by Diane Capri
Jordan gasped.
“What is it? What’s in there?” Theresa glanced over at Jordan and let the Jeep drift too far to into the next lane. A huge truck behind them blasted his horn. Theresa flipped him the bird and put both hands back on the wheel.
Jordan stared at the four syringes in the bottom of the bag. Her stomach tightened itself into one big sailor-sized knot.
Maybe this backpack didn’t belong to Groves after all. It looked like the one she’d seen him carrying, but it was dark that night and she couldn’t be sure.
Groves was arrested for distributing Super Adderal pills, not injectable drugs. Camo backpacks were plentiful around campus. This one could easily belong to someone else.
“Earth to Jordan.” Theresa had pulled into the Channel 12 lot and parked when Jordan glanced up. “What is going on over there in your head, girl?”
“Sorry.” Jordan pulled the door handle and stepped out of the Jeep with her sling bag and the backpack. “I’ve gotta call Clayton Vaughn right away.”
“What about your story? What should I tell Patricia?”
“Try to change the subject.”
Theresa gave the thumbs up. “Can do.”
Jordan dashed out of the garage before Theresa could gather all of her bags and equipment and chase after her.
The last time Jordan tried to get Clayton’s help, he got annoyed and practically hung up on her. She’d have called someone else, but he was the only cop she trusted. “And how sad that fact is,” she said aloud while she waited for Clayton to pick up her call.
“How can I be of service to you, Ms. Fox?”
Jordan ignored the formal sarcasm. “I found Evan Groves’s backpack. Can you meet me and I’ll tell you all about it?”
Clayton pulled up less than five minutes later. Without getting out of the car, he pushed the side door open. “Hop in. Bring the bag.”
Jordan ducked her head and slinked in. “Thanks for coming.”
An awkward cloud of silence filled the air. Jordan didn’t have time to let it linger. “So our last conversation didn’t end too well.”
Clayton shrugged. “I was trying to work.”
She got the feeling it was more than that. Whatever the problem was, she needed to fix it. Fast. Because she needed Clayton. She could do her job without him, but not as well or as quickly. He was her best source inside the Tampa Police Department and she couldn’t afford to burn that connection.
Which didn’t mean she wanted to date him. Far from it. Which was the nub of their problem because he’d made it clear that he wanted to date her.
What a mess.
She bowed her head. “I’m sorry if I called at a bad time the other day.”
“No biggie.” His voice was too soft.
Jordan cleared her throat and looked directly at him. “Here’s the backpack.” She handed it to over gently. “Careful. It has syringes in it.”
“Yeah, and it’s got your finger prints all over it, too.” Clayton tugged on latex gloves and opened a large evidence bag. She dropped the backpack into it and Clayton pressed it closed. He dated and initialed the bag with a sharpie. “You sure this is his backpack?”
“Not sure at all.” She let the truth pierce the awkward tension in the air. “But he was at the clinic at the time of the murder and he had a camo backpack like that. You saw it on the video just like I did.”
Clayton said nothing.
She clasped her hands together tightly because she wanted to wring his neck until he squawked like those blasted chickens that woke her up every morning when she was in Haiti.
“I haven’t been questioning witnesses to find out.” But she’d wanted to, and she wished she’d done exactly that. “I was trying to let you be the cop and stick to my reporter role, like you requested. Don’t make me sorry.”
Clayton sighed and lifted his chin, nostrils flared. “Evan will only testify if we agree not to kill him, I’m told. So you better hope they take the death penalty off the table, or we’ll never hear the truth from him.”
“What, the backpack incriminates him too much to let him live? You wish I’d never found it? Because I can take it back.”
“Stop with the attitude.” Clayton ran a gloved hand through his hair. “I’m trying to update you on the case. The way it stands now, Evan Groves or Aaron Robinson or whatever the hell his real name is, will probably be offered a plea deal that requires him to serve the rest of his life in prison. Will he accept that deal and plead guilty?” Clayton shrugged.
She turned to him and they exchanged looks of understanding. The tension faded, and they seemed to be back on the same team. Maybe.
Clayton started the cruiser, a clear signal for her to get out.
Jordan said, “Thank you for coming to get the backpack. I know it’s not your job to help me. But I do appreciate it.”
“It’s all good.” Clayton grinned and subtly puffed his chest like he normally did when she flattered him. “I’ll tell you what I can about the backpack after it’s processed. How’s that?”
This was Jordan’s second cue. She wanted more information from him on another subject altogether. Too soon for that. Don’t push your luck here.
She hopped out and ducked her head back inside. “How long will it take before you finish processing?”
“Hard to say. I’ll call you.” A radio call came through. He reached to pick it up. “Gotta go. Close the door.”
Jordan watched his cruiser speed out of the visitor parking lot, blue lights flashing. She really needed to find another source inside Tampa P.D. And soon. A woman this time. Mixing business with dating was never a good idea.
The sooner she could find another source, the sooner she could stop one or the other with Clayton.
CHAPTER 9
Patricia was on her like a hawk on a field mouse the moment she walked into the Channel 12 newsroom. “Jordan. I heard you shot an interview at the airport. I didn’t know that was the plan. We need to know now if we’re gonna have a package from you for eleven tonight.”
Bull.
Patricia was just nosey. She’d noticed that Theresa returned without Jordan. She wanted to know why, but she wouldn’t ask.
And Patricia didn’t really need to know whether Jordan would have a package ready. Not yet, anyway. It was only five-thirty.
But Patricia was the boss and Jordan was the intern. So she smiled and replied as if Patricia’s excuses were justified. “I did land an interview, yes. I’m sorry we didn’t tell you. It was a last-minute thing.”
Patricia wasn’t the least bit mollified. “Well, the eleven o’clock show is already jam-packed tonight, especially if we’re running the story you did yesterday that we couldn’t air last night because of breaking news.”
Jordan’s throat tightened and her stomach did a few backflips. Crap. Jordan didn’t have a package from yesterday. Patricia had to know that and she was calling her out to make Jordan look incompetent in front of everyone within earshot.
“I didn’t exactly get enough for a package yesterday.” An understatement. She’d need about a minute and a half of tracked content and sound bites, combined. She had nowhere close to that much. And she didn’t want to use the drone-flying video she’d shot of Hugo and Friends because of the plane crash story she hoped to get later. “So, you don’t need to save room for me on the eleven o’clock tonight. I’ll go ahead and start piecing together a story using the interview I got today. We can run it tomorrow.”
No content for tonight. That’s what Patricia said she wanted, right? If she expected Jordan to freak out, she’d be disappointed. Which was probably why Patricia grunted and turned back to her desk.
Theresa witnessed the whole exchange. When Jordan passed her desk, Theresa said, “If you’re looking to succeed here, Jordan, you’d better figure out how to get along with Patricia.”
Jordan sighed. “I know. But she hates me. And I haven’t done a thing to cause it.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Ther
esa shook her head. “Patricia already has the job. You don’t.”
CHAPTER 10
By Monday morning, Jordan hadn’t resolved her confusion about Hugo, his friends, and his relationship with Calhoun.
Her confidence the night of the Cessna crash when she was certain that Hugo’s drone had caused the tragedy had faded a bit. Okay, a lot. Mainly because Jordan couldn’t think of a plausible motive.
But also because divers had recovered the destroyed plane from the floor of Tampa Bay on Sunday. The white drone with the purple and green pattern was found inside the cockpit, confirming the pilot’s report to control.
If Hugo’s drone caused Dennis Raine’s death, surely he’d be in custody by now, wouldn’t he? So far, no arrests had been made.
She hopped in her little car, Hermes, and pulled her phone from her sling bag before dropping the bag on the seat next to her. Three taps later, and Keith Simpson was on the line.
“It was a mistake, right?” She jumped right into it as soon as he picked up, her words rushing faster than Hermes traveling downhill. “I mean, why would these guys want to crash drones into planes? If Hugo crashed his octo intentionally to take that Cessna down, it cost him a multi-thousand dollar octocopter. What’s the point?”
“What?” Keith’s answer played through the car’s speakers. “The owner of the green and purple octo? You’re wondering if he did it intentionally?”
“Just thinking. As a theory.” Jordan pulled into the bank and waited in the drive-through lane. “Is there some reason Hugo and his friends would want to crash planes?”
Keith’s tone was sarcastic. “You’re a kid, but you do remember 9/11, right?”
“Funny as Saturday cartoons,” she deadpanned.
He chuckled. “Okay, but terrorism is the most likely answer, isn’t it?”
“Possibly.” But the group she’d seen working with Calhoun didn’t have a terrorist vibe. “Like could they stand to make money somehow? Attacking one random plane? Doesn’t make sense, does it?”
“Well, it sure was effective to terrorize that pilot. Could have been a personal vendetta.” A clunking noise filled the speaker, like he was tinkering on some machine while talking to her. “Or maybe a practice run. For a bigger attack.”
Jordan’s stomach flipped and her neck tensed. “I don’t know, Keith. It doesn’t seem quite right to me.”
She pulled up a couple of cars, still waiting for the drive-through teller. Her fingers tapped the steering wheel. Why couldn’t her dad use online banking like everybody else? “What if, maybe, they just want to show somebody that they could disrupt air traffic?”
“Like the dumb X-Box hackers after that one Christmas who shut down the system to prove they could do it, and just made people mad?” Keith’s tinkering sounded louder through the car’s speakers now that Hermes wasn’t moving. “They didn’t do any real damage. They didn’t even have a good motive.”
“Umm, almost,” she replied. Keith was top notch at technology, but current events and historical analogies weren’t his strong suit. “I think those X-Box guys achieved their goals, and maybe these guys did, too.”
The car ahead of her moved out and Jordan pulled up to the window. She put her dad’s banking in the tube and pushed the button.
“Keith, what if they wanted to demonstrate they could disrupt air traffic?”
“Uh, huh.” He sounded more preoccupied now, barely paying attention.
“I think the goal is bigger. I mean, terrorists with drones could probably demand a ransom from airlines and the corporations who fly them.” The tube came back with the deposit receipt and Jordan waved to the teller and Hermes rolled out into traffic again. “The mere threat to demonstrate that an airport is plagued by drones could be enough to extort a ransom, right? Give me the money and we’ll steer clear of your airport, you know?”
Keith grunted. Followed by silence for a few seconds, like maybe he’d put the phone down. “I’ve worked on computers before that have been locked up with a virus where hackers demanded a ransom. We’ll let you back into your computer if you pay the fee. That kind of thing. It’s called ransomwear.”
“It’s like the old gangster protection rackets they used to run in New York and Chicago.” His voice picked up speed and Jordan nodded, although he couldn’t see her. “Thugs wouldn’t bash in your windows and beat up your employees if you paid the fee. Didn’t you have an experience like that in Haiti, too?”
Keith paused abruptly.
“What? What are you thinking?” Jordan asked.
“Maybe you’re right.” Keith’s tone was more thoughtful, like she’d finally snagged his attention. “We ran a story a couple of weeks ago about how Malaysia Airlines has lost over a billion dollars since their two planes went down.”
“That much? Wow.” Jordan whistled. She could be on the right track here. She thought out loud. “Just like kidnapping for ransom. Corporations pay to get their people back from kidnappers in lots of hot spots around the world. All the time. There’s a lot of that in Haiti, too.”
“Yep.” He sounded preoccupied again.
Jordan raised her voice. “And analyzing costs and benefits, at some point for airlines and other corporations it’s gonna be cheaper, and better PR wise, to pay the protection racket than risk the catastrophe.”
She ran her thumb along the stitching of her steering wheel as she pulled up to a four-way stop and waited her turn. “So a terrorist, or anyone who wanted money, could tell an airport to give them money for protection, and the airport would pay.”
“No, not the airport. Not here, anyway.”
“Why not?”
“The government wouldn’t go along with that. But the airline. Or the corporations that depend on the planes and use them. Or that have friends and family or executives flying on them.” He stopped a second and his tone was harder when he spoke again. “My point is, technology can accomplish that kind of threat.”
Jordan pulled into the parking spot of her local pharmacy, where she’d collect her father’s prescriptions, and rested her elbows on the steering wheel to focus. “This seems a little far-fetched, but then again so is the idea of a hobby drone crashing a plane. How does the technology work?”
Keith took a long, audible breath and then spewed without stopping. “A good hacker or team of hackers could lock up a computer system with Encryptoware. I’ve even worked on computers that have these viruses on them. The bad guys send the victim an email, the victim opens it, and it gives the victim’s computer a virus. The virus has a ticking clock and a big red screen saying stuff like We’ll lock your computer forever—or, We’ll completely erase your hard drive unless you pay us X amount within X hours.”
“And they pay?”
“Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Look, I’ve got work to do.”
Jordan felt she was close. So close. “They pay right there on the computer?”
“Bitcoins or a credit card and usually send payment to a digital wallet.”
“One thing though. If they’re not planning to attack the planes, if the threat of locking up a computer is enough, why attack the Cessna? Why attack anyone at all?”
“Because this is different. This time, crashing the Cessna was the threat,” Keith said, the somberness of the topic reflected in his tone. “In our hypothetical scenario, they’d be threatening to bring planes down. And they’ve kind of proved that they can do it with the Cessna.”
“They? You’re saying this operation would more likely be done by a group than by one person?” Jordan asked.
“If it’s a large scale thing? Gotta be a group. Either terrorists or some other organized-crime group looking for money.”
Jordan thumbed the seam of the steering wheel again. The hypothetical scenario was scary, but it felt true. She couldn’t say why, exactly.
“You’re not thinking about continuing this story, are you?” When she didn’t agree immediately, he said, “These are terrorists here. You understand? These peop
le killed a man two days ago. They’ll do worse. You need to let go of this one. Tell police about Hugo’s purple and green drone and then report on what happens. You’re not a cop.”
Why did people keep saying that to her? She was an investigative reporter, not a rubber stamp. Sometimes, it was her job to find out the truth and other times, she’d simply report the truth. But when to take which step? That was where she got in trouble.
She went straight to the police yesterday with the backpack, didn’t she?
“Jordan? Still there?”
“I’m here.”
“I’ve gotta go. See you back at the station.”
Before she could say anything else, Keith hung up.
Jordan slumped in her seat and called Clayton’s cell.
“Don’t tell me you found another backpack.”
“It’s an unrelated story. I might have some information about the Cessna crash that killed the Navy pilot on Saturday night.”
“Like what?”
“I think I might know who owned the drone that killed him. Emphasis on might.”
“Well, no one is sure a drone killed him. That’s—that’s kind of a big deal.” He seemed out of breath and his voice deepened. “You need to go straight to the FBI. Right now.”
Jordan gasped. Her thoughts swirled. She looked down at her sweatpants. Definitely not dressed for an FBI interview. “I’ve never done that before.”
“I’ll come with you. I’m on a task force with a couple of guys there. We’ll go to the office downtown and I’ll call them on the way. I’ll tell them we’re coming. Get any evidence you need and meet me there.” He paused. “Twenty minutes?”
Jordan looked at the clock car blinking 12:25 p.m. Two hours until her shift started. Her list of errands was longer than her leg, but absolutely first on the list was to get her dad’s prescriptions back home. Change clothes.
She was stalling. Nervous.
She took a deep breath. “Thirty minutes?”
CHAPTER 11
