by Lynde Lakes
Table of Contents
Billboard Cop
Copyright
Praise for Lynde Lakes
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Billboard Cop
by
Lynde Lakes
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Billboard Cop
COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Lynde Lakes
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Kim Mendoza
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Crimson Rose Edition, 2012
Print ISBN 978-1-61217-542-3
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-543-0
Published in the United States of America
Praise for Lynde Lakes
“What if a homicide detective, who loathes reporters and values honesty, falls for an undercover reporter’s deception? And what if by the time he catches on he’s already in love with her old-fashioned image—as well as the gorgeous, conniving woman? Run like hell, right? That’s what any self-respecting guy would do. And what he planned—until he learns she’s involved in his copycat Boston Strangler case and that what she knows could kill her…”
~RT (4 Stars)
~*~
“Lakes offers a clever romantic premise that doesn't disappoint, coupled with danger, excitement and the threat of an elusive and violent villain. It's fun to watch the couple's values clash and mesh while they chase the bad guy."
~Romantic Times Book Reviews (4 Stars)
Dedication
To my Wild Rose Press Publisher,
Rhonda Penders, RJ Morris,
& my editor, Johanna Melaragno,
& my first editor extraordinaire, teacher and friend,
Sara Rice,
and my cover artist, Kim Mendoza,
and to all of the WRP staff.
And to Winona,
who is always there with a ready smile.
Chapter One
Out of the corner of her eye, Jen Lyman, reporter for the Boston Globe, caught sight of a billboard printed in huge, black letters. The bold words on the stark white background visually leaped at her. Her heart raced, sensing a story.
WANTED: OLD-FASHIONED WIFE
NO OTHERS NEED APPLY
P.O. BOX 48613
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS 02104
She hit the brakes, shifted into reverse and sped backward to capture a clear view through her front windshield.
Dory Kincaid, Globe photographer and her best friend, gripped the dashboard and shrieked, “Have you lost your mind?”
She jerked to a stop. “Maybe, but I smell a story.” She grabbed her digital recorder from her bag and read the ad into it.
Dory chuckled. “Oh, wow. I see what you mean.” She pulled her always-loaded camera from her bag and snapped a few shots. “What kind of weirdo would put up such a hokey ad?”
Jen flashed her most devious smile. “And what kind of woman would answer it with the ridiculous requirement for an old-fashioned woman.”
“Obviously, your kind. I see the wheels turning in your head.”
She laughed. “Guilty as charged.”
Dory shook her head. “The guy’s gotta be a loser. No name on the ad spells no guts.”
“Or something to hide. But I can’t blame him for being cautious. Imagine all the fruitcakes curious enough to check out his offer. Besides, what normal, self-respecting man wants the world to know he’s that hard up for a wife?”
“Normal? Ha!” Dory said. “He might even be our copycat Boston Strangler.”
Jen tightened her grip on the wheel. “Wouldn’t that be something? What if the ad is a predator’s trick to entice women to volunteer their addresses?” She fought excitement mingled with apprehension. “Tying the billboard ad to my strangler story is the kind of complication Pulitzer prizes are made of.”
“Dream on. But be sure you can wake up when it’s over.”
In spite of the August heat, she shivered, her own uneasiness amplified by her friend’s half-kidding, half-serious warning. She shook off her misgivings and headed back into the Monday morning traffic. She glanced at her watch and pressed harder on the accelerator, zigzagging in and out of the lanes, speeding past rows of brownstones. In seconds, she came under the shadow of the sixty-two story Hancock Tower with its walls of glistening glass.
“Ease up,” Dory squealed. “Wanna pick up a cop?”
“We’re still blocks from the Government Center. I can’t be late.” Jen bit her lip. “The mayor gave me this personal interview because I convinced him I had questions he might not want other reporters to hear.”
Dory stashed her camera in her bag. “We’ll make it.” She grinned. “So, how will you approach Mr. Billboard, sassy and straightforward, or down, dirty, and devious?”
“The first on my agenda is to find him. The billboard company or post office won’t help. Thanks to the Right to Privacy Act, it’ll take a court order to pry info from them.”
Dory wrinkled her brow. “So what’ll you do?”
“What else? Write a letter. Stake out his post office box. His zip code gave away the location.”
“Ah, down, dirty, and devious.” Dory squirmed like a delighted puppy. “Let me help. The letter must sound domestic and a bit docile. A tone you may have trouble faking.”
“Hey, I can sling the Martha Stewart and apple pie phrases with the best of 'em.”
They neared the iron-fenced commons with its network of long, tree-lined promenades and gently rolling lawns. The glint of the gold-domed State House just ahead brought Jen’s thoughts back to more pressing things—her skirmish with the mayor.
Minutes later, inside the wood-paneled office, she shook hands with Mayor O’Brien and his hovering public relations officer, Diego Zombolas, who almost everyone in the news business knew was actually the mayor’s bodyguard. Diego had been brought on board a year ago when a wildcat union strike leader pulled a gun on the mayor on the courthouse steps.
After getting permission to take some pictures, Dory dug her camera out of her bag and checked the light meter. The mayor gestured to a leather chair. Jen sat down and waited for him to seat himself behind his desk which was on an elevated platform and left no doubt who held the power in this room.
Diego stroked his Greek nose in a deliberate way. A signal between the men? He remained standing. Had he situated himself where he could keep an eye on her and Dory who now circled the room taking shots from different angles?
Jen leaned forward. “Mayor, are the disgruntled union wildcatters still hassling you? Or is someone else threatening your life?”
The mayor gave a smile that failed to reach his gray eyes. “No. All’s calm here at city hall.”
Yeah, right. She decided on a sidestep-topic to break through his shield. “You call Mr.
Zombolas your public relations man?”
The mayor’s smile remained in place. His eyes glinted as though in amusement. “That’s his job title. But Diego is a man of many talents.”
“You don’t deny bodyguard is one of them?” She kept her tone easy, non-combative.
“I take care of the mayor,” Diego piped up. He slicked back his black hair with the smooth arrogance of a man stuck on his looks. “The capacity depends on the situation. But surely you didn’t come here to talk about my job description?” A warning undercurrent darkened his tone.
She swallowed. “True, Mr. Zombolas. But if the mayor’s life is in danger due to union threats, or for any other reason, the public wants to know.”
Diego bowed his head. “Naturally,” he said, oozing charm. “We wouldn’t dream of keeping important information from the press.”
“Good,” Jen said, forcing a smile. She wouldn’t be surprised if the threats against the mayor were tied into her toxic-waste story. She placed a recorder on the desk in front of her, and leveled her gaze at the mayor. “Mayor O’Brien, everyone in town knows a lot of Boston is built on landfill. Can you comment on the soil report that came out of the State Environmental Division last Tuesday which indicated a high toxin count in the fill used in the Old Town area?”
The mayor cleared his throat. “The test is being run again. We suspect faulty instruments.”
Diego walked behind the mayor and gripped the back of the official’s high-back chair. “Rest assured,” he said, “whether the problem is faulty instruments or spot soil contamination, it’s being handled with public safety in mind.”
Her palms sweated but she hoped her expression didn’t give away the stress and the tremendous pressure she was under. “What about a certain trucker’s claim that he was paid off by someone at city hall to forget where he got the soil?”
Diego touched the mayor’s shoulder, as if to silence him and said, “If you’re referring to Lorenzo Geoffrey Monroe, Atlantic Trucking fired him for being a drunk and a troublemaker.”
The sun coming through the plate glass window slipped behind a cloud, casting fierce shadows across Diego’s face, but it didn’t dim the flash of fury in his eyes.
She swallowed and met his gaze head on. “Mr. Monroe provided names, dates, and locations. He swears he got the contaminated soil from a service station site with a leaking tank.” She glanced down at her note pad. “A site located at the corner of Wildwine and Brae streets.” She raised her eyes and met the mayor’s steady gaze. “I checked. The land is owned by billionaire Finstead Alexander Coble, a campaign contributor of yours, I believe.”
The mayor’s jaw tightened and his fierce, bushy eyebrows lowered, shading frigid eyes. “This service station assertion is new information.” He rose with fists balled, looking like he might come right over the desk at her. “I assure you I’ll follow up on it and get back to you. Whatever the situation, I can guarantee you no wrong doing has been perpetrated by anyone from this office.”
Her facts had hit their mark. Someone was in big trouble. Diego’s searing look sent prickles to her neck. She shivered and hoped she wasn’t that someone.
Dory signaled with a slight nod that she’d gotten enough pictures. Jen thanked the mayor for his time. She gave him her business card and shook his hand. “I knew if I brought this to your attention, you’d take action on it.” She squared her shoulders. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you, soon?” She raised her voice a notch, hoping to make it crystal clear she had no intention of letting this matter drop.
“Of course. I appreciate that you came to me before printing anything.” He flicked some dust from the sleeve of his jacket, probably wishing he could get rid of her as easily.
Seconds later as the reporters hurried down the concrete steps, Dory said, “How about that pompous ass? What an obvious fast shuffle.”
Jen laughed. “And the way the Greek PR man tap-danced around issues, I’d bet a bottle of Ouzo he can dance the Zebetako without music like a pro.”
Dory frowned. “Wasn’t Gordon working on the toxic waste story when some lowlife murdered him?”
Jen nodded. She took a deep breath, fighting a twinge of fear that was immediately overridden by anger. “That’s another reason why I won’t stop until I get to the bottom of the toxic waste issue.”
****
At The Boston Globe, Jen sat down at her computer and looked up at Dory. “Okay, Domestic Goddess, how do we start this letter to Mr. Billboard?”
Dory pulled a chair up close. “He’s a man. Compliment his ego. Maybe something like, ‘Your direct approach proves you’re a strong-minded man who knows what he wants and has the courage to go for it. As a home-loving woman, your message greatly appeals to me.’”
Jen groaned. “You’re laying it on too thick.”
“Trust me. He’ll eat this stuff up. A little editing and our letter will be a finalist.”
“It doesn’t even have to place. He just has to pick up his mail so I can find out who he is.”
They pared four pages of drivel down to two pages. She laughed. The words sounded so homey that Mr. Billboard would actually smell the bread baking in his little rose-covered cottage.
When she got a call from Connie Allison, the City Refuse Director’s secretary, she gestured it might take some time. Dory nodded and ducked out of the office.
She placed her ear to the receiver. “Go ahead, Connie.”
Connie lowered her voice and said, “The mayor’s assistant just called. He said the mayor wants everything we’ve got on the landfill soil reports.”
Yes! Jen made a triumphant fist. She wanted action and got it.
“Gordon—” Connie’s voice choked and she paused as if fighting tears.
Her momentary elation died at the tender way Connie said the murdered reporter’s name. Connie and Gordon were to be married on December first, and now he was gone. She bit her lip, fighting her own tears. She missed Gordon’s witty, upbeat nature, missed competing with him for top assignments.
The silence went on too long. She couldn’t give in to this. Connie needed her to be strong. “We’ll get the guy who did this.”
Connie cleared her voice. “With all the secrecy, I think Gordon was right about the cover-up.” Her voice grew stronger. “We need his notes.”
“I’ll keep looking.” Jen had already gone through Gordon’s desk and skimmed his computer files. Someone had deleted every file on the story. “What do you know about Diego Zombolas?”
“The mayor’s pit bull? He eats people like us for breakfast. Don’t quote me, but the guy’s a sociopath capable of killing without a twinge of conscience.”
Jen rubbed her aching head. Connie should know, she thought. Her sister, Danielle, worked for the mayor. “Are any of the union wildcat bunch still after the mayor?”
“There’s been at least one more attempt against his life. But I think he’d keep Zombolas around no matter what. Like I said, the big Greek is a pit bull. And the mayor seems to like that about him.”
Her stomach knotted. If the mayor was a good guy, how could he admire someone like Diego? “Keep me informed of any new developments, and I’ll keep digging around on this end.”
After Jen hung up, she checked her e-mail, and handled all the messages quickly—except the last one:
It read: Drop the story, or you won’t live to write another word.
Outside, in the street below cars hummed. Someone honked. Overhead a helicopter’s rotors whirred. Inside, the air vibrated with the usual white noise of busy news staff getting a paper out. But the loudest sound was in her head—the pulse of cold fear. She couldn’t keep her hand from trembling on the mouse. She closed her eyes. Don’t let this get to you. She stood and paced the length of the room. Did this idiot think she’d know which story he meant? She was working on a half dozen right now. Receiving the warning e-mail here at the office wouldn’t have worried her too much—reporters get stuff like this from time to time—if she
hadn’t also received the same kind of threat at home last night.
It read: Back off or you’ll strangle on your own words.
She wasn’t given to panic, but last night, in the quiet emptiness of her thirteenth floor apartment, in her closely held private world, she came as near as she’d ever come. The threats should be reported. But for the police to take them seriously, she needed documentation. No one had listened to Gordon and look what happened to him. She printed out a copy and tucked it in the manila envelope with the message from last night.
She ran her stories through her mind. Her most recent interview had been with the mayor. Was it from him? Maybe his pit bull? After all, Gordon was murdered while working on the same landfill story. But how could the mayor have known she was investigating the toxic waste story before today? Easy, she thought, if he had a spy in the newsroom. It was no secret that she’d taken over Gordon’s files.
Wait a minute...maybe... She rushed to her filing cabinet and pulled out her folder on the copycat Boston Strangler story. It wasn’t a tight story yet; the police wouldn’t confirm anything. Still, she saw the patterns forming as her shadowy informant alerted her to every new strangling. She tapped the label. Was this the story she was being warned to drop?
She collapsed in her chair, weak-kneed, and rubbed her arms. Dear God, I can’t do this with every story or I won’t be able to write anything. She opened the folder and tried to force herself to concentrate on her notes.
“Hey, I’m back.” Dory wriggled her brows like a clown as she entered Jen’s cubicle. “And look what I found.” She shoved a box of lacy, flowery stationery under Jen’s nose.
“What’s this for?” As if she didn’t know.
“For our letter to Mr. Billboard, of course. Use this paper to rewrite the letter in your most cursive, old-fashioned handwriting. Sorta like old German script.”
Jen laughed, finding it easier to push the unnerving messages to the back of her mind with her friend around. “How about just readable?”
When she’d completed the rewrite, she signed the letter with the made-up name Jeanette Sumner.
