by Diane Capri
“It’s not the end of the world.” Theresa patted her shoulder. “I’ll keep helping you. Ever notice one thing Drew does that you rarely do? He tags along with a reporter. Makes him more bullet proof because they figure if Antonio wants him around, he must be doing a good job.”
“But that’s just crap. Drew is a good guy. Hell, I like him as much as everyone else does.” Jordan blew a long stream of anger through her lips and rubbed the back of her neck.
Theresa grinned and grabbed Jordan’s arm. “Come on, the Department of Health is setting up over by the lake for a presser. We’ll listen in and take notes for reporting later.”
Jordan let Theresa lead her along. She appreciated Theresa. A lot. But she wanted to beat Drew—not become Drew. She could do that if she used the info she’d acquired on her own and show some of the right kind of assertive attitude that Richard said he wanted.
She tapped her foot waiting for the press conference to start. Puffs of dirt rose from the ground like smoke.
Theresa leaned in for another quiet exchange. “Did you see who just showed up?”
Jordan looked around. It was Richard. “He’s here? On a weekend? That means this story is a huge deal, huh.”
“Safe to say.” Theresa tapped on her phone, probably pulling up a note-taking app for the press conference.
All of the media and most other officials closed in as the presser started. The official at the microphone confirmed two new typhoid fever cases in quarantine at Tampa Southern Hospital, confirmed that the lake water was being tested for typhoid-causing bacteria, and stated that it made no sense that typhoid would be in Tampa.
Nothing Jordan didn’t already know.
Officials stressed that people should not panic and that the serious cases were caused by a failure to seek early treatment, but everyone should stay out of Bear Creek Lake as a precaution.
But they didn’t mention Dr. Ross and the other members of her medical team. And he said nothing about the death of Dr. Eric Lee. Why not?
After the basic facts were issued, one reporter asked if this could be some kind of bacterial warfare, possibly connected to MacDill Air Force Base, which was located at the southern end of Tampa Bay. The question created a buzz humming through the crowd.
The speaker laced his fingers together, calmly. “There is no indication of that right now, but a thorough investigation is under way. Typhoid wouldn’t be the most likely mechanism for that because it’s easily treatable. But, again, we are investigating.”
As the press conference wrapped up, Antonio handed a microphone to Drew. The pair strutted to an empty spot by the lake, and Antonio shot video while Drew did a stand-up report. Richard stood by, supervising.
When he finished his report, Richard flashed Drew two thumbs up.
CHAPTER 23
It’s okay. You still have an advantage, Jordan.
She knew Drew couldn’t be reporting on anything except a summary of what the officials had said in the press conference. Which could only be so compelling.
But Jordan was different. She had more info. If she could make an argument as to why this typhoid fever outbreak was connected to El Pulpo. Not just that it maybe was, but that it had to be. Then she’d win the day for sure.
The evidence was certain in her head. The typhoid-infused water was in a barrel stamped with the cartel’s symbol. On the same ship where criminal cartel activity had occurred. When the FBI had caught Maria and the other human trafficking victims, they’d snared a twofer.
So how to prove that? It was her new angle. She had to figure it out, and fast.
Jordan distanced herself from Theresa, who’d become distracted anyway. She walked to a deserted part of the shoreline to think up a good plan.
The sky was overcast. Lone seagulls squawked here and there, seeming as desperate for food as she was for answers.
She walked farther from the frenetic activity at Mack’s, her feet pressed deeper into the soft, moist sand. The thin soles of her ballet-style flats were wet now, but she barely noticed.
Step. Think. Step. Think. Step. Think. OW!
What the hell was that? A sharp piercing pain shot through the ball of her left foot. She looked down. A thick, finger-sized shard of glass spiked her foot to her shoe like a human kebob.
She gritted her teeth against the throbbing, held her ankle with both hands, and plopped down in the wet sand to examine. Drops of blood trickled out of sole of her shoe. The glass shard filled the cut and stopped blood from gushing.
She was a couple hundred yards away from Mack’s now. She looked at the sand around her, then toward the trees farther up the shoreline. Wet sand glistened in the afternoon sunshine. Too bright, she thought.
Jordan pushed herself up on her right foot and balanced on her left heel. She hopped over to the spot under the trees she’d seen sparkling in the sun.
The sunlight had bounced off a cache of glass containers piled high in an overflowing recycle dumpster. Among the pickle jars and juice bottles and the like, she saw a variety of empty alcohol bottles. Vodka bottles in various infused flavors, beer and wine bottles, and a good number of empty rum bottles.
The rum bottles looked identical to the ones she’d seen on the ship. Same type, same distinct Haitian rum label, same everything. The labels were torn and worn, but she’d recognize them anywhere.
Bottles like these had carried typhoid-causing bacteria from Haiti to Tampa. And now the glass was in her foot. She bent to pick up one of the empty bottles and examine it.
Nearby, tree leaves and tall grass rustled. Jordan gasped and looked around wildly. Before she screamed, Detective Grey said, “What the hell are you doing out here?”
He looked down at her bleeding foot, then at the empty rum bottle in her hand. “Are you tampering with evidence?”
No no no no. “Not at all. I stepped on this glass, and then I found the source of it. There are these bottles over here.”
He walked over to look in the recycle bin and the surrounding area. “The same type of bottles we found on the ship. You just stumbled upon these?”
“I promise.”
“Drop it.”
She did.
“I’ll send a team to collect the bottles. Let’s get you to first aid.” He scooped her up, one hand beneath her knees and one hand around her back, and jogged across the sand and then the marshy grass.
He was a big guy. Made her feel like a rag doll, limbs flopping as they approached the network news van. “They have supplies for a makeshift triage center over here.”
Her voice bounced as they covered the distance to the vans. “You know I wasn’t tampering with evidence, right?” Jordan couldn’t afford to get in trouble with police again. “I stumbled upon those bottles.”
“We’re not going to charge you for tampering with evidence for Christ sake.” He was kind of puffing now. At five-foot-nine, she wasn’t a light load to carry. “We’d been looking for something like that recycle bin. Thanks for finding it for us.”
Okay. That’s more like it. Finally, she’d done something right. Even if she hadn’t meant to do it at all.
“I’ve been trying to call you.” Jordan tried to keep her voice as steady as possible. “I want to collect on that favor you promised me.”
“I said I owe you and I meant it.” He puffed a little with every word. “But right now, I’ve got my hands full.”
“Ha ha. Very funny.” But she smiled anyway. “You worked on my mom’s case. How much influence do you have now? Because I know who killed her. I want the killers charged and brought to justice. And I want an apology for my dad.”
He slowed to a fast walk. The stern lines in his face screamed serious cop, but the glimmer in his light brown eyes whispered compassion. “I don’t have any control over any of that, Jordan. I wish I did. But after this is all over, we’ll see what we can do. How’s that?”
“Thanks,” she said, because one word was all she could force past the lump in her throat.
/> CHAPTER 24
The paramedic on scene was a tall, slender guy. Maybe thirty-five. Her foot was propped up on his knee. “On the count of three, I’m going to pull the glass out. Okay?”
Jordan squeezed her eyes closed. “Don’t count, just do it.”
The shard slid out of her foot and she felt the glass stretching her skin as he pulled. She winced and kept her eyes closed, as wet and dry materials dabbed at her now glass-free foot.
She opened her eyes. “How bad was it?”
“The glass was pushed up in there pretty good, but I think it’ll be okay if you don’t make it worse.” The paramedic applied a bandage in several layers. “I cleaned it up and doused it with antiseptic. I put three butterfly stitches on it to hold it together. The bleeding’s stopped. You’ll need to keep weight off this foot for a few days.”
She was Jordan Fox on Two Capable Legs. “Do I have to stay off both feet? Can I get crutches and hobble?”
“You can hobble on one leg. You can balance on your left heel. Just don’t put pressure on the ball of your left foot.” He was poking around, maybe looking to be sure he’d removed all the glass. “Otherwise those butterfly strips won’t hold and you’ll need stitches.”
“Okay. Um, one other thing.” The question might be stupid, but she’d ask anyway. “Say there was typhoid-infected water in that glass when it used to be a bottle. Would I be infected with typhoid now, even if I got the vaccine?”
“Check with your physician because I’m not an expert. But the bacteria that causes typhoid fever, which is a strain of salmonella, needs to be ingested. Your doctor may advise you to get an antibiotic just in case.” He wrapped her foot in gauze and then a wide elastic bandage to hold everything in place. “The bigger issue here is tetanus. Tetanus lives in the ground in Florida and could easily get into a cut like this. When is the last time you were vaccinated?”
“About a month ago. I spent a week in Haiti, so I got all my vaccines and boosters before I went.”
“Great. You should be good, then. Take a couple of Tylenol if it bothers you. Be careful about infection.” The paramedic packed up his first aid kit and left.
Her pained breathing had normalized when Richard poked his head into the live truck. The place had room for about four to sit uncomfortably, plus multiple television monitors, computers, and other equipment. It was like a traveling control room.
“Fox. I heard you got hurt.”
“Just a cut. Nothing serious.” She couldn’t be seen as a liability again. She looked down and shook her head. “I was on a walk. Stepped on some glass.”
“Glad to hear it’s not serious. I was surprised to see you here at all.” He ducked his head in through the entrance and folded his long body into a little chair across from her. “I knew Drew was at the station working but I figured you were taking the day off.”
Jordan suspected he didn’t think that, and wanted to hear it from her own mouth. But the last thing she wanted was to get into a discussion about her tweeting.
She winced as a surge of pain ran through her foot. “I got word that the water in the mysterious bottles police found on the ship after the FBI raid was typhoid bacteria contaminated water, so I wanted to come here right away.” Now, before he had a chance to accuse her of not sharing an inside scoop or something, she threw even more information at him. “We need to figure out why El Pulpo is spreading typhoid fever.”
“Say what?” Richard’s surprised expression was almost comical.
“You told me I need to start sharing my investigations with Channel 12. This can’t be a coincidence. Typhoid contaminated water was confiscated from the ship El Pulpo was using for human trafficking.”
“What does human trafficking have to do with typhoid?”
The sting in her foot sent tingles up her ankle toward her knee. “Human trafficking. Perpetrated by the El Pulpo cartel. Typhoid. Perpetrated by the same cartel.” She gritted her teeth, the pain from the cut throbbed all the way to her hip. “The question is why did they do this? What do they want?”
Antonio poked his head into the van, with Drew’s head bobbing in the background behind him.
“Did somebody say cartel?” Antonio asked.
“Jordan, tell Antonio and Drew everything you know or suspect about the typhoid fever’s connection with El Pulpo. You’re injured. You can’t even walk. And this is a big enough story that we need a real reporter like Antonio to front it.” Richard nodded toward them. “Antonio and Drew, get on the air with whatever you can confirm as soon as possible. Without mentioning the cartel, unless you run it by the FBI first.”
A real reporter like Antonio? Where was Antonio when she was kidnapped? Was his house bombed? Has El Pulpo been trying to kill him? She had done all of the work and uncovered the story. Now Antonio and Drew would get their faces on her story?
Real reporter my ass.
Her blood simmered until the pain in her foot pulsed hard enough to shove her anger out of the way.
“Okay. Will do.” She couldn’t stand up, anyway. Richard was right. The story was more important than whose face was on it when it aired.
And sharing the info would show she was a team player like Richard had asked her to be. Whatever made Richard happy was probably in her best interest at this point.
“Thanks. Keep me posted.” Richard rose from his little seat and exited the van, making room for Antonio and Drew. Jordan told them about the bottles on the ship at the port and the bacteria contamination that causes typhoid, since the FBI had given her permission to tell that to Patricia earlier.
She was surprised they hadn’t heard already. They must have been so focused on the official information from the news conference that they hadn’t searched for other news.
They ran off with notepads and camera gear after only a couple minutes of details from Jordan.
She pulled a couple of Tylenol out of the first aid kit and swallowed them dry. She’d need to get her hands on a pair of crutches, if she could. She didn’t have time to end up in the ER for stitches.
Where was that paramedic? Her foot wasn’t bleeding through the bandage. A good sign. She wouldn’t be able to wear heels for a while. Definitely no training for Tom’s 5K for a while, either.
The good news was that stepping on that glass had led her to discover the broken bottles. If those bottles could be tied back to El Pulpo and prove El Pulpo had deliberately contaminated the lake, her war wounds would be well worth it.
Theresa showed up in the doorway. She hugged Jordan. “My baby junior reporter.” Theresa pouted her lips. “What has the cartel done to you?”
“Oh, please. It’s my own fault. I shouldn’t have wandered off.”
“Why did I see cops taking the bottle that cut you for evidence?”
Jordan had told Patricia, Richard, Drew, and Antonio. She might as well tell Theresa now. “The bottle contained water that was contaminated with high concentrations of typhoid fever causing bacteria.”
“Why would a rum bottle have typhoid in it?”
“Long story. It’s the cartel’s doing. The real question is why the hell is El Pulpo spreading typhoid fever?”
“Beats me.” Theresa shrugged. “I’ll leave you to ponder that. I’ve gotta run to my five o’clock live shot, okay? I just wanted to check on you.”
Jordan nodded. “I appreciate it.”
She had asked the question aloud, and Theresa had blown it off. Theresa was a good reporter in part because she stuck to the facts and reported the news that was already out there. She played it safe.
But Jordan wanted to go well beyond that. Maybe Richard was right. Maybe she didn’t really want to be a reporter at all. If real reporters were nothing but followers playing on the lame team like Antonio and Drew? Or if real reporters played it safe all the time like Theresa? No thanks.
“Why is El Pulpo spreading typhoid fever?” Stating the question aloud somehow made it seem more legitimate. So she said it again. “Why is El Pulpo spre
ading typhoid fever?”
In the live truck, she was surrounded by television monitors. She reached to turn up the volume on the cable news network, which appeared to be starting its five o’clock newscast with breaking national news.
“Tonight, two typhoid fever cases in Tampa, Florida, were reported under strange conditions.”
The story had made national news.
“We are now discovering there are not one, not two, but four active cases,” the anchor continued, “and the number could be growing. Some reports indicate as many as two dozen people in Tampa are suffering from typhoid fever tonight, with more beyond that showing symptoms.”
El Pulp had operated under the radar in Tampa for years. But this time, they’d done something so blatantly public that the news spread like wildfire. Unusually sloppy work for these guys.
Jordan’s spine tingled and she felt light-headed as she realized what was happening. They, the media, were giving the cartel exactly what they wanted by reporting on it at all, weren’t they? Was the publicity, the national news, Channel 12, and even Jordan herself, helping the cartel to achieve their goal?
Whatever that goal was.
CHAPTER 25
Jordan hobbled to hop out of the van. She spotted Richard across the way, and hopped to him as fast as she could on one leg. She wouldn’t be accused of withholding information again, even if it made her look crazy.
He put a hand on her shoulder. “Jordan, take it easy. You don’t need to be hobbling around out here. I won’t hold it against you if you want to sit in the news van or go home.”
“Listen. I just realized something. The media coverage is helping them. El Pulpo.” She was out of breath from the hopping. “They’re trying to attract attention. We need to figure out why they’re doing this.”
Richard scrunched his eyebrows and nodded, like he wanted to believe her, but wasn’t quite on the same page. “The thing is though, we’re not investigators, Jordan. We can’t allow criminals to prevent us from doing our job. Which is reporting the news and public health concerns to the viewers we serve, and doing it well. Which means thoroughly, even if it makes criminals mad at us.”