by Diane Capri
Jordan lifted her head and stretched her neck. She’d been sitting too long. Her shoulders were already cramped from everything that had happened, too.
When she looked again, she saw a reflection on her screen. Someone was walking behind her. She turned to look. Dammit. Patricia passed by, then took two steps back.
“What are you doing?” Patricia looked completely pissed. “You’re supposed to be working, not watching old newscasts. I knew we shouldn’t have let you go to Haiti.”
Jordan started to explain, but couldn’t figure out where to begin.
“This is not how you get hired, Jordan. I don’t think you’re mature enough to have a full-time job here. Nor anywhere, for that matter.” Patricia crossed her arms and walked away in a huff.
“God!” Jordan groaned, bent her head, and raked both hands through her hair. The woman was trying to get rid of her. No doubt about it.
She stood up and paced inside the edit bay to walk out her frustration. The space was too small to do the job.
Jordan marched to the kitchen for an extra-large cup of coffee and turned to marched right back with it, but one of her few friends at Channel 12, Theresa Parma, appeared before Jordan could leave.
“Hey, Jordan. Good to have you back.” Theresa dashed to the coffee pot and snagged a cup and poured it and turned to leave, all in a nanosecond. “I’m going over to that new brew pub tonight. Come along? We can catch up.”
“I don’t think so. I’m a mess.” Jordan looked down at her wrinkled clothes and her hand raised to pat her still-wet hair.
Theresa paused to look Jordan over from head to toe as if she hadn’t noticed before. “True. I’ll take a rain check. I want to introduce you to Tom Clark, the guy who owns the place. You’ll love him. You were made for each other.”
Jordan was already shaking her head. “Theresa, I’m not interested—”
“And I’m not taking no for an answer.” Theresa waved and dashed out before Jordan could say another word.
She marched herself back to her edit bay. She didn’t feel one bit kinder toward Patricia when she returned.
After that, fueled by anger and caffeine, Jordan worked on Instant Pop Star the rest of the night, but barely made a dent in the project. Not one audition was half as good as Dominique Wren. She’d started to think that Patricia had given her the assignment because it was impossible. That would be just like her.
She felt buried in work now, on top of everything else. No way could she finish tonight. She stayed twenty minutes over because she’d been ten minutes late. Patricia wouldn’t be there to see, but Jordan would know. Which was all that mattered. At least, it should be all that mattered. Too bad the Real World didn’t exactly work like that.
Almost midnight. Even if she went straight home, her dad would already be in bed. Which was probably for the best. Putting on a happy face for him tonight would have been a struggle after a very long and emotionally tough day.
And there were other things she needed to do first.
Claire had not called Jordan after their conversation this morning while Jordan was at the Miami airport. No voice messages. No texts. Half a dozen times tonight she’d wanted to call Claire with questions about Sal and how Claire was coping and a dozen other things, but Clayton’s warnings echoed in her mind.
Jordan flipped on the weather camera and saw that the rain had stopped. Heavy cloud cover meant the night was darker and the street lights brighter than normal, though. There were three cars still parked in the clinic parking lot, which seemed odd at this late hour. A flashy red something parked across two spots. Who did that guy think he was? Just because your car is flashy you get to take up two spots? Parked nearby in the lot was a dark luxury sedan, and a white soccer mom SUV.
She shrugged. All she cared about at the moment was that she wouldn’t need an umbrella or a flashlight to reach her car. She packed up and walked to the spot where she’d left the little blue Honda she called Hermes parked in the garage on Wednesday.
Clayton had said Sal was going into witness protection tonight, but he didn’t say what time. If it hadn’t happened yet, Claire would want Jordan to be with her. If Sal was already gone, Claire would be a mess. Either way, Jordan needed to be with her best friend.
Instead of going home, Jordan drove directly to Salvador Caster’s waterfront estate where Claire had been living for the past few months. The house was dark. Claire’s car wasn’t there. She drove to Claire’s apartment, too, but no Claire.
“Where are you, friend? You’ve got me worried.” She looked at her phone again. No texts. No calls. Jordan was tempted to text Claire herself, but that warning from Clayton loomed.
Jordan pulled into Claire’s parking space in the apartment’s parking garage, closed her eyes, and rested her forehead on her clasped hands atop the steering wheel to think. Fatigue overwhelmed her. She felt herself drifting too close to sleep.
She raised her head and talked herself awake enough to drive. “Time to go home. Check on Dad. Get that shower, finally. And a solid eight hours of rest that doesn’t end with thieves frightening the chickens into a state of panic loud enough to wake the entire city.”
She’d figure out what to do about Claire—and everything else—in the morning.
Jordan left Claire’s parking lot and traveled the mostly empty downtown streets until she reached Bayshore Boulevard. From there, it was a straight shot almost all the way home. Hermes could do it, even without Jordan at the wheel.
“Door to door, not more than ten minutes. You can stay awake that long, surely.”
When she turned the last corner toward her house, she found the answer to her question.
Claire’s car was parked in the driveway.
A weak and tired smile lifted her lips.
CHAPTER 7
Jordan entered the house as quietly as possible. Her dad would be sleeping, she hoped, and he needed his rest. She stashed her duffle bag near the newly renovated kitchen door and slipped her shoes off. She stopped for two glasses of water before she followed the eerie blue glow of the television into the den.
Claire lay on the sofa covered by a blanket, crying. The TV sound was muted and the picture was tuned to an old movie. A tearjerker that had been running on for a while, if the pile of tissues in the trash can next to Claire’s feet was an accurate indication.
Jordan set the water on the coffee table and plopped down on the floor next to her best friend in the world. “I’m so sorry.” She placed her hand on Claire’s arm. “Are you okay?”
“No.”
“Here, have some water.” Jordan offered her the glass, but Claire didn’t take it. “Want to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to say. Sal is gone. He’s never coming back. End of story.” She burst into deep, wracking sobs, probably not for the first time tonight.
Jordan felt helpless. Claire’s anguish was too deep. All she could do was be there and feel guilty because she hadn’t been there this week when all of this came about and before Sal was whisked away into witness protection tonight.
Jordan couldn’t quite believe that Sal was really gone forever. But the research she’d done on federal witness protection earlier tonight and Clayton’s warnings said that was exactly the case.
Witness protection was the only thing that might keep Salvador Caster alive. The cartel would kill him if he testified, and maybe even kill him while he was in prison if he didn’t testify. There was no way around it. After decades of rum running and drug running, the sins of his fathers had settled squarely on his shoulders.
Which was probably why Sal had been so hot-tempered lately. He knew this was coming. Just like he’d known the cartel would kill others to keep Sal in line long before they did it. Jordan glanced around the newly renovated room. The cartel had sent a letter bomb to her home and destroyed half the house as another warning to Sal.
Claire’s sobs subsided. She pulled a few more tissues from the box and blew her nose, swiping another han
dful of tissues across her face. She pushed up to sit cross-legged on the sofa. One shaky hand reached to anchor blonde curls behind her ears.
“I’ll be okay. Really.” Claire’s lips quivered and her voice was shaky. “Eventually.”
Jordan squeezed her hand. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” She reached for the water glass and drank a few sips. More tissues and nose blowing, followed by silence as she stared at the television.
After a while, Claire said, “We knew this was a possibility. Sal didn’t have many options once the DEA found all those connections between the cartel and Caster Shrimp.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“We wanted to be as normal as possible for as long as we could.” Claire shrugged. “Sal was too good to be true. I knew it all along. Tonight was the end of the fairy tale.”
Jordan said nothing. There would be plenty of time to remind Claire of reality in the weeks and months ahead.
Claire thought her romance with Salvador Caster was a fairy tale. Jordan thought it was something closer to a bad dream. Sure, the guy was gorgeous and generous and very, very wealthy, and Claire was in love with him. Anybody would understand the attraction.
But he was eight years older. He was talking about marriage and babies when Claire should have been having fun. Enjoying life. And building a career. Or going to grad school, like her parents wanted her to do.
No, Jordan hadn’t approved of the match. And that was before the cartel had killed two people close to Sal and bombed her house—with Jordan and her dad inside. It was only a matter of time before the cartel would have killed Claire, too. Hanging out with Salvador Caster had become a quick one-way ticket to the cemetery.
Jordan tried to stifle a huge yawn. She covered her mouth, but Claire saw. “You’re dead on your feet, J. Fox. Go on to bed. We can talk in the morning.”
She wanted to protest, but she could barely stay awake. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I’ve got nothing but time.” Claire gave her a little push with her foot. “I’m set up in the guest room. I’ll be fine. See you in the morning.”
Jordan scrambled up off the floor. She bent to give Claire a hug. “I’ll be a better friend tomorrow. I promise.”
Claire hugged her back. “You’re a fine friend. Just promise me you’ll take a shower and share your chocolate welcome-home cake with me tomorrow.”
A slight smile crossed Jordan’s lips. She thought her dad had been kidding about getting her that cake. His special care for her homecoming mixed with Claire’s unusual neediness and extreme exhaustion brought tears to Jordan’s eyes. She squeezed Claire’s arm again because her throat felt too thick to reply, and then she hurried to her room.
Sure, she was happy to be home. And she hadn’t slept well in a week. But she was also worried about Claire and sure that Saint Louis was dead. Upset about what happened on the airstrip this morning and about her job, which was all but lost. “You could keep going, but what’s the point?”
The worry list was too long.
Everyone will feel better in the morning.
Maybe.
CHAPTER 8
Jordan slept fairly well until the sunlight filtered into her room through the shutters she’d forgotten to close last night. The house was quiet. She lay with her eyes closed enjoying her bed, which seemed positively luxurious now, and knowing her dad and Claire were both under the same roof. Another luxury.
The heavenly aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted under her nose and lifted her eyelids. She threw back the covers, grabbed her robe. Shower? Or coffee and breakfast first? Her stomach growled loud enough to stop traffic. No contest.
She padded out to the kitchen. Her dad was already dressed and seated at the table with his newspaper.
Jordan dashed over and hugged him. He squeezed her hard. “I’m glad you’re home, Freckles. I missed you.”
“I missed you, too.”
“Yeah, while you were gone, I had to refill my own coffee.” His eyes twinkled and he held his empty cup.
“I’ll have a talk with Amy about the level of service she provided.” Jordan filled both cups and poked around in the refrigerator until she found a sleeve of plain bagels and a jar of raspberry jam. She pulled out the toaster. “Anything interesting in the paper today?”
“I guess the Plant University soccer team had to forfeit their game Saturday because too many players were sick.” He lifted the toasted bagel she’d set next to him. “Some kind of virus or something going around.”
“Is that what it says? A virus?” Another bagel popped up. She slathered jam on it and joined him. She pulled her phone out of her pocket, feeling closer to normal than she had in a week. “Let’s see what the real reporters over at Channel 12 have to say about that.”
Jordan refreshed her inbox. What popped up first was a Media Alert from Tampa Police. She put the bagel back on her plate.
Media Alerts were official statements sent to every news outlet simultaneously. They were like an instant news conference from the police department. Jordan first learned about Media Alerts in journalism school and she’d figured out a way to subscribe to the service immediately, even before her Channel 12 email address automatically included her. Since then, she’d received hundreds of Media Alerts just like the one sitting near the top of her inbox. Frequency hadn’t dulled her visceral reactions at all.
Every time she received one, nerve endings all over her body came alive with a strange mixture of hope and dread. Hope that they’d found her mother’s killer. Dread that now, she’d face the evil head on, and she’d fail.
Her feelings were irrational. Police would tell the family before news like that was released by a public information officer in any kind of Media Alert. But for a moment, every time, her heart whispered maybe.
Deliberately, like a ritual, Jordan schooled her features into an unrevealing mask. Took a deep breath. And opened the Alert. She read through it quickly.
Like the hundreds of others before this one, the Alert contained nothing about Brenda Fox’s murder. Briefly, Jordan could breathe again.
Until she read the rest. The news was so much worse than anything about an unsolved five-year-old murder could possibly be.
Oh, no! Jordan’s stomach clenched. She closed her eyes and opened them again to read through the memo twice more, scrambling to understand. The facts did not improve with repetition.
Chills sparked over Jordan’s skin. The Media Alert announced the murder of Ruby Quinn, the sweet, vivacious nurse Jordan met only once, just a few days ago. The night before she left for Haiti.
Ruby Quinn had been found dead at the Plant University Health Clinic this morning. No cause of death was listed, which was odd because the manner of death was clearly labeled “homicide.” If Ruby Quinn’s cause of death was unknown, did that mean the manner of death was also unknown?
Jordan read the brief alert again and then glanced at the clock to be sure it wasn’t too early to call.
Her dad looked away from his paper. “What’s wrong?”
“A friend of Amy’s was found dead this morning. Ruby Quinn.” She didn’t say Ruby was killed. The word recalled too many negative emotions for both of them.
“Ruby? Are you sure?” Nelson’s shocked tone grabbed Jordan’s attention.
Jordan cocked her head and blinked. “Did you know Ruby?”
“She came over a couple of times to see Amy while you were gone. Sweet girl.” He shook his head slowly. “Who would want to hurt Ruby?”
She hoped Amy already knew about this event labeled breaking news, like it was just some hot story of the day. Like Jordan’s mother’s death had been labeled breaking news five years ago.
The call rang through to Amy’s cell. She picked up right away.
“Did you hear what happened?” Jordan asked, gently.
Amy’s voice sounded nasally, like she’d been crying. “They aren’t releasing many details. Do you know anything I don’t?”
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Jordan kneaded her forehead with her fingers. “The Media Alert says she was found at the clinic. That’s all.”
“Are you going to work today?” Amy cried softly. Her tears tested Jordan’s composure. “Will you call me if you find out anything else?”
“I will when I can.” Jordan waited for Amy to blow her nose. “Do you want to stay at our house tonight? We’d hate for you to be alone.”
“Maybe. I’ll see how I feel later.” Amy’s voice wobbled again.
Jordan waited until Amy’s crying subsided. “You might not want to hear this, but the police will want to talk to you. They’ll ask if you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Ruby.”
“No. No one. Ruby was such a good person. What will her kids do without her?” Amy’s tears returned.
“I wonder why she was at the clinic on a Sunday night, though.”
Amy sniffled. “She worked weekends because her husband was off work and could stay home with the kids.”
Jordan thought about Ruby and what Ruby had suspected about drug use on Plant University’s campus. “Did you ever talk to Ruby about that student she rushed off to help when we were at Dominique Wren’s performance on Tuesday night?”
Amy took a ragged breath and blew her nose. “She said by the time she got to the clinic, he was in bad shape. The Tampa Southern ambulance was on the way.”
“Did she say anything else about him?”
“Like what?”
That student could be important. Or not. “Like did she tell you his name?”
“N-no. Ruby would never reveal a patient’s name like that.” Amy’s tears started again.
“Did she say anything about what his medical problem was? Anything at all?” Jordan was pushing too hard, but she’d learned enough about criminal investigation to know that early information was the kind that led to a quick arrest.
“I-I-I don’t think so.” A call-waiting beep interrupted on the line. Jordan looked at her phone, but the call wasn’t on her end. “I have to go, Jordan. It’s Ruby’s husband. Please call me if you find out anything more.”