Death under the Stone Arch Bridge Read online

  Death under the Stone Arch Bridge

  Tommy St. James

  Kristi Belcamino

  Published by Kristi Belcamino, 2017.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  DEATH UNDER THE STONE ARCH BRIDGE

  First edition. December 3, 2017.

  Copyright © 2017 Kristi Belcamino.

  Written by Kristi Belcamino.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Death under the Stone Arch Bridge (Tommy St. James)

  DEATH UNDER THE STONE ARCH BRIDGE | A Tommy St. James Mystery | CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  About the Author

  This one's for Sharon for going above and beyond!

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  DEATH UNDER THE STONE ARCH BRIDGE

  A Tommy St. James Mystery

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ignoring the honks of angry drivers, Tommy St. James swerved around slower traffic, navigating the easiest path across the Washington Street Bridge. The bridge spanned the Mississippi River, connecting downtown to northeast Minneapolis and today was apparently clogged with sightseers or Sunday drivers who didn’t realize it was now Monday.

  The wind whipped her strawberry blond hair into her eyes. She leaned forward, trying to decipher the squawking coming out of the police scanner bolted to her dash. The volume was cranked as high as it would go, but Tommy strained to hear the excited chatter. The dispatcher’s voice crackled in and out, but Tommy swore she’d heard three things clearly: 911 call. Body. Mississippi River.

  She didn’t have time to head to a crime scene. She was already late for her meeting with Belinda. Wasn’t her fault she was late. How was she to know a crane would topple in downtown Minneapolis and that the editor would order her out to take pictures?

  She sighed. It was how her life went. Hot date? Not when there’s a big fire at the mall. Birthday dinner plans? Ha. Not if it’s the same night as the election. Want to go to bed early? Jokes on you. There’s a ten-car wreck on Interstate I-35W.

  Tommy loved her job as a photographer for the Twin Cities News, but it really did get in the way of her actually having a real life.

  She’d been foolish enough to actually make personal plans today smack dab in the middle of her work day: Meeting an old high school friend at lunch. She glanced at the clock. She was only ten minutes late. Belinda would probably still be there. If only Tommy had a number to call she could ask her friend to wait. But Belinda had called on a blocked number. Tommy nearly hadn’t answered it.

  The scanner buzzed again when Tommy was almost off the bridge—something else about water patrol being unable to locate a body. She heard it clearly this time. There was nothing suspicious on the bridge—no open-mouthed pedestrians peering over the side, no red and blue strobes from police cars or boats. Nothing out of the ordinary. Body? Probably a log someone saw floating and called 911.

  As the river thawed in the spring every year, it inevitably dislodged debris that had been trapped frozen in the river over the winter. The detritus usually ended up in a messy pile by the locks just south of the bridge.

  Tommy doubted there was a dead body. If there was, of course she’d have to change her plans and head to the scene. As a photojournalist for the Twin Cities News. It was her job. But she hoped not. She was looking forward to seeing her high school friend.

  The crane incident had already made her late. She’d just finished shooting pictures of a new rooftop restaurant that had just opened downtown. A few seconds after she stepped onto the sidewalk, she was surrounded by screaming people dashing past her, the massive end of a crane headed her way. She was able to capture a shot that had screaming faces in the foreground and the crane about twenty feet in the air in the background behind them. Then she got shots of the crane where it came to rest, mangling a line of parked cars.

  Three people had been taken to the hospital. The Associated Press had already picked up all her photos. A reporter was still out at the scene working the story, but Tommy had taken every conceivable shot of the accident before she left.

  Hopefully Belinda would wait, remembering that Tommy was the type of friend who always did what she said she was going to do, always showed up where she was supposed to be.

  It had been ten years since she last saw her high school friend.

  At the end of the bridge, she impatiently tapped her steering wheel, waiting for the stoplight to turn green. If this poky driver in front of her scooted over a few feet, Tommy could make her right-hand turn onto Main Street, but no. That would be too much to ask. Tommy looked up at the floaty clouds in the blue sky. Once, a few years ago, early on a Sunday morning she had seen a Bald Eagle soaring above the bridge. A good omen for sure. Today, only breezy clouds. It was one of the first warm spring days after a gray, dreary Minnesota winter, so Tommy planned to ask her friend if they could catch up over a glass of wine at a sidewalk café.

  Belinda has asked if they could meet on the Stone Arch Bridge. Several great restaurants were nearby on Main Street, where Tommy would park to access the foot bridge.

  Remembering her friend’s phone call the night before, a small tingle of apprehension ran through Tommy. There had been something in Belinda’s voice. Maybe this wasn’t just a social call.

  A cloud swept over the sun just then and Tommy shivered.

  CHAPTER TWO

  After plugging a few quarters into the parking meter on the cobblestoned Main Street, Tommy jogged over to the entrance to the Stone Arch Bridge, scanning the runners, bicyclists, and sightseers for Belinda’s blonde head. Tommy’s own apartment was only a block away, but she didn’t want to waste time parking in her building’s lot and walking over.

  Quickly, Tommy walked the length of the bridge, meeting every woman’s eyes she passed. No Belinda. Maybe her friend had aged so much Tommy wouldn’t recognize her. Maybe her gold hair had gone dull and she’d lost her slim gymnastics build?

  When Belinda called the night before, it was the first time the two had spoken since the summer after high school graduation. A good ten years. Without any explanation, Belinda asked Tommy to meet her today. Two o’clock. Stone Arch Bridge. It was important. Before Tommy could answer, Belinda had disconnected.

  The two women had once been the best of friends. So close, that even after all this time, Tommy sensed something in Belinda’s voice—fear.

  After walking back and forth across the bridge three times, Tommy realized she was so late Belinda probably had thought she wasn’t coming at all and left. She looked at her phone but knew it
was fruitless.

  Leaning on the side of the bridge, Tommy looked down at the roiling river that originated 224 miles north at Lake Itasca, passed through Minneapolis and St. Paul, and then snaked south to New Orleans and the Gulf of Mexico. A cool breeze rose off the river bringing a fresh spring scent with it. Tommy closed her eyes for a minute and enjoyed the feel of the wind on her face.

  A trio of runners talking jarred her out of her reverie. Tommy checked her cell phone once more. No missed call.

  Tommy waited another ten minutes and then headed back to her vehicle.

  As soon as she turned the ignition on her Jeep and pulled onto the bumpy, cobblestoned Main Street, her scanner crackled to life at the same time the yelp of sirens became clear.

  Fire truck and police car, she thought automatically distinguishing the familiar wails. She yanked the steering wheel and whipped a U-turn, making passersby gawk at the squealing of her tires as the words from the dispatcher sunk in: “D.O.A.” — Dead on Arrival. And “Stone Arch Bridge.”

  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.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  As soon as her finger came off the shutter release, four police officers rounded the corner and stopped when they saw the body. One looked at her, nodding at her press pass around her neck but jutting his chin behind him.

  Time to leave.

  Giving the body one last glance, Tommy backed around the corner of the bridge pillar, but still poked her camera out, taking snaps of the police conferring in a huddle under the scenic bridge. After a few pictures, she turned, looking for the jogger. The woman who had been crouched holding her head. The woman who probably had found the body. Belinda. But no, it couldn’t be. They lived in Minnesota. Home to Scandinavians galore. Chock-full of tow-headed residents.

  An officer was already leading the woman up the stairs by her elbow.

  “Hey, T.J.”

  It was Parker. Ugh. Tommy found it endlessly irritating that Parker called her T.J. Her last name was St. James. With an S, not a J. Technically, her initi
als would be T.S. or, to be generous, even T.S.J. He was such a pretentious ass.

  She greeted his smile with a scowl and ripped a page out of her reporter’s notebook.

  Handing it to him, she said, “Here’s the name and number of the woman who found the body. You must have just passed her on the stairs. I got a shot of her. Probably my best one.”

  “That’s my girl,” Parker said, grabbing the sheet Tommy offered. She glared at him, tempted to call him a “Good boy,” but he’d already taken off, heading toward the group of bystanders, flashing a smile that could coax a confession out of an axe murderer.

  For some reason, she hadn’t told him about the little boy she had seen. She wasn’t sure why—maybe protecting him against Parker’s pit bull instincts?

  Tommy looked around and thought hard. What would illustrate this shot best? In the back of her mind, she knew she was avoiding taking another look at the pictures she’d taken of the body. Just because the woman had blond hair didn’t mean it was Belinda. She glanced at her phone again. Still no missed calls. But that didn’t mean anything.

  Then inspiration struck. She’d shoot the scene from the bridge, looking down.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  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.