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.