Tommy St James Mysteries Boxed Set
Page 22
“Parker? You’ve got to be kidding?”
Kelly knew her history with the police reporter.
“He wasn’t my first choice,” Kelly admitted. “But it makes sense. You guys are working this story so closely that you’re together all the time anyway.”
Pause.
“What about the redheaded cop?”
“Rourke? He’s still around, but he’s keeping to the sidelines.”
“Okay.” She waited.
“I don’t like it,” Kelly finally admitted. “And I don’t particularly feel like he’s the best watch dog. He probably would run away screaming like a little girl, but he’s all I got right now. They can’t spare any more cops to tail you. Everyone’s tied up on the investigation. Even half of my crew have put the drug busts aside and are helping out homicide. But Rourke’s better than nothing. Maybe just seeing you with someone else with deter the killer from approaching you. God, I only hope.”
Tommy hung up the phone feeling less than reassured.
By the end of the day, they knew that all six victims had played geocaching games. Not the same games, but enough for Parker and Tommy to be convinced that this was how the killer lured them to their deaths.
“So, it’s got to be the night cache,” Parker said, scrolling through web pages on the games. “But how does he know they will come on that particular night? And how does he know they will come alone?”
“Well, according to this, the clues are only posted during a particular time. If he posts the clue earlier that day, they have to wait until nightfall to go find it, right?” Tommy said.
“Yeah, so that works, but how does he know they’ll come alone?”
Tommy and Parker stared at each other, looking past one another, deep in their own thoughts.
“The hell if I know,” Tommy finally said, pushing back her chair. She began pacing the small area that comprised the newspaper’s photo department. Then, paused when Parker stood up.
“What if he doesn’t know? What if he planted several geocaches and if one person came in a group, he just moved onto the next?” Parker said.
“That wouldn’t work,” Tommy said. “If he went from place to place, he’d possibly miss a target arriving.”
“Yeah, right. Damn.”
“I got it,” Tommy said, suddenly, racing back to her computer. She typed furiously. “Some of these say that there is more than one geocache that leads to the prize. For instance, the clue is posted to find one, right? And instead of a treasure, the geocache leads to the night cache, but has instructions to come alone?”
“It could work.”
“Let’s go. Let’s retrace Cody Johnson’s day.”
Twenty-one
She was right.
Part of Cody Johnson’s personal items from the morgue included a typed note in a funky font that said he had found part one of the treasure. It gave exact instructions for him to find the second geocache, saying he had to come alone. The note said he would be “watched” and that the “treasure” was rigged to explode if he was seen with anyone else.
“My big question,” Parker said, “is what was the ‘treasure’ supposed to be?”
“It had to be something good,” Tommy said, reaching for her phone.
“Hey Daniel, I was wondering if Cody ever mentioned what he was hoping to find in the geocache — what the ‘treasure’ was supposed to be,” Tommy paused, holding the phone close her ear.
“Yeah,” Daniel said. “He said it was something to do with the stock exchange.”
Back at the office, Meg didn’t hide her scowl when Parker and Tommy walked in together. Parker ignored her and went off to the metro section, but Tommy was forced to squish by Meg to get to her desk in photo.
“How’s your big story going?” Meg sneered the question.
“Fine. How’s your bad attitude doing?” Tommy snapped over her shoulder.
“Listen,” Meg leaned close, hissing her words. “That story is mine. It was mine from the beginning and you swooped in with your cop boyfriend and stole it out from me. I won’t forget that you did this to me. And I’m going to make sure you don’t forget it, either.”
“Is that a threat, princess?” Tommy said, looking down her nose at Meg.
“It’s a promise,” Meg said, then muttered something that sounded like “you have no idea who you are dealing with.”
Later, Tommy was already asleep when her cell phone rang. Kelly stirred in his sleep, but ended up rolling over and putting the pillow back over his head.
Tommy pressed “answer” and glanced at the clock. Two a.m. She sat up, more alert. Maybe it was the killer again. She got ready to wake Kelly. She’d try to keep the killer on the line this time. “St. James.” Her voice was guarded, wary.
“Miss St. James?”
The voice was muffled, as if it were being disguised. It didn’t sound like the killer’s voice. It didn’t sound like the man who called himself Jack Sparrow. But then again, the devices to disguise voices could be adjusted to sound different every time.
“This is Tommy St. James,” she said, sitting up.
“Listen Tommy St. James,” the man drew out her name. “You better back off this story if you know what’s good for you. This—none of this—was for you.”
Maybe it was the same guy. Jack Sparrow. The killer. But he’d said it was all for her.
“Did you call me before?” she asked.
“You know the answer to that,” the voice said. “This story is no longer yours. It was, that’s true. But now you need to let it go. If I find out you are still covering this, you will regret it. Sorely.”
It was kind of a lame threat, Tommy thought vaguely in the back of her mind. But who knows. People were dead. People who had tried to protect her were dead.
“Who is this?”
“You’ll know. Tomorrow, you’ll know that I’m serious about what I say.”
The phone line went dead.
Twenty-two
Over bacon and eggs the next morning, Tommy told Kelly about the middle of the night phone call.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” Kelly asked.
Tommy shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I think it’s time we got your line tapped. Maybe we should have done that a long time ago.”
Just then Kelly’s cell phone buzzed. He picked it up. “Kelly.” As he listened to the caller, a frown creased his brow and then he slapped the table, startling Tommy. “God damn it all to hell!”
He slammed the phone down.
“Sam Rourke’s body was found this morning. Strung up from a swing set in the park near his house. Son of a bitch.”
“Oh, my God. That’s what he meant,” Tommy said, a chill racing over her. “He said I’d know how serious he was this morning. Oh God. I should have woken you. I should’ve called this in. We should’ve warned Rourke. His voice? This time it just sounded different. I didn’t think it was him.”
Kelly pressed his lips together tightly. “It wouldn’t have mattered. This guy is running rampage on this town and this police department and there’s not a damn thing anybody’s done about it yet. This has to stop. You’re heading up north—all expenses paid trip to Duluth until this quiets down.”
Tommy just rolled her eyes at him.
“Okay, you’re right. I can’t make you do anything, damn it all. Just be careful, St. James. I’ve got a feeling all this centers around you.”
“That’s crazy.”
But, shit, he was right. It was not going well. Not at all. This killer was on the loose and apparently had no intention of slowing down.
Twenty-three
With two cop’s dead, the police chief thought it would be a good time to bring in the FBI.
“About time,” Parker said as he and Tommy waited outside the cop shop for the press conference to begin.
“The only problem is by bringing in the Feds, they are doing exactly what this guy wants,” Tommy said. “He wants attention. He wants
to be a big star. He wants people to know about him. I’m just surprised the idiots in editorial haven’t given him even more real estate.
Parker smirked and held up the paper. “Too late.”
The headline across the top of the paper in giant type said, “River Killer Strikes Again.”
“River Killer?” Tommy snorted. “River Killer? Please. They dropped the Mississippi part? That is the dumbest serial killer name I’ve ever heard. I mean, yeah, there was the Green River Killer and that one’s okay, but River Killer? Oh, brother.”
The police chief came out of the building trailed by a nondescript man with a hawkish nose and slicked back black hair who only came up to the chief’s shoulder. The man was wearing the FBI’s typical dark sunglasses and blue three-piece suit so Tommy assumed this was the agent.
The two men stood behind the podium at the top of the police station steps and waited for the crowd of reporters to quiet down.
“Thanks for coming everyone,” the chief said. “As you know we have a killer at loose in our city. Well, our good friends at the bureau have sent their best agent to town to help us stop this monster attacking our young men without provocation. I’d like to introduce you to Special Agent in Charge Andrew McConnelly.”
The reporters were silent. The chief looked surprised as if he expected them to clap.
“He acts like he’s stumping for re-election. What a douche,” Parker whispered to Tommy.
She agreed, rolling her eyes.
McConnelly cleared his throat. “Thank you for your time this morning and for your cooperation. The news media plays an important role in capturing suspects like this by helping us spread the word and convey important information to our citizens that not only serves to keep them safe, but also makes them alert so they can help us capture this fellow.”
It was Tommy’s turn to smirk. “Please. He acts like we’re all buddy-buddy and we’re out here to help them. We’ll help them as soon as they treat us better.”
Parker snickered.
McConnelly went on. “With that said, we also are asking the press to be careful with what they release to the public. As some of you know, it is often that one crucial piece of information that only the suspect knows that ultimately lets us build and sustain a legal case against him. It would be a shame if that one critical bit of information is leaked for the entire world to know and then our case crumbles into ashes and the bad guys walk free, able to strike again.”
Did Tommy imagine it or did the agent look right at her behind his dark sunglasses. Huh.
Twenty-four
Over a shrimp scampi dinner later, Tommy asked Kelly if he had met the special agent in charge.
“Yeah. He’s kind of a jack hole,” Kelly said, twirling a linguine noodle on his fork and then washing it all down with a gulp of Pinot Grigio. “I hate when the feds swoop in on our cases. They think they are rescuing us or something, Total bullshit. We don’t need their help.”
He was angry so Tommy didn’t say anything, but did think that maybe in this case the cops did need help. The killer was plugging along like nobody’s business. Nothing had stopped him yet.
The worse part was the feds had insisted on yanking Kelly off the case as soon as they found out he and Tommy were dating.
That’s what he was really angry about.
“It’s my case. Mine. I had it from day one, damn it.”
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s all my fault. All I do is get you in trouble. I told you to run for the hills. I told you a long time ago when we started dating that it wasn’t worth it.”
“Oh, but it is,” he said, leaning in and nuzzling her neck until she turned to him, her mouth meeting his. She grabbed his hand and led him into the bedroom, leaving their dinner to get cold.
Later, they were sitting out on the balcony drinking wine and looking at the stars and city skyline across the river when Kelly’s cell phone buzzed.
The autopsy results had come back for the cop, Rourke.
He hung up the phone and turned to Tommy. “Bad news.”
“Oh yeah?”
“No coin.”
“Huh? What do you think that means?”
“It’s not what I think that matters. Costello says the murder seems different this time.”
Tommy looked at him and shrugged. Kelly elaborated.
“The killer might be different. It might not be our killer.”
“Are you shitting me?” Tommy sat up straight.
“Nope. Costello thinks we might have two different killers on our hands.”
“Oh shit.”
A copycat.
A big story. But the editors wouldn’t go with the two-killer theory unless it was on the record. Tommy hearing it second-hand from a detective at the police station was not good enough, the publisher said on the phone a few minutes later.
She’d taken the unprecedented step of calling him at home, even though it was late.
“We’ve got to kill that front-page story,” she pleaded. “We’ve got to change it so it says another killer may have murdered Rourke. What you have now — that’s he’s the latest victim of the River Killer might be wrong. Dead. Wrong.”
“You got this on the record?”
“Well, yes. I mean no. Nobody I can quote. We can say anonymous sources.”
“Do I have to go over not-so-distant history with you, St. James. You and anonymous sources are no longer allowed to exist in my world. Do you understand?”
Tommy sighed a great puff of air. It was her own damn fault. She had burned him so bad on that other story. It was an honest mistake. He’d never going to let her forget that.
“I understand. The problem I had last time — which was my fault — was that erroneous information ended up in the newspaper. What I’m trying to do now by calling you at home because I think it is that important, is save us from getting egg on our faces again. If you go with that story, there’s a good chance it will be wrong.”
She waited. Silence.
“If it is wrong, as you say, I’m not taking the blame for this one. It was your information, yours and Parker’s and if it ends up being wrong, it’s your ass again.”
“But I’m calling you to stop that. To get the right information in the paper. Please. Sir?”
He hung up the phone.
She was screwed.
After they finished the bottle of wine and had gotten ready to turn into bed, Tommy realized she had probably better call Parker and warn him that the shit was going to hit the fan in the morning when their front-page story ended up being wrong. Again.
Dialing Parker’s number, she felt a pit in the bottom of her stomach. Strike two against both of them. This was not good.
A girl’s voice. A familiar voice, languid and sleepy answered. Meg. Tommy looked at the clock. It was two in the morning. Obviously, another sleepover.
“Meg?”
“Tommy?”
“Yes?” Tommy answered warily.
“Cameron is sleeping, poor baby. I wore him out tonight. I mean, before we even got to the bedroom. The story we covered was so much fun. I was in my glory. I got some really good shots. I can’t wait to see what you think of them tomorrow. But poor Cameron. He’s not used to keeping up with a young thing like me. It’s almost more than he can take. In a good way that is. I work hard, but oooh baby do I play hard, too. It’s pretty much the perfect combination for him. He likes all my energy. I think he likes how young I am. How old are you anyway?” Her laugh tinkled merrily and she didn’t wait for Tommy to answer, not that Tommy was going to reply anyway. “So, anyway, Cameron’s down for the count, so can I take a message?”
Tommy hung up. He was on his own.
And what the hell story was Meg talking about?
Twenty-five
When Tommy got to the newsroom the next morning, she tried to sneak in, worried about getting yet another story wrong. A colossal screw up, Parker would say. If he had ever called her back, she could have warned him.
And smiling. A big smile. And so was the executive editor. The editor had a grin from ear to ear. He came around his desk and slapped Parker on the back still grinning that shit-eating smile. He gestured to a stack of newspapers and gave Parker another slap on the back. In the corner, someone sat in a chair reading the newspaper. It was opened all the way and hid the person behind it.
Something about the front-page looked strange. Before leaving the office last night, Tommy and Parker had looked at the front-page layout of their story about Rourke’s killer to get an idea how Tommy’s photos would appear above Parker’s article.
The front page looked different. Curious, Tommy made her way over to the glass office, trying to see the front page better. As she got closer, she realized the front page was different. Oh, thank God, she thought. Maybe the publisher had taken her advice at the last minute and killed that story. Maybe they weren’t in trouble. That must be why he was slapping Parker on the back, thanking him for saving his ass this time around. Although, Tommy thought, he should be thanking her instead. She was the one who called him and told him to change the front page.
As she got even closer, Tommy was able to read the headline:
“River Killer Claims Another College Student’s Life.”
What the hell?
And below that, “Twin Cities Reporter and Photographer Capture Exclusive Shots of the Killer Fleeing”
Tommy froze, stunned, and then looked up. She was just in time to see the person in the chair as she lowered the paper. Meg.
Twenty-six
Across town, the newspaper was flung against the wall. What the hell was going on? What was that other photographer up to, he thought to himself, fists balled in anger. He punched the plaster of his bedroom wall and the sight of blood on his knuckles excited him so much he had to go get the boxes.