by Diane Capri
She snapped a few more photos of the setting. When the award presentation started, she would switch to video. But Channel 12’s web department required still photos, and Jordan had a good eye for composition.
Intently focused on sending her latest picture flying through SkySpace, Jordan jumped when she felt a tap on her shoulder.
She whipped around. “Claire!”
Claire’s brightly patterned strapless dress was as sunny as her personality. Always one step ahead of the fashion curve, Claire’s dress was fancier than a sundress but not too formal and predictably perfect for a 5 p.m. event. Blond curls bobbed just above her bare shoulders.
Jordan hugged her long-time pal. “You look beautiful!”
She looked down at her own royal blue blouse. She’d chosen it for her first day because it accentuated her deep blue eyes, which she knew were her best feature. But now, Jordan suddenly felt as average as her plain brown hair. Not unusual when she was in Claire’s presence.
“Really, you look stunning,” Jordan said, nothing but the truth. “Where’s the man of the hour?”
Claire turned to pull him away from a couple of guys who were laughing, patting him on the back and shaking his hand.
“Salvador? Salvador, honey.” Claire smiled sweetly at the guys and tugged Sal’s arm, gently moving him into conversation with Jordan. “You remember Jordan Fox?”
Jordan had met Sal only once before. Claire had been consumed by him all summer. They seemed like a good match. She was sophisticated and displayed impeccable taste. And Salvador Caster was the type of classy older man that suited her perfectly.
Sal replied, “How could I forget your best friend?”
“Nice to see you again,” Jordan said. “We’re all grateful for your generosity. The science center will really be a help to Ryburn Park.”
When Claire started sounding so serious about him, Jordan had looked up his background. Sal came from a long line of good luck and business smarts, but not much philanthropy. She’d read that his great-grandfather joined the shrimping industry two decades before the industry boomed in Florida. By that time, his grandfather already captained a shrimp boat which led to an incredibly profitable fleet. Sal’s father managed to maintain the fleet despite significant challenges in the industry—that is, until he died unexpectedly last year.
Now, Salvador owned Caster Shrimp Company and rumor mongers claimed he was looking for an heir. Jordan imagined Sal’s dark features and Claire’s baby blue eyes might combine to produce beautiful children someday. But not for a long, long time.
Sal flashed a debonair smile but the microphone at the podium squealed silencing all conversation.
He lowered his voice and leaned forward. “No pictures, Claire, okay? Jordan, I’ll make an exception for you.” He half-winked and threaded through the crowd to reach the front of the room.
Jordan snapped a couple photos and then prepared her smartphone for video.
Claire leaned over and whispered in Jordan’s ear. “Haven’t you always said you wanted to get married here?” She smiled slyly, like they were school girls again. “Someday, I mean.”
Jordan’s stomach did a nauseating back flip whenever she even thought about getting married. But she didn’t want Claire to know that. She kept her focus on the podium partly so Claire couldn’t read her expression.
“Are you crazy? Who’d get married at a casino?” Jordan laughed. “Rehearsal dinner in this room, maybe. Romantic yet whimsical.”
“You know,” Claire said, “if it’s romance you’re looking for, you should meet a new guy here. Have you spotted any potential suitors?”
Jordan scowled and checked the video settings on her phone again, stalling. She hated her ex fiancé a little less than she had three months ago, and she’d finally realized she’d dodged a bullet with Paul. For two years, she had believed she knew him, loved him. When her dad had the stroke, Paul had seemed devoted to her at a time when she really needed him. Every time she thought of him now she felt equal parts stupid and devastated and very, very lucky not to be tethered to him anymore.
No, she didn’t plan to jump into any new relationships for a good long while. But she didn’t want to say that because Claire would take the news as a challenge. She wanted Jordan to get back into the dating scene again right now. And Claire could be really pushy when she wanted something badly enough.
Before Jordan recorded the video, she needed facts to support the still photos she’d already sent. Without facts, her photos would be worthless. And this was new equipment for her. She wasn’t sure it worked. She’d tried shooting a couple of frames, but she must have done something wrong. She’d figure it out in a minute.
Jordan dropped her smartphone into the outer pocket of her sling bag, and retrieved a pen and notepad. She scribbled notes as the speaker extoled Salvador Caster’s virtues.
The speaker finally completed his prepared remarks. “And without further ado, I present this year’s Award for Scientific Philanthropy to—”
An ear-piercing shriek emitted from a woman in the front of the room. The microphone amplified the sound to painful proportions.
Jordan clamped her hands over her ears and her gaze darted from her notepad to the shrieker, a middle-aged woman facing the aquarium, transfixed.
A panicked buzz rose from the people around her. Other members of the crowd were now pointing and staring, not at the woman, but at the aquarium. Jordan looked along with them.
Behind the podium, amid the colorful collage of tropical fish, floated a man’s body…or what was left of it. The flesh was wrinkled, pale, and nude, topped by a stump where his head should’ve been.
Jordan’s palm flew to her mouth. The scene was surreal. Maybe the body was a fake. A sick attempt at humor. She’d seen similar gruesome displays at Halloween events.
She craned her neck to see above the spectators.
The torso and four limbs drifted downward across on a wavy diagonal from the water’s surface toward the aquarium floor. The arms ended at the wrists. The hands had been sliced off. An eel slithered between the floating legs.
Some kind of disgusting joke, for sure. But why would anyone want to sabotage Salvador’s event? Not even remotely funny. Nothing could justify this frat boy prank. Sal was no college kid. Shouldn’t his friends be a little more sophisticated than this?
Jordan stepped closer to the aquarium wall and peered through the thick Plexiglas. If the body was a mannequin, it was way too realistic. The longer she studied the body, the more she became convinced he was an all-too-human murder victim.
The realization flipped a switch that made her stomach roil. Her heart pounded furiously. She clamped her hand over her mouth and concentrated hard to prevent herself from vomiting. But she couldn’t tear her gaze from the gently descending grisly male torso.
Cries of “Oh my God!” “Is this real?” and “Somebody call 911!” echoed around the room, finally breaking through Jordan’s trance.
She turned her back to the aquarium wall and forced herself to think practically instead of running as fast as possible from the horrific display.
She was the first journalist on the scene. What would a more seasoned and experienced MMJ do? Call the station? Call police? Shoot video to preserve the scene for law enforcement and for the next news broadcast before evidence was destroyed?
The last option seemed the most urgent. Where’d she stash her camera?
Bodies pressed against her, pushing toward the exit, like a straitjacket around her. She struggled to free herself, but the crowd was too tight. They kept right on running to and through where she stood, carrying Claire along with them. Irrational panic erupted as if the body had broken through the thick Plexiglas and chased them.
Jordan was pushed and shoved and almost knocked down a couple of times until she planted her feet firmly apart and stood stock still, concentrating on maintaining balance, waiting for the human wave to pass.
When the space around her cleared en
ough to allow arm movement, she reached into the outer pocket of her bag. Her fingers flailed around. No phone. She glanced up.
He continued to bob, slowly sinking lower and lower in the water. She needed a picture or video desperately.
About half of the chaotic crowd had managed to exit. The others continued to push forward. Two children fell to the floor and a frightened mom stooped and grabbed them before the tide of people carried them forward once again.
Jordan plunged her hand into the main compartment of her bag and dug frantically. There was nothing that felt remotely like her new smartphone.
While her gaze was cast down, a large man jostled her roughly on his way past. She staggered and her bag fell out of her hands and spilled its contents onto the floor. Jordan squatted to scoop up her possessions.
There among her lipsticks and pens was her new smartphone. On the floor. The screen was shattered.
Before she could snatch it away, another foot trampled it. And another.
Jordan darted her hand out, scooped up the phone and turned it over. The back of the phone was crunched, too. A big chunk had come off entirely, revealing the circuit board. She pressed the phone’s home button. Nothing happened.
A careless woman knocked her off her feet, and she plopped down onto the floor on her butt.
She pressed the phone’s home button again and again, harder. Still nothing. The phone was ruined. Unsalvageable.
Dead.
Like the guy in the tank.
Like her career.
“No. No. This can’t be happening.” She remained seated on the floor, shaking her head. She punched the home button repeatedly, desperate to revive the phone. No such luck.
At least SkySpace already had all the still pictures she’d taken. She was sure of it. She’d watched them upload. That was something.
But not enough.
How would she explain to her bosses, face-to-face, that she’d failed so miserably? Again. And broken an expensive piece of equipment on top of it all.
“Ma’am? Ma’am.” Jordan realized a man in a security uniform was talking to her, crouching to help her off the floor.
She looked around. She was the only one left in the room.
“We’re gonna have to ask you to leave now, ma’am.”
She climbed up off the carpet, pulled out her press badge and showed it to him. “I’m from Channel 12. We need to cover this for tonight’s news.”
“Sorry. This is an active crime scene now. Tampa Police are on the way.” He continued to usher her away from the aquarium, shaking his head. “The casino is private property and everyone is being removed for now. You can come back when we reopen.”
Jordan stopped protesting and let him escort her away from the aquarium wall. He was right. The casino was private property, just as he said. She couldn’t remain here without permission. Every intern on the planet knew that. Journalism 101.
She stepped into the hallway still slightly dazed. She’d been transfixed by a dead man. That must have been why she’d allowed herself to be knocked to the floor, too. She just didn’t have her wits about her.
She shook herself off. She could figure out her feelings later. What did the politicians call it? Compartmentalize. Yes. Good plan.
Okay. Start with the basics. Report the news to the station.
But how?
Possibilities flashed through her mind and she rapidly rejected them, one after another.
She couldn’t even call the station to give them an update with her smartphone in its current condition. She had her personal phone, but the only number she had for the station was the recorded Tip Line, which was fully automated and might never be reviewed. She didn’t know the phone number to get a real human being on the line. She couldn’t even send an email from her ancient personal phone.
She’d get through to the assignment desk faster if she simply dashed back to the station and turned the story over directly. It was her best option. If she failed to get the word back, Channel 12 could miss the story entirely.
Jordan rummaged through her purse and found the keys as she rushed out to the Jeep. Her eight-minute drive to the station was a blur.
The moment she shifted the Jeep into park, all the adrenaline hit her at once. She didn’t have time to deal with it yet, so she shoved those feelings aside again.
She grabbed the keys from the ignition, rushed through the superheated air through the back door to the newsroom, jogged up two flights of stairs, and hurried over to the assignment desk. Slightly breathless, perspiration dotting her forehead, her body fairly humming along every nerve ending, she willed Patricia to get off the phone.
The moment Patricia hung up, Jordan opened her mouth to speak.
Before she could utter a word, Patricia said, “Where the hell have you been? We’ve been calling you for the past fifteen minutes about the body in the Aquarium Room. We didn’t give you that smartphone so you could ignore my calls.”
“I, I didn’t hear the phone ring—” Jordan stammered. How did Patricia know about the body already? Police scanners, maybe?
“Well turn up the volume or something next time,” Patricia stuck out her hand. “Now, let me see the video.”
“Video?” Jordan knew her face must be broadcasting pure fright, but Patricia didn’t seem to care. Her impatience boiled over.
“This is television. We need video. Of the body. Tell me you got video. You were standing right there.” Patricia’s desk phone rang again. She turned to pick it up. “Never mind. Take the video straight to the editors. We’ll need whatever you’ve got for eleven p.m.”
CHAPTER 3
Jordan didn’t hurry off to editing. No reason to. Instead, she ducked into the restroom seeking a quiet space to figure out what to do next. Seated on the stool behind a locked stall door, she slowed her rapid, shallow breathing before she hyperventilated or something.
Okay. So take stock. Work it out.
First assignment and she’d been an eyewitness at a crime scene. Very cool beginner’s luck, really. Her philanthropy story had developed into a major deal. Not only that, she now had one-up over Drew in their job competition.
She was feeling better.
In fact, if the floating body turned out by chance to be missing man, Ted Garfield, she may have even scooped Drew on his own story. Unlikely. But possible.
She grinned. Even better.
Was that the case? Was it Garfield? And could she prove it first, before anyone else?
She shrugged. She couldn’t even begin to guess the height of the floating body. As for other details, he’d seemed pretty average, even through the distortion of the water. Average build, Caucasian, and no obvious tattoos. He might have had some on his back, though. She only saw the front side.
Did that description match up with Ted Garfield? Probably. Did it also match hundreds of other men? Definitely.
Without fingerprints, facial features, or dental records, this could be a complicated identification case for Tampa P.D. even when they recovered DNA. Maybe she could get assigned to follow the story as it played out. That would be really cool.
So she would need to give Patricia some evidence that she could handle the story. She could get something ready for the eleven o’clock newscast. If she hustled her butt.
Jordan dug around in her bag, retrieved her pen again, and quickly jotted down all the details she could remember. She’d write up a couple paragraphs to accompany the pictures she’d uploaded and give that to the web team. She should even get a byline for it. Her first one ever. The grin snuck across her face again.
After that, no more procrastinating. She had to tell one of her bosses what happened to her phone. Now that she thought about how it happened, it wasn’t really her fault. The crowd jostled the phone out of its snug hold inside her bag. She couldn’t have known that would happen. No one would have. It was an accident. Surely no one would be that mad at her.
Which boss to talk to, though? Linda handled big picture
stuff. Richard. He was the guy with employee responsibility and the one she’d be reporting to for most day-to-day issues.
Although destroying company property wouldn’t become a regular issue. Definitely.
She stood, took a deep breath, and left the stall. At the sink, she washed the grime off her hands. She smoothed her hair and freshened her lip gloss, straightened her posture and walked into the newsroom. She dropped off the notes and then went to face the music.
Jordan entered Richard’s office and sat in one of the two black chairs in front of his desk. He didn’t look up.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Jordan asked.
Richard was deeply involved in something on his computer. “One second,” he said, briefly glancing her way.
Jordan tried to relax by exploring a bit. Richard’s office was decked out in University of Missouri colors. A black and gold paperweight, a black and gold clock, a gold pen holder next to a black paper organizer. The giant “M” on his mouse pad. Jordan guessed the answer before she confirmed it by glancing at the diploma hanging on the wall behind his chair: University of Missouri.
He’d graduated only seven years ago. He’d moved up the ladder to Executive Producer quickly. Advancement at Channel 12 could come swiftly, if she showed she had the right stuff. Good to know.
Finally, Richard clicked one last time and bestowed his attention on Jordan. She couldn’t read him, though. He seemed neither displeased nor happy. Just attentive. Probably an expression he’d mastered in some leadership course. She wondered if he knew yet about the body at the casino.
Jordan cleared her throat, which she knew was more stalling. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. Get to it. “So, there was a little mishap at the casino.”
“Mishap?” Richard smirked. “Is that what they’re calling decapitated floating bodies these days?”
So he’d heard about it, too. How did they get the story so fast? She made a mental note to find out.
She still couldn’t get a read on him, though. Was he angry she hadn’t called the story in? Maybe he kept a cool demeanor all the time to help him handle the day-to-day stresses of working in news. Maybe it was a coping strategy. Was it possible that he truly wasn’t annoyed with her? Nah. Pure wishful thinking.
