whistle. “You think the mother suspects?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can this reporter I.D. the bracelet?”
“I’ve got jeweler’s pictures from the victim’s son. It’s custom made and the setting is unique. If she can identify the bracelet, can we go for a search warrant?”
“Okay,” Hank said. “But make sure she’s positive. She might have to testify in court.”
“I will.” Frank left and hurried back to his office. He’d already done the paperwork for the search warrant. Now all he had to do was get Gina to identify the bracelet. He sat at his desk, about to call Gina, when his cell phone rang. He checked the ID and his heart did a cartwheel inside his chest.
He punched on. “Hi, Maureen, great to hear from you.”
“Hi, Dad. Sorry I didn’t return your calls. Grampa Sal called me last night and we talked for a while. You know, about the divorce. He said I should call you.”
“I’m glad you did. I know it was a shock, Maureen. I don’t blame you for being upset.”
“Well, I am upset, but I miss talking to you. Grampa Sal said I shouldn’t make harsh judgments. He said I didn’t have enough experience, you know? Because I’ve never been married.”
A warm glow filled his chest. Thank you, Dad.
“Maureen, your mother and I both love you very much. A divorce isn’t going to change that.”
“I love you, too, Dad.”
A great weight lifted off his shoulders. “I’m about to wrap up a case. As soon as I do, I’ll fly to Baltimore for the weekend so we can talk, okay?”
“Sounds great, Dad. Just call and let me know when you’ll be here.”
____
When Gina returned to the kitchen, Nigel stood at the counter, pouring coffee into two mugs. He brought them to the kitchen table, sat down, and said, “Mind if I smoke?”
“Go ahead. I’ve been smoking a lot myself lately.” Too much, she thought as she opened the kitchen window. She joined him at the table and took a pack of cigarettes out of her purse. “Must be the stress.”
“I know what you mean.” His shoulders sagged and he rubbed his eyes. He looked exhausted, his face drawn and pale, droopy bags under his eyes.
Her cell phone rang. “I’ll take it in the living room,” she said.
When she answered, Franco said, “Where’ve you been? I called you earlier.”
Speaking softly so Nigel wouldn’t hear, she said, “Did you get the search warrant?”
“Not yet.
Hank will only okay it if you can identify the bracelet. It’s a custom job so I’ve got jeweler’s pictures to show you. I can bring them over to the Herald in half an hour.”
“No,” she said quickly, “don’t do that. I’m at the beach house. There was, uh, there’s a plumbing problem so I had to call someone to fix it.”
“You want me to come there?”
No, no, no! She gripped the phone. Franco was already pissed at her for going to Billy’s house. He’d flip out if he found out Nigel was staying here.
“No, don't bring them here. I’ll be in town in an hour. Let’s meet at that coffee shop near the Herald where we go sometimes.”
“Okay. See you there,” Franco said, and hung up.
Her spirits soared. If she identified the bracelet, Franco could go to Sandwich and arrest Billy.
When she returned to the kitchen, Nigel said, “Must be good news. You look happy.”
She was dying to tell him about Billy, but she didn’t dare, walking a tightrope now, hiding things from Nigel, hiding things from Franco. Not to mention hiding the Gina-Franco affair from Ryan.
“I just need to take care of some business.” She sat down at the table and lit a cigarette.
“Bloody nuisance, business. My father expected me to be the next Van Cliburn, but I wasn’t and he never forgave me for it. After Mum’s funeral, we never spoke again. Six months later he was dead.” Nigel gazed at her. His eyes were very blue and very sad. “You don’t say much about your husband. Bit of a cock-up there?”
A cock-up? More like a Force-5 tornado. “Sort of. But life goes on.”
“That must be difficult. Do you have family to lean on?”
“No. My parents are dead and my brothers have their own problems.”
“You loved him once, didn’t you? In the beginning, I mean.”
Without warning, her eyes filled with tears. Did she love Ryan in the beginning? She couldn't remember. Strange. Maybe she’d been mesmerized by the big Italian wedding her mother was planning. Maybe she’d been in love with the idea of Ryan, his persuasive charm and his constant attention. Maybe she’d been too young and stupid to get married in the first place.
“Now you’re in love with Detective Renzi,” Nigel said. “But he’s married, too, isn’t he?”
“Yes.” Abruptly, she put out her cigarette and stood.
Nigel was beginning to get on her nerves. If she came back here tonight after work, she’d have to listen to more of his depressing stories.
Sooner or later she’d have to, if she wanted to write a book.
But tonight she’d rather be with Franco.
CHAPTER 33
Boston — 10:35 a.m.
Rushing and out of breath, Gina yanked open the door of the coffee shop. Predictably, there’d been an accident on the northbound Expressway, just a fender-bender, but it had snarled traffic for miles.
The coffee shop was small because most people got takeout. There were only two booths. Franco was sitting in one of them.
“Been waiting long?” she said as she slid into the booth beside him.
“A couple of minutes.” He sipped his coffee and cocked an eyebrow. “Everything okay? You look frazzled.”
“Traffic-jam on the Expressway,” she said, flashing him a smile. “Have you got the pictures?”
“Yes,” he said, tapping a finger on a manila envelope. “Want coffee?”
“No, thanks. I had some earlier. Show me the pictures.”
He opened the envelope and took out two black-and-white photographs.
Visualizing the scarab bracelet she’d seen on Mrs. Kay’s bony wrist, Gina studied them. The photographs had been taken from different angles, but the bracelet’s delicate filigreed setting was distinctive.
“That’s it. The exact same setting. I’m positive.”
“Okay, but these are black-and-whites. Do you remember what color the stones were?”
“As I recall the scarabs were green and amber.”
Franco smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that. Her son said those were her favorite colors, so he had the jeweler use green and amber stones.” He squeezed her arm. “This is great, Gina. Just what I need.”
“How soon will you be able to get into Billy’s house?”
“Tomorrow, I hope. I’ll call you tonight if we get the warrant.”
She traced a finger down his forearm. “Call me? Why can’t I stay at the Dorchester Palace tonight?”
He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “Sounds good to me, but I might have to work late. We’ve got a complication.”
Her heart sank. She didn't need any more complications. “What?”
“Gerry Mulligan went to Nigel’s hotel with an arrest warrant this morning, but he wasn’t there.”
Shocked, she stared him. Just as Nigel had predicted, the cops were going to arrest him for Vicky’s murder. If she told Franco she was the one who helped Nigel escape, he’d be furious. Which meant she’d better act like she was furious at Gerry Mulligan. The best defense is a good offense. That’s what Ryan said, and Ryan should know. He was a master at it.
“Gerry’s going to arrest him?” she said indignantly. “How can he? What’s he got for evidence?”
“Calm down, Gina.” Franco tilted his head, reminding her that others were in the coffee shop. “I don’t know what Gerry put on the arrest warrant. I haven’t talked to him in awhile. He’s pissed at me for not telling him about the Jackpot Killer. While I was in Hank’s office today, asking him about the search warrant, Gerry called Hank and told him Nigel was missing. Nobody knows where he is. Gerry put out a BOLO on him.”
Franco gave her a speculative look, one she knew well. He suspected something. Time for a diversion. “If you get the warrant, why can’t you arrest Billy today?” Anything to shift the focus away from Nigel.
“Gina, you gave me good information, but I’m not sure what I’ll find in the house. Besides, I need to set things up with the Sandwich police before I execute the warrant. Best case, that’ll happen tomorrow.”
She felt guilty about not telling him Nigel was at her beach house. But if Franco got what he needed tomorrow, it wouldn’t matter. After he arrested Billy, she’d tell him about smuggling Nigel out of the hotel and they’d have a good laugh about it. But that hinged on capturing Billy, and if Billy really was the Jackpot Killer, he was dangerous.
“Be careful when you go to Billy’s house,” she said. “Did I tell you that UPS delivered a package while I was there?”
“No,” Franco said sharply. “What was in it?”
“I’m not sure, but it was from a sporting goods store in Texas.”
“You think it could have been a gun?”
“Maybe. The package was heavy. I’m worried about Billy’s mother.”
“Do you think she suspects him?”
“I don’t know,” she said, recalling the odd look in Mrs. Kay’s eyes when she’d given the woman her business card.
Franco checked his watch. “Gotta go, Gina. The sooner I take the search warrant application to a judge, the sooner I’ll get it.”
She walked out of the coffee shop with him and they separated. Now that she'd identified the bracelet, Franco seemed certain he would be able to get the search warrant, but as she walked back to her office she felt uneasy.
If they didn’t arrest Billy tomorrow, how long would Nigel have to hide out at her beach house? Grieving for Vicky. Obsessing over family baggage. Fodder for her book, but she had troubles of her own.
Still, tonight she’d be with Franco. When he got the search warrant, they’d have a glass of wine and celebrate. Tomorrow, Franco would go to Sandwich and arrest Billy, and everything would be fine.
Well, fine for Nigel, but not for her. Tomorrow was Friday. Ryan would fly back from Austin and come home to an empty house. Ryan was no dummy. He’d probably figure she was at the beach house. If he decided to confront her and found Nigel at the beach house, there'd be hell to pay.
/>
____
Sandwich — 6:15 p.m.
“How do you like the fish, Billy?”
He stared at the glop on his plate. Mushy canned peas, fish with slimy gray skin. The stuffing she’d made to go with it was so dry and salty it stuck to the roof of his mouth. He could feel her watching him, waiting for him to say it was wonderful.
“Mom, why can’t we ever have something simple? Hamburgers or barbequed chicken, something like that?”
“We can’t afford it. Why can’t you find a job that pays better?” She picked up a carrot stick and crunched it. Mouth moving, teeth clicking.
“If you didn’t give so much money to the church—”
“Billy! The church is my salvation! And yours. You should get down on your knees every day and thank the Lord for saving you. And your mother.” Pale-blue eyes boring into him. Lips pinched in a line.
He rose from the table, took his plate to the counter and scraped the stinking mess into the garbage. The room was quiet.
So quiet he could hear the wall clock ticking.
Almost quiet enough to hear his heart beating. Beating. BEATING.
He took out a loaf of Wonder Bread, opened a cupboard and took out a jar of Jif peanut butter, the crunchy kind. “Where’s the grape jelly, Mom?”
“I didn’t buy any. All that sugar rots your teeth. You’ll thank me when you’re older.”
He refused to look at her. He would not look at her mouth moving.
He made himself a peanut butter sandwich, sat down at the table and took a big bite. She wasn’t eating. She was watching him. He felt her eyes bore into him, but he still wouldn’t look at her.
Mouth moving. Making pain in the head. Throbbing.
Blood beating. Boiling blood. BLOOD.
He thought about the gun. And his new skill.
“Did you fold the laundry?”
He chewed methodically, savoring his peanut butter sandwich. “Yes, Mom.”
“Good. There’s a program on TV tonight about gambling. I want you to watch it.”
Gambling. He put his hands in his lap and scratched. When he looked down, his knuckles were bloody. BLOOD.