Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series)

by Susan Fleet

  Fearing he’d puke, he hurried to the stairway, crept upstairs and stood in the hallway, listening. All quiet up here.

  He advanced down the hall, holding the gun in front of him chest high, and stopped at the reporter’s bedroom. He’d left the door open. Not that he thought she’d come out from wherever she was hiding.

  She was too scared to do that. She knew he had a gun.

  He tiptoed into the bedroom. Where could she be?

  He’d already looked under the bed. Maybe she was hiding in the closet.

  His heart thrummed with excitement as he approached the closet.

  But as he reached for the door knob, a telephone rang, not a cell phone, the one downstairs on the table beside the futon.

  The shrill sound shot through him, making mouth-mother pain in his head. Who was calling? The cops?

  ____

  It took ten endless minutes to find a stepladder and put it in place. Frank used the time to strap on the Kevlar vest. When he finished, he got on his cell and told Gina he’d get her out soon. Detective Abbott was following the plan, calling to Billy on the bullhorn every minute or so to focus his attention on the front of the house, not the back.

  Abbott came to the corner of the cottage. Frank trotted over to him and said, “We’re set, but I need a diversion after I go up the ladder. When I’m in position, I’ll have one of your officers give you a high sign. Then I need you to distract him.”

  Abbott gave him a dubious look. “Yeah? How do I do that? Offer to get him a Big Mac?”

  “No. I want you to fuck with his head. Call the number I gave you. It’s the landline to the house. The phone is hooked up to an answering machine so you’ll get voicemail after three or four rings. Don’t leave a message. Hang up and get on the bullhorn and tell him his mother wants to talk to him.”

  Abbott’s eyes widened. “I thought you said he killed her.”

  “He did, and believe me, it was brutal. But distraction is the name of the game. It will get him thinking, might cause him to make a mistake. I’m heading out now. Give me a minute.”

  He trotted along the side of Gina’s cottage and stopped at the corner.

  The back side of the two-story house overlooked the ocean. A brisk sea breeze hit his face, but it didn’t cool him off. He was drenched in sweat, droplets running down his nose. He focused his mind and got into a zone.

  Get Gina out of there and capture Billy.

  ____

  Billy stood in the bedroom doorway, counting the rings, willing the sound to stop. After four rings, the phone went silent. He went back in the bedroom and reached for the doorknob, about to open the closet door.

  The telephone started ringing again. The strident sound grated on his ears, just like his mother’s nagging voice, questioning him, belittling him. Forbidding him to leave the house.

  But not anymore.

  Flushed with anger, he turned away from the closet and went to the front window that overlooked the street.

  Now the cop with the silvery-gray hair raised the bullhorn. “Billy. Please answer the phone. Your mother wants to talk to you.”

  He reeled back as though he’d been shot. His mother?

  His MOTHER wanted to talk to him? Mouth-mother pain in his head.

  “Stop!” he screamed.

  “Billy! Answer the phone. Your mother wants to talk to you.” The voice on the bullhorn.

  He ran out of the bedroom and raced downstairs. The telephone was louder down here, a shrill insistent sound that penetrated his head.

  Warily, he moved closer to the futon and stared at the telephone.

  His mother wanted to talk to him? How could she?

  Last night he’d beaten her head to a pulp.

  Or had he only imagined it?

  Just like the thousands of times he had imagined it . . .

  ____

  Weighed down by the four-pound Kevlar vest, Frank scrambled up the ladder, sweating from the heat buildup inside the insulated vest. Jammed into the waistband of his pants underneath his shirt, his Sig Sauer was a reassuring presence.

  He swung one leg over the railing of the widow’s walk, then the other.

  A faint voice came from the front of the house, Abbott yelling to Billy with the bullhorn.

  He gave the two officers holding the ladder a thumbs up and studied the fifteen-foot portion of the cottage that bordered the widow’s walk. Two tall windows to his left, a small round window to his right.

  Three long strides got him to the smaller window. He peered through it and saw a long hallway. But nobody with a gun.

  The two larger windows opened onto Gina’s bedroom. He crept to the closest one, risked a quick peek inside and saw no one.

  Then he heard a telephone ring. Excellent. Abbott was calling Gina’s landline, then messing with Billy’s head with the bullhorn.

  The bedroom window was double hung, six small panes of glass above the sash, six more below it. He put his palms on the sash and shoved. The window didn’t budge. Then he noticed the half-moon metal device in the center of the sash. Damn! The window was locked.

  He went to the railing and motioned to the two cops.

  In a soft voice, he said, “Window’s locked. Throw me your shirt. I need to break one of the panes.”

  Without hesitation, one officer stripped off his shirt, exposing his Kevlar vest, wadded up the shirt and threw it up to him. He caught it and returned to the window.

  If Billy heard breaking glass, would he rush upstairs?

  Frank wrapped the shirt around his fist and waited.

  The instant he heard the telephone ring, he punched the pane of glass above the lock with his fist.

  The glass broke into large pieces that fell into the room. He reached through the opening, released the lock, put both hands on the sash and pushed. To his relief, the bottom half of the window opened. He tossed the cop’s shirt over the railing and climbed into the bedroom.

  Now the sound of the telephone was louder.

  He heard a voice scream: “Shut up!” Billy’s voice, downstairs.

  Moving quickly, he went to Gina’s closet and opened the door. Several shirts and three pairs of pants hung from a wooden dowel. He shoved them aside and saw the plywood door. He tapped it once and said softly, “Gina, it’s me.” He yanked on the knob and the plywood door opened.

  “Franco.” A soft whisper.

  But he couldn’t see her. The stairway was dark as pitch.

  “Get up here,” he whispered. “Hurry!”

  He heard sounds, and then she was in his arms, moaning, her body shaking like trees in a hurricane.

  “Come with me,” he whispered, “but be quiet. You need to go out the window.”

  She gripped his hand. Her hand felt cold and clammy. He led her out of the darkened closet. In the sunlight, her face looked ashen, beaded with sweat. Downstairs, the telephone rang again. Gina flinched.

  “Shh,” he said, and gestured at the open window. “There’s a ladder propped up to the widow’s walk. Two cops are there. They’ll help you down.”

  She gazed at him, eyes wide, terror-filled eyes.

  He helped her out the window and pointed to the ladder.

  “Go,” he whispered.

  She grabbed his arm. “What about you?”

  “Go,” he said urgently. “Now.”

  He waited until she swung her legs over the railing and got on the ladder. Then he returned to the closet. The plywood door to the secret staircase was still open. He shut the bedroom closet door, slipped into the dark narrow staircase and pulled the plywood door closed behind him.

  Inky darkness and a musty odor enveloped him.

  He inched down the staircase one step at a time, willing Abbott to keep calling Gina’s landline.

  Distracting Billy was a crucial part of his plan.

  The door in the closet was hidden, but the door at the bottom of the stairs in the kitchen pantry wasn’t.

  CHAPTER 40

  He stared at the
telephone. Now it was silent, but that didn’t fool him.

  Sometimes his mother was silent too, watching him, planning her next attack. He knew the phone would ring again. Then the cop with the bullhorn would yell at him. He mopped sweat off his forehead with his shirtsleeve, trying to ignore the stench. Nigel’s stench.

  He didn’t want to look at him. If he saw the blood, he might puke.

  Then, as he knew it would, the telephone rang, sending mouth-mother pain into his head. Fury boiled into his throat.

  “Shut up!” he screamed. “Shut up, shut up, shut up! Leave me alone!”

  Another ring. A third and a fourth. Then, silence.

  The answering machine clicked and whirred.

  He stared at the machine. It looked a lot like the machine in Victoria’s apartment. Nigel, the lucky winner, calling her, leaving a message, saying he’d be there soon. Interrupting his glorious triumph.

  Just like the cops. Interrupting his plan, distracting him.

  He had to find the reporter.

  But his bladder felt dangerously full, a nagging ache low in his gut. Where was the bathroom? His throat was dry and scratchy, too. He wanted a drink of water, but if he went in the kitchen he would have to pass Nigel’s body. And the blood.

  “Billy.”

  He flinched. The man with the bullhorn. The phone began to ring.

  He stared at it, counting the rings. One. Two. Three.

  “Answer the phone, Billy. Your mother wants to talk to you.”

  “Liar!” he screamed. “Liar, liar, liar! My mother is dead!”

  His heart pounded, making his blood surge, the merciless mouth-mother pain ripping into his head.

  “I’ll fix you,” he muttered.

  Steeling himself, he turned and sidled past Nigel’s body.

  Don’t look at the blood. Don’t look. Don’t.

  He squeezed his eyes to slits and focused on the toolbox on the floor in front of the television set. Holding the gun in one hand, he took a claw hammer out of the toolbox. It felt good in his hand, heavy and powerful.

  Rugged and reliable, like his Mark IV. But when he turned, he saw the dark red clumps of clotted blood under Nigel’s head. Disgusting. Gritting his teeth, he edged past it. The stench was nauseating, worse than a gas station restroom that hadn’t been cleaned in a month, stinking of piss and shit.

  That didn’t deter him from his goal. With single-minded purpose, he put the gun down on the futon, wiped sweat off his face and stared at the telephone, waiting for it to ring.

  “This time I’ll fix you,” he muttered.

  Seconds later the shrill sound erupted, mouth-mother-pain attacking his head. Grasping the claw hammer in both hands, he swung it at the telephone.

  The black plastic receiver broke in half. Still he pounded, harder and harder, pounding the evil machine with all his might. The telephone shattered and pieces of black plastic scattered over the floor.

  The evil sound stopped.

  He dropped the hammer on the futon beside the Mark IV and massaged his temples. Mouth-mother-pain in his head. Would the pain never stop?

  “Billy,” said a deep voice.

  Startled, he grabbed the Mark IV. That wasn’t the man on the bullhorn outside. That was different voice. Closer. Behind him.

  He whirled and looked, but saw no one.

  “Billy, I need you to put down your weapon and—”

  “Shut up!” he screamed. “Stop giving me orders!”

  “I understand how frightened you must be—”

  “I am not! I’ve got a gun.”

  “Billy, I just want to talk. My name is Frank. Let’s just relax for a minute and talk.”

  He felt a sudden desperate urge to pee. Moaning softly, he squeezed his thighs together. If he wet his pants, it would be a total humiliation.

  Where was the man? The cop named Frank. The man didn’t say he was a cop, but that didn’t fool him. The man thought he was stupid. He couldn’t see him, but he sensed his presence. How did the cop get into the house?

  Cops were killers. Was this cop going to kill him?

  His heart pounded. He felt like a rabbit cornered by a wolf, abuzz with fear, clammy with sweat. This must be how the rabbit felt right before the wolf’s teeth tore him apart.

  He realized he was holding his breath and sucked in air, filling his lungs. That made him feel better.

  Why be afraid of the cop? There were still bullets in his Mark IV.

  “Why should I talk to you?”

  “Let’s make a deal, Billy. Put down the gun, and I’ll come in the living room so we can talk.”

  “You think I’m stupid? You’re a cop. I bet you’ve got a gun, too.” He stared at the archway that led to the kitchen. If the cop took one step through that doorway, he’d shoot him.

  “I don’t think you’re stupid, Billy. I think you’re very smart.”

  “Liar. You don’t even know me.”

  “Yes, I do. I’ve been following your activities. You killed a lot of lottery winners, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. And no one could stop me.”

  “How many did you kill?”

  He frowned. Was this a trick?

  “I don’t remember. A lot.”

  “It started in Poughkeepsie, right? With Lulu?”

  That surprised him. Maybe the cop did know about him. Lulu was his first lucky winner. Maybe the cop was telling the truth. It sounded like he admired his skill. “Lulu was my first,” he said. “Lucky Lulu.”

  “And seven more, right?”

  He glanced at the body lying on the floor in a puddle of blood.

  “Wrong. You forgot Nigel. He was the real winner. That’s what the reporter said.” He stopped. The reporter. The incessantly-ringing telephone and the cop with the bullhorn had made him forget about her. He glanced at the staircase. Should he run upstairs now and kill her? No. If he turned his back on the cop, the cop might shoot him.

  “What do you want, Billy? Are you hungry? I can get you some food if you want.”

  “Shut up. You’re giving me a headache.” Mouth-mother pain, pounding his head.

  “Tell me what you want, Billy.”

  “I want you to go away and leave me alone.”

  ____

  Frank mopped sweat off his brow with his shirtsleeve. This was going nowhere fast. He was relieved that Gina was safe, and Abbott had done his part, distracting Billy. But now that Frank had managed to get downstairs and draw Billy’s attention by naming one of his victims, all the scumbag wanted to do was brag about how many innocent people he’d slaughtered.

  A kaleidoscope of images played in his mind. Photographs of Billy’s victims. The achingly-sad publicity shot of Vicky holding her clarinet, smiling. Her father’s anguished expression and his angry words: I want you to get the putz that did this to my Victoria.

  Vicky’s father wanted justice and so did Frank. As it had countless times since Vicky’s wake, anger rose up inside him, a palpable rage that clogged his throat and made his blood boil. Vicky deserved justice, and so did all the other victims this egomaniac had murdered. He had no idea what had driven Billy to kill, and he didn’t care.

  He glanced out the kitchen window. The sun was going down, an orange-red sphere low in the sky. Soon it would be dark, and darkness would bring nothing but problems. He had to take the Jackpot Killer down now, and the only way to do that was to establish some kind of rapport with him.

  That’s what negotiations were about, personal relationships.

  Forget your contempt for the suspect. Empathize with him. Figure out what he wants. Flatter him. Exploit his weaknesses. Show him he’s not alone. Somebody cares about him. A moment ago when he’d asked Billy what he wanted, Billy had said: Go away and leave me alone.

  “Billy,” he said, “I don’t want to leave you by yourself in here. I’d worry about you.”

  No response from the living room. “Tell me how you found Nigel. That was very clever. How did you do it?”

&nbs
p; “Ha. That was easy. The reporter gave her business card to my mother.”

  Jesus! Gina hadn’t told him she’d given her card to Mrs. Karapitulik.

  Frank sucked in air, a deep breath down to his diaphragm. It brought the odor of death to his nostrils.

  Nigel Heath, dead in the living room.

  “On the card, it said she worked for the Herald, so I figured she lived near Boston. I checked to see if she had cable and found this address.”

  Frank gritted his teeth. The deadly trails we leave behind. Cable television connections that allowed a demented cable worker to access his victims’ homes.

  “How did you know Nigel was here?”

  “Where else would he be? My mother said he was her friend.”

  That answered one question, but it didn’t solve his problem. Billy didn’t seem interested in giving up his gun or surrendering.

  What would work? A threat? A promise?

  Suddenly it dawned on him. He knew exactly what Billy wanted. Billy wanted to be admired. In his mind, killing all those lottery winners was an accomplishment. Billy wanted an audience.

  “How about if I get a television crew to come to the house and tape an interview with you?”

  Silence. Then, “You could do that?”

  “Sure, but you’d have to give me your gun first. They’d never agree to come in here and interview a man with a gun.”

  “Bullshit. You’re trying to trick me. You just want me to give up my gun.”

  So much for that idea, Frank thought. His body trembled, overwhelmed with fatigue. He was fresh out of patience. This had to end, now.

  “Here’s the deal, Billy. The house is surrounded. You can stay here as long as you want, but you can’t escape. Bottom line, this house is your prison. I’m coming in the living room. You better not shoot, Billy, because right now, I’m the only friend you’ve got.”

  No response from Billy. A jolt of adrenaline upped his heart rate. Now or never. Time to step into the danger zone. The Kevlar vest would protect his torso, but not his head or his legs.

  He gripped the Sig with both hands, set his forefinger on the trigger and edged to the archway. No sudden moves.