by Diane Capri
“Right. Nose to the keyboard. Got it.”
Jordan forced her attention back to the Super Adderall package, writing a rough draft, and leaving holes in the script for the interviews she hoped to get.
Ugh. Another red car on campus distracted her. No. I’m not going to look this time.
She looked. It was a red Firebird. Driving too fast. That’s gotta be Evan Groves.
Jordan picked up her phone so frantically it slipped out of her hands twice before she was able to type a text to Clayton. Got him. He’s on foot headed to the boat dock.
At that moment, Richard strolled by behind her. In a monitor’s reflection, she saw him halt and do a double take.
“Are you kidding me? Are you freaking texting right now?” He loomed over her. “That must mean you have your story incredibly under control. Since you’re so on top of your game, I think we’ll run a second piece from you.” He crossed his arms over his chest. His face was dangerously red again. “We’ll run Instant Pop Star tonight, and the first story in your Haiti series can run at six a.m. tomorrow. Morning show’s down a reporter this week. They’ll be thrilled for the content. Any Haiti story, any angle. Get it to me by 11:33 p.m. tonight so I can approve it. And if you can’t follow through on this Jordan, we’re gonna have to let you go.”
He stalked off without giving her a chance to respond.
CHAPTER 16
It was 6:15 p.m. If she didn’t look at her phone and took a maximum of one bathroom break, this was doable. Probably. Maybe.
Jordan could not have a Super Adderall package ready by 11:33 p.m. She needed interviews for that. And the Medicine Factory saga was still developing.
That left the 3D printer story. Which was safe, and okay, but she’d have to do it without any local video or interviews from Tampa Southern Hospital. Jordan winced. The story wouldn’t be the best she could do. But it was her only option. And she didn’t have a lot of time to make it so if she wanted to be working here after tonight.
Email after email popped up in the corner of her computer screen. One per minute, give or take. She ignored them all. She buried her head in her project and kept it there.
She was completely immersed in her story, when Patricia came running back to Jordan’s edit bay.
“Why didn’t you respond to my emails? Police are on campus.” This time, Patricia was the one in a panic and out of breath. “They see their suspect. He’s getting on a speedboat. Come help me on the Assignment Desk. We have a lot of calls to make.”
“I’d love to help. But Richard told me to finish this piece by 11:33 p.m. Is it okay with him if I don’t get this done?” She’d be fired if she didn’t finish this piece on time. Not just in trouble. Fired.
Nothing was more important to her right now than keeping her job. Even if it meant Patricia hated her forever and reported her for every tiny mistake she made for the rest of her life. She shrugged. Patricia would probably do that anyway.
Patricia shook her head, grunted, and speed-walked away. Which meant she didn’t have Richard’s permission to pull Jordan off her assignment and Jordan still had zero breathing room.
Jordan did one thing she’d been resisting. She turned on the police scanner in the edit bay to listen in as police officers relayed to each other their latest developments over the radio. Most of what she heard was static. But she caught some key phrases:
Running toward speedboat ahead.
We need boats in the water, police boats in the Hills River.
Possible violent offender.
Do not board the boat alone. We have to be prepared—
He’s leaving. He’s leaving the dock.
Way too fast.
Jordan was sitting on the edge of her seat, looking at the scanner wide-eyed like it was a television, her pulse off the charts.
Out of control!
Headed east. Get police boats on scene.
DAMMIT! He hit a pole. The speedboat crashed.
We’ve lost visual. The speedboat’s destroyed.
I don’t know. He hit a marker.
We’re gonna need rescue and recovery. There is no boat left. Repeat, the boat is in a thousand pieces. We’ve lost visual on the suspect.
Groves was caught? Then gone? Maybe?
She desperately wanted facts. She desperately wanted to be on the scene.
Since she couldn’t be, she prayed that Channel 12 had a camera on scene, and that she could help put her stamp on this story when it resolved.
Jordan’s phone started buzzing incessantly. She could feel the vibration where she’d stashed it in her bag on the floor. No time to check.
Whatever happened to Evan Groves, it was over for now. She’d find out later tonight from Clayton.
Right this minute, the 3D printer story came first.
She finished compiling and editing the two-minute piece at 11:16. She watched it two times through. No problems. Ready to send to Richard. She clicked Export to get it out of this computer’s internal server and into a format Richard could view at home, as he had requested.
But the computer gave her error message after error message. The video wouldn’t export. She needed it to not only export, but also arrive to Richard by 11:33.
It was 11:23. She peered into the edit bay one booth over, which was occupied by a photographer playing Solitaire. Round and balding.
She was supposed to know him, but she was drawing a blank. No time for name games. “Hey. I’m sorry, would you be able to help me? My video won’t export.”
“Let me take a look.”
The round man sauntered next door to her edit bay. Oh no. He was slow. Very slow. She’d managed to pick the most laid-back guy in the building.
She sucked her cheeks in and tried to be patient. “I’m supposed to have it done by 11:33.”
“Mmhm,” he said, way too calmly.
Jordan paced in the hallway behind the photog. The clock ticked to 11:31. Then 11:32. He was still tinkering. Then 11:33.
The video hadn’t exported. It was complete, but it was stuck in this damn computer.
Jordan was fired.
She’d have to go home tonight and break it to her dad. What a disappointment she’d turned out to be.
Wannabe reporter wasn’t enough for you. Just couldn’t resist playing wannabe cop, could you? Good thing you don’t have a lot of stuff to pack up. Gotta be the shortest Channel 12 employment record in history. Now how are you going to solve your mom’s murder?
Stop!
To distract herself while she waited for the photographer to work on her video, Jordan checked her phone. She saw several messages from Clayton. But only one message from Richard, half an hour ago, when she was still up to her eyeballs in creating the Haiti story.
J- Don’t worry about Haiti piece. Morning show will be packed full of Plant University saga. no time to run haiti yet. Turn in by 5pm tomorrow is fine.
“There. It exported.” The round photographer turned rosy-cheeked, and smiling proudly.
“Thanks.” Jordan couldn’t wipe the wide grin off her face, even after she sent the completed Haiti piece to Richard five minutes later.
Until she read the final text from Clayton. Got Peter Wren. Wren’s daughter, too. Evan Groves hospitalized. In custody. Okay for you to go home.
CHAPTER 17
Jordan sat in her edit bay, letting the exhaustion of the day wash over her. Was this the life a multimedia journalist lived? She’d survived another day without being fired. But she couldn’t end a successful week without finishing what she’d set out to do before all the drama—watch that video of the 11 p.m. newscast from December 4, 2009, following her mother’s murder.
Until now, Jordan had made an effort to keep her search of the archives a secret. But right now she was so tired, she really didn’t care what anyone said.
Maybe her worn-down emotions would also numb the feelings the newscast was sure to raise.
She grabbed the videotape from the archive shelves and rushed i
t back to her edit bay before anything could interrupt her again.
She pushed the tape into the deck too forcefully, and the deck spat it back out. Jordan grimaced at the machine. “No. Come on. You can read this tape. You’ve read it before.”
She grabbed the cassette, let the tape reader breathe for a moment, then gently, slowly, pushed it back in, where it stayed.
She flicked a tiny button on the machine, turned on all the monitors, squeezed her hands together, and waited.
The picture came up shaky, then fuzzy, then seemed to catch up with itself and played smoothly. Jordan’s arm bolted to turn the volume all the way down. She might be strong enough to watch, but she wasn’t strong enough yet to listen. Sensory and emotional overload.
The tape happened to be cued up to a prime time network drama that aired in 2009. The time code read 21:41:14. Jordan held down the fast-forward button, hoping that sending the tape flying forward wouldn’t damage the video that was waiting for her at 23:00:00.
She breathed a little easier when Channel 12’s signature Show Open rolled, followed by a double shot of the two evening anchors. They introduced themselves. A camera pushed into a one-shot of the male anchor, Martin Ford. An over-the-shoulder graphic appeared. BREAKING NEWS: School Counselor Murdered At Home.
Jordan cringed. Just like she remembered. It was the lead story. Her stomach twisted. Her legs started bouncing.
The shot cut to a reporter standing outside the home she’d lived in back then. It was dark outside, the house and reporter lit only by streetlights and photographers’ carefully placed spotlights.
Jordan paused the tape. She held her head in her hands. That night seemed so long ago. But now, nearly five years later, she sat facing the undeniable evidence that, everything really happened exactly as she remembered it. Which made her mission to find her mother’s killers that much more real, more current. Somehow, even more pressing.
She’d solved three murders in the past month since she took this job. Ted Garfield, Kelley Barnes and now, Ruby Quinn. She could figure out who killed Brenda Fox, too. And she would.
Jordan pressed Play.
The next shot was video of her house from earlier that evening. She remembered that reporters had arrived quickly. She studied the door for signs of forced entry. The early evening sunlight would surely have revealed signs like that, but she saw none. Jordan saw no broken doors or windows. Police said there had been none.
Next came visuals of Brenda Fox. Mainly, her picture from the yearbook at the middle school where she had been a guidance counselor for twenty years. The photo all the media outlets had plastered up everywhere the weeks after she’d been killed.
Jordan bit her lip. She felt her head moving slowly back and forth. She’d seen the picture hundreds of times since her mother died, but seeing it broadcast on television like this hurt more, somehow.
For the final shot, the camera panned across the front of the house again in late dusk. Jordan paused the video. Two neighboring houses were visible in the background.
To the left of the Foxes’ house had lived a married couple. The mother had been home at the time of the murder, with her two children she’d described as noisy. She had said she’d never heard a thing unusual around the time of the murder. But then again, she’d pointed out, she could barely hear a doorbell ring above her children’s constant playful screams.
The Foxes’ neighbor on the other side had been an older woman. Hilda. Not home at the time of the murder. She had an alibi, and police had confirmed it. Not that Hilda was anywhere close to being a suspect anyway. But what was her last name? Jordan didn’t even know if the woman was still living. She made a mental note to ask her dad.
Jordan let the video continue playing, and then paused it again.
What was that object behind the reporter? Lying on top of the neighbor’s trash can by the curb was some sort of green paper or fabric.
Jordan played the video in slow motion to get a better look. It appeared to be a camouflage jacket lying atop the neighbor’s trash can. Hilda never would’ve owned a camo jacket. By the time this video was recorded, dozens of people had trampled around. The jacket could have belonged to anyone. Probably nothing, but worth noting.
The video ended with Martin Ford, probably thanking the reporter and saying Channel 12 would report more news on the breaking story as it happened.
Jordan could have played it again and listened to the audio. Maybe she could hear the news about the stabbing without falling apart. But it was late. And she was tired. She wasn’t getting fired tonight. She’d have another chance. This was enough for now.
She packed up her stuff and hoofed it out to Hermes. On the way, she called Clayton.
He didn’t owe her anything. Not really. So she’d cajole again. “I’m going to want on-camera interviews, you know.”
“It’ll have to wait a couple of days. You’re off tomorrow anyway. And it shouldn’t matter. Dr. Wren’s dead, his daughter’s dead, and Evan Groves has lawyered up. There won’t be much to tell from my end.”
“What?” Jordan stood stock still in the parking lot. “Dr. Wren is dead? Dominique, too?”
“Yeah. I told you we got him. I gather Dominique was caught in the cross fire.”
“I thought you meant you arrested him.”
“We tried. He resisted, I guess. Anyway, gunfire was exchanged and neither Wren nor his daughter made it out.” Clayton hesitated. “Don’t shed any tears for the guy, Jordan. The more we learn about him, the worse he gets.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s probably the one who killed Ruby Quinn. Still waiting on forensics, but that’s how it looks right now.” Clayton sounded preoccupied. She’d gathered that much already. “And he’s been involved in the big cartel for years. Apparently, he was the big boss in Haiti, but always as a lower level dealer around here until Chester Flynn moved out of the way last month.”
Jordan soaked up as much information as he’d give her. There would be time for questions later. She felt the most remorse about Dominique Wren. So young. Such a beautiful voice. Jordan hadn’t known Dominique well at all. Now, she never would.
Clayton was still talking, “Since that happened, Wren was moving into the big guy slot here, too, I guess. DEA says that’s why his activity had become so aggressive. The shrimp boats coming in from Haiti to Caster Shrimp docs had increased frequency to the point that DEA got so heavily involved with your pal Salvador.”
He broke off to say something to someone else. “Where was I?”
Jordan prompted, “Evan Groves?”
“He seems like a low-level player. More of a gofer. But it’s hard to say just yet.”
Another loose end popped into her head. “What about Dr. Eric Lee?”
“So far, it looks like he just had the bad luck to loan his car to the wrong guy. Hang on, I got another call.”
She waited again.
When he came back this time he said, “Okay, I’ve got to run. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.”
Dr. Wren was a drug dealer, which she’d guessed. And Dr. Lee wasn’t. She was glad about that. But what about Dr. Chelsey Ross?
Jordan made one more call from Hermes on the way home. Dr. Ross’s voice mail picked up. “You’ve reached Dr. Chelsey Ross. I’m out of the country right now. I won’t be returning for an indefinite period of time.”
Jordan disconnected. All the way home, she thought about that message. Dr. Ross said she’d go back to Haiti on Monday if she needed to. She’d said she would find out whether Saint Louis was dead or alive. Is that where she went?
Jordan had discovered more questions than answers by the time she pulled into her empty driveway and parked. Neither Amy nor Claire was here.
Jordan felt a little ashamed to realize how relieved she felt to be home alone with her dad. She loved her friends, but she’d had all the excitement she could take for tonight.
CHAPTER 18
Now that she’d turned in one Instant Po
p Star story and one Haiti story, and the Super Adderall situation was under police control, Jordan had a little more breathing room. Plus, it was Tuesday, which meant she had the day off.
Things were fairly quiet at home. For the second day in a row, Jordan woke up to a quiet house. She might never take that for granted again. She stretched and padded out to the kitchen in bare feet.
Her dad was lifting hand weights in his wheelchair. “You must be feelin’ good, Dad,” she said.
He beamed as he continued to work his biceps. “I love it when you’re home, Freckles” He switched to a heavier weight and continued his routine.
Jordan was settling in for a little light reading on the new front porch hammock when her phone rang. Richard.
“Jordan, I watched the Haiti package you finished last night.”
“Yeah?” She swung a foot onto the floor, bracing herself for what he was about to say. Richard wouldn’t be calling unless there was a major problem.
“It’s fantastic.”
“Oh, wow. Thank you very much.”
“I didn’t realize what a talented photographer and writer you are. Really well edited, too. Nicely done.”
“Thanks. I wish I’d had more time to get interviews from Tampa Southern…”
“That would be great, if it works. We can do a follow-up piece. But would you be interested in coming in today and tracking the package? I know it’s your day off. So it’s completely up to you.”
She tapped a finger to her lip and weighed the pros and cons.
Tracking a package meant putting her voice on it. It would override the previous project, which contained the words she wrote, but which were spoken by the voice of one of the station’s well-known anchors. Tracking would be extra work for her, but it was easy. And it was an honor. Like an upgrade from ghostwriter to writer in her own right.
She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. The offer was a big vote of confidence coming from Richard and she appreciated the offer itself. He wasn’t quick to authorize face or voice time. Especially since he’d have to pay her overtime for it.