Chapter Three
Tommy skidded into a parking spot sideways at the foot of the bridge, slapping her large white PRESS sign in her front window, knowing that with the top down, someone would probably steal it anyway and she’d get a parking ticket. Or towed. But the sirens were seconds behind her. She could see the flashing lights turning onto Main Street from the bridge.
If she could beat the cops to the scene, she might be able to get a photo; otherwise, she’d be pinned behind yellow police tape for hours, trying to capture a shot with her telephoto lens.
The scanner traffic had said the body was below the bridge, near one of the paths that wove through the underbrush along the steep shores. Wrenching her camera bag out of the passenger seat, she ran toward the old wooden stairs to the right of the bridge leading down to the river.
Near the top of the stairs Tommy saw an elderly woman acting distressed and yelling something. The scene reached Tommy in snapshots: Blue-haired lady with a cane yelling. Empty leash dangling in lady’s hand. Small white dog zipping around in circles in front of Tommy.
When the pictures all clicked together as a whole, Tommy acted. It only took her a few seconds, but it felt like an hour before she could snatch the dog by its scruff. By the time she handed it to the lady, the dog was licking her face. The woman clapped her hands in delight but Tommy just smiled. By this time, the fire truck and squad cars had pulled up near Tommy’s car.
Tommy turned and ran. As she did, she rummaged around her camera bag, retrieving her phone, her Nikon D80, and a small laminated press pass that hung on a chain. She looped the camera strap and her press pass around her neck, punched in the number for the news desk, and took the stairs to the beach two at a time.
The photo editor, Martin Sandoval, answered on the first ring. “Body at Stone Arch.”
“I’m Code 4.” She panted into her phone. More exercise, fewer bacon double cheeseburgers.
“St. James strikes again.” Sandoval’s voice was full of admiration. “How the hell did you get there so fast? Stick tight. Parker’s on his way.”
Tommy cursed and snapped her phone shut. Being on assignment with Cameron Parker, the police reporter at the newspaper, was always a source of anxiety for her. For once, could they send the night police reporter out instead?
She had fallen hard for Parker last year, but it hadn’t taken long to see his attentions were spread out across the entire Twin Cities. But she still sometimes thought about him. His gentle touch, tucking her strawberry blond hair behind her ears so he could kiss the dusting of freckles on her temple; his flattering words whispered in her ear, his praises of her talents—all bestowed on dozens of others.
Tommy wouldn’t play that game.
She gave him an ultimatum over a starry dinner on the small deck of her high-rise apartment: His attentions were for her alone or she was gone.
He was apologetic.
“I can’t give you that,” he said. “I thought you knew that from the get go. What you see is what you get T.J. Don’t sniff your nose at it; just take it for what it is. We’ve got something good going on here.”
Good for you maybe, Tommy thought angrily, remembering the conversation as she stomped down the last flight of wooden steps. At the bottom, she saw a small crowd of people gathered in the shadow of the bridge. They spoke in low voices and stared at something around the corner, just out of her sight. One woman in a tracksuit sat on the ground with her back against the dirt embankment, face buried in her hands.
She was the one who found the body.
Surreptitiously, Tommy snapped off a few shots of the woman and a man who was leaning down rubbing her back. The woman looked up with reddened eyes right when Tommy clicked the shutter.
Time for introductions. Tommy headed over. She heard the squawk of a police radio and heavy footsteps pounding down the wooden stairs above her. She had to act fast.
“I’m Tommy St. James with the Twin Cities News,” Tommy said, and gave the woman a winning smile. “I’m sorry to bother you. Can I get your number so we talk later?”
Tommy whipped out a notebook and the woman rattled off her name and number. Tommy breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t always that easy.
Behind her, she heard voices and the sound of feet pounding down the rickety wooden stairs.
Shoving her notebook in her bag, Tommy scuttled around the corner. She didn’t pause, but carefully stepped through the muddy area in her gold sandals, trying to land on rocks as much as possible to avoid a misstep into the shallow waters of the Mississippi River.
She rounded the corner and her heart ping-ponged an extra beat. Her fingers froze on the shutter release button of her camera. A woman’s body floated face down in the shallow water. A small pool of blood haloed her head. Some of the blonde hair was tinged red and the rest swirled in the water like seaweed in the current. The head was startling familiar. Even after all those years.
It can’t be. But deep down inside she knew. Belinda. Automatically, without even thinking about it, she brought the camera to her eye and fired off a dozen shots. Peering through the lens at the body, she blocked out the thought that it might be her friend, and let her professional instincts take over. Her finger flew rapid fire on the shutter. Not that any of those pictures would make the paper. The News wouldn’t run a photo like that, but Tommy ran through the motions anyway. It was her job.
Tommy was surprised by the sound of something moving in the bushes across from her. She pointed her lens in that direction. She caught sight through the branches of a small body traversing the steep hillside at the pace of a jackrabbit.
At the top of a small ridge of dirt, the figure stopped. It was a small boy. Even from twenty feet below, Tommy could see his chest heaving as he put his hands on his jean-clad knees and paused to catch his breath. His eyes met hers.
Slowly, she raised her camera lens to her eye and by the time she had clicked the shutter half a dozen times, the boy was gone like a shot, disappearing into the foliage.
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