Tommy St James Mysteries Boxed Set

by Kristi Belcamino

  “This one was a bitch to find.” The comment was stamped with a rabbit.

  “Almost broke my neck coming down here. Soo cool. Great job.” This one was stamped with the head of a hipster bearded guy.

  Taking a small knife, he sliced his palm and then with the other hand, brought out his skull-and-crossbones stamp, dipping it into the blood pooling in his cupped palm. Trying not to leave smudged fingerprints, he stamped the last page of the book with his blood.

  The brazenness of it sent a sexual thrill down his spine. The idiot cops would be so excited to see his blood and fingerprints. But they’d soon be disappointed. He’d ground the pads of his fingertips to nothing. There were no recognizable prints. Not that it mattered. He was off the grid. Off the books. They could submit his DNA to the moon and back and not find a match to identify him. The only thing the DNA would do was link him to all the other dead bodies.

  And that was the point. It was about time they realized that he was no amateur. He’d been doing this for a long time. He’d been getting away with it for so long that it was beginning to bore him. Time to up the ante.

  When they found this body, there’d be no doubt. They’d know he’d struck again and would finally realize how prolific a killer he was. It would be spread in giant letters across the front page of the paper. He stifled his high-pitched giggle at the thought.

  He heard more rustling and ducked deeper into his hiding spot. Not the sounds of a squirrel or deer. The shuffling sound through the bushes was a person.

  It was time.

  One

  Scooped.

  Tommy St. James bit her fingernails and stared at the big screen hanging on the far wall of the newsroom. It was early and the newsroom was empty yet.

  Another body found floating down the Mississippi River; another college kid who had been drinking and wandered away from his friends earlier in the evening.

  What the hell was going on? Tommy narrowed her eyes watching the footage. A few minutes ago, she’d heard scanner traffic reporting a dead body. It had already made the TV news? She grabbed her bag and headed for the door. As the door closed behind her, she heard Martin Sandoval, the photo editor, yelling after her. She didn’t have time.

  Rushing to her car, with her cell phone jammed between her shoulder and ear, she waited for the police reporter, Cameron Parker to answer.

  It was early. He was probably still sleeping. He better get his ass in gear. TV crews were already at the river so that meant their competition was on its way to the crime scene, as well.

  To her surprise, he answered immediately and didn’t give her a chance to talk.

  “On my way,” he said, and mumbled something about not needing a photographer before he hung up. Whatever. Must’ve gotten up on the wrong side of the bed. Sometimes he was such a dick. Just because she wouldn’t sleep with him anymore

  Punching the accelerator on her Jeep, Tommy wondered if this fresh body was connected to the others. Four bodies had been found floating down the mighty Mississippi River in the past six months.

  So far, all of the deaths had been ruled accidental. Coroner said they all died of exposure. Usually drugs and booze were found in their system. But never any signs of trauma. Just bruises here and there from bumping along the river.

  As Tommy impatiently whipped around slower drivers on Hiawatha Avenue, her cell phone rang.

  She snatched it up without looking at the number. “St. James.”

  “Is this Tommy St. James? The redhead? The photographer?” The man’s voice was reedy and wavered, almost like an adolescent boy going through changes. Something was definitely odd about it.

  “Yeah,” Tommy said, instantly wary. Why would this guy bring up her hair color? And how did he get her private cell phone number? “Who is this?”

  “Jack Sparrow. That doesn’t matter. Listen, I only have another minute. Tell the police to be sure to look inside the kid’s windpipe when they do the autopsy. They might find something interesting.”

  An icy chill shot through Tommy, starting at her scalp and zipping down her legs.

  “Who is this? How do you know this?”

  But the man had already hung up.

  She thought about the man’s voice. He’d sounded nervous and as if he was trying to disguise his voice. And his name. Jack Sparrow — the same name as Johnny’s Depp’s character in Pirates of the Caribbean.

  Two

  “Hey, Snap, what are you doing out here?” Cameron Parker was in his Alpha Romeo when Tommy pulled up. She pulled up beside him so their driver’s side windows were only inches away.

  “Uh, it’s my job,” Tommy said glancing over at the long legs and miniskirt sticking out from his passenger seat. It wasn’t unusual for Parker to roll out of bed and leave his latest conquest to snuggle in the warm covers while he raced to a crime scene. But he’d never brought a plaything along for the ride.

  Parker looked confused. “Didn’t they tell you Meg was already out here?”

  He leaned back and Meg’s button nose poked forward from the passenger seat.

  “Hi, Tommy.”

  “Hey.”

  Yeah, cute new photographer Meg had just started at the paper two months ago. Her first day, she toured the newsroom with her twin. He was a really good looking kid, Tommy thought. But then when they were introduced, Tommy changed her mind.

  The guy looked at her with barely disguised hatred.

  Tommy stared back in astonishment. She’d never met the dude in her life and yet he seemed like he hated her. But then he smiled and the feeling was gone. She shook it off. She’d probably imagined it. It was probably all lumped up in her jealousy at the way Parker was eyeing his twin sister.

  And now the cute young photog was in Parker’s car. It was not even eight in the morning. Which meant there was a good chance she’d spent the night at the playboy reporter’s house. Which was probably why Parker told her he didn’t need a photographer out at the crime scene. Which meant that she got the crime scene photos, not Tommy. Damn it all to hell.

  It was total bullshit.

  Tommy knew that Parker could sweet talk a nun into his bed. She’d fallen for his crooked smile and sculptured cheekbones herself a few years ago. Luckily, she was now usually immune to his charisma. However, the steamy history between them and the ever-present crackling chemistry was always there — unspoken tension that flickered between them, no matter how much time had passed.

  Tommy looked at Parker for a long beat, both of them staring at one another.

  Meg looked back and forth between them. Something in the girl’s eyes showed that she knew exactly what was going down between Parker and Tommy. And it looked like instead of being jealous, she loved it. After all, she was the one who just spent the night at his love nest.

  Tommy didn’t like the look in Meg’s eyes. It was catty and smacked of competition. Tommy had zero interest in Parker. She would nonchalantly throw up the white flag in that battle. But as far as her career, well, that was another matter.

  Tommy, an award-winning photojournalist, didn’t think Meg could be too much competition for her in that arena. And that was the only area Tommy cared about.

  However, with ever-present budget cuts, many veteran journalists were frequently dumped for the cheaper, sometimes hungrier, young photographers and reporters who came on staff. Tommy had almost lost her own job last year.

  In the eyes of management, the only leg up that Meg had over Tommy was her cheaper salary.

  Unless—Tommy’s eyes narrowed—Meg made Tommy look bad by beating her to crime scenes.

  But Tommy was going to make sure that never happened again. If she had to sleep with her police scanner blaring on her nightstand, she would.

  The crappy part was that Tommy had been so nice to Meg. When the young woman started in the photo department, Sandoval had ordered St. James to show her around. But Meg seemed less interested in meeting the police sources and more interested in learning how she could meet and photo
graph celebrities.

  “Hey, Meg,” Tommy suddenly said, breaking the silence.

  “Yes,” Meg leaned over Parker in a very familiar way, actually draping herself on his jean clad legs so she could meet Tommy’s eyes.

  “Sandoval still thinks I should show you around a bit. I forgot there’s someplace else you need to know about and some people I need you to meet. Are you available this afternoon?”

  Meg looked confused. This overture of friendship was not exactly what she expected. “Uh, sure. About two?”

  “Perfect,” Tommy said, and peeled out.

  She was done here.

  Three

  Meg Callahan’s face was green. She clapped one fuchsia-fingernail-polished hand over her mouth and ran, hunched over, toward the bathroom at the coroner’s office.

  As soon as the door slammed shut behind her, drawn-out retching noises emerged from the small bathroom, which was right in the middle of the coroner’s front office. Several of the secretaries grimaced.

  Tommy just smiled and shrugged.

  Guess Meg wasn’t cut out for a visit to the morgue. She probably wouldn’t race to any more photo assignments that involved dead bodies, either. Her shots this morning were of a bunch of cops standing around a body covered with a sheet.

  This afternoon, she got a close up of what it was like to see a dead body.

  It wasn’t Tommy’s fault. For some reason, Sandoval thought every new photographer should have to visit the morgue. Tommy was just helping out. Being a team player.

  Plus, Tommy wanted to ask about the autopsy of the kid found this morning in the Mississippi. While Meg heaved up what remained of her lunch, Tommy took Deputy Dan Reed aside. “Find anything in the floater’s windpipe?” Her voice was low.

  He gave her a strange look. It was a strange question.

  “Autopsy on the kid’s not until morning, but I can tell you we don’t usually look in there.”

  “Trust me, this time you’re gonna want to take a peek,” Tommy said. “I got a call.”

  “Huh.” Reed moved off causally as another deputy rounded the corner.

  Tommy fidgeted and pointed to the bathroom door. “New photog. Not quite up to seeing the motorcycle vic on the slab today. Head cracked like an egg. Crappy way to go.”

  “Yeah, that one ain’t pretty,” the other deputy said. “Made me skip the chow mien at lunch today.”

  “You’d think they’d make it a law to wear helmets in Minnesota.”

  “You’d think,” the other deputy said and slipped through the door that led from the morgue offices to the autopsy room.

  She eyed Reed. “I got a call from the killer, I think.”

  “What?”

  “You look in the windpipe. Tell me what you find and I’ll tell you more.” She scribbled her cell phone number on the back of her card and tucked it into his front shirt pocket. “He called me on my cell. Nobody has that number. Now you do. Let me know what you find.”

  “I can’t do it right now.”

  “Well, whenever.”

  Meg emerged from the bathroom with red eyes and damp hair around her face.

  “Ready?” Tommy asked.

  Meg nodded weakly.

  “Good because I’m starving and I know this really great Chinese food restaurant just around the corner. They’ve got a killer chow mien.”

  Four

  That night when Tommy returned home to her fourteenth-floor apartment and found her boyfriend, Detective Patrick Kelly, sitting on her small balcony with his feet up and a beer in one hand.

  “Hey there gorgeous,” Tommy said, swooping down to kiss his cheek before popping open her own beer.

  “Hungry?” Kelly asked and looked up, smiling. “Steaks are on the grill.”

  The tiny grill off to his other side had wisps of smoke trailing from it.

  “Ravenous,” Tommy said. “Can’t wait.”

  She could get used to this. More and more often she returned from work to find Kelly making her dinner in her small apartment. He was sweet, damn good looking, and a great cook. And best of all, he loved her.

  For the first time since her mother died years ago, Tommy felt less alone in the world.

  Tommy briefly considered filling Kelly in on her theory that the Mississippi River bodies were connected, but decided to wait. She needed to decompress for a few minutes first. She kicked her cowboy boots onto the rail of her balcony and leaned back, soaking in the sight of the Mississippi River undulating below her and just across from the river, the Minneapolis skyline with the sun setting behind it.

  Standing to oversee the grill, Kelly talked about his day working undercover in narcotics, trying to talk some kids into leaving the dangerous path of drug dealing behind.

  Later, Tommy waited until she’d taken her last bite of steak to bring up the dead bodies.

  “Did you hear they found another floater this morning?”

  “Yeah,” said Kelly, pushing away his plate and leaning back in his chair. “What the hell are those kids doing? Drinking and then falling into the Mississippi River?”

  “I know it’s not your case, but have you heard anything from the detectives in homicide about these deaths maybe not being accidents?”

  “You know, strange you should say that,” Kelly said, sitting up. “Costello said he thought there was something more there, but he’s been unable to find it. The forensic pathologist has ruled them all as drownings. No sign of trauma.”

  “Costello is suspicious?” Tommy filed that away.

  “Why? Do you think it is some type of hazing?”

  “Is that what Costello thinks?”

  “Yeah, I heard that’s what he was looking at.” Kelly carried their dishes over to the sink.

  “Huh. No, I don’t think it’s hazing, actually,” Tommy said and then told Kelly about the call she received.

  He froze, listening. “You need to call that in. You can’t keep that to yourself.”

  “You know my relationship with the police department is less than stellar,” Tommy said.

  Kelly tossed her the phone. “Call Lt. Costello. Tell him it’s about the floaters and we’ll meet him at Nye’s in thirty minutes. He’ll come.”

  Five

  Nye’s Polonaise Room was packed. It took a few minutes for Tommy and Parker’s eyes to adjust to the dark room.

  A crowd gathered around the bar that circled the grand piano. An older woman was holding court behind the piano waiting for her oversized sherry glass to fill with tips.

  Lt. Dante Costello was old school. He didn’t trust journalists and he made that clear as soon as he sat down.

  “I don’t even want to be seen here with you, St. James.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Tommy dismissed his concern with the wave of her hand. “But you’re going to want to hear what I have to say.”

  Kelly leaned over and put his arm around Tommy protectively. “I wouldn’t have had her call you if I thought any of that was a problem.”

  Costello frowned.

  Last year, Tommy had been a pariah in the police department. The debacle had also nearly destroyed her relationship with Kelly when department officials suspected he’d leaked Tommy confidential police information. The newspaper’s coverage—and mistakes in coverage—of a woman murdered during a lunchtime walk had been a disaster.

  It all stemmed from a police source slipping Tommy the name of a man under investigation in the sensational murder. The cops had issued a search warrant for a mentally ill man who lived neared the crime scene that had committed suicide a few days after the murder. Investigators, facing pressure from citizens and the mayor to solve the case, were hot on the man’s trail; sure, they had their guy. Tommy was sure, too.

  Sure enough that the editors put the man’s name and picture on the front page of the newspaper. Armed with her tip, Tommy and Parker did a story that was splashed all over the front page of the Twin Cities News.

  But they were wrong.

  Everyon
e was wrong—The cops for going after the wrong guy and the paper for running with the anonymous tip.

  Although police had suspected the man, they ultimately concluded he was not involved. But it was too late. His name had been tarnished. Tommy would never, until the day she died, forget the man’s father’s face when he told her his heart had been shattered by the story.

  Tommy had tried since that day to make up for it, making sure every story she was involved with was accurate and did more good than harm. But she was still very gun-shy — and sensitive, knowing that some cops would never forgive her for her foul up.

  “I see you have the good graces to blush a little,” Costello said, his tone softening as he saw red spread across Tommy’s pale white face. “Hey, I don’t blame you like the other cops. We were looking at that guy. Unfortunately, we were barking up the wrong tree.”

  Tommy clamped her lips together, silently acknowledging the concession. But Costello still insinuated that she’d done something. She decided to let it go. For her boyfriend’s sake.

  “So, what do you know about these kids?” Costello said, leaning in and lowering his voice.

  A few old men playing squeezeboxes started up and the piano lady joined in. Tommy leaned over and told Costello about the strange call.

  “I’m waiting to find out if the caller was right. The autopsy hasn’t been done yet, I guess.”

  Suddenly, Costello stood up, downed his drink and put on his coat.

  “Drink up, folks, we’re taking a little field trip. To the morgue.”

  Six

  The morgue offices were empty as Lt. Costello unlocked the doors and led them through the dark hallway into the autopsy room.

  It was always sobering for Tommy to see walls of shelves containing slivers of body parts: samples of the liver, heart, brain, urine, blood and bile. Tissue and body fluid specimens are usually saved for a year, but DNA samples were kept indefinitely for analysis and evidence reasons.