by Lynde Lakes
“Dealing with those bastards goes with the territory. Keep good records.”
Ted gestured with his head toward the pasty-faced man heading their way. “Here comes our snitch.”
Sniffles wore a bright yellow flight jacket with a brand new sharpness and a pair of mismatched shoes, one brown and one black.
“How’d you ever get mixed up with that loser?” Ted asked.
“Would you believe he was the top computer specialist at Kesslers, pulling down six figures until he snorted it all up his nose?”
“You gotta be kidding.”
Sniffles approached their car on the passenger side. “Got my money?”
York peeled off a hundred dollar bill from his money clip, leaned sideways across Ted’s lap and dangled it out of reach. “Let’s hear what you’ve got first.”
“Your Boston Strangler isn’t just a copy cat. He’s a mimic’s mimic. If you get my gist.”
York frowned. “The city’s turned into a magnet for every kook who wants to call himself The Boston Strangler and all you give me is riddles.” He shoved the money back into his money clip. “We don’t pay for double talk.”
“Okay. Okay,” Sniffles muttered. “A big shot in city hall is tell’n your strangler who to hit. The guy isn’t a serial killer in the usual sense, but he’s paid to make it look like he is.”
Ted reached through the open window and grabbed Sniffles by the collar. “What have you been sniffing today, glue?”
“You’re cut’n off my air. An’ I’m not lying.”
“Give us names,” Ted shouted. “Or take a hike.”
York’s neck tendons tightened. With Ted’s compact muscles and knowledge of judo he could take down men three times his size; lightweight Sniffles was no match for him. York took a deep breath and forced himself to trust his partner to dish out fear without causing permanent damage.
“Need a few days.” Sniffles could barely choke out his words. York’s neck muscles relaxed when Sniffles jerked away from Ted’s eased hold. “I gotta get at least two-hundred today.”
York glared at him. “Payment on delivery. You know the deal.”
“My reason’s legit. Gotta have the cash to talk this computer babe into zipping me some deleted e-mails after she lifts ’em from this big shot’s hard drive.”
He knew what his snitch was talking about. The process was called computer forensics, where, instead of examining fingerprints or DNA, a computer forensics specialist focused on data left inside a computer system. If Sniffles spoke the truth, an unethical specialist was about to use her skill to pick up extra cash. “What’s the babe’s name? Does she work in the big shot’s office?”
“Forget it. You’re not cut’n me out of the loop.”
“Why two days?”
“She needs time to access the guts.”
“Is she a data systems operator? File clerk, what?” When Sniffles remained silent, he said, “Maybe she’s pulling your chain?”
“Hey, I’m a hacker myself, remember? Besides, have I ever BS’d you?”
York and Ted said in unison, “Yeah.”
In the end, he gave Sniffles a hundred with the balance to follow if the information turned out to be worth anything. He had to play his hunch on this one. They needed a break too badly to let a possible lead slip through their fingers. Besides, as usual, the snitch’s double talk made a scary kind of sense. Information from other sources hinted a link existed between the mayor’s office and the murders.
After Sniffles scurried away with the money in his sweaty palm, York revved the car to life and headed back into traffic.
“You can’t believe Sniffles’ crap,” Ted said.
York shrugged, and rubbed the base of his throbbing skull. “There’s enough substance to his story to give him a chance.”
“Watch it, buddy. Wanting to save everybody might turn into a fatal flaw.”
“Worried it’ll get you killed, too?”
Ted laughed. “Hell no!” he said, obviously forgetting his vow not to swear.
As York headed back to his office his traitorous mind returned to Jen Lyman. He’d seen earnestness in her eyes that touched and disturbed him in ways he didn’t want to examine. Why couldn’t she have been on the level? Damn, I hate reporters.
****
At 11:30 a.m. Jen returned to her cubicle and dropped weak-kneed into her chair. With elbows on her desk, she rested her aching head in her hands. With a whole department of cops, why York Wylinski?
She flinched at the nerve-jangling ring of the telephone. She glanced at the unfamiliar number on the caller ID. When she ran a check on the number last time, she’d discovered it was a phone booth. No one answered her repeated hello, but someone was on the line. The fine hairs at the nape of her neck prickled. She heard heavy breathing and busy street noise. Before the line went dead, church bells tolled, like those of the Old West Church near the Government Center. First, e-mails, now silent hang-ups. The eerie significance to all this made her skin crawl. Thank goodness her boss had called in the police, even if it meant she’d have to see Wylinski again.
She wrote down the date and time of the call and her comments about the background noise and tucked the data into the manila envelope. Detective Wylinski could handle it; she had his billboard story to write.
Jen listened to her recorded notes. She had everything necessary for an amusing piece. But, with Wylinski working on Gordon’s murder case, should she write it? If she didn’t, some other journalist might. Besides, how could she dump a good story after she’d spent so much time and energy on it? Darn it, if she worried over the backlash from her stories, she’d never write a line. Her only concern required honoring the ruling force in her writing—responsible journalism.
She scooted close to the computer and let her fingers fly across the keys. Her neck muscles tightened, but she kept going, letting her thoughts and emotions spew onto the screen. Her face burned. Her resentment came from her childhood. But she couldn’t stop. Instead of the light article she’d envisioned, the piece was an angry commentary about men who wanted Stepford Wives in a modern world, while they reaped the benefits of progress on the backs of their homemaker slaves.
When she finished, she ran a spell and grammar check, then printed the rough draft. She scanned the pages. “Ugh. I’d better rethink this.” She tucked the draft into a folder. Best let the pages and my anger cool a while before the rewrite.
She checked her e-mail. Among the bits of information she’d requested from several city departments for her landfill story, was a note with only three short words.
Home alone tonight?
She closed her eyes, breathing in and out deeply. Back in control, she printed the three words on a separate sheet, time stamped it, and added it to the envelope with the other threats. But the words kept replaying in her head, Home alone tonight?
****
At 12:30, Jen and Dory—whom she’d already forgiven for tattling to Dirk—hurried to join Connie Allison and her boss Tim Tormont at the Skyline restaurant atop the Prudential Tower for Connie’s promotion luncheon. Connie was being promoted from secretary to Tormont’s assistant. Jen smiled, determined not to let her unpleasant encounter with Wylinski this morning at Loboughs’ ruin her mood. She caught sight of Connie. “There they are by the window.”
“Wow,” Dory said. “Will you look at Connie’s new hairdo.”
Jen smiled and nodded. The fuller style mimicked Dolly Parton’s platinum hairline curlicues and looked terrific on Connie’s angular face.
Connie’s eyes brightened, and she waved.
Tim stood as they approached. The redheaded City Refuse Director was in his early-forties, medium height with a wiry build. He shook Jen’s hand, and she restrained from wincing at the power in his grip. Her gaze flew to his. The man’s eyes were two cubes of blue ice. Why? How could someone she’d just met dislike her? Suddenly, Tim’s lips curved into a winning smile. Still, she couldn’t shake off her first impression.
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When Jen seated herself in a chair next to Connie, she felt a large envelope slide onto her lap. She gripped it tightly and covertly slid it into her oversized bag that sat on the floor between her feet.
“I understand you’re keeping the good mayor on his toes,” Tim said, with a perplexing undercurrent in his tone.
Her smile didn’t waiver. It wasn’t a secret meeting with the mayor, so why was Tim making a big deal over it? Was he just making conversation, or was there more behind it? “The mayor told you that?”
“No. But I have my sources.”
She narrowed her eyes, uncertain what Tim was getting at. “Like who?”
He leaned back in his chair and tucked a thumb inside the trim waistband of his tailored trousers. “Like you reporters, I never disclose my sources.”
For Connie’s sake, Jen bit her tongue to keep from asking Tim pointblank what the devil was bugging him.
Tim unhooked his thumb from his waistband, and toyed with his water glass, squeezing the stem between strong-looking fingers. “Must take courage to be a reporter.” His voice hardened. “Sticking your nose into dangerous places can get you killed. Look at what happened to Gordon Michaels.”
Under the table, Jen held her feet firmly in place, fighting her desire to kick him in the shins for bringing up Gordon’s murder at this celebration.
Connie squeezed her eyes closed briefly. When she opened them, they glistened bright with moisture. “How about getting a waiter over here,” she said in a shaky voice.
Jen sighed. Poor Connie. Being the assistant to Tim-the-tormentor would be hell.
At 1:45 p.m. when Jen and Dory returned to Jen’s office, Dory asked, “What was all that tension about? Did I miss something?”
“If you did, so did I. I suspect it had something to do with my meeting with the mayor, but at the moment I can’t make sense of it.” Jen tucked the incident away for later reflection. One thing she knew for sure, Tim Tormont was a man who bore watching.
After Dory left, Jen pulled Connie’s envelope from her bag. She unsealed the flap and thumbed through the contents. Connie had supplied her with a list of the truck contractors who’d bid on landfill jobs in the past five years. Lorenzo Monroe’s former employer Atlantic Trucking Company was on the list. She didn’t know if that fact would lead to anything, but many times innocent-looking records often became vital later. Imagine, the missing piece that could tie everything together could be right here in her hands.
When nothing specific jumped out at her, she rewrote her Billboard Cop feature. The second time around her humor had returned, and, using only his profession, she whipped out a good story and dropped it on her editor’s desk, along with Dory’s billboard pictures. Jen smiled. She’d barely made the Wednesday afternoon deadline. It’d make Friday morning’s paper.
As a courtesy, she always called the people she interviewed, even reluctant interviewees like Wylinski, to let them know when their story would appear. She made a note to call the detective.
She was rereading the list of trucking contractors when the phone rang. Before it could ring again, she grabbed up the receiver. “Jen Lyman,” she said.
“It’s me,” a familiar voice said.
Her heart pounded with excitement. The caller was the shadowy man who’d supplied her information, incident-by-incident about the rash of strangling cases in the Boston area. Although he refused to give his name, she wasn’t afraid of him. Good sense told her she should be, but his voice had a warm quality and sonorous tone that reminded her of Gill Thompson, a college friend who’d been closer than a brother—a young man who’d died too soon in a car accident at the hands of a drunk driver.
“Can you meet me in the Commons?” the enigmatic informant asked.
Her grip tightened on the receiver. “When?” A tingle of excitement slid down her spine. What a break! Until today, their contact was restricted to the phone.
“In an hour. By the rose gardens.”
It was 2:45 now. That’d just give her time to swing by her apartment on the way. “Okay, but make it by the children’s wading pool.” There would be more people in that area. “How will I recognize you?”
“I’ll be the skinny man wearing a bright yellow flight jacket inside out.” He laughed a little hysterically. “And an unmatched pair of shoes—one black, the other brown.”
She chuckled. “In that getup, I definitely won’t miss you.”
“Come alone,” he said before hanging up.
Her first contact with this nameless man had been on one of her volunteer shifts at the Suicide Crisis Center. The empty tone in his voice had touched her heart. He’d been a neglected and abused child, beaten down until he felt like a nobody. Even though he managed to put himself through college and eventually got a good job, he couldn’t erase his damaged self-image. She understood. She had to work hard to bolster her own. The poor guy believed people only liked him for what he could give them. She stressed she didn’t want anything from him. And she didn’t.
He admitted later he’d never planned suicide, he’d just needed someone to talk to. He liked that she listened to him and insisted he’d find a way to repay her kindness. She told him again it wasn’t necessary. Although neither of them ever used names, he waited around after her shift one night and somehow found out who she was. She hadn’t seen him, but he admitted this when he called her office the following day. This invasion into her work-world should’ve terrified her, but because he sounded so much like Gill she was drawn to him. It was almost like having her friend alive again. The calls had been going on for six weeks now. Her source always had information about the strangler.
She shivered. What if he was the copycat Boston Strangler himself? The thought had crossed her mind more than once. Always aware of the possibility, she courted caution. Still, she couldn’t ignore he’d been feeding her with sensational leads that always turned out to be right.
Jen packed her tote bag with a mini-recorder, a camera, and a cell phone preset to dial 911 in case of emergency.
Unwilling to leave her life to the fickle whims of fate, she swung by her apartment to pick up her .38.
Her ex-boyfriend Lee, an antique gun salesman, had taught her enough about the “detective special” to protect herself. He’d even set her up with a dealer’s permit that allowed her to legally carry the weapon. Before they mutually ended their two-year romance, they’d spent many weekends at the shooting range. She felt competent about handling the gun, but was uncomfortable with the idea of shooting someone. Shooting at cardboard images was one thing, but shooting a human being was quite another. She closed her eyes briefly. Please, Lord, don’t let this forlorn man be a bad guy.
She was almost to the park when her cell phone rang. The caller’s number was unfamiliar. In case it was her informant, she answered it.
“Too late,” someone with a low, chilling whisper said.
It definitely wasn’t her informant, but she heard the same familiar street sounds coming over the open line as before. It was a classic terror technique. God help me, it’s working.
****
At Boston Common Park entrance, she paused. Although the mid-afternoon breezes were warm, she couldn’t stop trembling. In the street, cars zipped by, sending a noxious fog of exhaust fumes swirling around her. Her gaze fell on a curbside telephone cubicle. The receiver dangled off the hook. A shiver slid down her spine. Had someone interrupted her informant when he’d tried to call again? Who was the whispery caller? Was this dangling phone another scare tactic, or mere coincidence?
She didn’t put much stock in coincidence.
Throngs of people passed her at a quick pace, some hurrying to catch a bus or taxi, others simply intent on their destination. Surely she was safe enough with all these people around. Besides, she had her gun.
She entered the Boston Commons’ grounds, heading for the children’s wading pool. It should be easy to spot a skinny man wearing an inside-out yellow flight jacket and an unmatched pair
of shoes. The breeze caught wisps of hair and tickled her face. She swept a trembling hand over the strands to contain them.
A few yards into the Commons, she froze. At the side of the path next to a thicket of dense bushes lay a man’s discarded brown shoe, then a black one, half hidden. She stared at them, afraid to move. Her heart pounded as she pushed the overgrowth aside and peered into the tangle. A hollow-faced man with bulging dead eyes stared up at her, his bright yellow jacket inside out. Once she began to scream, she couldn’t stop.
Chapter Three
It was 4:30 in the afternoon when York ducked under the yellow tape that cordoned off the homicide scene and approached the body. He knelt, uncovered the face and recoiled like someone had kicked him in the gut. Sniffles! “Poor bastard,” was all he managed to say.
He glanced up at Ted, who’d followed him into the park. His partner’s face revealed nothing. Cops couldn’t let feelings get in the way.
Closing off his emotions, he examined the body.
Murphy, the first officer on the scene, briefed him. “Jones is questioning the woman who found him. So far she hasn’t made much sense. In shock, I guess.”
“A relative?”
Murphy shrugged. “Maybe. She fought like a wildcat to stay with the body. Didn’t want to let go of the victim’s hand. She kept telling the stiff she didn’t want anything from him.”
“Where is she?”
Murphy pointed to a bench shaded by a huge maple. Officer Jones, the only female officer on the scene, had a consoling arm around a young woman who was bent over, hugging herself. Their backs were to him.
York crossed the lawn and circled in front of the bench.
The woman held a bunched-up tissue to her eyes. She wore a well-cut pantsuit, probably expensive, and low-heeled leather shoes. Her braided hair had been swept up in a classy style. She was way above Sniffles’ league. What was her connection to a guy like him?