False Truth 10 (Jordan Fox Mysteries Series)

by Diane Capri

  About what? Did Theresa know about the ship, too? Jordan creased her forehead. “What news?”

  “Heather is moving to Dallas.” Theresa all but disappeared behind a smile wider than her face.

  Heather was a weekday general assignment reporter. Jordan felt a lightness in her chest she identified as hope she hadn’t felt in a while.

  Theresa raised her eyebrows, waiting for Jordan to guess who would replace Heather.

  “You?” Jordan wasn’t as thrilled by the possibility as she should have been. Theresa was her only real friend here. She wanted Theresa to stay nightside. “Will they move you from weekend nights to weekdays?”

  Theresa shrugged, still happy. “I’m cool with whatever. Regardless, it means they’ll need to hire a reporter. This is your chance.” She paused and nodded her chin to point over Jordan’s shoulder. “Or Drew’s.”

  Drew sauntered by, both hands resting in his pockets. He and Jordan locked gazes, sizing each other up.

  He grinned and broke the ice. “Should we arm wrestle for it?”

  Jordan smiled back, but she had a feeling he was half serious. The resolve she’d walked into the newsroom with bumped way up.

  She did care about Channel 12. The channel she grew up with and the one her mother loved. She deserved a spot on the team and she was here to prove it.

  “Jordan! Drew! Theresa!” Patricia eyed them from across the newsroom. “You guys gonna join us, or what?”

  They hustled over and grabbed empty seats around the conference table before Jordan had a chance to ask Theresa what happened to last night’s video. At this point, Patricia probably didn’t even know they’d been at the raid, unless Richard had called her in the past two minutes.

  Patricia commanded attention like the casual meeting had gained new importance. “I want to thank Drew for staying late at the condo scene where Maria Ortiz and the other victims were rescued. He went out there after midnight and stayed into the wee hours of the morning to cover the FBI raid and the arrests. Way to be a team player, Drew.”

  Patricia’s affection for Drew was officially over the top. Jordan looked at Drew out of the corner of her eye, an eye roll in disguise. Drew was beaming, of course. Even Antonio looked proud. He was pretty sure he’d given birth to a Winner. Jordan clamped her lips tight to hold back spewing negativity.

  Theresa piped right up, enthusiastic as always. “It was great to have the backup, Drew. Thanks for coming out to help Jordan and me. Way to go!” She flashed him two thumbs up.

  Patricia glared at Theresa. Jordan covered her laugh with a quick cough. And Drew had the sense to say a weak, “It was my pleasure.”

  This day was looking better already.

  Patricia pushed on. The big story of the day was a police officer involved in a hit-and-run car crash a couple hours before. He was okay, but the car had flipped and suspicious circumstances surrounded the crash. A dayside crew was already at the scene. Drew and Antonio were assigned to cover the investigation as it developed late in the afternoon and as the search for the driver possibly seeped into early evening.

  Theresa said she’d get last night’s FBI raid package ready for the eleven o’clock and she’d need Jordan because of the volume and importance of the story.

  Patricia gave in, but grudgingly. “That shouldn’t take all day. What else have you got, Jordan?”

  She could’ve pitched the morning boat bust story. She was at the scene before sunrise, while police lights were still flashing. But she wouldn’t admit she had no video. And she’d promised Detective Grey she’d keep everything she’d learned off the record.

  “I’m ready for whatever you’ve got for me.” She tried not to cringe when she offered.

  Patricia thumbed through her notes. “I’m going to send you to this juvenile detention center in Pearl County.”

  Pearl County was at least an hour’s drive. Crews were only sent there from Tampa if the story was really huge, or simply for busy work. Jordan knew which one this story was. Patricia wouldn’t send Jordan to a huge story if Jordan threatened to set her hair on fire.

  “There’s a new incentive program out there and the powers that be are excited about it.” Patricia mumbled through the notes. “A ropes course on campus, whatever that is. It goes from building to building or something. Do you want a photographer with you?”

  “Thanks for asking, but that won’t be necessary.” Jordan felt like an afterthought, a castaway. Sent to a location with maximum security. A story she couldn’t screw up or get herself in trouble with because the story was unnecessary. If she failed to deliver, nothing lost on Channel 12’s end.

  On the other hand, she’d let Patricia down before. Why would she rely on Jordan?

  Suck it up, Jordan. Show what you can do. Make this a front-page-worthy feature story. Give Richard a reason to support you.

  When the meeting broke up, Theresa walked with her. “I’ll get our video sorted out while you’re gone to Pearl County and start on the writing. We’ll finish up the package when you get back and submit for the eleven o’clock. How’s that?”

  “Thank you.” Jordan squeezed Theresa’s arm. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “No problem.” Theresa clacked off to the edit bay, high heels pounding her usual staccato rhythm.

  Jordan gathered her stuff and dashed out to collect a Jeep, making her plan as she moved. She’d complete the field work on the rope course story and get back by six o’clock. After that, she and Theresa would put together not one, but two dynamite packages for the eleven o’clock.

  Patricia would be too embarrassed not to approve both stories after she’d slobbered all over Drew in the meeting and been caught out. Maybe.

  “Or maybe she’ll torpedo you even worse. Just do what she asked you to do. And do it well. And on time. You can get out of your own way, can’t you?” She asked herself aloud.

  Jordan wrinkled her nose. “Hey, if I’m going down anyway, might as well make a big splash when I hit the water.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The trip to the detention center was interstate all the way. Very light Saturday afternoon traffic. An easy but boring drive for a woman operating on caffeine and nerves and less than three hours sleep.

  She should have accepted Patricia’s offer to send along a photographer. At least she’d have had someone to interrupt the boredom.

  “Okay, just talk to yourself, then. You do that all the time anyway and at least no one is sitting here to call you crazy. Maybe you can find a fresh angle on the ropes course story.”

  She wrinkled her nose and drove a few more minutes in peaceful silence.

  A blaring horn passing in the left lane startled her. She jumped and snapped to attention. The driver shook his fist has he went by and blasted the horn a few more times for emphasis.

  “What is your problem, buddy?”

  Another car passed on the left. More horns. More angry fist-shaking.

  She glanced into the rear view mirror and saw a line of traffic behind her.

  “What the hell?”

  She glanced down at the speedometer. The Jeep was traveling forty miles an hour. She’d zoned out. Lost track of her driving.

  “Oh my god!” She punched the accelerator. Two more vehicles passed while the Jeep leapt up to the seventy-mile-per-hour speed limit again.

  The distance between her Jeep and the vehicles behind her increased. She set the cruise control at seventy and put both hands on the wheel.

  Sternly, she said, “Start talking. Maybe you are crazy, but you can’t talk and fall asleep at the wheel at the same time.”

  She inhaled deeply and felt the soreness around her waist again. But shallow breathing would cause her to nod off again.

  “Okay. So this place is nothing more than a holding tank for teenaged miscreants. Young killers-in-waiting. Just like Aaron Robinson and Mark Gifford. They start young and they escalate. Why would anybody care about incentives for these criminals?”

  “You
r mom didn’t think like that. She wouldn’t give up on a fourteen-year-old boy. She believed youngsters could be saved and it was worth trying. She testified in support of Aaron Robinson at his manslaughter trial, remember?”

  “Yeah, and look where that got her.” An unpleasant wave of nausea rocked her stomach.

  Okay. Not helping. She sipped from the water bottle she’d grabbed on the way out and repositioned her hand on the wheel. The mile marker coming up showed she was still twenty mesmerizing highway miles away. Nothing but pasture land dotted here and there with cows as far as she could see.

  Try a different tack.

  “You’re a journalist. Be objective. This is your chance to shine. Make something out of this assignment. Your competition is fierce. Drew’s story will be branded something dramatic, something eye- and ear-catching like Developing Story.”

  Better. She was stronger with pep talks than arguments.

  “You’ve got to compensate with stunning visuals and sound bites. Otherwise, your story will be tucked between two lame commercials. Worse, it’ll air when the producers know viewers won’t pay any attention at all.”

  She saw her exit up ahead. An easy right. Five more miles and she reached the driveway. Finally.

  The detention center was a maze of concrete blocks and slabs of cement in the middle of nowhere. Acres of flat, dry grass were dying as winter’s spell crept closer. If the juveniles needed an incentive program, maybe a painting project and some landscaping would be a good place to start. This place was drabber than some adult prisons she’d seen during college internship assignments.

  She parked, collected her gear, and walked into the building marked Entrance. The man at the front desk gave her a visitor’s pass. A media representative helped her identify places to shoot the best video of the ropes course while rattling off the program’s supposed highlights.

  Jordan found the ropes course complicated and hard to fathom. Swell. Not only was the story a waste of time, it wouldn’t be even remotely interesting to Channel 12 viewers.

  She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead, as if her third eye would open some channel in her brain and reveal a magic way to save her assignment.

  No such luck.

  Jordan’s spirits lifted slightly when she actually saw the ropes course in action. A challenging series of rope ladders, tunnels, and various obstacles were strung thirty feet in the air from pole to pole. Juveniles could only conquer the course through teamwork and trust, both of which were in short supply for most delinquents housed here awaiting court dates or residential facilities after trial.

  Could a ropes course like this get delinquents back on a socially acceptable track after detention? If so, this ropes course was a winner. Maybe that could be her winning approach, too.

  Jordan set up and captured well-lit shots of the ropes course from creative angles. She grabbed ear-catching sound bites from school officials who were on hand and willing to field questions. She collected almost all the makings of a great package.

  If the story had been infused with meaning, like if they had let her highlight one juvenile’s successful journey through the program to achieve a normal productive life, she could’ve made the story even better.

  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 m
ail 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?”