False Truth 10 (Jordan Fox Mysteries Series)

by Diane Capri

  Jordan’s internal radar switched on the second Detective Grey mentioned Haiti. El Pulpo’s actions in Haiti were brutal and merciless, as she knew from first-hand experience. But she continued walking and said nothing.

  When they turned a sharp corner mid ship, Detective Grey stopped in front of a locked shipping container. “This is where we found them.”

  The container was metal, painted sickly green, and rusty around the joints. It was the kind of thing she might have seen transported on a passing freight train.

  Even inside the ship’s cavernous hull, the container looked huge. She had to stand back to see its whole length. It looked like it would probably hold three times as much as her college dorm room. “How big is this thing?”

  “This is what they call a forty-foot high-cube,” Detective Grey explained, standing aside and waving one of the officers forward. “It measures the same as a standard container, forty feet long by eight feet wide. But this high cube is a foot taller. Nine and half feet instead of the standard eight and a half.”

  Sweat dotted Jordan’s upper lip. “Were the girls locked inside this thing? All the way from Port-au-Prince? It’s got to be hot in there.”

  “Absolutely stifling,” Detective Gray replied. “It’s a wonder they weren’t all dead when we found them.”

  “Are they going to be okay?”

  “We’re waiting to hear back from the hospital on that.”

  The officer brought keys and unlocked both container doors. He pushed one door wide open. Hot air seemed to rush out. The interior was illuminated only by the ambient light from the now-open doorway. She could see into the interior for a distance of only about six or seven feet.

  Detective Grey pulled out a large flashlight, turned it on and aimed it inside.

  Jordan watched, dumbfounded. “You found how many girls in here?”

  The first ten feet or so beyond the natural light, as far as she could see in the flashlight’s beam, was filled from floor to ceiling with what looked like oak rum barrels. Maybe rats could scoot between them, but humans certainly could not.

  “Three. So far. But we’ve found more high-cube containers inbound and outbound, too.” Detective Grey shook his head. “We’re checking them now.”

  Jordan shivered.

  The barrels she’d seen in Haiti had the word “RUM” stamped on their flat tops. These abutting barrels stood upright, stacked on abutting pallets. Whether a stamp on the flat end identified the contents, she couldn’t see.

  “There’s a very narrow space here, along the right side,” Detective Gray moved his flashlight to show Jordan a dark, narrow corridor that seemed to run maybe half of the container’s forty-foot length. “About twenty feet back, there’s a small open area where we found the girls. Sleeping bags, a couple of gallons of water, and a bucket for a toilet. Not much else.”

  Detective Grey pulled out his phone and showed her photos of the sleeping quarters and the three girls officers had found there.

  “I don’t have claustrophobia, but I couldn’t be stuck in a place like that for ten minutes without freaking out.” Jordan shivered again. She stepped back from the container’s cave-like entrance. She swallowed cold, bitter coffee to force the bile down from her throat. “Maybe that’s what spooked Maria. Maybe she saw where Felix had planned to put her and she couldn’t deal with it.”

  “We considered that.” Detective Grey nodded. “But Maria didn’t clam up and turn into a puddle of jelly until she noticed these barrels that were used to define the space where the girls were hidden.” He touched the photo on his phone to enlarge the makeshift walls.

  Unlike the barrels at the front of the container, visible from the open door, these barrels were newer, smaller, and packed tighter together. They had stamps on the sides, but Jordan couldn’t read the stamps. Between the abutting pallets were wooden boxes, stacked in single columns, floor to ceiling, also stamped.

  “Haiti exports rum…” Made from sugarcane. Sugarcane was one thing Haiti had in abundance. She ran through all possible connections in her mind, which was still sluggish.

  “Well, here’s the thing,” Detective Grey said. “We opened a few of these boxes.”

  “Rum bottles inside, right?”

  “Probably. We sent the photos over to the FBI to see if they have any info to help. No word yet.” Detective Grey moved a bit closer and lowered his voice. “The bottles all have the same labels from a well-known Haitian rum distillery. They’re all sealed the same way. Some look like they’re filled with rum. But other bottles are definitely filled with something else. It’s thinner and clearer than the rum. Doesn’t look like alcohol of any kind.”

  “I’m sorry. I have no idea what it could be.” Jordan shook her head. “I didn’t see anything like that while I was in Haiti.”

  Detective Grey drained the last of his coffee, which must have been as cold as hers by now. “That’s what I figured. But can you ask Maria? Get her to tell you what she knows? Because something about those barrels and bottles has scared the bejesus out of her.”

  “Wish I could help. I’ll try. Let me take a look at the pictures one more time though?” Something in the photos had caught her eye. A symbol stamped or maybe burned into the oak barrels and the wooden boxes, too.

  She enlarged the photo to see the symbol better.

  It was a fish hook. There was a slight fishing line running through the top of the hook. The symbol looked very familiar, and it sent pulsing frissons along her spine.

  “Can I have copies of these photos?” She frowned and shook her head. “It’s frustrating. I feel like I know this symbol, but right at the moment, I can’t place it.”

  “If you’ll promise to keep this off the record for now, I’ll email one photo of the barrels and one of the bottles.” Detective Grey waited for her confirmation.

  “Okay. If I can figure it out, I’ll call you.” The best way to remember was to focus on something else and let the memory bubble up from wherever it was hiding. She turned to walk toward Maria. “I need to get back.”

  Detective Grey sent the photo emails and then fell in beside her. She had a lot to do today and she couldn’t spend the whole morning here at the port. “So what happened to Felix Marsh? Was he taken into custody?”

  “We’ve got him. We grabbed surveillance video from the port over the past seventy-two hours.” He hesitated briefly, as if he might disclose what he’d seen on the video, and then thought better of it. “Let’s just say, Mr. Marsh is going to be spending the next five World Cups in prison.”

  Jordan blinked and cocked her head. That was an odd way to say he’d spend twenty years behind bars. “What do you mean?”

  “Gotta love poetic justice.” Detective Grey grinned like a man with a clever secret. “Turns out Marsh is a soccer nut. Loves the sport. Loves it. Played as a kid, bets on the games, goes to every World Cup. If he’d been paying attention instead of watching soccer on TV when you sent that drone up to his condo last night, he might be a free man today.”

  “Poetic justice, for sure.” Jordan nodded absently. But the soccer connection was more than that. Soccer seemed to be at the center of every El Pulpo case she’d reported. In fact, soccer and the upcoming bid for the World Cup had been a big story in Tampa for the past few weeks. But it mostly was out of sight, out of mind for her. Covering sports wasn’t her job, and she had little interest except when her friends were playing.

  She made a mental note to run that lead down as soon as she could, too.

  When they rounded the last corner, Jordan spied Maria and the social worker standing in the same spot on the dock near two police cruisers. Weak daylight had arrived while Jordan was inside the ship.

  She approached and talked to Maria but the girl was too traumatized by whatever had spooked her. Jordan got nothing more from her than Detective Grey already knew.

  “Thanks for trying, Jordan. And don’t forget, I owe you.” He shook her hand.

  She wouldn’t forget. Not a
chance. And she knew exactly what she’d ask for in return for this favor, when the time was right. Her Tampa police detail followed her out of the parking lot. Clayton must have told them to keep an eye on her.

  CHAPTER 6

  Although it was still early, barely after sunrise, Jordan stopped to have a quick breakfast with her dad. Rising before the sun was a habit Nelson Fox had never tried to break. Her police detail had followed her to the Thompson Street house and parked on the street to wait. Her dad’s police detail was parked in the driveway.

  She didn’t want her dad to worry. She believed stress had caused his stroke almost five years ago. His recovery had been slow, but steady. She certainly didn’t want to give him another one. Stress was his number one enemy.

  Well, at least stress was his biggest enemy until his nosey daughter painted a bull’s-eye on his back. She gave him a big hug and didn’t wince when he squeezed her waist, still tender from last night.

  She stayed less than an hour. Long enough to be sure he was okay and to let him reach the same false conclusion about her.

  After breakfast, she drove Hermes to the first intersection and stopped at the traffic light. Left or right? She tapped both thumbs on the steering wheel.

  Turn right toward the mansion? No. Clayton was still sleeping on the couch. He needed sleep as much as she did. Maybe more. But she’d call him soon to get rid of her watchdogs. She couldn’t do her job with a Tampa police cruiser following her around everywhere.

  Too early to go to work, too. She didn’t have the energy she’d need to face more than a full shift with the assistant news director, Patricia Neil, breathing down her neck. Not yet. Not after everything she’d been through in the past twenty-four hours.

  Suck it up, Jordan. Turn left.

  Her appointment with the lawyer wasn’t for another hour and she’d planned to reschedule. The legal file containing everything her dad’s lawyer had collected while Nelson was a person of interest in Brenda Fox’s murder investigation was important, but not urgent. Everything contained in the file had been there for five years already.

  But if she could swing by there now, at least she wouldn’t be wasting time.

  When the light cycled to green, Jordan’s little blue Honda sub-compact, Hermes, turned left. Like he had a mind of his own.

  Jennifer Lane’s law office was located on Cleveland Street near Howard Avenue in one of several historic buildings recently renovated for professional offices instead of the private homes they’d been at the turn of the twentieth century.

  Hermes had covered the short distance as fleetly as his name implied. This time, Jordan didn’t miss the driveway to the parking entrance on the first pass. Jenny’s car was the only one in the lot.

  She called Jenny’s number and waited.

  After seven rings, the lawyer answered, maybe a bit preoccupied. “Jordan?”

  She imagined the friendly young lawyer running her hands through black curly hair, maybe a little annoyed that Jordan had interrupted her work.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m a bit early, but I had a little time before my next meeting. Could I pick up the file now?”

  “Where are you?”

  “In your parking lot.” Jordan didn’t mention her police detail was sitting not fifty feet away, too.

  “Yeah, sure. I’ll unlock the front door.”

  Jenny Lane waited on the wide verandah. She was dark, compact and totally unthreatening. She was dressed in jeans, flats, and a white boyfriend shirt. She looked younger today than the last time Jordan was here. Brown curly hair, very little makeup, and totally casual. The dimple in her chin flashed when she smiled. “Come on in.”

  She took a deep breath before walking into the building, even though she knew it wouldn’t help much. The old building was dusty and made Jordan sneeze.

  Jenny closed the front door and locked it. “The file is back here.”

  Jordan followed the shorter woman through the parlor to Jenny’s personal office at the opposite end of the corridor. They sat in navy blue leather client chairs on the front side of Jenny’s desk.

  Logistically, collecting the murder file felt strangely simple. After a few words of small talk, Jordan handed over the consent form signed by her dad, and Jenny Lane used two hands to deliver a thick, expandable red file with an elastic stretched around it.

  That was all. No lightning or thunder. The ground didn’t open up and swallow Jordan. Nothing like that.

  “The original file materials are in that redwell, but I’ve kept copies.” Jenny’s perfectly arched brows dipped low over the bridge of her nose and her eyes softened. “Be careful, Jordan. Once you look at those materials, you can’t unsee any of it. Be very sure you want to live with those images and facts in your head forever, okay?”

  Jordan nodded. Now that she had the file, she wanted desperately to leave. She hugged the redwell close to her chest. “I understand.”

  “I hope you do, but I’m worried that you don’t know what you’re wrapped up in here.” Jenny Lane sat a little closer and placed a hand on Jordan’s forearm. “I’ve been following the reporting you’ve been doing on El Pulpo. Especially the arrests.”

  Jordan raised her eyebrows. The statement surprised her. She nodded.

  Jenny paused and cleared her throat, as if she was searching for the right words. “You know Hugo Diaz and Evan Groves and a few of the others have the same attorney, right? Don’t think for a second that’s a coincidence.”

  What was she driving at? Jordan hadn’t told anyone about Evan Groves’s connection to her mom or the other connections she’d discovered. She’d tried to contact FBI Agent Terry Ryser for the past two days to talk about it, but they hadn’t connected yet.

  “They’re both El Pulpo cartel, arrested on cartel business.” Jordan blinked to clear the fog in her head. “Stands to reason they’d have the same lawyer on speed dial, doesn’t it?”

  Jordan hugged the redwell tighter. Odd thing was, Clayton said the lawyer was waiting at the jail for Hugo Diaz. Which meant Diaz didn’t need to call him at all.

  “Maybe.” Jenny nodded slowly. “Or maybe they have a lot more in common.”

  “Like what?” Jordan’s internal radar was up, but she was tired and she wasn’t sharp enough for a game of mental hide-and-seek right now.

  “Brad Shane has been around a long time,” Jenny said, stalling.

  A cold chill crept up Jordan’s back. Steady. Wait for it. Here it comes.

  “Brad Shane was Anthony Grantham’s law partner at the time of your mother’s death.” Jenny watched Jordan’s face as if she expected a particular reaction, but what?

  “Anthony Grantham.” The piece of news held more weight than Jordan could absorb at the moment, so she let it ghost right through her. She nodded. “My dad’s original attorney.”

  “Right.”

  “Was Shane connected to El Pulpo back then?”

  “Hard to say.” Jenny shook her head. “I wasn’t living in Tampa when all of this happened. I moved here a few months later.”

  “But my dad’s lawyer didn’t know Shane was connected to El Pulpo, right?”

  Jenny took a deep breath. Her voice was a little unsteady. “Honestly, I don’t know. Anthony Grantham was a fine man. It’s hard to believe he’d associate with a crime cartel.”

  Now Jordan narrowed her eyes and frowned. “But you’re worried. You think El Pulpo’s lawyer could have been connected to Dad’s defense somehow.”

  “Probably not. I hope not.”

  “You’ve read the file. You know things I don’t know. Why did the police stop treating my dad like a person of interest?”

  CHAPTER 7

  “That’s not exactly what happened.” Jenny leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms.

  “Well, for weeks they were hounding him constantly. He lost his job. We couldn’t stick our heads out the front door of our house. I couldn’t go back to school.” Jordan took a breath. “And then it just stopped. No
more media. No cops following us everywhere. Nothing. Why?”

  Jenny narrowed her eyes and gazed at Jordan for a few moments. She seemed to reach a decision of some kind. She inhaled deeply, which was a trick Jordan used to steady her nerves.

  “Crime scene investigators found a coin, a quarter actually, under Brenda’s body.”

  Jordan stared as if she’d said aliens had landed right in this very room. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Forensics pulled a partial thumbprint from one side and a partial forefinger print from the other. Not belonging to Nelson or Brenda. Or you.” Jenny paused. “Mr. Grantham insisted the coin was left behind by the killer.”

  Jordan’s mouth was dry as the Sahara. Her mind raced. Left behind. Did the killers leave anything behind? The question was asked at the press conference after Brenda’s murder. The police chief had said no, nothing was left behind. That’s what the papers reported at the time. What Jordan had read and believed.

  But on the video she watched two days ago, Jordan saw the police chief say no, nothing was left behind, while his head nodded yes.

  He’d lied. Simple as that.

  What other lies had she believed?

  She forced the words past her parched throat. “So they found evidence that someone else was there before my mom died.”

  “The coin doesn’t really prove anything.” Jenny explained carefully, maybe because Jordan’s face looked as green as her stomach felt. “It was the location of the coin, found under her body, which meant it was dropped there sometime before she landed on it.”

  Jordan absorbed each word like a body blow. She said nothing.

  “But lots of coins are lying around everywhere. That alone wouldn’t have created reasonable doubt.” Jenny stopped as if Jordan needed a moment to comprehend.

  Jordan waited.