by Diane Capri
Keith waved and whispered. “In here.”
“You’re hiding in a port-a-john? You scared me half to death.”
The chopper was north of them now, and was moving farther away. So was the spotlight.
“I think it’s safe to come out.” Jordan shook her head. Keith was like the cowardly lion. She got that he broke the law and everything, but running and hiding? A bit extreme. And hilarious. Now that they knew they were not the target of a police investigation. And now that Keith had learned his lesson. “All right, Keith-Meister. This has been enough excitement for one night for this girl. I’m gonna head home, but thanks for the info on drones. See ya around.”
Keith bumbled back toward his apartment. “If they don’t arrest me first.”
CHAPTER 6
Theresa drove toward St. Petersburg the next day with Jordan in the passenger’s seat. Jordan was tagging along while Theresa did a story previewing the upcoming U.S. bid to have Tampa host the World Cup. If Tampa was chosen, matches would also be held in St. Pete.
“How’s the extended drone assignment coming?” Theresa asked.
“Eh. Yesterday was a big fat bust.” Jordan flipped down the mirror and applied a pink-tinted coat of lip gloss. She didn’t want to think about how she got almost no usable content for air yesterday, and how suspicious drone operators practically chased her down, and she certainly didn’t want to be interrogated about any of it.
Looking back on it now though, not having her drone story air was a good thing. Gave those men less reason to be pissed at her if what they wanted was privacy. At least until she could prove her theory about the purple and green octo.
“Did you ever get a hold of Lieutenant Colonel Margaret Succi?” Theresa focused on the road ahead.
“Yeah.” Jordan pressed her lips together and adjusted her hair. “I couldn’t use the interview though. None of it. There was some national regulation she found out about at the last minute. Mid-interview.” Jordan pressed her lips together and flipped the mirror closed. “Thanks for the contact info though.” Jordan was grateful, even though the info couldn’t air, and even though asking for help had bruised her pride.
“I was trying to focus on the future of drones and how the military uses them, and show how quickly amateur drones are developing and catching up technologically. I’d like to interview a commercial airport official.”
“You mean to tie in with last night’s plane crash?”
“Exactly.”
“Are they saying a drone was involved in the crash or something?” Theresa glanced over quickly. “I mean, when they get the plane out of Tampa Bay, we’ll know for sure. But they’re having problems with the recovery. Something about the tide or the weather, I guess.”
“But the pilot implied a UAV was involved. As long as there’s speculation, I can mention the plane crash in my drone story.” Jordan was thinking out loud. “If I could get even one quote from someone with the Federal Aviation Administration on the problem of drones in commercial airspace, I’d have a round story on both the capabilities and the threats.”
“Good thinking,” Theresa said, stopping for the traffic light. “Wait. Remind me. What exactly are the capabilities? Spying on celebrities?”
“Very funny.” Jordan slapped her playfully. “UAVs are powerful military weapons. They inspire high school kids to pursue engineering. Some drones carry cameras and are a super easy way to get beautiful aerial shots.”
Theresa turned left on the green arrow. “Gotchya. So, to add your airplanes-and-drones-don’t-mix element, you need a contact with the FAA?”
Jordan nodded. “And, not to be picky, but it would be great if I could interview someone physically at the airport. Nice shot of the runway in the background, video of planes taking off. You know?”
“So you need someone like an air traffic controller?” Theresa’s attention was divided, but she was listening.
Jordan tried not to sound too pathetic. “Do you know one?”
At the next stoplight, Theresa scrolled through her phone and handed it to Jordan. “Here’s an air traffic controller. Take his number but don’t tell him I gave it to you.”
Jordan raised her eyebrows at Theresa. She was giving her contacts, advice, and had even introduced her to a guy who turned out to be worth pursuing, at the very least. She wasn’t about to turn down another good offer from a friend with that kind of track record. But Theresa’s sly approach worried Jordan a little. “Is calling him a problem?”
Theresa shrugged. “FAA in general gets a little jumpy for some reason whenever you ask them to speak on camera. But this guy is cool. And he’s good sound if you can get a hold of him. I’d just rather not have my name floating around and end up on a no-fly list.”
Freeman Whittaker.
Jordan dialed his number. He answered after the first ring and agreed to meet Jordan at Franklin Pierce Airport, a small regional airport in Saint Petersburg, in fifteen minutes. Yes!
The great thing about meeting at a small city-owned, public-use airport was that there would be no big security hassle. She could interview Whittaker right there on the runway.
Theresa dropped Jordan off at the airport and left to pursue her own story. “I’ll pick you up in about two hours, okay?”
“Thanks, Mom.” Jordan waved and winked. She walked past Franklin Pierce’s restaurant, The Terminal. The most fragrant aroma of garlic butter wafted from it, and Jordan felt her stomach rumble.
Jordan hauled her camera and gear toward one of the hangers. She set up her camera and tripod on a patch of grass to the side of a runway. Small planes cycled in and out behind her, creating a rhythm of roaring and fading engines. The overpowering odor of plane fuel eliminated the garlic aroma.
She identified Freeman Whittaker the moment he walked up. He looked exactly like a Freeman Whittaker. Tall, straight, lanky. Full head of salt and pepper hair, combed back. Shining hazel eyes. He was the kind of guy who grew more handsome and distinguished with age. He fit his moniker like a guy from central casting.
After introductions, Jordan attached his mic and positioned him with his back to the runway, which she’d include in the shot. Blue and green lights dotted the strips of pavement, creating just the effect she wanted.
A conversation about aviation, up close and personal, local, and neutral followed.
Freeman Whittaker was just as easy to listen to as he was to look at. He spoke eloquently about drones being a threat not only to air travel safety, but also to national security.
“You understand, we’re not talking about military drones,” he said, flashing swoon-worthy white teeth. “A sophisticated amateur drone could absolutely take down an airplane.”
That’s what Keith had told her, too, but Whittaker offered a huge dose of credibility. And he backed up what Lieutenant Colonel Margaret Succi had said. Except this time, she could use him on camera.
He fairly oozed credibility. “I’m retired now, but I stay in touch with the aviation community. We’re all worried about explosions from these drones people are flying everywhere, and there are no rules.”
That wasn’t exactly true. Rules existed. People chose not to follow them.
His voice was heavy with authority. “Unmanned aircraft are readily available online. If proper laws aren’t put in place—and even if they are—drones put in the wrong hands present a threat to operational functionality. Drones could shut down U.S. air travel completely.”
Jordan asked, “Have drones ever been a problem in the Tampa Bay area?”
“Tampa has had more near-misses in the past month than any other city in the United States.” Whittaker shook his head, as if he’d never understand it. “Most of the drones are too high and too close to airports.”
He shrugged. “Maybe it’s Tampa’s nice weather that attracts all these idiots. But since we can’t change the weather, we’re gonna have to change the rules within the FAA. Somethin’s gotta give.”
That was it. Perfect sound bite. All she needed.
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She shook Whittaker’s hand, and the package was a done deal. Raising awareness about security in the skies. All in a day’s work. Take that, Drew.
Her first story on drones got a record number of hits online. This one should do at least as well. Drones were a hot topic right now. They’d be a hotter topic if she was right about the cause of the Cessna crash.
Jordan’s story success could rest on the video. She didn’t have Drew’s photography skills to accompany her writing and reporting this time.
She pursed her lips. She should take a few beauty shots of planes taking off and landing in the late afternoon sunlight. She could do that just as well as Drew if she put in a few minutes of effort.
Jordan set up her tripod and placed the camera atop it in the grass, a few feet back from the runway. She was adjusting camera settings to optimize the daylight, when a high pitched, ear-piercing squawks emitted from speakers and red lights around the runways flashed.
She jumped back and hit the tripod.
The tripod rocked.
Jordan watched the tripod sway from one leg, to the second, to the third, and back again, around in a circle. She sprang forward and pushed all three tripod legs to the ground. Stabilized.
Squawking and flashing continued at decibels loud enough to wake the dead.
Jordan carefully removed the camera from atop the three-legged stand, put it in its bag, and scrambled to fold up the tripod and snap it shut. An airport official walked up from her left.
“What are the emergency alerts about?” Jordan shouted to be heard over the din.
“Birds on the runway!” He shouted back. “If the birds don’t leave, they might fire flare shots next. You don’t wanna be here for that!”
Jordan slung the tripod under her arm, grabbed the camera by its bag strap, and hustled away from the airport to a nearby curbside to wait for Theresa to return and pick her up.
She reached curbside just in time to see Freeman Whittaker on his way out. He rolled down his window and slowed to a stop beside her. “Birds. Y’know, birds are light, and planes are heavy, but if a bird hits the wrong spot…well…you don’t wanna watch the end of that story.”
Damn. Too bad he didn’t say that sound bite on tape.
CHAPTER 7
“Mind if we swing by Plant University?” Theresa asked Jordan after she picked her up. “I need to get exterior shots of the athletics building for my story.”
“No problem.” Jordan clicked through her phone to catch up on any work emails she’d missed during the Whittaker interview.
They’d released the Cessna pilot’s name and a bit of background data now. Dennis Raine. Same guy she’d identified last night as the owner of the plane. She kept scrolling. “Yikes. The pilot was a former Navy pilot?”
Theresa turned onto the cobblestone streets that led up to Plant University. “Yeah. Sad, right?”
Jordan gritted her teeth a moment. “That means he was a really good pilot.”
Theresa nodded. “The Navy wouldn’t allow him to fly jets otherwise.”
Jordan said nothing while she worked it through in her head.
Navy pilot meant he was an expert. Which meant he knew how to avoid catastrophe. But Dennis Raine hadn’t avoided this one.
After a catastrophe, a trained Navy pilot could’ve saved himself given even the slightest opportunity. But Dennis Raine didn’t save himself.
What did that mean?
Could he have been targeted? Attacked?
No amateur could have taken down that Cessna except by the craziest of chances.
So if a well-trained Navy pilot was targeted and defeated, his attacker was also a well-trained pro.
Jordan shuddered and wrapped her arms around her body. She could be wrong. But her gut said she wasn’t. Someone deliberately killed Dennis Raine.
But why?
“Are you sleeping over there?” Theresa had created a makeshift parking spot out front of the beautiful brick athletics building. She brought the Jeep to a halt. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
Jordan tasted the dryness in her mouth. “I’m parched. I’m gonna run inside and look for some water.”
Theresa handed her the keys. “Meet you back here in ten.” She dashed off at her usual speed.
Inside the athletic facility’s entrance, Jordan stopped at the receptionist desk. This was one of the newer buildings on campus, and it smelled like it. Fresh paint and a clean, thin layer of gray carpet with specks of gold mixed in tossed off chemical odors that made Jordan’s eyes water.
A student worked at a new computer behind the desk. Probably getting paid to sign people in and out as a part of work-study program. Most likely an athlete based on his muscular, compact body. A wrestler, she guessed.
She tapped on the desktop. “Can you point me to the restroom?”
“Sure, but I’ll still have to ask you to sign in.” He pushed a clipboard with a sign in sheet toward her without looking up.
“Of course.” Jordan wrote her name on the list, and he pointed, still engrossed in whatever was on his screen. She walked the few steps to the water fountain outside the restroom door. She bent and drank thirstily from the flowing water. She turned and wiped the excess off her chin.
She’d never been inside this building before. But Evan Groves, the man who was arrested for Ruby Quinn’s murder, worked here. He’d been the assistant soccer coach and the team’s illegal drug supplier. And before he’d reinvented himself somehow, he’d been Aaron Robinson. Possibly one of her mother’s most difficult students.
Jordan glanced both ways along the entrance corridor. Evan Groves would have had an office here. She patted her sling bag to be sure she had her phone. She could get a few good photos, at least. Maybe she’d find something the cops had missed.
Which way to the soccer team office? No clear signage that she could see. She moved three steps down the north wing of the hallway before Wrestler Guy stopped her. “You can’t go back there without a pass. Are you on a sports team here? I don’t think I’ve seen you around.”
Was he flirting with her? That’s how his tone and too-friendly grin came across. Like he knew she didn’t belong here, but he might let her slide. Not much of a security system.
Jordan wasn’t in the mood, but she did want to find Evan Groves’ office. She was about to shoot him down and forget it when she spied a backpack on the floor behind his chair.
She’d seen a backpack like that before.
On the Channel 12 weather cam the night Ruby Quinn was killed.
Evan Groves had it with him when he left the clinic where Ruby was murdered. He’d been dressed in athletic clothes and headed toward the athletic building. Later, he came back without the backpack.
Could this one belong to Evan Groves?
Jordan stepped closer to the reception desk and leaned forward. “Yeah…I mean no. I swim here sometimes. Club sport. Not on the team.” She flashed her friendliest smile. “And you know what? I think I left my backpack here. Do you have a lost and found?”
He nodded and pointed a beefy thumb over his shoulder. “Whatchya missing?”
“My backpack.” She peered around him and grimaced. “I know. Of all things, right? I just realized, I’ve checked almost everywhere but here.”
“What’s it look like?” He didn’t turn to look at the pile of stuff on the floor.
“Camo.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t look like a camo kind of girl.” Still flirting, which she took as a good sign.
“On sale. Cheap, too.” She smiled again and shrugged.
He lumbered out of the chair, which groaned with relief, and walked to the box in the corner. He held it up by the top black loop. Big orange patch on the front. “This it?”
Saggy. Could be empty.
She flashed another friendly grin and put her hand on her heart. “You are a lifesaver. Thank you so much.”
He handed it to her. She smiled without parting her lips, gave him one mor
e thank you and escaped before he changed his mind.
Jordan pushed through the exit and hurried to the Jeep. Theresa was already behind the wheel.
Jordan jumped in, plopped the backpack on the floor between her feet, and slammed the door. “Let’s get out of here. There’s a wrestler in there flirting with me. Ugh.”
Theresa craned her neck to see inside the building. “Is he cute?” But she was teasing. She put the Jeep in gear and pulled away.
Jordan looked back to be sure Wrestler Guy hadn’t sent campus police after her or something. No one came out before Theresa turned onto the street.
A clean getaway.
Still, her heart pounded way too hard for comfort.
Theresa glanced at Jordan and frowned. “What’s up with that backpack? You steal it from the cute wrestler, or what?”
“Kinda.” Jordan took a deep breath to steady her voice. “I mean, he gave it to me voluntarily.”
“You tricked him out of it, didn’t you?” Theresa grinned. “But it’s hideous. Why would you want that thing?”
Jordan knew Theresa wouldn’t give up. The woman was as tenacious as a pit bull. Besides, it would help to have a sounding board on this one, anyway. “So you know how Ruby Quinn, that Plant University nurse, was murdered, right?”
Theresa nodded. “Mhm.”
“There’s something that’s been bothering me. The guy charged with that murder arrived at the clinic that night with a backpack, but a couple hours later, he came back to his car without it. Guess what I found.” Jordan lifted the backpack for display.
Theresa’s jaw dropped. “No.”
Jordan nodded slowly, and pulled the main compartment zipper.
“Dude.” Theresa leaned over and pried Jordan’s fingers off the backpack. “Drop it.”
Theresa held up her own hands, palms out, to demonstrate.
“Come on. It feels empty, anyway. And it might not even be his. I mean, what are the chances?” She pulled the zipper open completely and peered inside.
CHAPTER 8
