Billboard Cop

by Lynde Lakes

  As he approached, she removed the tissue and glanced up at him.

  “You!”

  “Detective Wylinski,” she said softly without a trace of surprise.

  The faint quiver in the way she said his name and her vulnerable demeanor touched something deep inside. Then anger charged through him again. He’d bet her messing around for a story had gotten Sniffles killed. His throat tightened. “I’ll take over here,” he told Jones. “I want to get Ms. Lyman’s statement myself.”

  “She’s had a terrible shock,” Jones whispered as she left. “Go easy.”

  He took a deep breath, trying to reign in his simmering anger. “You found the body?” he asked, his voice gruffer than he intended.

  The devious reporter expelled a double catching breath, making the kind of sorrowful, heart-wrenching sound small children made after crying for a long time, then she nodded.

  She’d put on a phony act when she answered his letter, and when she’d met with him. Was she doing the same now? Whatever her motivations, more than likely her emotions weren’t all for Sniffles. Perhaps some were for herself and the mess she stepped into. She had to realize she’d missed running into the killer by minutes.

  York curled his hands into fists, battling feelings he couldn’t quite identify. “What’s your connection to Sniffles?”

  Jen looked at her fidgeting hands, then up at him with sad green eyes. “Who?”

  “The deceased.”

  “Oh. What’s his real name?”

  “You don’t know?”

  She leaned forward and clutched his hand. Her fingers and palm were icy. “No, but I want to. Please, tell me. It’s important.”

  “For some damned story?” The degree of bitterness in his tone surprised him, but he didn’t pull away from her hold. He couldn’t. It was if they both needed the connection.

  “It’s nothing like that,” she said, looking wounded, sad, even sincere. “It’s for me. I may be his only friend.”

  The reporter was one hell of an actress. “Kenny Charles Duncan,” he told her.

  She closed her eyes a moment as though setting the name to memory.

  When she looked up and met his gaze, he asked, “What’s your connection to him?”

  “He’s been giving me information.”

  “You mean selling?”

  With a defiant glint in her eyes, she challenged his gaze. “I said giving.”

  “Sniffles never gave anything for free. What did you offer in exchange?”

  “Friendship.”

  “And you didn’t even know his name?” Bile rose in his throat. He’d lost his snitch, a skinny little guy he couldn’t help caring about. And this reporter was pretending to give a damn about him. And it burned his butt that he was almost buying it. “Let’s finish this downtown.” He gripped her arm.

  She shook him off, looking adorable. “I want to go home.”

  He snorted. “So do I. But we’re going downtown.”

  Twenty minutes later, in the interrogation room equipped only with a metal table and a couple of stiff-backed chairs, he poured two mugs of coffee and offered her one of the burgers he’d picked up from the drive-thru on their way back to the station. She accepted the coffee and refused the food. He couldn’t eat either, but the bitterness of the steaming coffee was just what he needed to get through this. He flicked on the recorder and took a pad and pencil from his pocket. “Okay, what’s the deal with you and Sniffles?”

  “He called into the Suicide Crisis Center where I volunteer. He didn’t have anybody,” she said so softly that it touched his heart before he could stop it. Tears filled her eyes and she brushed them away with her crumpled tissue. “He’s been calling me for about six weeks.”

  “You mean you had contact with an important informant in a murder case and never reported it to the police?” He didn’t try to conceal the anger in his tone.

  Fire flickered in her eyes. “I did report it. The chief denied any knowledge of a copycat Boston Strangler. He said he didn’t want the press stirring up the public.”

  York stared at her for several seconds. Her story rang true. Although they’d been working on the case for months, the chief warned him and the others that the less said the better.

  She took a sip of coffee.

  He noted her trembling hands. “You trusted the information a stranger told you?”

  “Of course, I have the death certificates of each victim he mentioned. The dates check out. Everything he said was correct.”

  “But you didn’t print anything about it?”

  “And I won’t until I have all the facts.”

  “You’ve put yourself in a lot of danger.”

  “I was already in danger. I’d hoped Sniffles’ tip today would change that.”

  “Instead you got him killed.”

  She froze as though he’d slapped her. With the silence between them, came regret for being so hard on her.

  After a moment, she met his gaze. “You seem to know this man better than I do,” she said, “maybe you didn’t do enough to protect him.”

  The truth of her words shook him. Before he could recover enough to respond, she withdrew the manila envelope from her oversized bag and shoved it toward him.

  “My editor left a message on your recorder earlier today that explains this.”

  He frowned at her, then checked. “Your editor’s message is there, but it doesn’t explain a damn thing. In fact, it’s created a bunch of new questions.”

  Before asking them, York reviewed the contents of the envelope. “After what happened to that other reporter, why didn’t you report this right away?”

  “My experience with cops is if you don’t hand them everything on a silver platter, they just sit on a case. I needed to collect enough data to spark some interest.”

  He snapped his pencil in half. “My experience with reporters is they print things prematurely, blow our cases and force us to let guilty perps go free.”

  He recalled the Cassidy case where the reporters covering the story gave away the evidence found at the scene, and the murderer of a family of eight, four of them small children, walked because of it.

  Jen stood abruptly. “I’ve told you all I know. I want to go home.”

  “You’ve stuck your nose into a whirling fan, Ms. Lyman. Based on these e-mails and notes, you shouldn’t be alone. Do you have someone to stay with you?”

  “Lots of people,” she quipped. “I just have to choose.”

  He’d just bet. All men, no doubt. A muscle twitched in his jaw. Small world. Jen Lyman, a woman who’d answered his ad, was part of Gordon Michaels’ murder investigation. Her talk was tough, but she trembled. He shuffled the notes and e-mails, trying to distract himself from the way her vulnerability tugged at his heart. “If you get any more of these, I want to see them right away.”

  She nodded and headed for the door.

  He grabbed her arm and the electricity of the contact shot through him. “I’ll take you home,” he growled, trying to ignore the emotional impact she had on him.

  “Back to my car, you mean?” She hesitated, and then shrugged. “That sounds fair since you forced me to come here without it.”

  His stomach knotted. Vulnerable or not, Jen Lyman had a sassy mouth on her.

  Tightening his grip, he hustled her out the door. This case had taken a turn for the worse. Sniffles died before revealing the big shot behind the strangler, who the woman computer sleuth was, and what the hell was really going on. And now he had another reporter in danger to worry about.

  ****

  The sun set in an orange blaze as York swung by the government parking structure and let Jen out next to her car. He watched her jam the key into the lock with enough force to break it off. He shook his head. She had let him know without mincing words that she believed he was dragging his feet on Gordon’s murder investigation, and thought he’d been callous about Sniffles. He sensed another factor in her anger—her fight against the attractio
n between them. He was certain that a sharp young woman like Jen Lyman understood all too clearly they were linked until this case was over. Still, when she slid behind the wheel, she flipped him a wave that was more of a kiss-off than a farewell gesture.

  Did she think that would get rid of him? With the strangler on the loose, he couldn’t let her drive home alone. He made a U-turn and followed her gold Toyota Camry. The task wasn’t easy. Her car was a common make, model and color, and she sped through every yellow light, leaving him to barely clear the intersection as the light switched to red. Dammit. She was “pushing yellow” just to annoy him.

  He managed to keep the Camry in sight as she weaved in and out of traffic. Suddenly she swung into a dimly lit parking structure. It was the parking accommodation for the Mayfield Apartments, the place she’d given as her home address. Apparently, Mr. Toad’s wild ride was almost over. His tires screeched as he raced up the ramp to catch up with her. Although she’d given every indication that she wished he’d disappear, she waited in her car until he pulled up next to her. If she secretly wanted him there, you’d never know it by her greeting.

  “You still here?” she quipped when he opened the door for her. “Get a life, Wylinski.”

  She propelled herself to her feet and as she zipped by him, leaving a trail of light fragrance, he tried to take her arm, but she shook him off.

  “In case you’ve forgotten, Ms. Lyman,” he said, starting to lose his patience, “your editor asked for my help. He promised you’d cooperate.”

  She shrugged, and York followed her up to her thirteenth floor apartment. “Not superstitious?” he asked. The four-leaf clover on her key chain had led him to believe otherwise.

  They approached her door and he put a finger to his lips to stop any response. Curled in front of the door was a piece of brown string. It wasn’t twine and was probably nothing. He gestured for her to hand him the key. She rolled her eyes, but complied. The lock was standard and the key fit loosely. He twisted the handle and eased the door open. He stopped, listened. All was quiet. He sniffed the still air. There were no obvious lingering smells of cigarettes, sweat, or anything to put him on alert, but if an intruder was in a back bedroom…. He was familiar with this building and knew that the apartments above the tenth floor were all two-bedroom units.

  “Wait here,” he whispered.

  He cursed under his breath when she stepped into the entry hall, but quickly buried his annoyance, knowing even a moment of lost focus was deadly. Starting with the living room, he crept through the lighted unit, keeping his back to the walls with his gun at ready. He sensed she was watching him. With disbelief? Intense interest? It was natural for a reporter to be fascinated by police procedure, but letting her avert his attention, even for a second, put them both in danger. He held up his hand in a stop gesture, warning her to freeze and remain silent. Ignoring him, she trailed behind on tiptoes. To her credit, she armed herself with a poker from the fireplace. Now he had one more thing to worry about—that she might mistakenly hit him with it; civilians often made things worse when they tried to help.

  He eased down the hallway, too aware of her strong and distracting presence. In the master bedroom, he slowly slid open the mirrored closet door, gun ready. His gaze darted over color-coded clothes. Blues with blues, pinks with pinks. But no intruder.

  York stepped into the marble bathroom. A feminine floral fragrance similar to ginger or honeysuckle wafted over him. He yanked the shower curtains aside. Tiny bells on the hooks tinkled softly like wind chimes. The empty tub conjured images of her soaking leisurely, ringed by mounds of frothy bubbles.

  Needing to put a distance between himself and the arousing image, he moved swiftly and silently to the guest bedroom. Nothing was amiss there either. The day bed had simple lines without pillows or fringe, and the white-gold color scheme paralleled the rest of the apartment. He eased open the closet door. On a hook to the side, he found a contradiction to the tailored Ms. Lyman—an exquisite emerald-green silk negligee. Heat rushed through his body. Maybe the wispy thing was left behind by a guest, but he doubted that. He could imagine her wearing it, and resisted an urge to stroke the silkiness. He averted his gaze to check the rest of the closet. Beneath more color-coded clothes, unframed oil landscapes lined the wall. All signed by Jen Lyman. So she dabbled in oils. He clenched his jaw, fighting the emotions stirred by the vivid yellows and passionate reds. He’d checked many homes in the line of duty, but this was the first time the process had touched him exactly this way, making him feel like he’d opened a door into big personal trouble. If he knew what was good for him, he’d slam it shut pronto. Jen was a hundred and eighty degrees away from the kind of woman he was looking for, yet from the moment she’d stepped into Loboughs’ coffee shop, all feminine and exactly as he’d imagined his future wife to look, she had intrigued the hell out of him. Unfortunately, knowing who she really was hadn’t diminished the impact of that moment.

  Feeling her presence, inhaling her summery fragrance, he turned and faced her.

  “The place is clear,” he growled, battling dangerous emotions and stretched tight nerves.

  “I could have told you that.” The words didn’t match her vein-swelling grip on the poker.

  Fighting an urge to take her into his arms, he spun around and headed toward the living room. Her apartment was exactly what he’d expected—whites and golds and ultra modern furniture with low smooth lines and lots of glass and silk plants. Nothing real. Nothing out of place. Perfect. Too perfect.

  Everywhere he looked, the glaring proof of her true nature hit him in the gut; the unmistakable, irrefutable confirmation that she didn’t have an old-fashioned bone in her slim body. He crossed to the sliding glass door and checked the inadequate lock. Over an easily scaleable balcony blinked an incredible evening view, Boston lights.

  Sensing her behind him, he turned and watched her cross the thick carpeting to the fireplace. Her slacks tightened over the curve of her cute butt as she bent and returned the poker to its stand. When she straightened, she hugged herself as though if she let go she’d shatter.

  Fighting another urge to pull her into his arms, he asked, “Got anything sweet?” Maybe his bolt-from-the-blue question would distract her from any lingering fear—and himself from his anger and disappointment that she wasn’t the woman who, for an instant in that coffee shop, he’d fallen in love with.

  “Pardon?” she asked.

  “Cookies, cake? Thought we could have something while we wait for your friend to get here.”

  “What friend?” Jen furrowed her brow, causing the cutest crinkle on the bridge of her nose.

  He couldn’t contain a grin. “The one you’re going to call to stay with you. Remember the one of many?” For a reason he couldn’t explain, he hated to think of her with some big brute of a jock. It wouldn’t take Rambo to get her through the night. Her mom or a girlfriend would do. And he would stay close by.

  She nibbled her lower lip, clearly feeling pressured, then diverted his attention by smoothing the line of her hips. He’d bet that under those tailored slacks she had a terrific set of long, slender legs. He’d only seen her in a pantsuit and that ankle-length flowery dress, but anyone with delicate ankles like hers had to have great legs.

  He raked his hand through his hair. This woman triggered desire in him without even trying. He turned away and checked the terrace doors and all the windows. “Better get a locksmith over here tomorrow. Your locks wouldn’t keep out even a rank amateur. Have him install window locks, too.”

  “Are you serious? I’m on the thirteenth floor.”

  “That won’t stop a determined multi-story man.” He gave her the name of a good alarm company and suggested she contact them along with the locksmith. He picked up the receiver and handed it to her. “Now call your friend. I can’t hang around here all night.” Although he’d love to.

  A spark fired in her eyes and when he shoved the phone piece into her hand she gripped it like a weapon an
d raised it just enough to make him wonder if she’d contemplated hitting him with it. “No one asked you to come here. And I can take care of myself.”

  So why was her hand trembling? “Call,” he repeated.

  ****

  Jen wanted to scream at the intimidating way he widened his stance, folded muscular arms over his impressive chest and waited, tapping his foot. Tapping. Tapping.

  She dialed Dory who promised to come right over. She could return home to her husband as soon as Wylinski left. Scared or not, she didn’t intend to impose on her friend without more reason than just a few threatening notes.

  What about the murders? She reminded herself.

  Okay, so she was glad Wylinski was there. Even hostile company was better than staying alone tortured by the image of Sniffles lying dead. Oh, God. She shuddered and headed out of the room, trying to flee the inescapable vision. He had asked for something sweet. Food was the last thing she wanted. But finding something for him would take her mind off the still, dead body.

  He followed on her heels. The kitchen seemed to shrink in his imposing presence. Without invitation, he shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair as if he were settling in for the evening. Then he pulled a chair away from the table, straddled it like he owned the place, and folded his arms across the top. The long sleeves of his white shirt didn’t hide the brawny taper of his forearms or muscled bulge of biceps. The room seemed suddenly very hot. She flipped on an overhead fan, then went to the refrigerator, opened the door and basked in the escaping coolness. She stared inside. The white barrenness increased the empty feeling that accompanied her disconcerting feverish sensation.

  Earlier, he’d asked for something sweet. Maybe he had low blood sugar. “All I have to offer you are some red grapes and cheese. I’ll make some tea. You can sweeten that.” She put two cups of water with tea bags into the microwave.

  She felt his gaze as she moved about.

  “I had hoped part of the letter wasn’t a lie,” he said.

  Damn him. So, in his eyes I’m a big disappointment. Big deal.