Tommy St James Mysteries Boxed Set

by Kristi Belcamino

  An officer was already leading the woman up the stairs by her elbow.

  “Hey, T.J.”

  It was Parker. Ugh. Tommy found it endlessly irritating that Parker called her T.J. Her last name was St. James. With an S, not a J. Technically, her initials would be T.S. or, to be generous, even T.S.J. He was such a pretentious ass.

  She greeted his smile with a scowl and ripped a page out of her reporter’s notebook.

  Handing it to him, she said, “Here’s the name and number of the woman who found the body. You must have just passed her on the stairs. I got a shot of her. Probably my best one.”

  “That’s my girl,” Parker said, grabbing the sheet Tommy offered. She glared at him, tempted to call him a “Good boy,” but he’d already taken off, heading toward the group of bystanders, flashing a smile that could coax a confession out of an axe murderer.

  For some reason, she hadn’t told him about the little boy she had seen. She wasn’t sure why—maybe protecting him against Parker’s pit bull instincts?

  Tommy looked around and thought hard. What would illustrate this shot best? In the back of her mind, she knew she was avoiding taking another look at the pictures she’d taken of the body. Just because the woman had blond hair didn’t mean it was Belinda. She glanced at her phone again. Still no missed calls. But that didn’t mean anything.

  Then inspiration struck. She’d shoot the scene from the bridge, looking down.

  Five

  The buzz of the newsroom was comforting and familiar. Reporters pounding on keyboards or talking on the phone and newscaster’s voices from the hanging televisions scattered across the room. The ever-present smell of newsprint and burned coffee wafted through the air, occasionally broken up by the scent of stale broccoli.

  The photo department was practically an oasis of quiet in comparison. All the other photogs were either out on assignment or sending their shots in electronically. The only sound was the periodic squawking and white noise from a stack of police scanners in the corner of the small room.

  Tommy hunched over her computer screen, dragging the mouse to get the best crop. She didn’t usually need to crop her photos in editing, usually her shot was already perfectly cropped when she took it, but today, the editors wanted the photo to run as a panoramic shot.

  Tommy’s snapshots from the bridge were good, but not as good as that very first shot of the jogger. Sometimes she lucked out like that. The woman who found the body, the jogger, had given Parker a blow-by-blow account of her run down the stairs to the water and her discovery of the body. The photo would take up most of the space above the fold. It was that spectacular. It was the combination of golden sunlight lighting up the Stone Arch Bridge in the background and the beautiful woman jogger in the foreground hugging her knees as her grief-ravaged face looked right at the camera.

  The crane photo would lead the local section of the news, essentially giving Tommy’s photos the two most prominent spots in the paper.

  And that’s why they pay me the big bucks. Tommy snickered. She could probably make three times her salary using her photography skills almost anywhere except a newspaper, but she had ink running through her blood. She thrived on the newsroom environment and the challenges of news photography.

  She hit send and launched the photo into cyberspace. The next time she saw it, it would be on the front page of the News.

  Before she packed up, Tommy blew up the shot of the boy on her computer monitor, enlarging it as much as she could without blurring it. His eyes were deep brown pools of sadness ringed with red. He’d obviously been crying. Thick trails of dried tears had left their mark on his dusty cheeks. The kid looked like he needed a bath. And a haircut. And a sandwich.

  Who are you? Tommy asked before printing out the photo and tucking it into her bag to take home with her.

  Before she left, she also blew up the photo of the body. She’d been so busy on deadline she’d pushed back thoughts that the woman was Belinda. The woman was face down in the murky water. It was hard to tell much about her. She was trim. She wore crème colored slacks, that even floating in the river, looked expensive, and a pink blouse, that might have been silk. She also wore beige high-heeled sandals—at least one. The other was probably stuck in the mud somewhere. Not the garb of someone out for a walk or jog along the steep, muddy shores of the Mississippi River.

  Although she’d shot dozens of dead bodies in her photojournalism career, the image sent Tommy spiraling back in time to the day she found her own mother dead: facedown on the kitchen floor, a small pool of blood spreading in ripples out from under her. And the shuddering figure hunched in the corner, a pistol dangling from one hand and the telephone clutched in the other, the distant sound of a 911 dispatcher trying to get his attention. Her father.

  Pushing back these memories, Tommy focused on the picture taken at the bridge.

  Where is her handbag? From what little Tommy could see, this woman seemed the type to always have some type of a bag with her. Tommy was just about to dial Parker when she saw him heading her way across the newsroom.

  The cops hadn’t yet released the woman’s identity by deadline, so Parker was running the story without it. He was not happy about it, either. He hung over Tommy’s desk, whistling in admiration at her photo.

  “Nice shot, T.J.”

  “What about a purse, you know, a handbag?” Tommy asked. “Did they get anything like that?”

  “Nope. Nothing. Not even keys to a car or a cell phone.”

  Tommy scrunched up her freckled nose. “Maybe the perp took them,” she said. “Maybe it was a robbery gone bad. Grabbed her purse, she fought back, he hit her a little too hard. She fell down hit her head on the rocks. Bam. She’s dead.”

  “Probably,” Parker said.

  “What I don’t get is why she’s down there on the riverbank in high heels and white pants. Not exactly a hiking outfit, is it?”

  “Nope. They did find a rental car up on Main Street. With Illinois plates.’

  “Holy shit.”

  Parker shot her a surprised look. Tommy narrowed her eyes at the enlarged photo on the screen in front of her. She had heard some rumor that Belinda’s mother had moved to Chicago. What if the body was Belinda?

  “Spill it, T.J.” He lifted one eyebrow, waiting.

  Tommy didn’t know why he had such a hold on her. He wasn’t even her type. She was fairly certain he was shorter than her five-foot-eleven inches. He was lean and lanky with perfect skin and almost pretty perfect lips; a big floppy chunk of his silky black hair usually hung over one eye in an indisputably sexy way. He looked like the type of guy that teenage girls would scream over at a boy band concert. She liked her men a little more rugged. A little less airbrushed. But sadly, she had to admit that her attraction to him was undeniable. Shaking off the feeling, she concentrated on his words. Might as well confess her fear.

  “It might be my old high school friend, Belinda Carter,” she said, letting out a big huff of air. “In fact, I’d bet money. The reason I was at the bridge so quickly is I was supposed to meet her there. Her mom might live in Chicago.”

  “Shit.”

  “She called me last night and told me to meet her at the bridge at two o’clock. I was late.”

  Parker leaned over grabbing a piece of paper and scribbled down the name. “Awesome.” He kept his eyes on the scrap of paper.

  “Not awesome, jerk,” Tommy said, her eyes blazing. “I just told you my friend might have been murdered and that’s your response.”

  Parker looked up.

  “Sorry, I’m really not that insensitive,” he said. “You’re right. Not awesome. If it’s your friend, I’m really sorry.”

  He looked sincere, so mentally Tommy let him off the hook, although she didn’t say so.

  “What did she say she wanted to meet about?”

  “She didn’t say,” Tommy said. “Said meet me there and hung up. I haven’t talked to her in about ten years. There, does that help you with yo
ur big scoop?” She couldn’t help the sarcasm that invaded her voice.

  “Hey, listen, I’m really sorry. I didn’t think when I said that. Can I make it up to you? Want to swing by Nash’s and grab a drink? Listen to some polka, maybe whip out a duet of ‘The Carpenters’ on the karaoke?”

  Tommy couldn’t help it; she started laughing. “No, sorry, not tonight.”

  “Hey Snap, did you happen to tell the cops you thought it was your friend,” he looked at the piece of paper. “Belinda Carter?”

  “No. I guess I just didn’t want to admit it might be her.”

  “Okay.” Parker looked antsy. He was probably going to run back to his desk and work his sources over, exchanging what he knew for some information from them, Tommy thought. He turned to leave, but then looked back.

  “How about I just bring a bottle of wine over to your place and we sit on your deck? I heard there’s a chance at seeing the Northern Lights tonight.” Parker said. “Any way I can talk you into it?” He leaned down and stared at her lips.

  “No!” She said and playfully pushed his chest away. He was a little too close for comfort. “You can’t see the Northern Lights from the city anyway. Plus, my place faces south. Now, go away! You’ve got work to do. They’re putting us on the front page, top of the fold.”

  He laughed and turned, but not before saying, “I might be able to change your mind yet.”

  “I doubt it.” Tommy muttered, but smiled looking down. Damn him. He was bad news. She knew that with her head, but whenever he was within a few feet of her, her body always told her differently.

  Six

  Inside her fourteenth-floor apartment above the Stone Arch Bridge, Tommy donned her Twins hat, flipped the channel to the game, and poured a generous slug of whiskey into a ceramic mug. Only after she downed that and poured another did she flop on her couch and put her feet up on the coffee table strewn with magazines.

  But as Tommy watched the game, she couldn’t stop her thoughts from wandering to Belinda. Why had her old friend called her? If the body wasn’t Belinda, why had she flaked at the last minute? Why hadn’t she called to cancel their meeting? Something in Belinda’s voice had seemed off. Was she scared? Worried? And more importantly, if the body was Belinda, why on earth would someone want her dead?

  Tommy hadn’t seen or heard from Belinda since they both graduated from school ten years ago. They’d become friends in junior high school and remained close until their junior year when Belinda made the cheerleading squad and Tommy didn’t.

  That was the same year Tommy ran away from home. It was an easy decision. If Tommy’s mom wanted to stick around and get the crap beat out of her, then fine, but Tommy was never going to let a man hit her ever again.

  By the time Tommy turned seventeen, she’d earned a black belt in karate to guarantee that. On her eighteenth birthday, she’d reluctantly let her mom talk her into coming back home for some cake. But when she walked in the house her mother was dead. Within the hour, her father was behind bars for the murder.

  Of course, now Tommy blamed herself for her mother’s death. If she had stayed living at home maybe she could have saved her mother from her father’s drunken rage. If it hadn’t been her birthday, her mother wouldn’t have convinced her to come home. If she hadn’t been coming home that day, maybe whatever had set her father off wouldn’t have happened and her mother would still be alive right now.

  After high school, Belinda had left for some fancy college on the East Coast. With her fancy friends, Tommy thought. Tommy had to admit it still smarted a bit to remember how quickly Belinda had replaced her. Once Belinda made the cheerleading squad, she was too busy with her new, rich cheerleader friends to spend time with Tommy.

  Tommy supposed cheerleaders must have been more fun to hang out with than she’d been—the delinquent daughter of a murdered mother with a dad in jail for homicide. After running away from home, Tommy spent her senior year crashing on couches at party houses, trying to study enough to graduate from high school, and fitting in as many waitressing shifts as she could. In a way, Tommy didn’t blame Belinda for turning away.

  Thoughts of the past made Tommy slant her eyes at the urn on her desk. It was out of place there among the jumble of office supplies and photo equipment, but Tommy didn’t know what to do with it.

  Don’t worry, mama, someday I’ll find you a home. It was the least she could do for her mother. No wonder Tommy was so unlucky in love. Who could love someone who abandoned their own mother to the hands of an abusive husband and let her die?

  Lately, Tommy had felt a small ache in her chest every time she was around a small child. The yearning was especially poignant whenever she saw a baby. But Tommy knew she could never take care of a helpless child. Her behavior with her mother had proven that.

  The ringing of her cell phone interrupted Tommy’s thoughts. She gave the phone a glance. Parker. Forget that. He was like a heat-seeking missile. He knew she was upset about Belinda. He probably figured it was a prime opportunity to comfort her a.k.a. get inside her pants. Or else, he got Belinda’s identity confirmed and wanted to grill her for some more information.

  Parker was simple to figure out. He basically cared about two things: The crime beat and getting laid. Sometimes his simplistic approach to life was appealing. Tommy wished she could be like that: Just not care.

  She’d accepted Parker—and his pride at being shallow—but tonight his blatant self-interest was utter crap.

  During the seventh inning stretch, Tommy stood up and walked over to the bank of windows overlooking the Mississippi. Across the river, she could see the lights of the Guthrie Theater. To her right, the Hennepin Bridge loomed with its arching spans lit up in the night sky. At the far end, the vintage-looking Grain Belt brewery sign glowed.

  To her left, she could see a rainbow of lights on the bottom of the new I35W Bridge. She could never look at that bridge without remembering the day it collapsed during rush hour, sending thirteen people plunging to their deaths, and injuring another 145. Her photos that day had gone viral: shots of bleeding children rescued from a school bus that tottered on the edge of the abyss; a man clinging to the side of the bridge by his bloody fingernails; a woman keeled over in grief when she arrived at the scene to find her husband’s car with their baby inside among the crushed vehicles.

  Tommy was one of the first photographers on the scene. Even now, years later, she still occasionally woke in the dark from nightmares, haunted by the sounds of screaming children and images of bodies in crunched cars.

  Tonight, the bridge seemed serene. Across the river, the Minneapolis skyline, with its towering skyscrapers dotted with small yellow lights. sent a lump of love into her throat. She would never grow tired of that view. It always filled her with a strange mixture of excitement and peace. That’s why she drove a fifteen-year-old vehicle, bought her clothes at the thrift store, and brought leftovers for lunch most days — all to afford this view and the way it made her feel.

  Even so, if her beloved grandmother hadn’t died and left her enough to make a huge down payment, Tommy would have never been able to afford her tiny apartment. Or had enough to study photography at the U of M, either.

  Finally, when she’d looked everywhere else, Tommy cast her gaze directly below, to the Stone Arch Bridge. The police had finally cleared out a few hours before, taking down the yellow crime scene tape that had closed off the wooden stairway.

  If only she’d been on time, she would have met Belinda. And if that body had been Belinda, maybe she’d have been able to save her life.

  She had said as much to her friend Carla back at the paper that afternoon.

  “Or maybe if you’d been on time, you’d be dead, too,” Carla had said in her typical no-nonsense manner.

  Tommy hadn’t thought of that. But she couldn’t imagine any reason anyone would want Belinda dead. Sure, her high school friend had been a bit silly, a bit frivolous, but she didn’t have a mean bone in her body.

  T
ommy finally admitted she couldn’t wait any longer. Reluctantly, she dialed Parker.

  “Did the coroner’s office give you next of kin?” she said as soon as he picked up.

  “I see,” Parker said with a long pause. “You’ll talk to me on the phone when I have information you want.”

  “Is it Belinda Carter?”

  He paused and she knew. She didn’t wait for him to confirm it. “Give me her next of kin.”

  Parker didn’t argue. “Hold on.” Tommy heard the rustling of papers. “Okay. Survived by her husband of Syracuse, New York, Jason Carter. Mother in Chicago, apparently where she rented the car.”

  “Kids?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you talk to her husband?”

  “No, he’s on a plane on his way out here as we speak. I found out that Mr. and Mrs. Carter were big shots in New York City. Google them. You’ll see. Socialite types who like to attend fancy schmancy fundraisers. They especially liked to contribute to politicians. Republican ones. They were out here last weekend for the Republican National Caucus. They first stopped to visit mom in Chicago and then rented a car and drove here.”

  “You mean they were both here together two days ago?”

  “Yep, we found a file photo of them at the Governor’s mansion drinking Dom Perignon.”

  “Huh? Wonder why Belinda stayed in town and he didn’t? And why would socialites rent a car and drive from Chicago instead of just fly?”

  “Good questions. Hey, this might be hard for you to hear, but it’s going to be in my story tomorrow, so I’d rather you hear it from me: autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow, but my coroner’s office source says Mrs. Carter died of blunt force trauma to the … face. Pretty bad. It’s going to be a closed casket.”

  “Wow,” Tommy said letting out a big sigh. Blunt force trauma to the face? Usually you hear blunt force trauma to the head. Not face. Someone must have been pissed and taken it out on her personally. A stranger wouldn’t bash someone’s face in with that much violence. Just like police knew a victim with numerous stab wounds was most likely killed by someone they knew. For there to be that much violence, there had to be emotion, some passion, behind the crime.