“Don’t know exactly. We came around the corner and saw this guy dragging you over to the bushes by your ankles.”
A chill ran through Tommy.
“Sorry we didn’t catch him. We yelled and he bolted. By the time we got close, he was long gone. My buddy over there called 911. The ambulance is on its way.”
“I don’t need an ambulance,” Tommy said, but her words were shaky.
The second guy arrived, holding something.
“Looks like your attacker left these. He won’t be getting very far.”
It was a set of car keys.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THE PARAMEDICS TOLD Tommy she could skip the ambulance ride as long as she promised to drive herself to the emergency room and have her head looked at further. Tommy nodded solemnly, agreeing to go to the ER, but knew she was lying. She had concussions before, when snow skiing. She wasn’t going to pay a thousand bucks for them to tell her what she should watch for and whether she needed further examination or a CT scan.
Meanwhile, an officer with the Minneapolis Police Department was waiting to talk to her about the attack.
“I’d like to talk to the chief,” she said.
The officer, an older man who looked like he’d had one too many visits to White Castle on his lunch break scratched his head in bewilderment. Then a look of amusement spread across his face.
He turned to his partner. “Lady Di here wants to talk to the chief. I suppose he’s home just waiting for her call.”
“Very funny,” Tommy said, so coldly that the officer immediately clamped his mouth together. “Call him and tell him that Detective Kelly’s girlfriend has some information for him and will only give it to him directly. I’m not leaving until he agrees to see me tonight.”
Tommy plopped herself on the pavement behind the police car, which had to back up to leave the parking area, which faced the Mississippi River.
“Or, I can just arrest you for obstructing justice and give you a night in the tank to cool you off.”
“I’m with the Twin Cities News. You do that, it will be front page, letters five inches high.”
The officer rolled his eyes but held his walkie talkie close to his mouth this time, speaking in a low voice.
Tommy doubted he was telling dispatch what she asked, but then the partner, a younger officer, stepped up. “I’ll make sure the chief gets the message. I can’t guarantee he’ll agree to meet with you, but I’ll at least let him know.”
The officer gave her a tentative smile and Tommy flashed him a brilliant, high-wattage grin back. “Thank you.”
Within twenty minutes, Tommy was in the back of the squad car getting a ride to the station. The older cop was grumbling in the front seat, but the younger cop said over his shoulder, “Oh, just ignore him. He’s a crusty, old curmudgeon, aren’t you Smith?”
“I don’t like pesky journalists telling me what to do. Or rookies for that matter.”
The chief had on a wrinkled polo shirt and khaki’s and looked like he had been watching the game with his feet up on the ottoman.
“This better be good, Miss St. James,” he warned gruffly.
Ever since the chief had helped her out a few years ago with returning a little boy back to his Mexican home—and Tommy had neglected telling the world his cousin was a perverted bastard—the two had shared a grudging respect for one another.
“I asked for you because I don’t trust anyone else in this department.”
The chief looked bored and raised an eyebrow. Tommy took a deep gulp.
“I’ve got proof that Sgt. Laughlin is your killer – the Sunset Hill killer. And that he tried to do me in tonight.”
The chief, who had been leaning back in his chair, suddenly sat up straight and fixed a fierce glare on Tommy.
“You are treading on dangerous territory here, St. James.”
“He knew I was onto him and that’s why he attacked me tonight.”
The chief raised his eyebrows again and Tommy rushed to explain.
“A few weeks ago, Detective Kelly told me that he was late meeting me because Sgt. Laughlin had some computer problems and asked to borrow his for a few minutes. I’m sure he hacked into this email. I sent Kelly an email telling him what I had found.”
“That’s a stretch,” the chief said.
“But this isn’t.” Tommy laid out the evidence against Laughlin, which included the snapshots of him and Chandler and all the letters he’d written her. Then, Tommy told him about running into Laughlin at the crime scene and finding the ring.
When she was done, the chief’s face was grim.
“Can your two knights in shining armor I.D. Laughlin from tonight?”
That was her trump card.
“Yes. I think so. They got a really good look at his face; they just couldn’t catch up to him. And, there’s something else. The guys who helped me said the attacker dropped his keys.”
The chief looked at her expectantly.
“When he ran away, he left this.” Tommy held up the keys to Laughlin’s squad car. They were on a rectangle key ring that said Sgt. Matt Laughlin.
Chief shook his head angrily. “Goddamn it. All this time. Right under my nose.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
THE SUNSHINE WAS BRILLIANT as it poured down on the crowd gathered in front of the 2nd Precinct of the Minneapolis Police Department. A podium with the department’s seal was positioned at the top of the concrete stairs near the lobby doors.
Tommy hung up her phone as the chief gestured for her to join him at the podium.
Sandoval had called. Her job was saved. They were going to cut a copy editor job and a reporter job and keep the photographers on staff. Tommy felt guilty until Sandoval said the two people who were leaving already had jobs lined up with the other newspaper in town.
The police chief guided Tommy by her elbow until she was standing right beside him. Tommy had rarely in her life ever felt so uncomfortable. She was facing all of her colleagues from the other side of the podium for once. They were all staring at her, some with malevolent looks, holding their microphones aloft and pens poised above notebooks. So, this is what it feels like to be on the other side? Tommy thought. She didn’t like it. Although not a word had been spoken yet, Tommy felt her face redden just from being up in front of the crowd. Darn my Irish skin, she thought.
Finally, the press conference started, drawing attention from her and to the speaker. Suddenly in the back of the crowd, toward the parking lot, she saw him.
Kelly.
He looked sheepish and was staring at her intently. She quickly looked away, but then couldn’t help but turn and look back toward him. He was mouthing something. Then she figured it out. He was saying “Sorry.”
Again, Tommy quickly averted her glance. What the hell? How was she supposed to respond to that? But she couldn’t help but look back at him. Kelly tilted his head to one side and raised his eyebrows. Then he put puts both his hands together in a praying gesture and mouthed something else: “Forgive me? Please?”
Tommy gave an almost imperceptible shrug. Maybe.
Then, Kelly pointed to his eye, then to his chest, then to her. The child’s game of saying “I love you.”
He’d never said it before. Tommy’s heart caught in her throat and this time she couldn’t take her eyes off him. He was watching her response intently; his eyes seemed desperate and pleading. The words of the chief were distorted, noise in a distant background. Tommy hasn’t heard a word. But apparently, the chief had introduced her because suddenly he stepped aside and gestured to her, right when she was making a signal back to Kelly: I love you, too.
She has just pointed to her heart and held up her two fingers: “Me, too” when everyone in the audience looked her way. All eyes were on her and her deepening blush as she approached the mic on the podium.
“Thank you, Chief. And thanks for coming everyone. It feels awfully strange being on this side, so I’ll keep this short. I want to publ
icly apologize to Tim Bender’s family for the pain they have gone through ... I vow to never again take the power of the press so lightly. Believe it or not, journalists get into this work not for the money, but because we truly think we can help people. I did not help Mr. Bender and caused irreparable harm. I’m deeply ashamed and hope he will someday forgive me.”
Tommy looked into the audience. The members of the press were bored. She heard one reporter say, “Yada yada, let’s get to the arrest.”
Upon hearing this, Tommy faltered. But then she saw Kelly in the back giving her the thumbs up so she continued.
“As I said, not all of us, but most of us who got into this gig called journalism didn’t do it for the money. Most of us did it because we truly in our heart of hearts believe we can do some good. Let’s never lose sight of that.”
Clamping her lips together, Tommy backed off from the microphone and blended into the crowd of dignitaries behind her. She saw Cameron Parker clapping and she was eternally grateful for that. The rest of the press just stared, bored.
The chief took over and announced the arrest of Sgt. Laughlin. The chief spent the rest of the press conference talking about measures the police department was taking to ensure that officers had adequate access to mental health counseling and that recruits to the department would have to undergo more extensive psychological evaluations from here on out.
Later on, after all the reporters had left, Tommy packed up her bag and headed down the stairs for the parking lot. Mr. Bender was waiting near her car.
“I saw the press conference,” he said and then met her eyes. “I just wanted to say apology accepted.”
Tommy’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you. That means more than I can say.”
He nodded with his lips pushed together as if he had more to say, but had decided against it. Then, he turned and walked away.
Across the parking lot, Tommy noticed someone else. It was Detective Kelly leaning against the hood of his car. He walked over when she saw him.
“What was that about? Everything okay? I saw him hanging out by your car so I figured I’d better stick around in case he was going to cause some trouble.”
“No. No, trouble,” Tommy said, swiping at her tears.
“Okay. Good.”
There was an awkward silence as Tommy and Kelly stared at one another. A whole conversation took place in just a few seconds. Then Kelly broke the spell.
“I’ve got tickets to the Twin’s game tonight. Seven o’clock. You interested?”
Tommy smiled and nodded.
“Okay then, see you tonight.”
He began to walk away and then turned back. “I meant what I said back there during the press conference.”
“Me, too,” Tommy said softly.
Back at the office, Tommy put the finishing touches on her project about halfway homes and how mental illness affects families.
It was a photo essay and would feature her favorite shots: The mentally ill grandmother hugging a stuffed bunny as she sat in a wheelchair reading a book to her granddaughter. The parents of a mentally ill teenager on their knees in a small chapel praying that their son get medication to help him live a normal life. The hardworking manager of a group home supervising meal preparation in a busy kitchen at the house, directing house members to chop, stir, and boil dinner fixings.
Each picture told a story about how mental illness affects more than just the mentally ill person.
After giving the project one last glance, she sent it off to the photo editor who would get it ready for Sunday’s paper.
Before leaving her desk, Tommy once again eyed a tiny scrap of paper in her notes. It was the phone number of the mentally ill group home where she had been spending time.
During her visits, Tommy had talked a lot to the manager, a man named Roland, who was in charge of supervising dinner preparations. During her time with him, Roland had mentioned that state funding for his house had been cut and he was so short on staff that he hadn’t seen his kids in three days. If only he had someone who could fill in for a few hours so he could go home, have dinner with his family, and then tuck his kids into bed, he said, his life would be so much easier.
“I’d have that much more energy to help these guys back at the house, but the state is not funding a second position anymore. My wife is great, totally supportive of what I’m doing, but it’s still a bit rough on my sons. They don’t understand why I miss every single dinnertime. If I could only be home a couple nights a week, I think they would be happier. Right now, they are acting up and giving their mother a ration of grief. Hopefully one day they’ll understand and see me as a role model, as an example.”
Remembering this, Tommy punched in Roland’s number. She had checked with her editor and by coming in a bit earlier some days and staying a bit late on others, she could carve out enough time to fill in one night a week so Roland could take a break and go home to his family.
“Tommy St. James, you are an angel,” Roland said, when she made the offer. “However, I’m only going to accept it on one condition.”
Tommy was baffled. “Okay, what’s that?”
“That you come over and meet the wife and kids and have a family dinner with us. My wife makes a mean pork roast and her mashed potatoes are to die for.”
“You had me at mashed potatoes.”
After she hung up the phone, Tommy’s hand rested on the smooth black plastic for a long time as she thought about the twists and turns her life had taken over the past two months. She looked around the newsroom — at the hustle and bustle of reporters on deadline—and smiled. She was right where she belonged.
She was home.
Exclusive excerpt Book Three in the St. James Thrillers
NO WAY OUT
By Kristi Belcamino
CHAPTER ONE
HE WAITED ALONG THE shore, ducking back into the foliage whenever he heard voices. He checked his watch. It wouldn’t be long now. The sun was dipping to the west, behind downtown Minneapolis, turning the dark hulking skyscrapers into silhouettes against a blood red sky.
He eyed the narrow opening in the bushes behind him. He clenched his fists open and shut again to stop himself from checking one last time. He knew it was there. Only moments ago, he had ducked through the secret opening into the hide away, checking the package for the third time in a half hour.
An hour ago, he’d climbed down the steep embankment to the banks of the Mississippi and crept into the hidden grove. The car-sized clearing was surrounded by dense brush and invisible to anyone on the banks of the river. Still, he’d waited, holding his breath and listening, making sure nobody had tailed him. Once he knew it was clear, he’d unearthed the geocache. He’d carefully removed the giant flat stone placed over it to retrieve the large plastic bag. Instructions were taped to the inside of the plastic bag, asking finders to leave a comment and their stamp signature.
He smirked. He was going leave his signature, all right. Inside was a metal ammunition box that contained an ink pad and a notepad. He tossed the ink pad on the ground. He wouldn’t be needing it. He scanned read the most recent messages left on the pad. The last one was left a week ago.
“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 matc
h 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.
CHAPTER TWO
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
The Last Exit: A St. James Mystery (St. James Mysteries Book 2) Page 8
