by Diane Capri
She plastered her attention to the twists and turns of the one-way streets back to the station. When she reached the garage, she waved at the guard and pulled into a spot hidden from street view. She shifted into park and turned off the engine and waited while her breathing slowed and her heart stopped slamming against her sternum.
Jordan looked toward the garage entrance. Nothing. No vehicles of any kind within her view.
Maybe they hadn’t tried to follow her at all. She’d never seen them. Not once.
She was pretty sure she was safe. Physically.
Even the octo’s camera wouldn’t have seen her face clearly in the dim light. But Hugo had seen her yesterday and Wednesday, and he knew she came from Channel 12…and if he saw the Channel 12 vehicle there again today…he would assume it was her.
He could get her name from Calhoun. Or from the internet.
She could be identified, grabbed any time by four men, even at home while her dad slept soundly two doors down…Stop it!
Jordan dashed upstairs to the newsroom and returned the keys. She wanted as much distance from that vehicle as possible. Her knees were wobbly, and her hands were sweaty, but she was safe.
For now.
She needed a break from drones and Hugo and all the rest. She had several hours to work and she didn’t want to draw Patricia’s attention. Where could she hide?
Jordan knew the answer. She drew a deep breath. Time to watch that video. The 11 p.m. newscast from the night of her mother’s murder. This time with audio. She’d been too chicken to both watch and listen the first time around. Now, she had more stamina. She had to do this.
Saturday night was a good time. Not too many people nosing around, asking what she was doing. Except for Patricia.
Jordan sneaked into her favorite edit bay at peeked around the corner. Drew and Antonio were sitting at the Assignment Desk with Patricia. She was fluffing her hair and laughing like a teenager. Thanks for distracting her, Drew.
Jordan hurried to the shelves of mini tapes in the archives before she lost her nerve. She grabbed the tape she needed, stuffed it in the machine, and slid the sliding glass door closed.
The hardest part was hitting play. She counted to three. Then she pressed the play button.
Breaking news tonight at 11. A Tampa woman, a wife, mother, and middle school guidance counselor, murdered in cold blood. Stabbed to death for no apparent reason. Police are on the search tonight for suspects. They’ve canvassed the neighborhood, and will continue the search throughout the night.
Chopping helicopter blades filled the pause at the end of the reporter’s clip. She’d forgotten about the helicopters circling overhead that night.
She watched the video closely again, too. The reporter standing in front of her house. She looked for the boot prints that police said led from the back door to the Hills River, at which point the killers, police suspected, had escaped in a small johnboat.
That was one reason police had initially suspected Brenda Fox’s husband, Nelson. They accused him of stealing the neighbor’s johnboat. Saying Nelson would have known it was there and how to use it.
The notion was ridiculous. Nelson wouldn’t have needed a boat. He had a car. And besides, he’d been at a school meeting. Dozens of people saw him there.
Jordan watched the tape again, this time in slow motion, her nose close to the screen, hoping by some miracle she’d spot a rogue boot print or something else that the police hadn’t caught.
No such luck.
Her mother had made sure every square inch of their front yard was covered in grass or other carefully-placed bushes and flowers. She had loved gardening. And that’s what the front yard displayed, every season throughout the year.
There were a handful of criminals living within a two-mile radius of the crime back then. Most were child predators or otherwise didn’t match the criminal profile, so police hadn’t followed up with them.
She should get their names. She should check whether any had an updated criminal record that might make them a suspect now.
She should take Channel 12 assignments in her old neighborhood.
There was so much more she could be doing. And she would be doing more. Starting today. She pulled out her phone and made a list of these items and more.
She’d interview Channel 12’s investigative reporter Sandy Wall. He’d covered Brenda’s case more extensively than any other reporter. He worked dayside now, and usually not from the downtown Tampa building, but a south county burearu. Jordan had yet to cross paths with him. But she would and when she did, she’d have a plan. She’d know how to approach him and what to ask.
A flurry of excited voices, ringing phones, and scanner noises erupted from the other side of the edit bay. She signed off her computer and jogged to the other side that ran parallel to the newsroom.
Antonio ran past.
“What’s going on?” she called after him.
He barely paused. “Plane down. Plane crash over Tampa Bay off the Saint Petersburg Pier.” He was out of breath. Jordan stilted, unsure which direction to run. She found herself in the Feeds Room with Patricia, where video was rolling in from an external source.
Where did it come from? Probably a local freelancer shot the video and then sold it to all the local stations. For a story like this, all the stations would pony up the dough.
The video showed a small crowd at the edge of a park on the water’s edge, some people holding each other, others pointing toward the post-sunset sky and the water. Ambulance lights swirled and fire trucks stood by.
Patricia frowned at Jordan. “Get on the Assignment Desk and help me answer phones.” Her tone was even bossier than usual. “There were dozens of witnesses. We want one who has video of the crash. Answer every phone call. We will pay for video of the crash.”
“Do we have a reporter out there?” Jordan asked Felicia, the weekend night producer typing furiously at her keyboard..
“Theresa’s already there at the Skyway. Antonio’s on the way.” Felicia directed her voice across the room to Patricia. “Did you hear Theresa already found half a dozen witnesses to talk on the phone? Cruise ship passengers are a solid option. Somebody said there were fireworks off the pier tonight. Was there a fireworks display tonight?”
Jordan ran up the steps to the top tier of the Assignment Desk. Patricia had yelled at her to answer phones, but so far there weren’t any calls. Knowing Patricia, she’d blame the lack of incoming phone calls on her.
Jordan searched the internet for any news about a fireworks display tonight and found nothing.
The sun had barely set at the time of the crash anyway. Too early for fireworks.
She opened the station’s emails, which, unlike the phone calls, were flooding in faster than she could keep up with them.
She went through the emails with pictures first. Dozens of witnesses? That appeared to be accurate. And it seemed half of them had taken photos.
Most of the photos were dark shots of water. Not helpful.
But one photo revealed a speck in the distance on the water’s edge.
Jordan zoomed in. It was the upper half of a white, sinking, splintered Cessna airplane. The numbers and letters on the side of the plane were just barely still visible above the water line. Jordan jotted them down quickly, as if they might sink before her eyes.
Patricia poked her head out from the Feeds Room. “One man dead,” she yelled across the newsroom.
Jordan stood to make herself heard. “Man? You said man. Was it a man?”
Patricia peered out from the Feeds Room again. “I don’t know. One person killed, I should say. Identity not released.”
Jordan grabbed the paper where she had written down the plane registration number. She typed it into a search engine. Boom. A long list of airplane registration sites showed up.
“Dennis Raine,” Jordan yelled out. “The plane was registered to a Dennis Raine.”
Although that didn’t mean he was the pilot, it was
the only name she had to go on so far.
An internet search showed homes in Miami and Tampa. A social media website showed a wife and a teenager daughter, his arms wrapped around both of them on the beach.
CHAPTER 19
As the eleven o’clock news started, Jordan perched at the Assignment Desk alongside Patricia, waiting anxiously to see how the various local television stations would cover the crash.
Witnesses reported fireworks. Other witnesses reported a single loud boom. The latest reports from officials confirmed there was only one man—the pilot—in the plane when it crashed, and that he did not survive. The victim’s name wouldn’t be released until the family was notified.
Jordan monitored a row of televisions, all airing the competition simultaneously. She’d be responsible for comps, which were a summary of the top stories every station aired.
Jordan made a list of the local stations and jotted down the top story for each. It was the same across the board. The plane crash led every local newscast.
Patricia reached over and turned the volume up on one television. “What the hell is this?”
Channel 17 showed a Breaking News graphic.
This just in, the anchors on Channel 17 reported. We now have audio of the voice transmission from the pilot, just moments before the crash. We are going to play it for you now. A word of caution, some of you may find it disturbing.
A panicked voice spoke in the recording:
“Hey, departure, you got any traffic in the area?”
“I’m not painting anybody in your area at the moment.”
“Departure? It’s a big white…machine. White possible UAV with a purple and green pattern.”
“Holy shit—”
“How the hell did they get that audio?” Patricia snarled the words more than spoke them.
Jordan barely heard Patricia over the thumping of her own heart. They had just listened to a man’s final words, and Patricia was thinking about how the competition got its hands on the transmission rather than the words themselves and the meaning of the situation?
A thousand thoughts ran through Jordan’s mind. A million questions followed.
Not once did she wonder How the hell did they get that audio?
* * *
Keep Reading! Jordan’s thrilling adventures continue in
FALSE TRUTH 8
A Jordan Fox Mystery
CLICK HERE TO READ NOW
Excerpt from
CHAPTER 1
Moments before his Cessna 172 plunged to the bottom of Tampa Bay, the pilot’s final words radioed to Tampa Control. Jordan Fox stood behind the assignment desk in the newsroom at Channel 12, head bowed, eyes squeezed tight, exhaling deeply again and again and again while the short clip replayed on a competing Tampa news station.
She wrapped her tan cardigan tighter and held it there, as if she could squeeze the icy chill from her body.
Pilot: Hey departure, you got any traffic in the area?
Control: I’m not painting anybody in your area at the moment.
Pilot: Departure? It’s a big white…machine. White possible UAV with a purple and green pattern—Holy shit!
Next came the sickening impact, splintering the acrylic windshield. Then, screaming, too brief. All combined in a visceral instant as if the space between Jordan’s ears had actually splintered with the windshield and the pilot’s final screams.
The next thing she heard from the audio was unnatural silence.
In the few hours since the crash, Jordan already knew the plane was registered to and could be operated by Dennis Raine, although his identity wouldn’t be officially confirmed until his wife and daughter were notified.
Jordan shuddered. His wife was pretty and his daughter looked about fifteen in the pictures Jordan had found on his Facebook page, too close to the age Jordan had been when her mother was murdered.
At least Jordan wasn’t working at a local Miami news station. She wouldn’t be assigned to knock on his door and ask surviving family any questions.
All the tiny hairs standing straight up on her neck meant she knew what caused the crash. Knew in her gut the pilot was right.
Jordan had been working on a drone story. She’d discovered things other journalists didn’t know. Yet.
The object that downed Raine’s Cessna was an Unmanned Arial Vehicle, just like he said. But authorities didn’t suspect it right away.
No official UAV was purple and green. There were standards that governed drones. Purple and green were not authorized. This UAV was highly unusual.
Which meant this one that downed Raine’s aircraft was a handmade drone. Designed and crafted by some sort of flying fanatic.
It had to be.
Probably.
Maybe.
Jordan’s News Nose insisted that those drones were dangerous when they’d almost decapitated her yesterday. The same News Nose Drew Hodges had teased her about.
But he’d been wrong and she’d been right.
And now a man was dead.
Which didn’t please her at all.
Patricia Neil, the assignment editor, had sent her favorite reporter, Antonio Vega and Drew to the crash site to compete with all the other news stations in town. Drew got the assignments that would make him visible and give him a chance to shine. Patricia stuck Jordan at the assignment desk. Again.
If Patricia had her way, Jordan would never get any good stories or air time.
Slowly, Jordan controlled her feelings about the pilot and realized Drew was gaining ground every minute in the competition that would determine which one of them got the next real job that opened up at Channel 12.
Which was precisely what Patricia intended. She wanted Drew to win. She’d made that plain enough.
Life is unfair. Deal with it.
There was nothing Jordan could do now for the pilot. But she could help his family, and beat Drew in the process, if she discovered exactly what went wrong and who was responsible.
When Raine’s Cessna was recovered from Tampa Bay, probably early tomorrow if the weather held, divers would find the drone and everyone would know what caused the crash. Everyone would see the purple and green.
Until then, Jordan had a slim chance to get a package ready to air before Drew scooped her. If she pushed hard enough.
She knew the best place to start. Keith Simpson.
She watched the clock, willing it to click over to 11:33 p.m.
Keith had left the building five minutes before her. She could catch him.
Jordan sprang into action. She grabbed her stuff and hustled down the cement stairs, through the deserted lobby, and to the exit. She jogged along the sidewalk that led to Page Street and across to the parking garage.
Keith Simpson was a Channel 12 engineer, geeky and loveable like an overgrown kid. He was always running around in faded blue jeans fixing mechanical and software issues for her and everybody else.
Jordan was sure he’d be able to confirm her suspicion that the possible UAV was a drone before divers brought it out of Tampa Bay.
But Jordan’s feeling was that Raine’s Cessna had been deliberately attacked. Call it a hunch or intuition or her News Nose.
She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what you call it. What matters is you know it. Know. Not feel.”
If she was right, she’d scoop Drew for sure. She grinned.
“Patricia will be so pissed. Yes!” She fist pumped the air and hopped a little off the ground at the same time.
The cool October night breeze chilled her skin. She held the cold phone to her ear and jogged faster across Page Street.
Keith picked up on the first ring. “J-Fox. What’s up?”
She knew he was big into computers and technology because he had a whole stash of spare parts and wires in his little shop at the back end of the newsroom. He’d be interested in the Boden High School drone club and the plane crash and all things geeky.
“So, you know that Cessna crash a couple hours ago?”
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Keith could help her figure out if a drone did the damage, with zero risk that he’d steal her scoop.
“How could I miss it?”
Jordan jogged up the parking garage stairwell, two steps at a time, to the third floor.
Maybe she’d sound like an idiot, but Keith would say so if her theory was preposterous. “Could the green and purple paint pattern the pilot reported on a white UAV have been a drone? Er, amateur multirotor?”
“What altitude was the plane at?” In the background, gear clanked and Keith grunted as if lifting the weight of a heavy object.
Jordan pressed the keyless entry button on the key fob and rushed into Hermes’ driver’s seat. She buckled her seatbelt and started the car and backed out. “About two thousand feet, give or take, is what I heard.”
“Possible.” A trunk lid slammed closed. Keith must have arrived at home faster than she’d expected. “Nothing else would be flying that low except birds. I mean, it was either a drone or an alien space vehicle.” He snorted twice. “But why don’t you come over? We’ll talk.”
Precisely the invitation Jordan had hoped for, so she pulled out of the garage and headed in that direction. It was a Saturday night, and most of her friends were at the bars. Theresa had invited her to Infidel Brewery because Tom Clark would be there.
But that was hours ago, before the crash. Theresa would be working past midnight to follow up on the plane story until she could hand it off to the morning producers and reporters. Infidel and Tom Clark would have to wait.
Jordan’s GPS signaled the way to Keith’s address. Turn by turn, Hermes traveled away from the parts of town she knew well. Each dark, deserted street led farther from home. She gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and flipped the automatic door locks open and closed, to be sure.
She was just a couple blocks from Prostitute Row, considering turning back, when the Australian voice inside the GPS announced that she’d reached her destination.