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 your 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.