False Truth 10 (Jordan Fox Mysteries Series)

by Diane Capri

  “It should. I can’t promise. Strange things happen at trials sometimes.” Ryser cleared her throat. “Still waiting on a possible match with Groves. But it looks like we don’t have a DNA sample from Diaz.”

  “Can’t you get one? I mean, can’t you just go swab his cheek or something?”

  “Don’t I wish.” Ryser’s sarcasm made Jordan feel a little more normal. “We’d need Brad Shane’s consent. Fat chance of that happening.”

  “Oh.” This conversation had more ups and downs than the stock market.

  “And before you ask, yes, we’re already trying to get a court order.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Don’t hold your breath.” Riser sounded weary now.

  “And the face recognition?” Jordan stood and paced the room. “Is Diaz really Mark Gifford? Because if he is, I might be able to find more evidence against him.”

  Jordan heard a phone ringing in the background. Ryser picked it up, said a few words Jordan didn’t hear followed by, “Hold on.”

  “Jordan, I’ve gotta go. The quick answer is, I believe they’re the same guy. But we’re still trying to confirm. I’ll call you as soon as I have more.”

  “Okay. Thanks,” Jordan replied, but Ryser had already hung up.

  CHAPTER 18

  She was back at the Pierce mansion now, and it was after midnight. Her police detail had come inside with her and searched the house. Now, two were stationed out front, and two more were stationed in a boat watching the back property line.

  Clayton would be here to stay the night when his shift ended.

  She hadn’t expected to solve the case in one day and she had good evidence in play with Ryser’s team. It was okay to sleep a few hours and pick things up tomorrow. She was exhausted, but too keyed up to sleep after her conversation with Ryser. If she went to bed now, she’d be looking at the ceiling for a couple of hours.

  The hot tub beckoned from the patio beyond the French doors. Surely she’d be safe there, with all the police around her, right?

  She poured herself a glass of wine and took a long sip. She changed into her swimsuit, collected her phone, found a towel, refilled the glass, and bought the wine bottle along to the hot tub.

  She sunk into the luxuriously heated water and sighed. Her muscles released their long-held tension. Even the bruises encircling her torso relaxed. It would be so nice to share moments like this with Tom.

  Maybe their relationship would go in that direction when Ryser busted El Pulpo’s boss and Jordan solved her mom’s murder. Maybe then, her life would finally be normal for a twenty-two-year-old.

  Wouldn’t that be great? Claire would love that, for sure. Girlfriends on the town. Jordan giggled. She felt a little tipsy. She sipped more wine and rested her head back to look at the stars.

  She hadn’t lived a normal life in such a long time. What would that be like? Her dad fully functioning. Maybe even back to the work he loved as a high school principal. No police following her around. No death threats against her or her dad. The freedom to do as she pleased. Date Tom. Sounds like heaven. She sighed again.

  She took another sip of her wine, and relaxed another notch. Ideas floated through her head. Maybe she could push some buttons if she confronted Groves and Diaz with her suspicions. Maybe they’d say something incriminating. Worth a shot.

  She reached for her phone to text Jenny Lane. This might be a stretch, but can you help me get into the jail to visit Groves and Diaz?

  Couldn’t hurt to ask, right?

  Jenny’s reply text came immediately. One word. No. That’s all. Not even an explanation. Zero wiggle room.

  Back to thinking. What did her mother’s murder have in common with the work of the cartel? Facts started to meld together in her mind, flowing with the relaxing water and the wine.

  The J/Hook symbol. That was all, really.

  But her mom had known Robinson and Gifford before they somehow became Groves and Diaz.

  Diaz drew the symbol in Claire’s car. He might have drawn it at Brenda’s murder.

  Somehow, he’d dropped a coin in her kitchen. That coin was under her body.

  Robinson and Gifford were selling drugs in middle school. Brenda knew that at some point. Where do middle school boys get drugs to sell?

  Maybe the drugs came from El Pulpo.

  Maybe that’s how the killers got away, too. On an El Pulpo shrimp boat.

  Who would know?

  El Pulpo.

  Hey! That rhymes! She giggled again.

  The first sip of her fourth glass of wine went straight to her head. It released the mental muscles that kept her from doing stupid things.

  Her thoughts leapt from lucid to loosely jumbled. Gazing at the steam escaping from the hot tub and rising into the night sky, she wondered whether Groves and Diaz would be released from jail.

  Groves had been offered a plea deal already. Diaz would probably deal, too. They had that shark lawyer, Shane. He might get them released. Maybe they’d go into witness protection, even, like Salvador Caster.

  If that happened, she’d never find them. They’d never be brought to justice. She’d never know for sure if they’d killed her mom. Or why.

  Her dad would always live under the cloud of suspicion. She’d never live a normal life.

  She couldn’t let them get away. Not again.

  She felt desperate. As if nothing would ever be right in her life again.

  She was tired of looking over her shoulder. Tired of hiding all the time. Tired of being watched and worried.

  She took another swig of wine and settled deeper into the water. Her eyes closed. Her breathing slowed. She felt so relaxed. More relaxed than she’d been in years.

  There must be something she could do to end all of this.

  El Pulpo was watching her. Trying to kill her. Trying to kill her dad, too.

  El Pulpo wanted her out of the way. She knew that much for sure.

  Maybe she should let them find her. That’s how Diaz was arrested. He’d kidnapped her and when Clayton’s team found her, they arrested four El Pulpo soldiers, including Diaz.

  Maybe she could do that again. On purpose this time. Set herself up. Let them walk right into a trap.

  Clayton and Ryser would hate the idea. She would act first, confess later.

  She could lure them out.

  They’d come after her when her detail was around. She’d tell Clayton and Ryser. They’d be ready, just like with the raid last night. The FBI would swoop in and capture the boss this time, too.

  Yes. Great idea. That would work. It worked once already.

  Twitter was the perfect choice. She could send a message to the world. Journalists did that all the time. Sent messages to the world.

  El Pulpo would see it because they saw everything she did.

  What should she tweet? What would bring El Pulpo out into the open to get her?

  She stumbled out of the hot tub, dried off, and laid flat on a poolside chair, covering herself with her wet towel.

  She typed: Hey Octopus King. You’re about to be calamari. Squid ink everywhere. Too spineless? Show yourself!

  Send tweet.

  Easy as that.

  Clayton would be here soon. She’d tell him her plan.

  She grinned as she fell asleep on the lawn chair.

  It was a stupid thing to do. She realized it when she woke up two hours later. She’d seen too many drunk tweeting disasters to have done something this dumb.

  What the hell is wrong with you, Jordan? You need a keeper. You can’t be left alone for a minute.

  She grabbed her phone and deleted the tweet, but the damage was done.

  Six missed calls. One from Detective Grey. Three from Agent Ryser. Two from Richard. Crap!

  No calls from Clayton. Curiously.

  Which was when she noticed the mansion was lit up like a football field. Uniformed police swarmed everywhere.

  How the hell did she sleep through all of that? It felt
like a tiny man with a hammer was beating the inside of her head.

  She was a prisoner inside her own life and this time, the prison was one she’d made herself.

  Clayton was walking toward her. The look on his face was pure fury.

  She had nowhere to hide. She stood and wrapped the still damp towel around her. “I’m going to get dressed.”

  She fled upstairs before he could utter a single word.

  CHAPTER 19

  What the hell had she been thinking? That question, in one form or another, came at Jordan from Clayton, Ryser, her police detail, Richard, and from Jordan herself. For the next three hours, she’d been battered and bruised by the questions for which she had no better answer than good intentions.

  What she’d really wanted when she sent the tweet was to get El Pulpo out of her life. What she’d accomplished was to make herself a bigger target and narrow her freedom even further.

  Ryser had been the angriest. She’d helped Jordan with the fingerprints and the DNA. She’d worked hard on the El Pulpo investigation for two years. She’d lost friends and colleagues along the way. And Jordan’s tweet made her job that much harder. Ryser didn’t appreciate that. Not even a little bit. Jordan didn’t blame her.

  When everyone who wanted to chew her out for sending that tweet finally stopped ranting, and her headache felt like Paul Bunyan slamming an axe between her temples, Jordan dragged herself to her room and tried to sleep.

  After twenty minutes, she gave up. She showered and dressed. She grabbed her sling bag and the heavy redwell.

  It was 6:15 a.m., more than an hour before sunrise.

  She felt an overwhelming certainty, deep in her gut that time was running out.

  Visiting hours at the Hills County Jail began at 6:30 a.m. She could be in and out again before Clayton even woke up.

  Her plan was simply to tell them she knew who they were, their real names. She’d say Hugo’s fingerprints were on the coin. She’d say the DNA matched to them both and let Hugo worry about where his sample had come from. She’d say she knew they’d killed her mother. She’d say they would be charged with the murder.

  What she wanted to know was why.

  She didn’t expect to get answers. Not really.

  But she wanted to look them in the eye and tell them she knew what they’d done. She wanted them to believe her. She wanted them to worry for a change.

  That wasn’t enough, and it wasn’t justice for her mom or her dad. Not by a long shot. Justice would come later.

  But this was something that only she could do. If she didn’t do it now, the chance might be lost forever.

  Downstairs, Clayton was snoring on the couch. She left a note on the kitchen counter so his head wouldn’t explode when he woke up and found her gone. She locked the back door and walked to the driveway.

  She locked the redwell in Hermes’s trunk and waved to the officer behind the wheel of the cruiser. Two minutes later, she was headed in the right direction. The cruiser followed behind her. Four miles west of downtown, she turned into the Hills County Jail visitor’s parking lot.

  From the second she approached the driveway until she left the premises again, she knew cameras would record every move, every word spoken by her and everyone else around her. She resisted the perverse urge to wave and smile at El Pulpo, the FBI, Tampa Police, and anyone else who might be watching.

  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 M
om 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.