Billboard Cop

by Lynde Lakes

  Jen grabbed the grapes and cheese from the refrigerator and slapped them onto a plate. She didn’t try to rein in her annoyance, or try to disguise the irritation in her voice. “What are you talking about?”

  “You claimed to make the best brownies in Boston.”

  “I do.” Although she rarely baked anymore, she was good at it. But she didn’t have to prove it, especially to him. Weeks had passed since Gordon’s death and this lead investigator in the case hadn’t made any headway that she could see. And now Sniffles was dead. She snatched a paring knife from the wall holder and began to cube the cheddar with a vengeance. “Unlike your usual donut shop, I don’t keep sweets on hand. There’s a Dunkin Donuts in the shopping center. On your way back to police headquarters stop by and flash your badge. They’ll probably give you a free sample. But if you spent less time in donut shops and more time investigating Gordon’s murder—”

  Wylinski shook his head. “So that’s what’s eating you. Think about this. If you’d come forward immediately with the info Sniffles gave you, both the snitch and the reporter might still be alive.” He darted a piercing glance at her. “And do you know how many times I’ve heard that tired donut stereotype? Where’s your originality, Reporter?”

  She stabbed the toothpicks deep into the cubes of cheese as heat rose in her cheeks. “I’ll show you originality, Wylinski. Check out the billboard story in the Friday morning Globe.”

  His eyes darkened to a stormy deep blue. “If you know what’s good for you, Ms. Lyman, you’ll forget that story.”

  Jen grabbed a pen and wrote his words on a sheet of paper and handed it to him. She tried to ignore the jolt of electricity that shot through her as their fingers brushed.

  “What’s this?” he growled.

  “You said if I received any more threats to let you know. That sure sounded like a threat to me.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Maybe that’s why you’re getting them. You go out of your way to step on toes.”

  “Just like a cop. Blame the victim.”

  “Got a gun?”

  “.38.”

  “Can you use it?”

  She hated his ability to keep her off guard. He kept her from thinking of anything but how much she’d like to slap his arrogant face. “Would I have it if I couldn’t?”

  “Lots of people have guns. Few know how to use them properly.”

  She removed the steaming cups from the microwave and the tantalizing aroma of wild berry tea filled the room. “Does two years on the shooting range qualify?”

  “It’s a start.” He turned the chair around and moved back to the table. “So the notes started after you met with the mayor? Significant? Or coincidence?”

  She slid the tea in front of York and joined him at the table. “You’re the cop. You tell me.”

  He took a sip and frowned. Obviously the detective wasn’t a tea lover. He stuck a piece of cheese in his mouth, followed by a grape. “Did Sniffles say anything to you about a big shot in city or state government pulling the strangler’s strings?”

  “He told me not to trust anyone.”

  “Did he mention the name of a woman computer expert?” York snapped back.

  “Computer expert? Does she have something to do with Gordon and Sniffles’ murders?”

  He shrugged. “At this moment, I don’t know if she even exists.”

  “Sounds like par for the course with cops. Are you going to ignore my threatening notes like you did Gordon’s?”

  “I just checked your apartment. That’s not ignoring. And because of what you’ve gone through today, I’ll ignore your rudeness, and the fact that you’re totally out of line.”

  “Wow. For a man of few words, you really get wound up when someone pushes your buttons, don’t you?”

  He glared at her. “As far as the e-mails go, I’ll check the points of origination and make a list of the people behind the code names. If you recognize any of them, we’ll go forward from there.”

  “And tonight?”

  “Check your answering machine and e-mail.”

  He stood very close behind her, so close she felt his heat. Her fingers hit the wrong keys. That was a first; she was a flawless typist. She calmed down and checked her e-mail and found nothing new. It was the same with her answering machine. “Now what?”

  “I’ll arrange for taps on your phones, both home and office.”

  “No way. I have to guarantee my tipsters total privacy.”

  Before he could respond, Dory was at the door. Jen introduced her to Wylinski. “You’re a woman!” He frowned as though expecting a man.

  Dory’s dark eyes glinted with amusement. “Thanks for noticing, Detective.”

  He didn’t respond to that. “You got here fast,” he said, stroking his chin. “Live close by?”

  Dory shrugged. “Less than ten minutes with nighttime traffic.”

  “You live alone?”

  Dory sent Jen an easy to read what’s-with-this-cop? look. “With my husband, two Dobermans and a mynah,” she said, sounding amused. “And you?”

  “Two car family?” he asked.

  Dory rolled her eyes as though about to lose patience with his terse questions. “Clark has a motorcycle and a Porsche. I have a Volkswagen convertible. If you’re into transportation, we also have two Schwinns.”

  “If you called, could your husband come right over?”

  She grinned as though finally understanding where he was going with his inquisition. “Faster than a speeding bullet,” she quipped.

  York pressed a card into Jen’s hand. The brush of his fingers against her palm sent little currents racing up her arm.

  “I can’t get here quite that fast, but if you even suspect trouble, call.”

  In spite of the thrill she got from his mere touch, and the fact she’d received threats from an unknown person who was murdering people she’d had contact with, this male protector thing rubbed her wrong. “Gordon and Sniffles were men, and they’re dead. Why can’t you recognize that?”

  York stared at her a moment. “Don’t make this a women’s lib issue. My point is there’s strength in numbers. Call 911 for the closest beat cop if you’d rather. But don’t take chances.”

  He turned back to Dory. “Nice meeting you, Mrs. Kincaid.” Then he slipped out the door.

  “The detective’s a dream boat.” Dory frowned. “But can’t he talk without giving the third degree?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued, “So, what’s going on?”

  Jen briefed her over tea.

  When she finished, Dory said, “I don’t like any of this. I think you should go on vacation until the cops catch the killer.”

  “I can’t run away. I believe I have bits of information that if strung together will break this case wide open.”

  “If it doesn’t break you first.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “I have confidence in you. But what about reality? Like you pointed out, Gordon was a big guy and the strangler got to him. If you have to stay, at least get the detective to station someone here.”

  “Okay. Makes sense. I’ll call him in the morning.” Just the thought of hearing his voice again made her heart thud.

  “Good.” Dory popped a grape in her mouth. “Tonight we have each other. And like the gorgeous cop suggested, if we get scared we can always call my honey.”

  Jen took her friend by both hands and pulled her to her feet. “You’re going home to your honey.”

  Dory stared at her with huge dark eyes. “I don’t get this. I mean…why did you call me to come here if you didn’t intend for me to stay?”

  “To get rid of Wylinski.”

  Dory wrinkled her forehead. “Maybe that was a mistake.”

  Jen took Dory’s arm and walked her to the door. “I’ll be fine. With no new e-mails or recordings, tonight will be quiet. The worst has already happened today.” She tried to sound flip. “Even killers take a night off now and then.”

 
****

  York passed his brilliantly lighted billboard. The black print on the white background mocked him. He frowned. Putting up the ad was the dumbest thing he’d ever done. He remembered the moment the harebrained idea popped into his head. Dad had just come out of surgery, and seeing him so still and pale was a shock. In that instant, it hit home that his father might not always be around. His dad was always after him to start a family and time was running out. He shook off the sadness that thinking of his dad’s illness always brought. The idea to take action grew after he completed the rehab on his new home. He’d expected to feel a great sense of accomplishment—he finally had the home of his dreams. Instead, he felt only incredible loneliness. What good was all of it with no one with whom to share the place?

  He’d tried to find someone—tried even harder in the past twelve months, since his thirty-fifth birthday. Whenever he met a woman who attracted him, he’d ask her out, but between his job and coaching big brother basketball in areas with less fortunate kids, he’d had little time for go-nowhere dates. He decided he needed to date only marriageable women. To him that meant someone like his mom, with old-fashioned values who’d be satisfied to be a cop’s wife and to stay home and raise a noisy brood of kids.

  He still wanted that. Had to have it! But he knew now you couldn’t order up a wife like a tailor-made suit. The heart and chemistry and all sorts of emotions got in the way. Meeting Jen had proven that to him. He wanted the sassy creature like he’d never wanted any woman. Yet the lifestyle she’d chosen for herself would never fit. And to make the situation really bad, he hated reporters and she hated cops. Even worse, they were symbolically handcuffed together until the case was over.

  York grabbed his cellular and dialed Max the guy who’d painted the billboard. When the whiskey-voiced painter came on the line York said, “I need you to whitewash the ad. I’ll pay extra, but it has to be done tonight.”

  “No problem. What happened? Get buried in mail?”

  “Yeah. Something like that.”

  ****

  Jen paced a few steps. After Dory left, the apartment seemed unusually quiet. She picked up Wylinski’s card and stared at it. A ridiculous prickling at the back at her neck made her carry it into the bedroom and place it on the nightstand by the phone. She told herself her uneasiness was understandable, and headed for the shower. Thank God it wasn’t every day that she found a dead body. Poor Sniffles. She’d have to ask if he had anyone to make his funeral arrangements. If he didn’t, she wanted to take care of it. Everyone deserved to have some sort of last rites and someone there who cared.

  Fifteen minutes later, smelling of gardenia shampoo, she slipped on her favorite red Mickey Mouse nightshirt. The shirt wouldn’t brighten her mood as it usually did, but its familiarity comforted her and that was enough for now.

  The phone rang. She considered not answering it. She checked the caller ID. The number wasn’t Dory’s. It was unfamiliar. She let it ring a couple more times, then curiosity got the best of her.

  “Hello,” she said with as much courage as she could muster.

  “At last,” a husky voice whispered, “you’re alone. But not for long. I’m just outside your door.” The line went dead.

  Jen tried to grab York’s card. It slid around the nightstand under her grappling fingers. Using both hands, she cornered it and clutched it tightly. She took a deep breath, then dialed. After repeated rings, York’s answering machine clicked on. She closed her eyes briefly, then shouted into the receiver, “Pick up, dammit!”

  “Jen, I’m here!” He huffed, sounding out of breath. “What’s wrong?”

  She fought the rising hysteria in her voice. “The killer called. He’s in the building.”

  “I’m on my way. Call 9-1-1.” The concern and assurance in his deep voice bolstered her determination to remain calm.

  She slammed the phone down without waiting for his end of the line to disconnect. Wanting mobility, she rushed to the darkened living room, and in the moonlight pouring through the open drapes, she spied her purse and withdrew her .38 and her cell phone. Trembling, she pressed the preprogrammed autodial button for 911. Her hold on the phone tightened as she listened to the ringing the line.

  When the emergency dispatcher answered, she gave her name and address in a low, clear voice. She heard footsteps stop outside her door. She didn’t usually exaggerate, but with memories of the murdered Sniffles still fresh in her mind, she felt no guilt. “Someone’s breaking into my apartment right now! Send help.”

  “Stay on the line,” the female dispatcher told her.

  A noise like someone jiggling her door knob sent icy prickles down her spine. Jen’s heart thudded against her ribs and her upper lip broke out in a cold sweat. Crouching, she quickly moved to the far side of the room, taking her cell phone and gun with her. She ducked behind an overstuffed chair and put the cell phone down beside her without breaking contact. She cocked her .38. Holding the gun in both hands, she pointed it at the door. She tightened her finger on the trigger. She swallowed, barely breathing. Something rammed against the door. A loud click told her the lock had given way. The door swung open. The silhouette of a big man loomed in the doorway. She fired.

  The intruder swore and disappeared into the shadows. Her heart pounded. Had she scared him away? A muffled thud that seemed to come from within the room sent a new surge of adrenaline shooting through her. Had he slipped in through the open door?

  Chapter Four

  Jen heard doors opening and voices in the hallway. Mr. Lee from down the hall said, “I heard a shot.”

  Other voices she didn’t recognize joined in. “Has anyone called the police?” a woman asked.

  The buzz of curious and concerned neighbors discussing the situation stopped. The hallway went deadly silent. Seconds passed. A chill slipped down her spine. Dammit, someone…anyone…say something!

  From the corridor, eerie shadows framed the slice of light filtering through the entryway. Jen’s heart pounded. She listened for any sound within the room. Keeping her breathing shallow, she scanned the darkness for movement. She tightened her grip on the gun, trying to steady her shaking hands.

  From the hallway a deep voice shouted, “Police!”

  Police? Doubt tightened her nerves another notch.

  “Ms. Lyman, pick up your phone,” the deep voice said. “Talk to the dispatcher.”

  Oh, God, she’d left her hanging on the line. She grabbed the phone. “I’m here,” she whispered. “But I don’t know if I’m alone.”

  “I heard a shot,” the dispatcher said, with a question in her tone.

  “I fired at the intruder.”

  “Is he armed?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can you get to the door?” the dispatcher asked. “We need you out of there.”

  If she cut to the right, she’d be cloaked in darkness most of the way. “Yes. I think so.”

  “Place your gun on the floor just outside the apartment, “ the dispatcher said. “Then go out with your hands held high where the officers can see them.”

  Suddenly, she felt like the criminal. Following the line of the wall, she made her way to the open door. She stooped and put the gun down. “I’m coming out,” she called as she flattened herself against the door frame and slipped into the corridor.

  Burly arms grabbed her around the waist. She gasped. It was a moment before it registered the arms belonged to one of the SWAT officers. Safe. She closed her eyes briefly. Thank you, God. She struggled for breath. “Thank you, officer.” The words didn’t begin to express the depth of her gratitude.

  A SWAT team swarmed into her apartment, guns drawn. She rubbed her arms. It was all so unreal. So overwhelming, so frightening.

  ****

  Heart pounding, York answered his cell phone on the first ring.

  “She’s all right,” the dispatcher said.

  York let out a sigh of relief. Still, he had to see for himself. He pressed harder on the accelerator a
nd zigzagged in and out of traffic. After speeding down three long blocks, he skidded to a stop in front of her building. Strobes flashed from police units parked askew; in the maze was a SWAT van. He raced to the door and flipped his ID to the officer guarding it. “Got the intruder boxed in,” the officer said. “All floors are covered.”

  York nodded, already heading for the elevator. He jabbed the button several times in rapid succession. He paced until the lift came, and then rushed inside. The minute he reached the thirteenth floor, he ran to Jen’s open door. He passed an officer inspecting the opposite wall, probably looking for a discharged bullet. Full of questions, he flashed his ID to the crouched policeman dusting the door frame, then he entered the den of activity. Radios crackled and several officers bustled about. His throat tightened. This was more than a threatening phone call and a break in.

  Jen sat at the end of the couch with her bare feet curled under her. She wore only a mid-thigh red Mickey Mouse nightshirt. He drew in his breath at the well-rounded mounds and taut nipples straining at the fabric. Why hadn’t someone gotten her a robe? Officer Norwood hunkered over his note pad, asking her questions.

  York remembered seeing a robe inside the bedroom closet when he was here earlier. He quickly retrieved it, and gently placed it over her shoulders.

  She looked up at him with wide, emerald-green eyes. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  The robe didn’t conceal nearly enough. He grabbed the lapels and tugged it tightly around her. “Are you all right?” he asked, his throat tight.

  She nodded, but she was trembling. Flowery fragrances of soap and shampoo floated around her, invading his senses.

  Officer Norwood scowled at him. “I’m trying to get Ms. Lyman’s statement, Wylinski.”

  “I need a briefing,” York said. “Now.”

  Norwood glared at him. “I’d tell you to f…” He stopped and glanced at Jen, then cleaned up his language. “…back off, Detective, but it looks like this is your case anyway. The intruder left his calling card, a two-foot length of fishing line.”

  York’s heart thundered. “Our mimic Boston Strangler?”

  “Looks like. Same type of twine.”