by Lynde Lakes
Aromas of waffles and bacon swirled around her as she scanned the crowded room. A couple with cameras around their necks huddled together over coffee and a map. For a moment her view was blocked by a waitress delivering an order to a family of six.
Her breath caught—there he was—at the back of the room at a table for two. She felt like running, staying.
Recognition glinted in his eyes, and the corners of his lips turned up in a welcoming smile. He couldn’t have recognized her. But obviously he did, because he stood and hurried toward her, carrying a small bouquet of violets. His impressive shoulders filled out the coat of a gray suit that looked fresh off the racks. She groaned. The man had gone all out for his dream woman.
“Jeanette,” he said in a deep voice that vibrated through her and drained her knees of all strength. “You look just like your picture.”
She’d hoped the shadow of her hat’s wide brim obscured her real looks. “Everyone calls me Jen,” she said, easing into the truth. “Actually, my name isn’t Jeanette Sumner. It’s Jen Lyman and I’m—”
“Smart girl,” he interrupted with admiration in his tone. “Never give your real name until you know who you’re dealing with.”
He handed her the bouquet. “I hope you like violets.”
“I love them. But—”
“You’re trembling. Relax. I’m a nice guy, honest.”
She looked up at him. “You probably are, but—”
He took her by the arm, sending warm sensations through the fabric of her long sleeves to the bare skin beneath it. She felt tension building and tried to tell herself it wasn’t his touch disturbing her, but the fact that he wouldn’t let her finish a blasted sentence. Still, she had to admit she liked the way he firmly guided her to their table and gallantly seated her. His eyes were warm, his gaze steady.
“Let’s order first,” he said in a deep voice that vibrated through her. “Then we can talk.” He motioned to a waitress with upswept red hair knotted atop her head.
“Just a vanilla latte, please.” She didn’t know if she could even get a latte down with her stomach so jittery. For eleven days she’d worked toward this meeting and now that it was here, she felt as inept as a rookie reporter.
Once he’d given the waitress their order, York sat back and grinned like he’d won the lottery. “Your letters were wonderful.”
She laughed, releasing some tension. “Your note was short—like your billboard ad.”
“Not much of a writer.” He stared at her, steady, unyielding.
She shifted and lowered her gaze to the antique car magazine on the table. The cover displayed a shiny, black 1940 Ford coupe. “You’re into old-fashioned cars, too.” She groaned inwardly. How lame. She was usually better at interviewing than this.
“I plan to own one of those classics someday,” he said.
His delicious, deep voice vibrated along her nerve endings again.
Suddenly, an image popped in her mind. “I can just see you in your antique car with your old-fashioned woman beside you, her hair blowing in the wind.”
Her breath caught. Oh, God. She was the woman in her mental image! She met York’s gaze. His eyes were a brilliant blue. Heat crawled up her cheeks. Her tongue felt thick. She cleared her throat, trying to regain her composure. “Why the billboard ad? Aren’t there better ways to meet women?” She’d intended to clear up who she was before getting too deep into the interview; but without planning it, she was already asking personal questions and couldn’t seem to stop.
“It’s my job,” he said. “I don’t have much time. And, as I stressed in the ad, I want a very special kind of woman.”
“Why old-fashioned?”
He leaned forward, looking willing to open up to the woman he thought she was. “I’m a cop.” He paused as if waiting for a reaction.
Jen sat very still, trying not to show her relief. She shouldn’t have been surprised. All the indications had been there: odd hours, authoritative swagger in his walk, even his curious association with a jailbird. “And that relates how?”
“Cops’ marriages are risky. Dad was a cop, too. He always said the only reason his marriage lasted was because he married an old-fashioned girl.”
“So you want to marry someone like your mom.”
“Affirmative. Mom kept things on an even keel when Dad couldn’t be there.” His face brightened like a kid with a new bike. “And boy could she bake.”
She thought of her own mom who’d done her best to hold things together while her stepdad chased every female who caught his eye. Then one day he’d left her mom with a mountain of debt and a child to raise alone. Anger flooded through her and she couldn’t control the bitterness in her words. “Do you want a wife to love, or a babysitter-housekeeper who bakes?”
York frowned, lowering his dark eyebrows. “I don’t find those things contradictory. From your letter I thought you understood what I wanted.”
“I think I do. But I want to be sure I get this right.”
“Get this right? Wait a minute. Exactly who are you, Ms. Lyman?”
Sharp guy. His quick uptake made her confession easier. “I tried to clear up my identity. You kept cutting me off. I’m a reporter for The Globe.” She extended her hand. He ignored it. “I came to request an interview.” She drew a business card from the bag concealing her recorder and beeper, and placed it on the table in front of him.
He shot to his feet, tumbling his chair on its side with a crash. The fury in his eyes and his rigid stance suggested he might turn the table upside down. “And you waited until I spilled my guts before you asked?”
Her stomach knotted. “You should try listening.”
The waitress picked that moment to bring their order and York waved her away with such ferocity Jen thought the girl might call the manager. Couples and groups at the other tables stared, obviously curious and perhaps a bit worried about his savage behavior.
She softened her voice to a near whisper. “Don’t be so melodramatic. You haven’t said all that much, yet. I have just a few more questions. It’ll be painless.” She tried to smile even though her face felt like hardened plaster. She gestured toward the overturned chair. “Please, sit back down and hear me out.”
He threw some bills on the table. “I’ve never liked reporters,” he growled. “They’re a sneaky, insensitive, prying bunch of sharks. But you’ve just lowered my opinion.” He leaned over the table, inches from her face, sparks in his eyes. “Don’t you dare print a word about me, my ad, or anything I’ve said.”
She stood and glared up at him, fighting the effect of his intimidating size and presence. “Maybe you don’t understand freedom of speech.” On an impulse, she grabbed the violets. For a moment, she considered throwing them in his face, but couldn’t. Instead, she spun around and rushed for the door. Before leaving, she turned and shouted, “For your information, Mr. Wylinski, I don’t need your permission to write my story.”
Chapter Two
York yanked open the door on the driver’s side of his unmarked car where his partner, Ted Smothers, ex-marine and by-the-book cop, sat catching up on paperwork. In a service station restroom, York had changed back into his standard white shirt and dark trousers. He tossed his work sports coat and pocketed tie into the back seat along with the clothes bag protecting his new suit. “Don’t say a word!”
Ted grinned. “That bad, huh?”
Damn. It had been a mistake to tell his partner about his ad the other night. A few beers and the live Irish music at the Black Rose Pub had loosened his tongue. He trusted his partner to keep the secret, but knew his partner would never let him live it down. He recalled Ted’s warning: “Watch out, buddy. Any woman who’d answer an ad like that is either after something, or a nut case.” Then he tossed his lucky silver dollar in the air and added, “Bet dollars to doughnuts you’ll get more than you bargained for.”
Talking to his buddy about his encounter begged for more razzing, but if he didn’t let off steam he’
d explode. “She’s a reporter.”
Ted laughed. “A reporter?”
“That’s what I said, dammit.” Under her sweet, modest dress beats the heart of a gorgeous female vulture, preying on the carcasses of humanity.”
“Gorgeous. You said gorgeous. Tell me more about that.”
“After I blew her cover, she had the gall to ask for an interview.”
“Super gorgeous, or just so-so gorgeous?”
“Really gorgeous. Now shut up about her appearance!”
York didn’t need to be reminded that the instant he saw her alabaster face and long auburn hair, he had thanked God for sending him, not only the old-fashioned woman he wanted, but a terrific looking angel. Then there was the great way she made him feel when he looked into her warm green eyes. His heart had soared, and for a few moments he’d had it all.
“So when do you see her again?”
Jen’s business card burned through York’s shirt pocket as though it had a flame of its own. “Never would be too soon.”
****
Jen couldn’t wait to swap her flowery dress for her pantsuit and twist her hair back into its usual conservative upswept French braid. She ducked into The Globe’s first floor ladies’ room and made the changes. She felt like the female version of Superman reverting to an un-heroic Clark Kent. In the elevator, she nodded to Curt Powell, a likable guy with glasses who worked in accounting. At another time, she’d have chatted with him on the ride up.
Seconds later, she entered her cubicle and looked down at the violets clutched in her hand. Her mood darkened. Like a robot, she withdrew a small crystal vase from her drawer. After adding water to the violets, she flicked on her computer and stared at it, seeing only an image of York and the anger and disappointment in his face. She’d handled the interview wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Before she berated herself sufficiently, Dory came rushing toward her. “I just came from accounting. Curt said you seemed down.” She looked at her watch. “I expected you to be gone the whole morning. And it’s only 9:15. Didn’t Wylinski show?”
“He showed.” Jen fought a muddle of feelings she wasn’t ready to share, and didn’t come close to understanding.
“Well, how did it go?” Dory asked, her expression wary.
Jen fought a baffling rush of tears. “If you mean did I get my story, the answer is yes.”
“I hear a but coming.”
“He ordered me not to print it.”
“The jerk.”
Dory’s typical show of support failed to curb Jen’s unexplainable hurt.
“That’s the trouble. He isn’t. He’s a nice guy. He went all out for his old-fashioned woman. Sharp suit, polished shoes, the works.” She gestured to the bouquet in the tiny crystal vase. “He even brought his dream lady the sweetest violets.”
“Uh-oh.” Dory’s eyes darkened. “How did that make you feel?”
Jen would’ve laughed if she hadn’t felt so miserable. Dory’s night classes in psychology had turned her into an amateur shrink.
“Lousy and a little jealous.”
“Jealous? But he brought them to you.”
“Not in this lifetime. The way he feels about reporters, he wouldn’t bring me stinkweed.”
Dory shifted from one foot to the other. “Hate to cut this short but—”
“Sorry. I guess I got carried away.”
“It’s not that.” Her friend’s eyes clouded. “It’s just that the boss man wants to see you right away. Don’t get mad, but I might’ve mentioned your threatening letters and e-mails.”
“Darn it, Dory. I told you I’d handle it.” She grabbed the manila envelope that held the notes. Her editor would want to see them. “You know it’s like pulling teeth to get Dirk to give me the kind of tough assignments he gives the men.” She took a deep breath. “Oh, never mind. It’s done now.”
She spun on her heels and marched to Dirk Hudson’s office.
His lean, leathery face had never looked grimmer. “Why did I have to hear this from Dory?” An angry flush crawled up his cheeks, splotching the coppery tan he’d picked up while vacationing in Florida.
She lifted her chin. “Because I can handle it myself.”
Sparks flashed in Dirk’s steel-gray eyes. “Those were Gordon’s last words. What did the notes and e-mails say?”
Jen handed him the envelope.
He took out the contents and thumbed through them. “When did this start?”
“Two weeks ago.” She recalled it was just before her interview with the mayor.
“You’re still investigating the landfill and strangler stories. Any connection?”
She swallowed and moistened her lips. “None I can prove.”
Dirk held her gaze. “E-mails leave trails.”
“Right. But each one had a different IP and we traced them to different physical locations. The guy’s probably using other people’s computers without their knowledge. Or he has a way to make it appear the messages are coming from others. Hackers can do almost anything these days.”
Dirk’s brow furrowed. “I don’t like it. Getting hate mail at the office is one thing; getting it at home is too damned personal. Trade assignments with Butch, and keep a low profile.”
She slammed the desk with her hand. “Don’t do this to me, Dirk. It’s discrimination.”
“Wrong. It’s about keeping one of my best reporters alive and protecting a friend.”
“Is Butch so dispensable? Isn’t he a friend, too?”
Dirk loosened his collar. “You know what I mean. He’s big and works out.”
“Being a well-built jock didn’t keep Gordon alive. Don’t you get it? It’ll take more than strength to deal with the killer…especially if he’s the strangler. With my inside information about him, my chances are better than Butch’s or anybody else’s.”
“That inside crap is what bothers me most.”
“You have to trust me on this. I know how to deal with my source.” Her mouth felt dry. Jen wished she was as certain of the whispery voice who was giving her information as she sounded. “Come on, Dirk. I’ve worked too hard and too long to lose it all now.”
Dirk stared at her for what seemed like endless, arduous moments. “Two conditions—no more secrets,” he said. “And you have to cooperate with the police.”
Relief flooded through her. “Done.”
“I’ll call the detective who’s investigating Gordon’s murder.” Dirk handed the envelope back to her. “When he contacts you, give him these notes and your full cooperation.”
“No problem.” She smiled. “By the way, I’m working on another story on my own.”
“Connected to the threats?”
“Hardly. It’s a light piece with humor potential. I think you’ll like it.”
Dirk began digging through his plastic business-card file box. After coming up with the card he wanted, he slammed the box closed. “This is the homicide detective who’ll be contacting you. If there’s a connection between your threats and Gordon’s murder, this cop’ll find it.”
Jen glanced down. Her heart pounded and the blood drained from her head so fast the letters blurred. But the name imprinted in bold black letters on the card was the unforgettable Homicide Detective York Wylinski.
****
York, lost in thought, sat with his partner in silence. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a cotton handkerchief. It was hot as hell, but it was his “run in” with the sneaky reporter this morning at Loboughs’ Coffee Shop that had sent his body temperature soaring. The scene played over and over in his head. When she walked through the door, looking like his ideal woman, he wanted to drop to his knees and propose right then and there. Then he uncovered her cruel, underhanded deception—and an ugly side to himself he didn’t know existed. It shocked him to learn he could get that angry at a woman. Just thinking about her dirty trick revved him up. A hothead on a stakeout was dangerous. Dammit woman, get out of my head.
He glanced at
his watch for the third time in fifteen minutes. His snitch, Kenny Duncan, a.k.a. Sniffles, promised to meet him at the main entrance of Waterfront Park. “It’s already eleven,” he told his partner. “Where the hell is he?”
“Maybe the lowlife won’t show,” Ted said.
York shook his head. Dating a lady minister had toned down Ted’s tough language. He pounded an erratic drumbeat on the dashboard as though fighting to contain his irritation within his five-foot-nine frame. In spite of his short fuse, the brown haired, Tom Cruise look-alike was the best cop in the department to cover your back when trouble went down.
“He’ll show. Only his funeral could keep him away.”
“Could happen. Snitches live on borrowed time.”
“Not this guy.” York sure as hell hoped not, anyway. “He’s doing well in rehab. Might make it this time.”
Ted groaned. “His half-truths give me a pain in the tail feathers.”
York laughed at Ted’s euphemism. He couldn’t wait to meet the woman who’d stamped-out his partner’s cussing. “That’s just the way Sniffles operates.”
Ted arched a brow. “We’re getting some strange glances. What do you think this looks like, two guys in plain clothes sitting in an unmarked car in a park?”
He gave him a dirty look. “Rather get tagged cops?” Not expecting an answer, he flipped through the pages of his murder book with all the interviews and clippings on the Boston Strangler case, hoping something new would strike him.
Ted glanced down at the newspaper lying on the seat between them. “Didn’t get a chance to study the financial page for a couple of days. How’d the DOW and NASDAQ close yesterday?”
“Good for us. Several of our technical and financial stocks reported significantly higher earnings, sending them soaring.”
Ted gave a sparkling toothy grin. He took off his mirrored sunglasses and studied York like he was some curious specimen. “With the stinking salaries we make,” he said, “investing sure helps. Until I met you, I didn’t even know what a portfolio was. Now all I have to worry about is that the internal boys don’t think I get my dough from being on the take.”