by Diane Capri
She’d asked for the interview. They refused.
Maybe she could figure out a way to improve the story during editing. She remembered something about reduced recidivism rates. She’d check that out when she returned to the station.
After an hour, Jordan packed up and walked toward the Jeep.
A circle of males, maybe middle school age, shouting and screaming grabbed her attention. Two boys, not more than thirteen years old, had squared off. She saw rival gang tattoos on their bare forearms. She recognized them as teammates she had videoed in the ropes course not ten minutes ago.
The crowd of youngsters expanded quickly. The noise level increased to deafening.
Instinctively, she whipped out her camera and shot continuous video.
The fighters attacked each other like trained pit bulls, beating each other bloody. Shouts and cheers from the crowd alternated with each hard-knuckled blow.
The fight escalated. The smaller fighter grabbed a chunk of the other boy’s earlobe in his teeth and tore it off. Blood marked a trail down his chin. The crowd went wild.
One of the boys in the crowd threw a knife into the ring. The ear-torn fighter picked it up. He sliced the blade through the air twice before he crouched, prepared for the next assault.
Sirens blared from around the campus.
Earlobe still gripped in his mouth, in one smooth motion, the smaller boy jumped onto one foot, balanced and kicked.
The knife sliced fast, catching the smaller boy’s calf with a deep, arcing wound. Blood gushed everywhere, but his leg’s momentum carried it through.
His kick connected.
The cutter bent over, holding his stomach. He dropped the knife and fell to the ground.
Security rushed in to break up the fight and disburse the crowd. Both boys were loaded onto gurneys and rushed into a building marked Infirmary.
Within minutes, the yard was abandoned again. The only visible evidence of the ropes course failure to create trust and harmonize the young hoodlums was pools of blood from both teammates drying on the grass.
But Jordan barely noticed the quiet. She stood above the flattened grass and stared, transfixed, at the blood. Only once before had she seen so much human blood after a knife fight.
The entire fight was fast. It had lasted only a few minutes. Both fighters survived.
She tried not to replay the scene in agonizing detail, but the more she tried to suppress her memory, the less she succeeded. Her skin crawled.
Somehow, she saw another person in the fight. A woman fighting back. The boys both had knives. The fight was fast. The woman lay dead in pools of her own blood.
Jordan’s stomach heaved. She clamped her lips together, turned, and fled.
CHAPTER 14
Twenty miles into the drive back to the station, Jordan had replaced the revulsion and fear with seething anger. Anger drove her actions now. Deep, powerful, anger. She felt hot with it. Pulse racing, heartbeat pounding determination. Much better.
She imagined Richard sitting behind his desk at Channel 12. Holding what seemed like genuine hope that Jordan would do her job well.
Trouble was, if she put her mind to it, she could make the ropes course story into a stunning package.
But those were bad kids, nasty kids. They would grow into worse adults. How could they not?
Look at Aaron Robinson and Mark Gifford. They were drug dealers in middle school. They were killers now. Lots of crime along the way.
Those fighters back there? Same thing. No well-intentioned ropes course would fix that.
The public needed to be warned, not protected from reality. Her mother was murdered and her killers probably spent years in a place just like that detention center.
After she’d witnessed that fight, she couldn’t possibly create a positive story about the place or the juveniles held here. She wouldn’t do it.
God. I have the worst luck on earth. She ran her fingers through her hair.
Richard had asked her if she really wanted to be a reporter. He’d said it seemed she liked investigating more than reporting. At the time, she’d felt insulted.
But he’d been half right. She did like investigating and reporting. Her ultimate career goal was to be an investigative reporter. She’d be a long-term asset to Channel 12 and to the world by telling the truth, not by pretending bad kids, bad people, didn’t exist.
But she had to get hired first.
Which meant she needed two great stories for eleven o’clock, and one of them had to be the new ropes course at the Pearl County detention center. Somehow, she had to make the story work. It had to be true, but it also had to be positive because that was her assignment. She couldn’t fail again. Nor would she lie.
She called Detective Grey. His voice mail picked up. “This is Jordan Fox. Please call me as soon as you can. I have information for you about that symbol we found on the ship this morning.”
She remembered where she’d seen the symbol before. Four times before, actually. Which was why it had seemed so familiar this morning.
But really, she wanted to ask him about the bottles. The ones they’d found on the ship that weren’t rum. The ones with the symbol on their labels. The contents had been sent for testing. What was inside?
There was a story there and she would be the reporter who covered it. Detective Grey could help her make that happen.
And after all of that, he owed her a favor. She planned to collect.
CHAPTER 15
Her next call was to FBI Special Agent Terry Ryser.
Jordan knew in her heart now, even if she couldn’t prove it yet. Aaron Robinson/Evan Groves and Mark Gifford/Hugo Diaz were, to use cop-speak, “persons of interest” in her mother’s murder.
Her mom had tried to help those boys. She wouldn’t give up on them, even after Aaron Robinson killed two people in a car wreck while he was under age and under the influence of drugs. Sixteen-year-old Jordan had trusted her mom’s judgment.
But she wasn’t sixteen any more. She knew more now.
Brenda Fox had been wrong about those two. Aaron Robinson had become Evan Groves. And Mark Gifford had become Hugo Diaz. Brenda had paid for her mistake with the lives of at least two people. And, if Jordan’s evidence panned out, her own life, too.
Jordan shivered. Both men were revolting. They’d do no more harm of any kind. Jordan Fox would see to that if it was the last thing she ever accomplished.
Agent Ryser had ignored Jordan’s calls for two days before Jordan screwed up the FBI’s raid at The Grove last night. Jordan’s 911 call launched the raid too early and Ryser lost her chance to arrest El Pulpo’s big boss.
She answered the call. First hurdle cleared.
“I’m on my way back to Tampa from Pearl County.” Jordan spoke with cautious energy. Ryser was a colleague of sorts, but she was older and a thousand times more experienced. “Do you have a minute?”
Ryser didn’t hang up, which was a good sign. Anger might fuel her in the right direction, too. Jordan had to count on the possibility, at least.
“I’ve learned new facts you’ll be interested in. About Hugo Diaz, the guy who kidnapped me after he crashed that Cessna. And the guy arrested in that Super Adderall drug bust, Evan Groves.” Jordan paused, then added a probable truth, even if she couldn’t prove it yet. “Both are members of El Pulpo.”
“Obviously.” Ryser sounded preoccupied, disinterested.
“Both use aliases. We’ve identified Evan Groves as Aaron Robinson. Do you have a real identity on Hugo Diaz yet?”
“Not yet. We’re working on it.” Ryser was definitely involved in something else. Not paying attention.
“Hugo Diaz.” Jordan took a breath and put as much confidence into her tone as she could muster. “I know who he is.”
“Okay.” Ryser had covered the phone and was talking to someone.
“Did you hear me? I said I know Hugo Diaz’s real identity.” No response. “If you’re not interested, I can call Tampa polic
e instead.”
“What? I’m sorry, Jordan. We’re swamped here with the aftermath of our raid last night.” Ryser sounded exhausted. She’d probably been awake for the last thirty-six hours. “Hugo Diaz. He’s behind bars. We’ve been searching databases around the country. We haven’t found anything on him yet. I promised I’d let you know when we identified him and I haven’t forgotten you.”
Jordan’s whole body was shaking. She had been running on determination for so long. Ryser was her best chance. Ryser could help her. They could help each other.
“I said I have uncovered Hugo Diaz’s real identity. I know who he is.” She crossed her fingers and fudged the truth just a little. “And I can prove it.”
“Okay.” Ryser’s voice carried mostly disbelief, but she was paying attention. “Who is he and how can you prove it?”
“There were fingerprints left at the scene of my mother’s murder. And DNA. I got the case file from my father’s attorney. I want to find out if they match Groves or Diaz.” Jordan paused. “Can you help me with that?”
“I understand why you suspect Groves,” Ryser said, accepting the non-answer to her question for the moment. “Your mother testified in his manslaughter case and you think he resented her. But Diaz? Why do you suspect him?”
“Several reasons.” Jordan crossed her fingers. “I’m almost to your office now. If you have about half an hour, I can bring the evidence and show you.”
Ryser was quiet. Brenda Fox’s murder was Jordan’s obsession, but not Ryser’s case. Not even an FBI matter, at least, up to this point. And it was five years cold, too.
Jordan hoped Ryser would be intrigued enough to help by the potential El Pulpo connection. El Pulpo was Ryser’s case and Jordan knew how much she wanted to get the big boss and shut El Pulpo down in Tampa.
“I can be there in fifteen minutes, tops.” Jordan’s foot pushed the accelerator deeper. “Maybe ten.”
“Hang on, I’m just back to my desk. Lemme just double check. We may not have access to your mother’s police file. It’s a state case. We haven’t been working on it.”
Jordan heard a tap, tap, tapping in the background for a few moments too long.
Ryser finally spoke. “Nothing’s coming up related to unidentified fingerprints or DNA in your mother’s case. Brenda Fox, right?”
“How can that be?” Jordan’s mind froze. “It’s in the file from the attorney.”
“The lawyer’s file doesn’t necessarily contain the same stuff in the official investigation files.” She must have heard the desperation in Jordan’s voice, though. “The case is old. We may not have everything. I’m still looking.”
“I’m parking now. Be there in two minutes.” She turned off the ignition, grabbed the redwell, and jumped out. “Oh, can I bring my phone into the building this time? I have to show you some things.”
“I’ll call security to authorize your clearance.” Ryser hung up.
She shouldn’t be here at all. She’d be late getting back to work. But solving her mother’s murder was too important. If she could help close down El Pulpo, so much the better. She wouldn’t give up this chance. Not for any job in the world.
Jordan dashed the two blocks and ran up the stairs to the FBI building’s entrance. Passing through security and riding the elevator up to Ryser’s floor were the only things that slowed her down.
“I found the official case file on your mother’s murder. Most of it is not available electronically.” Ryser spoke without looking up from her desk the moment Jordan appeared in the doorway. “Lots of unidentified fingerprints. A few were entered into the databases. The DNA report is there, but it looks like there was no match at the time in any of the databases.”
Jordan put the heavy redwell in one of Ryser’s visitor chairs and plopped her butt into the other one. “What does that mean?”
“It means we can’t find out much right now.” Ryser turned away from the computer. “So what have you got in that redwell?”
“What about the current cases against Groves and Diaz? Do you have access to those files?”
“There are federal charges pending against both of them. We have access to everything contained in those investigations.” Ryser leaned in across the desk. “The Florida state cases are different files. We may or may not have everything there, but we’re all working together. We can probably get what we don’t have.”
“I see.” Jordan blinked, her thoughts scrambling to understand. She’d assumed the FBI would have access to anything and everything they wanted instantly. As Tom would say, she’d been watching too many cop shows on TV.
“I’m very busy here, Jordan.” Ryser gentled her voice. “So help me decide whether to go through all of that. Tell me what you’ve got in that redwell.”
CHAPTER 16
Jordan pulled out her phone and found the screen shot of the results of the facial recognition work from Tom’s software. She handed the phone to Ryser. “First, look at this.”
Ryser glanced at the screenshot. “That’s Diaz. I recognize the photo from your drone practice video you showed us. Who’s the kid?”
“His name is Mark Gifford.” Jordan pulled the elastic aside, opened the redwell and pulled out her mom’s yearbook. Riverside Middle School Footsteps 2006. She flipped quickly to the soccer team pages. She passed the yearbook to Ryser and pointed to the photo she’d used for the face recognition.
Ryser studied the photos for what seemed like an eternity. Jordan wanted to jump in and point out the similarities between the boy and the man like she’d done with Tom. But she held her tongue. Ryser did this for a living. She knew what to look for.
If Ryser saw the same thing Jordan had seen, then Jordan would be forever satisfied that she was right. Mark Gifford had become Hugo Diaz. So far, so good.
Ryser emailed the screen shot photo to an FBI mailbox somewhere. Then she returned the phone and looked at Jordan with real interest for the first time today. “What else do you have in there?”
Yes! Jordan wanted to fist-pump the air, but she pulled the elastic and opened the redwell. She found the two photos she’d placed right in the front and the autopsy report.
Steady, Jordan. Be objective. Pretend it’s not your mom. You’ve seen this photo enough. Pretend you’re desensitized.
“This one shows the floor under her body in the kitchen. Crime scene techs took the photo after she was moved.” She pointed to a quarter. In the photograph, based on the outline of the body inside the blood on the floor, the quarter seemed to have been lying under Brenda Fox’s torso. There was an evidence flag next to it in the photo. “The quarter had a partial thumb print on one side and a partial forefinger print on the other. The prints were unidentified at the time, but did not belong to me or my parents.”
“So the detectives concluded the quarter dropped out of a pocket during the struggle or something and the prints belong to one of the killers. Could be.” Ryser nodded. She reached for the photo. She studied it closely and laid it to one side on her desktop. “What else?”
“This is the autopsy report. These two paragraphs.” Jordan pointed and handed the report to Ryser. “It says the medical examiner removed skin and blood from under the victim’s fingernails. The DNA was tested, but didn’t match anyone they compared it to at the time. Not my dad, for sure.”
“Since this DNA hasn’t been submitted to the databases I checked, we may be able to run it now. We could get a hit. There’s a lot more DNA samples in our systems now than we had five years ago. Better collection and testing techniques, too. Sometimes we get lucky.” Ryser had finished scanning the report and cocked her head. “What’s that last one?”
Jordan looked at the photo again. This one was also taken by a crime scene tech. It showed her mother’s body, exactly the way she’d seen it when she walked into her kitchen that night. Jordan squeezed her eyes shut and closed off her heart. For the moment.
“Here, on her right side. See this mark on the floor?” Jordan scooted c
loser to the desk and laid the photo close to Ryser. She swallowed hard and pointed with a shaky finger. Her voice was raspy. “It looks like a J, doesn’t it? When I first saw it the night of the murder, that’s what I thought. I thought it was mom maybe trying to communicate with me or leave me a message that she didn’t finish. I thought the J was for Jordan.”
Ryser picked up the photo and examined it closely. Unlike Jordan, she’d never seen the photo before. She spent a few moments examining the scene before she pulled out a magnifying glass and focused on the J.
“But you’ve changed your mind?” Ryser asked. “About the J?”
Jordan cleared her throat. She folded her hands and looked down. Then she took a deep breath and said what she’d not spoken aloud before. “Now I think it’s a fish hook. An El Pulpo fish hook.”
Ryser didn’t scoff. She didn’t argue or deny the possibility that Jordan was right. She simply asked, “Why do you think so?”
Reality hit Jordan painfully hard in the chest, knocking the wind out of her. She wanted to run and felt rooted to the spot at the same time. Her stomach heaved. She clamped her jaw and her lips until the wave of nausea passed.
Ryser poured a glass of water from a pitcher on the credenza behind her desk. She handed the water to Jordan. After she’d taken a few sips, Ryser said, “Tell me what you know about this fish hook.”
Jordan nodded. She cleared her throat and offered a watery smile. “I’ve seen the symbol before. The first time, it was tattooed on Chester Flynn’s neck.”
Ryser nodded. “The El Pulpo soldier who pressured Salvador Caster to hire El Pulpo shrimping captains after Caster’s father was murdered. He’s in prison now. Still alive, last I checked.”
Jordan felt a jolt to her spine. She hadn’t known Sal’s dad was murdered by El Pulpo. But Sal’s whole situation made more sense. It confirmed that El Pulpo had been doing business in Tampa for a very long time.
“The fish hook was scribbled on a rent receipt in the cigar factory when I was kidnapped, but I didn’t recognize it at the time and I don’t have that receipt. You might be able to get the original from the landlord.” Jordan picked up her phone.