Billboard Cop

by Lynde Lakes

  Twenty minutes later at the Boston Police Department, York gestured with his thumb for Brock to enter the interrogation room. “Wait here,” he growled. He needed a cup of coffee to ease his pounding head. He kicked the trash can on his way out. From the corner of his eye he saw the man flinch. Good. The brawny ex was a little afraid of him. Did Jen defend Brock so staunchly because she wasn’t over him? York massaged his temples. Her response to his kiss and the vibes she gave off when they were together told him otherwise. Could he trust his instincts, or was it just wishful thinking? Last night, knowing she was just steps down the hall in his bed—without him—had been hell. But he had taken her to his place to protect her, not seduce her.

  He entered the coffee room. Fellow officers stood clustered in a group, buzzing with excitement. Duty Officer Cassidy looked down his gourd-like nose. York felt him watching as he poured muddy coffee into his cup. Cassidy slapped at the newspaper with the back of his hairy fingers. “You’re single. Is it you, York?”

  York’s gut tightened. “Is what me?” But instinctively he knew.

  Cassidy shoved The Globe in York’s face. “Read the article called ‘Billboard Cop.’”

  York scanned the article, assuming a facade of disinterest, but his mind exploded. He wanted Jen’s story killed enough to wring her lovely neck.

  “Whoever the mysterious moron is,” Cassidy continued, “he’s made it bad for all of us. Now everyone I meet will be wondering if I’m the cop who had to advertise for a woman.” Cassidy had been divorced for two years and seemed surprised that women weren’t beating a path to his bed.

  “Well, are you?” York asked. He didn’t try to conceal his mocking tone.

  “Don’t even kid ’bout that,” Cassidy said. “Tell ya one thing. I’ll dig until I expose this SOB. Then I’ll make his life a living hell.”

  York had to get out of there before his anger erupted. “Sorry, I don’t have time to talk about your love life, but I’m in the middle of interrogating a suspect.”

  He returned to the interrogation room, wanting to pound Brock’s pretty-boy face. He clicked on his tape recorder and slammed it down in front of him. “Where did you go after you left Jen’s house?”

  Brock slouched in his chair. “Back to the hotel, why?”

  York leaned over him, eyes narrowed. “Make of your rental car?”

  “I walked. Boston’s the walking city, you know.”

  York banged his palm on the table and was gratified when Brock flinched again. “Five miles?” he said without trying to conceal his doubt.

  “I’m into fitness.”

  “I’ll check with local rental car agencies.”

  Brock shrugged. “So I have a rental car. I wasn’t driving it.”

  “Quit playing games. What kind of car?”

  “Red Mustang. You got a thing for cars, Detective?”

  York held his gaze firm, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Can anyone vouch for you yesterday evening between 5:30 and 7:30?”

  Brock smoothed his blond hair with steady fingers. “Who knows? I’m not a clock-watcher.”

  York wanted to knock the smug look off his face. “Who dressed your wound?”

  “Dr. Patrick Wagner.”

  “Know Kenny Duncan, aka Sniffles?”

  “Who?”

  “What about Shelly Drake?”

  “Don’t know her either. Look, I’ve had enough of this crap. I want a lawyer.”

  York wished he had enough to charge the smart-mouth bastard. “You don’t need one. Yet.” He gestured with his head. “Get outta here.”

  He was getting nowhere. The last forty-eight hours had been a nightmare. He strode down the corridor to refill his coffee cup. He wished he had something more bracing before confronting Jen.

  “Hold up,” Ted called. “I located Lorenzo Geoffrey Monroe. He’s downstairs.”

  “Good work. Bring him up. I want to talk to him.”

  “No can do, partner. He’s on a slab in our morgue. Strangled. Garbage collectors found him this morning in a dumpster over in Old Town.”

  York’s gut clenched. Jen had called it right. Did that mean he was wrong about Brock? “Get Diego Zombolas, the mayor’s bodyguard, in here.”

  ****

  An hour later, Jen flinched when York charged into her office, looking like a thunder cloud. She gasped when he grabbed her by the arms, his fingers digging into her skin.

  He hauled her to her feet. “Let’s go. Now.”

  She glared at him. “Something bugging you, Detective?”

  Dirk Hudson, who had just assigned her to cover the mayor’s underground tunnel story, stood gawking at them with his mouth open.

  Jen was startled when Dory jumped into the mix and yanked on the back of York’s jacket. “Hey, get your hands off her,” she shouted.

  York’s hold tightened. His eyes flashed sapphire-blue sparks, startling her with their brilliance. “We need to talk now,” he growled. “In private.”

  Dirk grabbed York’s arm. “What’s going on, Wylinski?”

  With face flaming hot, Jen forced a calm tone. “It’s okay. The detective missed his breakfast, and he’s a bear until he gets something to eat.” This had to be about the “Billboard Cop” story; it came out in Friday evening and Saturday morning editions. The scent of York’s shaving lotion caught her in a tornado of swirling sandalwood. Fighting its impact, she glanced at the wall clock. “If we’re through here, I’ll take my lunch break and see what’s on his mind.”

  York released one of her arms, but held tight to the other. He nodded a belated acknowledgment to Dirk and Dory, his scowl revealing resentment. “Nice to see you again,” he said with grim politeness.

  Dory frowned. “Want me to go along, Jen? Looks like this cop is into police brutality.”

  York’s probing gaze never left Jen’s face. “Back off, shutter bug. Jen’s in danger.”

  Jen glanced down at his huge hand biting into her arm. “From who? You?”

  The sparks in his eyes shouted yes, but he gentled his voice and said, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Will one of you tell me what’s going on here?” Dirk asked.

  “Your reporter takes too many risks.”

  The worried frown remained on Dirk’s face, but he leaned against the door frame as though he no longer considered York a threat. “She knows. But she has ink in her blood and an unquenchable thirst for news.”

  York snorted. “If she isn’t more careful, she could spill that blood.”

  “Convince her of that,” Dirk said, “and I’ll be in your debt.”

  “Hey, you two. I’m not a child who needs things explained to me. I saw that madman in action.”

  “Now you’re seeing me in action,” York muttered.

  With a curt nod to Dory and Dirk, York hustled her out of the newspaper office and into his car.

  “This better be good, Detective,” Jen said, feeling a little breathless. “You just interrupted an important meeting.”

  York slammed her door.

  She rolled down the window and shouted, “The only immediate danger is from you, right?”

  He stalked in wide, angry strides around the vehicle. She inhaled to calm herself. She needed to take charge of this situation. Fast. She shifted and tried to relax into the soft leather seats. Then it struck her—this was one of his restored antique cars—a 1950 Thunderbird, a sleek set of wheels, primed and ready for paint. The perfect topic to defuse the situation. She fastened her retro-installed seat belt with a loud click. “Is this clunker street legal?” she asked as he slid behind the steering wheel.

  He sent her a scalding glance. “The engine on her will outrun any car on the market today,” he muttered, gunning the classic to life.

  She bit her lip. “This temper tantrum is about the ‘Billboard Cop’ story. Right?”

  He sped from the parking lot, tires screeching against pavement. She braced herself by clinging to the dashboard. “Kinda rough on your tread, ar
en’t you?” She gave a humorless laugh. “Bet you laid an ugly trail of rubber on that one.”

  Seconds passed as he wildly maneuvered in and out of traffic lanes. She slowly counted to ten. “Cut the silent treatment. Or take me back to my office.”

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he asked in a ragged voice.

  Jen moistened her lips. She couldn’t change the repercussions from her story, and she’d be darned if she’d beg for his forgiveness. “When you put up the billboard you invited media interest. Don’t blame me because you didn’t consider the impact on your life when you got it.”

  His narrow-eyed glance pierced her heart, but she refused to wilt.

  “You’ve made me the laughing stock of the department.”

  The distress in his tone sent a surge of regret through her, but she fought it. “You don’t get it. You did this to yourself.” She folded her arms. “Besides, it could be worse. I didn’t use your name.”

  “Every man in the department is determined to uncover the identity of the Billboard Cop to clear his own name. Picture it: a whole department after me. And it’s all because of your damned story.”

  Jen winced. She reached out to touch his hand. His stern profile changed her mind. She dropped her hand back in her lap and locked her fingers so tightly they ached.

  Her job was to write the story, and sometimes she hurt for those it touched. For York, she’d left out the who and compromised her work. It was a mistake, because neither of them was satisfied. “You’re making too big a thing out of this. By tomorrow no one will even remember what I wrote.”

  “Wrong. Until the guys in the department ID the guilty party, everyone will be suspected of being the jerk-of-a-cop who had to advertise for a wife.” He paused. “Don’t you get what you’ve done? We’re talking about my reputation.”

  Jen squirmed in her seat. The miserable part of her job always came from the backlash when someone got hurt. She softened her voice. “Don’t you know I’m on your side?”

  “I’d hate to see what you’d do to those you’re against.”

  “Come on. Be fair. I wrote about the way long duty hours rob cops of the time to court a woman. And when they do invest the time, how devastating it is to learn she’s the wrong one. It’s another way to show the public how much a police officer has to give up in the process of keeping them safe.” She sent him a sidelong glance and decided to go for broke. “It points out how underpaid you guys are, for heaven’s sake.”

  He laid on his horn and passed a slow moving car in front of them. “Bull! All you’ve managed to do is make my life a living hell.”

  She smoothed the crease in her slacks. “I’m truly sorry if this causes you problems.” Irrational guilt squeezed her heart. “I was just doing my job.” She detested the tired excuse.

  His knuckles closed into menacing mounds of bone as his fingers wrapped tighter around the steering wheel. Suddenly, he swung the car to the right, pulled over to the curb and came to a screeching halt. While she caught her breath, he sat looking straight ahead, his face a storm-cloud of emotion.

  She swallowed to moisten her dry mouth. “Look,” she said, trying for a tone of reasonableness. “I get that you feel betrayed.”

  He turned and faced her, probing her eyes with his intense gaze. “That’s not it.” To her surprise he took her hands in his and weighed them like one might do with an ounce of gold. “You exposed me not only to The Globe’s circulation of readers and my department, but to myself, and I hated what I saw.”

  Her heart lurched at the pain in his voice. “What? That you’re human?”

  “That I forgot to be. Thinking I could order up a person to share my life like you order furniture or a new car.”

  “Sounds like you got in a hurry. Why?”

  He withdrew his hands, and looked at her as though coming out of a trance. “My job is to protect you, not fuel another story.”

  “But I wasn’t...”

  His sharp look stopped her feeble protest. They stared at each other. The brilliant blue in his eyes cut through her like a shard of ice. She’d messed up, and the mistake would cost her the opportunity to really get to know this man.

  He gunned the engine and swung back into the flow of traffic. “You want the big story, right?” His voice hardened. “If you want my cooperation, keep me out of print!”

  “Done.” She forced a small grin. “You’re old news, anyway.” She shifted in her seat, detesting the tremor in her voice. “Is there new information on the strangler?”

  “No,” he said, but something flickered in his eyes as though it wasn’t quite the whole truth. Before she could call him on it, he ranted on, “But when I read the billboard story, I wanted to strangle you myself.”

  “Want to dwell on that, or hear about an interesting phone call I received this morning?”

  He glanced at her, his expression still sullen. “Who from?” His flat tone didn’t dampen her excitement.

  “Joel Ferguson.” She paused to see if she’d aroused his interest. Seeing a new glint in his eyes, she continued. “When Joel left the halfway house, he rented a room on 10th Street. Sniffles had been staying there with him for a couple of weeks.”

  York frowned. “That means Joel had access to Sniffles’ things.”

  “And perhaps, innocently or purposely, destroyed evidence.” She and York were clicking again and she loved it.

  York shook his head, and swore softly. “We tried to locate Sniffles’ pad. Even Shelly didn’t know where he’d moved to. What made Joel call you?”

  “He got my name out of Sniffles’ journal. Joel wants a thousand bucks to recover the mayor’s deleted data from the hard drive.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That we don’t pay people to break the law. He said I’d better reconsider or he’ll alert the mayor that the media…and unspecified others…are interested in his old files. And then he would offer the mayor his services to destroy the data for him. Permanently.”

  “Damn,” York said. “Gotta stop that. Sniffles claimed the hard drive contained important evidence.” York tried to change lanes and swore again as a driver cut in. “Ted found Joel this morning,” he continued, “but he didn’t get anything out of him. Not even that Sniffles had been living at his place.”

  “Not surprising,” Jen said. “Who would want cops crawling all over their place?” She sighed in relief; they’d finally moved past their differences over the billboard story. “Joel offered the journal to me for one-fifty cash.”

  “You accepted I hope?”

  “Made an appointment to meet with him at 1:00 p.m. He’s the new computer guru at Goodwill’s main office. I told him I’d swing by there to see if the journal is worth the money he’s asking.”

  “I’ll front the cash. We need that journal. It might be enough for a judge to issue a warrant to search the mayor’s hard drive.”

  Her heart purred at the sense of unity and cooperation settling between them. “Wouldn’t it be great if the hard drive data identified the killer and the man behind him?”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” A worried look crossed his face. “Things are coming together fast. Your toxic waste story and the strangler story collided this morning.”

  Her pulse quickened. “What do you mean?”

  “You called it right. Lorenzo Monroe didn’t live through the night. Strangled.”

  Jen rubbed her arms, fighting a tremor. She’d known the alliance between Monroe and Zombolas didn’t make sense. “Then the strangler might be Zombolas.”

  “Ted’s dragging him in. I hope the Greek’s answers are more forthright than Lee Brock’s.”

  Her heart pounded. “Lee didn’t clear himself?”

  “Dug himself in deeper. Maybe you can help. Tell me what you know about him.”

  She wanted to support Lee, but when she tried to paint a picture of her ex-boyfriend, a man she’d known for two years, she realized she actually knew very little. “
Never met any family or friends.” She had figured he avoided talking about his folks and childhood because the subjects brought him pain. Because of her own secret, she respected his desire to keep things hidden. “I’m not sure if his family is living. He’s a real private guy.”

  “What attracted you to him?”

  She gave a small sly smile. “Let’s see...” She tapped her fingernail against her teeth. “Hmm. Well, he’s nice looking, devilishly charming and fun.”

  At York’s expression of disgust, she laid it on even thicker. “Lee knew all the latest dance steps, and showered me with attention. You know, flowers, candy—the works. With him it was a continual party.”

  York arched an eyebrow. “And you broke up with him?”

  “Had to. He said it was my job or him. He felt it often interfered with the good times.”

  “Did it?”

  “You know a reporter’s life. When the story breaks, we go. We argued about it a lot. And believe it or not, two years of constant partying and arguing gets old.”

  “So there was no real substance to your relationship?”

  “I didn’t say that. I guess in some ways I thought of him as a father figure. He was protective, like you.”

  York’s face darkened like she’d slapped him. “Like me?” he growled. “That man is nothing like me.” York paused and took a breath as if to fortify himself. “Other than buying you a gun and teaching you to shoot, how exactly was he protective?”

  “He enrolled me in a self-defense class, and he was always telling me to lock my doors. Things like that.”

  “Well, he seemed to have your best interests at heart,” York said in a begrudging tone. “His preoccupation with guns and self-defense is interesting. Was he in the military?”