False Truth 8-10: 3 Action-Packed Romantic Detective Mystery Thrillers To Keep You Up All Night (Jordan Fox Mysteries Series)

by Diane Capri

  The lot was almost full. Several trucks, sedans, and SUVs were already there. A few were occupied. Two SUVs were of the large, black, unmarked government issued variety with tinted windows so dark it was impossible to see any occupants. Jordan found an open place near the end of the lot, parked and entered the building.

  Her police detail watched until she entered, then parked for a clear sightline to the exit. She knew they’d still be there when she came out. Right at the moment, their presence comforted her instead of annoying her.

  Inmates were scheduled for breakfast at 5:00 a.m. Beginning at 6:30 a.m., they were allowed visitors or exercise time until 8:00 a.m. The early visiting hours were meant to allow inmates with kids to see them before school. There were similar after school and evening hours for those visitors and inmates who needed them.

  Jordan had been to the jail before. She’d conducted interviews here with officers and inmates during her college internships. While those visits were scheduled in advance, she’d seen that many visitors simply didn’t call ahead for one reason or another. Showing up unexpectedly wasn’t a problem. This was jail, not prison.

  Jordan approached the uniformed officer at the visitor’s desk. “I’m Jordan Fox. With Channel 12. I’d like to see Evan Groves and Hugo Diaz.”

  “May I see your ID, please?” If he recognized her name or her face, he gave no indication. He examined her press credentials and returned them to her. “Please take a seat. We’ll check with the inmates.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jordan found an empty plastic chair in the sparsely furnished waiting room. She wouldn’t get inside unless Groves and Diaz agreed to see her. She’d used her press credentials to encourage them.

  Criminals usually wanted the press to be on their side. She figured Groves and Diaz would be curious enough to see her, simply to find out what she wanted. If not, she’d be no worse off than if she hadn’t tried.

  At least she was actively working on her mom’s case, which was what she needed to do.

  Groups of visitors were called, entered the visitor rooms beyond the locked doors near the desk, and came out again. The number of people in the waiting room ebbed and flowed.

  Half an hour after she’d arrived, the officer recalled Jordan to the desk, gave her a visitor’s pass to wear clipped to her shirt and lined her up with the next group.

  So far, so good.

  CHAPTER 20

  The interior visitor’s room reminded Jordan of a high school cafeteria. Nine rectangular tables with two plastic chairs on each side were arranged in three rows. The tables were numbered. The air smelled like pine and ammonia.

  The visitors were directed to sit at the table number printed on their visitor’s pass. Jordan was seated at table 8 in the center of the row closest to the visitor’s entrance door.

  When all visitors were seated, the inmate’s door on the opposite side of the room was opened and the officer directed inmates to their assigned tables.

  Jordan watched the inmates enter, one by one, until the last two were Diaz and finally, Groves, at the end of the line. The officer directed them to table 8. He closed the door behind them.

  Jordan sat up straight, folded her hands under the table, and held her emotions in check.

  She watched Diaz lead the way, Groves following, like specimens under a microscope. They were dressed in jailhouse orange. They were the only inmates who were handcuffed and shackled. Both had grown scruffier since their arrest.

  Diaz had looked her in the eye as soon as he entered the room. He carried his head high. A smirk twisted his lips. Exactly like she remembered him. Self-assured and dangerous.

  Groves bowed his head and shuffled his feet, glancing up only briefly from time to time. He didn’t resemble the cocky soccer coach she’d watched sauntering about Plant University’s campus and rushing along the Hills River in a speedboat. Not even a little bit.

  Diaz took the first chair across the table, lounging back, legs extended, hands clasped in his lap. Groves shuffled behind him and plopped into the other chair, hunched over, staring at the table.

  Diaz was the first to speak. “Hello, princess. Couldn’t stay away from me, huh?”

  “It’s not every day I come face to face with such a coward, Mr. Gifford.” Jordan’s tone was even. Steady. Just like she’d practiced a thousand times since the day she’d found her mom in the kitchen. Loud enough for the video cameras mounted in the corners of the room to catch every word.

  One of his eyebrows arched. He smirked again and nodded. “Guess I should have waited for you to come home instead.”

  Because Mom was too easy for you, huh? She was no challenge at all.

  Jordan nodded and turned to Groves. “And what do you have to say for yourself, Mr. Robinson? You’re the guy who bites the hand that feeds him. How much longer do you think you’re going to survive doing that?”

  Groves mumbled something.

  “Can’t hear you,” she said calmly. “You’re a bigger coward than he is.”

  Groves raised his head and glared.

  “I see. Very clever.” Jordan nodded again. “Okay. Well, I just wanted to tell you both that we know who you were, back then. Mark Gifford and Aaron Robinson. When you killed my mother. She must have fought as hard as she could. The medical examiner found DNA under her fingernails. And guess what? It’s a perfect match for you two losers. You were stupid to come back here after all these years. The only place you’re going now is death row.”

  Groves’ eyes widened and his nostrils flared. “I’ve already got a plea deal in place, sweet cheeks.” His voice was plenty loud enough to hear now. “You better start looking over your shoulder. When I get out of here, I know right where to find you.”

  “Are you threatening me, Aaron?” Jordan raised her hand to her cheek in mock horror. “Oh, my. I’m scared to death.” She lowered her hand and stopped the play acting. “Make no mistake. You will never be offered any kind of deal for killing my mother.”

  Diaz hadn’t changed his position a millimeter since he first sat down. Now, he nodded in a way she could only describe as insolently, watching her. “The boss is right about you. You’re way too stubborn to live.”

  “That so, Mark?” Jordan turned her iciest glare to Diaz. Her words were stone cold, too. “You’re going to kill me and run away? Like you did my mother? Jump in a boat and catch a waiting El Pulpo shrimper again? Well, if I’m too stubborn to live, then you’re the one who made me that way. You can be proud of that.”

  Groves leaned across the table, fast. His voice was low, angry, almost a growl. “You’re just like your mother, Bitch!” His face was beet red. His nostrils flared. His eyes were the size of saucers. Had he been as tall as Diaz, his shackled hands would have reached Jordan.

  She didn’t move so much as an eye flutter.

  “Sticking your nose into things that are none of your business. Making everything worse. Trying to get me locked up forever.” His anger had escalated to something like rage. A bit of spittle landed on the table when he said, “You’ll get yours. Just like she did.”

  “Huh. Didn’t see that one coming. I figured Mark, here, for the leader of your little dynamic duo.” Jordan jerked a thumb toward Gifford, unperturbed. She ignored Groves and turned to Diaz once more. She shook her head. “So you’re taking orders from him. Good to know.”

  Diaz snorted a little. His head jerked slightly backward. The smirk firmly in place. “Can’t put anything past you, princess.”

  A buzzer sounded. The officer opened the inmate’s exit. “Time’s up, folks. Visitors, please remain seated. Inmates, this way.”

  All the inmates filed out, but Jordan, Diaz and Groves didn’t move.

  The officer said, “Let’s go, Diaz. Groves. These people have to get to work.”

  Groves was still glaring at her, pure hatred oozing from every pore. Diaz tapped Groves on the shoulder. “Time to go.”

  He waited until Groves stood and shuffled toward the exit. Di
az followed. At the threshold, Diaz glanced at Jordan one last time. His gaze met hers. He raised three fingers to his lips and blew her a kiss.

  That was when the shaking started.

  Numbly, she followed the other visitors back to the waiting room and returned her pass to the officer at the desk. She noticed the waiting room was full again and a new line of visitors was waiting.

  Two well-dressed men stood talking with another officer when she passed through the lobby. One was tall and burly. The other was leaner, wiry. Lawyers, probably.

  They seemed familiar, probably because they had the look. The look that said they knew what they were doing and they owned the place. She’d experienced that attitude from lawyers when they were in court, too.

  When she passed them, she noticed the faint aroma of tobacco.

  Both men turned to watch Jordan’s group of visitors leaving. She felt their eyes linger on her, probably because she was the last one in the line through the exit door.

  She’d been through the wringer the past few days and she still had so much to do. But what she needed was sleep. And lots of it. Hermes took her straight back to the mansion, with her police detail following behind her.

  When she entered the back door, she could hear Clayton snoring in the other room. She grabbed the note she’d left on the counter, stuffed it into her bag, and trudged upstairs.

  This time, she was already sleeping before she fell into bed.

  CHAPTER 21

  When the phone rang to wake her up this time, Jordan looked at the screen with a bleary eye and jumped out of bed immediately. It was already 2:00 p.m. She was due at the station in thirty minutes.

  “Yeah?” She’d put the phone’s external speaker on, run into the bathroom, put the phone on the counter and splashed water on her face.

  “There’s been some news. The strange liquid in the bottles on the boat?” Ryser seemed to be considering whether to say it aloud. “The contents of those bottles tested positive for concentrated typhoid bacteria contamination.”

  “What?” Jordan stood up, water dripping down her neck. She grabbed the hand towel to stop the damage to her shirt, too late. “Did you say typhoid? Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Ryser’s tone was unequivocal. “The bottles are filled with water, contaminated with the bacteria that produces typhoid fever.”

  “All of them?” Jordan wasn’t awake enough to think straight.

  “Every one we’ve tested so far that is not rum.” Ryser was curt and to the point. “The gold liquid in the rum bottles and barrels we’ve tested contain uncontaminated Haitian gold rum. So far.”

  Typhoid fever. That’s what Dr. Chelsey Ross and Dr. Eric Lee had contracted. Dr. Lee had become sick first, when they were in Haiti. Dr. Ross said he probably infected the rest of the team. Dr. Lee died. The others were all quarantined at Tampa Southern Hospital.

  Jordan had been vaccinated before she went to Haiti, but the others she traveled with were vaccinated, too. They still got typhoid fever.

  From now on, she was only drinking and cooking with bottled water. Sealed bottled water. Of a reputable brand. And no dining out until everything was settled.

  The wheels in her head turned faster and faster until the railcar that was her mind settled on a first destination.

  “Work.” Jordan cleared her throat. “I’ve gotta tell work. Can I pass this news along?”

  Agent Ryser owed her no favors. She said nothing.

  “I really, really need to get ahead of this.” Jordan heard the desperation in her own voice and bit her bottom lip to stop herself from pleading. She pulled off the water-stained shirt and rummaged through her clothes for another one.

  Finally, Ryser gave her permission. “The information will be released soon anyway.”

  Jordan laid the phone down and shoved her arms into the clean shirt before she dialed again.

  Patricia answered Jordan’s call to the station.

  “Hey, I haven’t had a chance to bring you up to date yet.” Jordan said, straining to keep her voice low and calm. “The report is just in. Breaking news. Authorities have confiscated a supply of contaminated water. High concentrations of the bacteria that causes typhoid fever.”

  There. Now no one could accuse her of not being a team player on this one.

  “How do you know?” Patricia sounded completely unimpressed and preoccupied.

  Oh, come on. Are we playing this game?

  Antagonizing Patricia wasn’t a good career move, so she swallowed and thought about her answer briefly before replying.

  “My source at the FBI told me.” She was allowed to have sources. That was a good thing for a reporter.

  “Huh.” Was that disbelief Jordan heard in Patricia’s voice? “Because we just got a media release from the Florida Department of Health. Two new typhoid fever victims are at Tampa Southern Hospital. Total of two deaths and eight serious cases. Confirmed.”

  Detective Grey said the typhoid-contaminated water on the ship hadn’t been unloaded. All of it was confiscated. But there were new typhoid victims confirmed in Tampa?

  No way that was a coincidence. There must have been previous shipments, who knows when. Which meant the cartel’s plan was already well underway.

  Jordan knew typhoid fever was a disease that was treatable and rare in the United States. But it could progress to cause death in some people. Dr. Eric Lee was an example. So the disease was progressing rapidly here, or it had been undiagnosed and untreated for at least a month. Maybe longer.

  “Did the Department of Health say how the victims contracted typhoid fever?”

  Patricia said, “No confirmation yet, but both victims had been jet skiing on Bear Creek Lake within the past two weeks.”

  Bear Creek Lake was a popular local recreation site a few miles west of the Gulf Coast of central Florida, a bit west of Sarasota.

  “They must have swallowed a mouthful of water when they took a spill or something,” Patricia said. “Seems unlikely, though. It would take a lot of contamination to do something like that.”

  So the cartel had been working on this for a while. Could mean a big project. Could mean a huge project.

  Jordan hung up and called Ryser back about the victims, including Dr. Ross and Dr. Lee and the medical team.

  Ryser was already on the move. “We’re going to the lake right now. You coming?”

  “I’ll meet you there,” Jordan said. The words typhoid fever still rang in her head. She’d assumed that Dr. Ross and Dr. Lee had contracted typhoid fever in Haiti. But what if they’d been infected in Tampa?

  CHAPTER 22

  Jordan called Patricia from the car. “I’m on my way to Bear Creek Lake. I don’t have another assignment today, so I can help out with this breaking news.”

  “We have a crew on the way. They’re almost there. We don’t need you to report on it.”

  No no no no no. This was her story. This was the story she’d been working on ever since Flynn, Sal, and the shrimp boats. She deserved to be the face on this story when it aired. Crap!

  She might have to tip her hand. She was desperate. Desperate to impress, and desperate to be seen as a team player. And most of all, desperate to get past the disastrous tweeting incident.

  “I have some information to contribute to the story.” Jordan swallowed hard. Time to pull out all the stops. “This might be the beginning of a major typhoid fever outbreak in Tampa. Because it might be the work of the El Pulpo cartel.”

  Patricia huffed air out her nose like an angry rhinoceros. “Are you kidding me, Jordan? That’s called jumping to irresponsible conclusions. This is why we don’t put you on air.”

  Jordan bit her tongue and waited.

  “Well, this typhoid fever story is going to fill all of our newscasts today,” Patricia said, “so it’s not like we could run any other story from you today anyway. So go on. Go to the lake. I’ve got nothing better for you to do.”

  Yes! She’d prove Patricia had made the right choic
e. Jordan knew she could offer something to this story. She knew she simply had to do it.

  Jordan called her dad on the way over to let him know she wouldn’t see him today and why. He coped better when he knew about potentially dangerous situations before they happened. Made no sense to her. But he claimed he could at least pick and choose when to worry. Otherwise, he worried non-stop.

  She wanted to tell him about her visit to Groves and Diaz this morning. She wanted him to know they’d confessed to killing her mom. She wanted to tell him they’d killed Brenda because they were crazy. It wasn’t anything she’d done wrong.

  But that was news better delivered in person. Her day off was Tuesday. Ryser might also have the positive fingerprint report on Diaz and maybe the DNA match to Groves by then, too, which her dad would be relieved to see.

  She parked, got out and looked toward the lake. Calm fresh water glistened in the afternoon sun. The ground morphed from soil to sand as it approached the water’s edge. Portions of the lake were already cordoned off.

  Mack’s Raw Bar had been commandeered for the occasion. Mack’s was a local place with a Caribbean vibe. The specialty was fresh seafood, but he served burgers and salads, too. Jordan and just about everyone she knew had eaten here many times.

  Mack’s food was amazing, the atmosphere casual, and Mack hosted local bands for live music on the weekends.

  She loved the house specialty, raw conch salad. Fresh Gulf conch, right out of the shell. Raw fruits and vegetables, a bit of hot pepper, all chopped by hand. Fresh squeezed lime juice over everything. Her mouth was watering just thinking about it. Which was when her growling stomach reminded her she’d had nothing to eat today.

  She felt sorry for Mack, though. This whole thing was going to kill his business.