Billboard Cop

by Lynde Lakes

  “No. He seemed to follow the directions from A to Z. He was quite intent on what he was doing. Does that matter?”

  “Yeah, a lot. Changes my options. I can make an educated guess that what I see is all there is. But we’re talking about a crazy man.” From working the strangler case, York knew Brock was careful, methodical. And egotistical. What if he decided he could improve the instructions, take shortcuts? Throw in a surprise? York glanced at his watch.

  “How long?” Jen asked softly.

  He cleared his voice. “Maybe seven minutes.”

  Above them, the hanging single light bulb cut a shaft of white through the shadows that lurked about them like death. Jen’s breathing went shallow, and she bit the corner of her lip.

  Tracing back from what looked like the beginning, he checked each connection. One unsteady movement and they’d be sky dust.

  York heard a helicopter overhead. Sirens. Was the bomb squad here? It didn’t matter. They’d be too late. He was alone in this.

  He followed the lines back to Jen. He didn’t see any extra wires, parts or signs of cover ups. Didn’t see anything that didn’t belong—anything that might prevent him from disarming it. “I think it’s as simple as it looks.” He crouched in front of her. “The guts seem to be routed into this relay.” York gestured to the small unit dangling around Jen’s neck.

  He leaned over to get the pliers from the toolbox and his pen fell from his breast pocket and bounced noisily to the floor, breaking the silence.

  Jen blinked, but she didn’t flinch. Thank God, York thought. The smallest movement was all it would take to set this hair trigger device off. “You okay?”

  She gave a small brave-looking smile. “Just peachy.” Her voice was breathless.

  “We’re going to make it.”

  “How much time now?”

  “Five minutes,” he said, without glancing at his watch.

  “Counting the minutes in your head?” She let out a little cry. “If you left now—“

  “Don’t say it. I’m not leaving.”

  “Have you ever disarmed a bomb before?”

  He laughed, feeling no humor. “I’m a quick study. Trust me.”

  “I do.”

  York swallowed, sent a prayer heavenward, then removed the plastic cover from the relay around her neck. He gently positioned the pliers’ jaws to cut.

  Their gazes met. “I love you,” he murmured. His heartbeat accelerated when he saw the glistening in her eyes and tears spilling down her cheeks.

  “I love you, too,” she whispered.

  At the loud snap, she went rigid.

  Silence.

  For a moment, neither of them moved, both holding their breaths for what seemed forever. Then, he realized he’d disarmed it. He removed the wires, untied her hands and feet. While she rubbed the circulation back into her wrists, he massaged her ankles. After a moment, he rose and pulled her to her feet, and right into his arms. “Thank God,” he murmured, briefly touching his lips to hers. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “Wait.” Jen grabbed up the items spilled out of her purse and stuffed them back inside.

  Feeling like a million bucks, York took her arm and together they left the room still scattered with wires.

  Outside, the world was a circus of flashing lights from emergency vehicles: fire trucks, bomb squad, SWAT, and police cars. He wished he could avoid this part of the job, but instantly he and Jen were surrounded by a mob of emergency crew chiefs all wanting to know the bomb’s status. York shouted out the details.

  News vehicles moved in like locusts. York watched Jen pull her cell phone from her bag. Obviously she wasn’t going to let them beat her to the punch on this. York felt abandoned. But what did he expect? He was busy with his job, and she had hers. She moved to a less noisy spot by a light pole. He shook his head, no doubt to call in the biggest story she’d ever had.

  Two officers hauled the cuffed Brock toward a squad car.

  Shots rang out.

  God, don’t let it be Jen. He rushed to her side and pulled her to cover. A bullet whizzed past his head. A man cried out in agony. Someone had been shot.

  Chaos reigned. Men from the emergency teams found shelter and returned fire. Several fell to the ground, clutching their wounds. No one had expected an air attack.

  When the unmarked helicopter swooped low again and riddled the area with bullets, SWAT marksmen fired at the chopper, but it was too late. It took off.

  Lee lay on the ground by the police car, blood everywhere. York knew without checking that he was dead.

  Jen rubbed her arms. “The danger won’t be over until all the players in this case are in jail,” she said in a surprisingly strong voice. “Zombolas is the one behind Lee, York. Must’ve been him and his henchmen in the helicopter.”

  York shoved her into a squad car and told the cop behind the wheel to get her out of there.

  To his annoyance, she boomeranged out of the car. “No. I’m staying. This is where the story is.” Their gazes locked in silent battle. “I’m a reporter, dammit. This is who I am, what I do.”

  “You’re a witness in need of protection,” he growled, wanting to shake her.

  The SWAT leader forced back the other news vehicles, making them leave the immediate area.

  “Okay, maybe you’re not singling me out, but don’t you want my statement?”

  “I’ll get it at the station. Now, get her the hell out of here!”

  “You’re back to being the cop. And I’m merely a witness, right? And worse yet, a troublesome reporter...”

  He watched her blink back tears. Was it because it hurt her as much as him to accept that the whispered words of love they’d shared while facing death had taken a back seat to their jobs?

  Thirty minutes later, at the Police Department, when York led Jen to a room with a table, two chairs and a telephone, she glared at him. “An interrogation room for me? Well, great. I have some questions of my own. Why’d you bring me here?”

  He wasn’t surprised by the tremor in her voice or the fight in her tone. “Right now it’s the safest place.”

  He noticed that she was unsteady as he assisted her into the chair. He remained standing and gestured with his head toward the phone. “Make some calls, or just relax.”

  From a cart holding a coffee machine and paper cups, he poured her a cup of coffee. He saw the tremor in her hands as she took a sip. She shuddered as if it were bitter. “How’s Buddy?” she asked, looking at him with intensity.

  “He’s okay. They took him to Boston Memorial for observation. Strictly routine. He’s been sedated. His mom’s with him. You can see him in the morning.”

  She closed her eyes. “Thank you, God,” she said softly.

  “I have to take care of some things.” He squeezed her shoulder, needing that contact perhaps as much as she did. “Will you be all right alone for a while?”

  Jen nodded and gave a small smile that failed to meet her eyes. “Fine. We’re alive.”

  York left her reluctantly, forcing a confident stride. He paused and looked back before proceeding out the door. She was still watching him.

  He figured while he was gone she’d call the hospital to check on Buddy herself, then call The Globe with her update on the deadly hit on Lee.

  He was gone only thirty minutes, but he was sure that to her it seemed like forever. York let out a gust of air, feeling both revved and exhausted at the same time. “Everything’s set,” he said.

  “What’s set?”

  The phone rang. York grabbed the receiver, and gave a curt hello. Something flickered in his eyes. His jaw tightened. “On my way. I’ll meet you there.” He slammed down the phone.

  “Bad news?”

  He studied her face. “It’s personal.”

  York felt like hell when Jen winced.

  “After what we said to each other while disarming the bomb, and our forever link to the breath-stopping moment, how can you close me out? What could be
too personal to share with me?” she asked.

  York rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling his tension building again. “Later, Jen. Officer Hankins will be here in a minute.”

  “Who’s Hankins?”

  “One of Boston’s best.”

  “I’ll wait in the outer office,” she said softly.

  “No! Hankins is for you. She’ll stay with you in a safe-house until all the suspects are in custody.” York glanced at his watch. Damn I have to get out of here. Where the hell is Hankins?”

  Jen shook her head. “What’s going on, York? Up to now, you’ve insisted upon being my Siamese twin.”

  “I’ll explain later.”

  “Why not spill it now? Is it okay to tell a woman you love her when you both might die, but when the immediate danger is over it’s okay to keep her in the dark?”

  “Drop it, for now,” he growled, hoping he wasn’t hurting her. “You’ll be safe with Hankins,”

  She shot to her feet. “That’s not what I asked you.”

  He folded his arms and leaned against the table. “That’s my answer.”

  “Was it seeing me in action and going after the story that reminded you we want different things from life? Why am I surprised? You made it clear what you wanted from the start.”

  “Now isn’t the time for this discussion,” he growled. “Your life and the lives of others are still in danger.”

  “I don’t hear you denying that my job is a problem for you.”

  “Please, Jen. Not now.” He felt the lump in his throat getting bigger.

  “Okay, if being a reporter is this insurmountable stumbling block, I’ll focus on my job. But I’m not leaving until I get the full story, York.”

  Damn, why can’t she let it go for a while. “Write all you want about the strangler and the kidnapping. The rest is off-limits until we round up the suspects. If we’re lucky that’ll be tonight. If not...”

  “Don’t tie my hands, York. Every other reporter is speculating on what I already know, and they sure as hell won’t hold back.”

  He gave a weary sigh, wanting to shake her. “Don’t push this, Jen. Not tonight.”

  “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “Come on, Jen. Play your cards right and the chief’ll give you an exclusive with—”

  “The chief! The chief has never given me diddly-squat.”

  York shifted his weight, feeling trapped. “Then forget the chief. You have my word. Be patient and you can have it all.”

  She looked so sad that he wondered what was going through her mind.

  She got up and paced the floor. Suddenly, she stopped and faced him, eyes blazing. “Exactly what are you offering?”

  He sighed. “Everything. No holding back. Look, we’re bringing in Tormont, Zombolas and Coble. I’ll call you when they’re in custody. Okay?”

  She rubbed her head as though he was giving her a headache. And she was sure as hell giving him one.

  “I detest having my wings clipped,” she said, “but I can see you’re bending over backward to be fair. I apologize for acting like the barracuda-type reporter you hate. I’ll just go with what I have, for now. I’ll tie my stories to the kidnapping and capture-murder of the Boston Strangler to three of the city’s big wigs, spiced with famous names. That should be enough to give me the story-of-the-year.”

  He shook his head, wondering if she was even listening. “Just remember what I told you. Write all you want about the strangler and the kidnapping. The rest is off-limits until we round up the suspects. And that isn’t negotiable, Reporter.”

  He glanced out into the hallway and saw Hankins. Thank God, he thought as he headed out the door.

  ****

  After York dropped his ultimatum and figuratively tied her hands he left the room, leaving her feeling abandoned. Seconds later, a tall, muscular woman about her own age entered the room carrying an overnight bag. Obviously her new protector. Jen had no doubt that the officer could do the job. But it hurt that she was no longer important enough to claim York’s time.

  Jen and Officer Louise Hankins headed for a hotel. The street’s blinking neon lights mocked Jen with their gaiety. If York wanted to, he could be riding next to her, the one protecting her instead of this policewoman with the Prince Valiant haircut.

  Jen looked down at her clutched hands. It wasn’t just her job that stood in the way. York wanted the whole concept of his ideal woman—the kind of woman she could never be. If he couldn’t accept her as she was, why had he turned her life upside down and shown her a glimpse of his world?

  She’d always wanted to believe that a happy family life existed. But never having experienced one, she feared that if it did exist, she wouldn’t even recognize it. And until she met York’s family, she’d convinced herself that the whole idea of a happy family was pure fantasy. But it wasn’t; and she wanted it for herself.

  ****

  York paced the hospital waiting room. His brother and mother stood by the window, staring out as dawn broke over the Boston sky. He couldn’t take much more. First, Jen was tied to a bomb, and now his father had started hemorrhaging. He rubbed his stinging eyes. When he’d gotten the call that his father had been taken by ambulance to Boston Medical Center, he’d felt like a punctured balloon, deflated, empty. For hours, he’d prayed and walked. Walked and prayed. Let Dad live.

  How many promises had he made to God in the last twenty-four hours? First, he’d prayed for Jen’s life, now for his dad’s.

  If he’d told Jen about his dad she would have insisted upon coming along. As much as he wanted her here with him, after what she’d been through, she needed rest, not more problems.

  She wouldn’t see it that way. She believed she was like a damned Ever-Ready battery and could keep going and going. But she was a flesh and blood woman. No one knew that better than he and he wouldn’t pile this worry on her, too.

  ****

  When the sun came through the hotel window, Jen awoke feeling optimistic. Last night’s trauma had skewed her thinking. She and York had both been tired, and both had jobs to do. Today, after having a night’s rest, they’d be ready to talk.

  On the way to The Globe, Jen and Officer Hankins stopped briefly at the hospital to see Buddy. She laughed with mist in her eyes when the boy gave a small, dimpled smile and said, “I’m going to be a cop like Detective Wylinski.”

  The doctor assured her that although Buddy might have a few nightmares, they would fade.

  Minutes later, as Jen and Officer Hankins headed for The Globe, the officer got a call on her cell phone. The suspects in the strangler case were in custody and her bodyguard duty was canceled. “Back to the PD and the old grind,” she said as she dropped Jen off at work. “Keep in touch.”

  Jen nodded, and sighed in relief. It was over. Everyone was safe. Now she could write what she damned well pleased.

  Back at her desk, she called York. He wasn’t there, and the officer in charge said he’d taken indefinite leave. Her heart thudded. “Leave? Are you sure?”

  She asked to be transferred to Ted’s line. “York questioned the suspects in the strangler case, wrote up his report, and left,” Ted said.

  “Where did he go?” she asked softly.

  “Beats me. He left a note on my desk saying he had some personal things to attend to.”

  “Did he leave a message for me?” She forced the words past the lump in her throat.

  “Yeah. Now that all the players are behind bars, you can go ahead with the full story.”

  She mumbled her thanks.

  Big deal! She slammed down the receiver. Damn York. He’d left a message for Jen Lyman the reporter, but what about Jen Lyman the woman he loved? Well, if this was what he wanted, she’d make it easy on him. No sad goodbyes. Quick and final; that was her style.

  She wiped at a tear tracing a warm path down her cheek, and grabbed her tote bag. She still had an important interview with the mayor.

  ****

  Th
e interview turned out better than Jen expected, and she hurried back to her office to type up her notes. The mayor admitted he’d given Zombolas too much power. He’d allowed him free rein to handle the toxic waste problem because of the crisis with the strangler. A cursory review of accounts turned up irregularities. The mayor believed Zombolas planned to take pilfered funds and leave him holding the bag. To put things right, the mayor ordered an independent investigation.

  Jen printed out the interview and set it aside. Now for the heavy stuff. Last night, from the warehouse, she’d called in a brief summary of the facts on the bombing story, and now she wanted to tell the whole story while it was fresh in her mind. Her fingers flew across the keys.

  She saw it as a series. No other reporter could tell the strangler story her way. She’d lived it. Images were stuck in her memory forever: finding Sniffles’ dead body, the axe attack in Shelly’s apartment, Buddy being kidnapped. She shuddered, remembering the bomb fuses wrapped around her shoulders.

  It might take a trial to bring out who had ordered the hit on Lee. But Zombolas had her vote since the fly-by helicopter belonged to him. Jen shook her head. As usual, she had a glut of material. She got busy cutting, digging out key facts and putting together a draft for Dirk’s review.

  Dory appeared in the doorway. “Geez, Kiddo,” she said with a catch in her voice, “I can’t leave you alone for one weekend without you getting in trouble.”

  They rushed into each other’s arms, clinging tightly. After a moment, Dory held Jen away a little. “I heard Wylinski saved you. Maybe he’s one of the good guys after all.”

  Jen’s throat tightened. She couldn’t discuss York now.

  Dory shook her head. “Imagine. Lee a serial killer...” Jen felt her probing gaze. “Are you okay?”

  She couldn’t talk about Lee either—not yet. She swallowed and gave Dory another squeeze. “We’ll talk later, okay?” She gestured with the papers she just printed and forced a brave tone. “I have to get this to Dirk now to make deadline.”

  ****

  Days passed. Jen used her voice mail to screen her calls at work and at home. A half dozen were from York. Eventually, she’d have to talk to him, but it was still too soon. If she talked to him now she might make a bigger fool of herself than she had the last time they’d talked.