by Diane Capri
“A woman was crossing, she was hit, driver sped off. She died almost immediately. Your classic hit-and-run.” She turned to Jordan and extended her hand. “I’m Naomi.”
“Jordan. I’m an intern.”
Naomi pulled a rag from her pocket and dabbed the sweat from her brow. “The woman was using the crosswalk, apparently.” She gestured to the path which guided pedestrians across two lanes of traffic.
Naomi looked around as she spoke, constantly observing. Keeping an eye out for a police spokesperson to arrive, maybe.
“So if they catch the guy, he’s at fault,” Theresa said, half talking to herself. “Vehicular manslaughter. He could go to prison for life.”
“The road’s not that busy. How do you get hit crossing two lanes of traffic?” Jordan asked.
“Exactly. Well…” Naomi lowered her voice and pointed across the street to a man standing with his family. “That guy over there…in the black t-shirt? He says he saw it happen. He stopped talking now. I think police scared him away from talking to media. But right after we got here, and we were first on the scene, he told us the car that hit the woman was a monster of an SUV. Black. He said it was barreling down the road, faster and faster, and then it just wiped her out.” Naomi set her purse in the dirt and grabbed her water bottle and took a sip. “He said, if he didn’t have better faith in humanity, he’d think the driver hit the woman on purpose.”
Jordan gasped. “Do you believe him?”
Naomi shrugged.
“No victim’s name released yet, right?” Theresa asked, business as usual. Maybe that’s what Jordan would become. Blasé about a woman run down in the street. She shuddered.
Naomi replied, “No name. A spokesperson is on the way.”
Jordan studied the road. It was a straight shot. Not much traffic. This would be an easy place to push the pedal to the metal for a few hundred yards. Maybe the driver had been playing too many racing video games. “I don’t even see any skid marks.”
Theresa sighed and tapped her foot. “Damn, I wish they’d kept us on the Casino story.”
Jordan wished the same. She really, really wanted to take something important back to the newsroom. Especially since she knew Drew’s story of the day was a slam dunk. A sinkhole pretty much guaranteed riveting sound bites and video. Right now it looked like she and Theresa were returning empty-handed.
Jordan said, “I’m not going back to the newsroom with nothing.”
“That’s the attitude, J-Fox,” Theresa replied.
She looked creatively at the scene until she found something she could do to avoid failure right now, before it was too late.
CHAPTER 11
Jordan marched across the street where the witness stood alone, at least for the moment. “Sir, I understand you saw what happened.”
“Yes ma’am, but I ain’t talkin’ to media right now.” He seemed polite, but firm instead of angry. Good.
“Just one question.” Her prodding flashed a warning in her head. The disastrous conversation with Claire. This could blow up, too, but she had to get something usable. “Are you able to describe the driver at all?”
“No ma’am. I didn’t get a good look.” This time, his tone was angry. He raised his hand, palm out. “Please. No more questions.”
It was a no, but at least it was a solid answer. And it felt like the best she was going to do.
Jordan waved to Naomi as the Channel 17 news truck pulled away and re-crossed the street to report back to Theresa. “Witness says he didn’t get a good look at the driver. That’s all I got out of him.”
Theresa nodded. “Nice effort on a sucky story. We won’t know the victim’s name til they inform next-of-kin, which could take anywhere from two to twenty-four hours.” Theresa paused and scanned the scene again. “Let’s knock on a couple neighbors’ doors, try for some sound bites, and then we’ll head back. Ask about speeding, other accidents, whatever you can think of. You go left, I’ll go right.”
Theresa and Jordan split up and covered the waterfront. The answer to every question Jordan asked was unanimous: No. Theresa said later that her efforts fared no better.
They hauled their gear back to the Jeep and rolled off.
Theresa’s live shot, originally planned for 5 o’clock in front of the Florida Casino, would now be at 6 o’clock from the newsroom. She’d front the hit-and-run story, using the generic street video she’d shot.
“What are you going to say?” Jordan asked.
She shrugged. “Not much. But we need to cover any kind of developing story to show the station is on it. We can’t be the station that never shows up, right?”
Back at the newsroom, Jordan logged in to a computer on the assignment desk again while Theresa headed to the restroom, giant makeup bag in tow. Five minutes later, she was in place in front of the newsroom camera. Jordan watched Theresa check her phone while she stood still, mic’ed up, waiting for her live shot.
“Hey! Jordan!” She aimed her voice up to the assignment desk a few feet away.
Jordan raised her eyebrows responsively, then stood so she could see Theresa over the railing. “Yes?”
“They released the hit-and-run victim’s name. It’s in our email. Wanna see what you can dig up? Pictures of the person or anything?”
“Sure.”
Jordan checked the email. Kelly Barnes. Age thirty-nine. Jordan found her social media profile by matching up her age and birthdate to the one issued by police. City? Tampa. Marital Status? Single. Job? Administrative Assistant at Caster Shrimp Company.
Jordan blinked twice and stared at the screen. The words didn’t change. Caster Shrimp. Salvador’s company. Unreal. The facts were stacking up and pointing in one direction. Sal knew the missing man Ted Garfield. And it was Sal’s event where the dead body was found. Now, a random hit-and-run had a connection to Sal, too.
Suddenly, the odds in favor of coincidence became miniscule and Jordan’s options shrunk right along with them. Sal was probably involved. But involved in what? Something shady at the very least.
It was time for Salvador to start talking before everyone else discovered what Jordan already knew.
FALSE TRUTH 3
A JORDAN FOX MYSTERY
BY DIANE CAPRI
WITH BETH DEXTER
CHAPTER 1
Jordan’s efforts to reach Sal and Claire over the rest of her shift and until she went to bed failed. She’d called, texted, even tried email. Nothing. On the way home, she drove past Sal’s waterfront estate where they were living most of the time now and the place was totally dark.
Saturday morning, after a fitful night’s sleep, Jordan checked her phone the second her eyes opened. Still nothing from either of them. She didn’t know Sal very well, so his behavior might be understandable. But Claire normally responded to everything Jordan sent her immediately. Radio silence from Claire was usually a bad sign and Jordan knew it. The only thing she could think of to do was keep trying and get back to work.
Today she’d planned to start her search of the Channel 12 archives for information about her mother, especially since her time at Channel 12 looked like it might be short. On a Saturday, fewer people were at the station to wonder why Jordan was poking around in the archives. They probably knew her history, but she didn’t feel like talking about it. And the project could keep her mind away from Salvador Caster and whatever was happening to her best friend. Maybe.
Compartmentalize. Jordan began to think about the very cold Brenda Fox case as a journalist, objectively, focused on the facts.
It had been nearly five years since Brenda Fox was murdered. Her only daughter was sixteen, almost seventeen. She’d come home from high school swim practice one Tuesday evening and found her mother stabbed to death on the kitchen floor. Police had searched for someone with motive to kill the middle school guidance counselor, but came up empty-handed.
The only real conclusions were that at least two males were involved, and Brenda had been robbed. Defensi
ve wounds on her hands showed she fought back. Two sets of bloody boot prints led from the Foxes’ backdoor to the nearby Hillsborough River. That’s where police dogs lost the scent.
Soon, the next case pushed the Brenda Fox investigation aside and with no new evidence in the past five years, the case wasn’t a police priority any more.
The Brenda Fox case would never stop being a priority for Jordan. She’d vowed that years ago and her determination hadn’t wavered.
Today, she’d have enough time to confirm that Channel 12’s archives contained the videotaped reports on the case, and they were not corrupted or damaged, but still viewable.
At the station, she went straight to the back corridors of the second floor. A maze of dark hallways housed an endless number of shelves holding too many miniature videotapes to count. She couldn’t even see them all on the dimly lit shelves.
Jordan patted down the walls until her fingers grazed plastic. She held her phone up to illuminate a panel of eight light switches. She flipped the first one on, then quickly off when nothing happened. On the fourth switch she tried, the shelves lit up. Now she’d be able to make some progress.
It took her too long to figure out the convoluted coding system, but she eventually confirmed that the tapes were arranged chronologically. Jordan scanned the codes on the tape box spines until she found the one she wanted to start. The 11 p.m. news broadcast on the day her mother died.
She reached to pull it off the shelf but her hand shook so much, she couldn’t grab the box. She felt a bit lightheaded. Her legs were quivering, too. She pulled her hand back quickly, as if the tape had burned her.
Almost unconsciously, Jordan clinched and opened both fists a few times to steady her nerves while she breathed deeply, in the way her grief counselor had taught her to maintain composure all those years ago. When she’d found her mother on the kitchen floor. When she’d thought she’d never stop being scared for the rest of her life.
For at least two full minutes, she stood looking at the tape. Breathing. Clenching. Unclenching. Until finally, she felt ready.
She sucked in a lung full of air and held it and reached again. This time, even with her hand shaking, she was able to select the tape box and pull it off the shelf. She hugged the tape to her chest and closed her eyes and released the last big breath.
She slapped her hand over her mouth to cover hysterical relief. Noise like laughter could attract attention she definitely didn’t need. But she felt like cheering. She’d done it. She’d started. She’d found something. Her legs were still a little wobbly or she might have jumped for victory like a delirious sports champ.
Jordan glanced at her watch. Time was running short. But old video tapes and the machines that accepted them were notoriously unreliable. The tape could be bad or the machine might destroy it or a thousand other problems could crop up. She needed to know for sure that this one would actually play.
She slipped into a back edit bay and turned on the dim overhead light. She pushed the tape into a machine and crossed her fingers.
The machine accepted the tape.
Jordan grinned and hit play.
None of the many monitors in front of her showed a picture. She turned several monitors off and back on again. Still nothing. The grin disappeared and her eyebrows dipped down. Now what? She couldn’t risk breaking the equipment or ruining the tape. She’d learned her lesson from the Smartphone incident. She needed help.
She perused the edit bays one hall over and found a friendly looking photographer. He happily helped her get her tape set up, no questions asked. “You have to flip this switch.” He showed her a tiny button she had to push first.
Then he hit play, like turning on this video was no big deal. Immediately, her stomach knotted and her head throbbed. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths but her tight muscles didn’t relax. Her abdomen cramped painfully.
If he played the tape now, she might actually vomit all over him and the equipment and everything within a five-foot radius.
The moment he removed his finger from the play button, she reached out a trembling finger and hit pause. “Thank you. I think I’ve got it from here. Never would’ve found that button. Thanks again.”
He gave her a strange look and then shrugged and walked away.
Jordan’s finger hovered over the play button. She bit her lip and gazed at a blank wall, willing tears to stay back. She exhaled and dropped her arm. No. It was too soon. She wasn’t ready to watch. But the tape existed and it worked. That was enough for now.
Jordan returned the tape and headed to a special computer in the back of the newsroom. It was loaded with software the other computers didn’t have. Like transcripts of every interview Channel 12 had ever done, as well as images of every article ever published, dating back from the time Channel 12 used to be connected to the Tampa Gazette, starting in the 1950s.
She searched for Brenda Fox. Hundreds of results returned. Uncomfortable warmth enveloped her again and this time she recognized she’d done too much, too fast. She would access the results next time. She erased the search history and then created a few random searches to leave in place. Maybe that would be enough to keep the next person from noticing her work accidently.
Jordan had accomplished enough for now. She’d found the archives. She knew where to look when she came back. Which would be soon. Very soon.
She heard the elevated excitement levels from the newsroom before she walked ten feet from the back wings of the archives. She let herself be pulled into the action and away from the past.
When she reached the assignment desk, Patricia was there, focused on work as always.
“What’s going on?”
“They identified the casino body.”
Jordan clamped her teeth shut briefly so she wouldn’t look like an idiot with her jaw hanging open. “And?”
“It’s Ted Garfield.” Patricia was working quickly at the keyboard and didn’t look away from her screen.
“No way. It’s too easy. Of course it was him! They matched his DNA?” Jordan dropped into a computer chair and checked her email for more data. Tampa police had sent a press release. “They have cause of death now, too?” Jordan couldn’t open the attachment fast enough. She scanned the text. “Drowning? If you’re gonna cut someone’s head off anyway why not just shoot them? Seems a lot simpler, and it’s not like the killer was trying to be gentle.”
“Ballistics,” Patricia said, preoccupied.
Of course. She almost slapped her palm to her head. “Harder to track down the killer in a drowning case. No suspects yet?”
“They haven’t commented on suspects,” Patricia said. “No head or hands found either, obviously, or we would have heard about it.”
Patricia had a real knack for making Jordan feel like an idiot. She ground her teeth together and clenched her jaw tightly to avoid saying something she’d regret later.
A passing photog stopped and leaned a hip against Jordan’s desk. “You know the head’s far out to sea by now. Killer has a water theme going on, right?”
“I’m sure the police are looking into every aspect of Ted Garfield’s life right now,” Patricia said. “Antonio and Drew are down at Tampa P.D. now. We’re gonna see if we can get an interview with police set up for tomorrow.”
Great. Just great. How was she supposed to compete with Drew when he got all the best assignments? And what did she have to do to get through to Patricia that this was her story? She needed a good, solid lead and she needed to find something important and she needed to do it now—before Drew had yet another victory, vicarious or not.
Salvador Caster was her best chance.
Specifically, why Salvador was a common thread in the top three news stories, and whether police had made that connection. She checked her phone, but still had nothing from Claire or Sal.
She went out on assignment with Theresa, but paid little attention the rest of the night. She was buried in Theresa’s laptop, researching Salvador
and Caster Shrimp Company. The first few items she found contained basic background information she knew already.
But after an hour of digging, she found criminal reports.
CHAPTER 2
Sal’s father had done business with some guys in Mexico who were now in prison on drug-related charges. Salvador, Sr. was never arrested, which didn’t necessarily mean anything. The accounts Jordan found didn’t confirm that Sal’s father knew about the drug dealing at the time, either.
She could ask Sal directly once he finally called her back. But at this point she worried that Sal was more dangerous than Claire believed.
Please don’t let my best friend’s boyfriend be a drug dealer. Please don’t. Please don’t.
Her prayer wasn’t helping to answer that question. Non-stop nervous shivers ran up Jordan’s spine and through all of her limbs at once when she finally accepted the only choice she could think of. She had to tell Claire and hope that Claire wouldn’t shoot the messenger.
After her shift, she called Claire again and got voice mail, again. She sent a text. “Need to talk. Urgent.”
Jordan took her phone to bed with her so when Claire texted back she’d know right away. The text from Claire didn’t come and Jordan didn’t sleep much, either. After a few hours of tossing and turning, she gave up the effort. She showered, dressed, and scrounged around until she found her digital camera and the locket Claire had given her for graduation and dropped both into her bag.
When she joined her dad in the kitchen shortly after sunrise, Jordan asked, “Did Claire call here while I was at work yesterday?”
He glanced up from his Sunday paper. “I don’t think so. Did you check the machine?”