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.