by Diane Capri
She gave herself a C minus for that performance. She completely screwed up the middle question. A seasoned reporter wouldn’t do that.
Richard stepped out of his office, walked toward Jordan, and put his hand on her shoulder. “You should take the rest of the day off. Maybe go get checked out. Looks like you’re bruising up.” When she started to argue, he squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t worry. This is your baby. For tonight, we’ll use footage from Keith’s drone, and we’ll tease ahead to a special exclusive story that you can put together tomorrow. Okay? Come in early tomorrow if you want to get a head start.”
Jordan gave up the fight. “Perfect. Thanks, Richard.”
He trusted her, she knew her assignment ahead of time, this was an exclusive, teased ahead for maximum exposure, she could rest up for a full day before working on it, and it would be pre-taped so she could guarantee perfection. Or something closer to it than her performance with Graham White, at least.
Best possible ending. Now get the hell out of here before Patricia changes his mind for him.
CHAPTER 30
Jordan was adjusting her sling bag to leave, when she saw a short, balding man in a suit across the newsroom. She rounded a corner to get a better look.
It was him. The investigative reporter who handled her mother’s case. Sandy Wall. The one she never got to see because he usually worked a different shift in a different county.
She picked up her pace to catch up with him.
“Sandy? I’m Jordan Fox. Can we talk a minute?” Jordan had avoided talking about being the daughter of the infamously murdered guidance counselor. Some members of the media had strong opinions about her dad’s guilt and that was a battle she didn’t want to fight at work.
But Jordan wanted access to all of his work, so she told Sandy Wall that she was Brenda and Nelson’s daughter, straight out.
“Let’s talk in here.” Sandy Wall led them to an empty private office and closed the door. They sat close enough to talk quietly. “I heard you were interning here. I’m sorry I haven’t reached out.”
Jordan nodded. “It’s not an easy thing to talk about, but I’m curious by nature. That’s why I want to be a reporter.”
She smiled a little to put him at ease, reminding herself not to get emotional about the murder or anything else. The last thing she wanted to do was freak him out.
Don’t spook him. Stay detached. Act like a reporter. “Would you happen to remember when my mother’s press conference was? I believe Tampa Police held a presser sometime after her murder and I wanted to take a look at it.”
Jordan didn’t say she knew for sure a press conference was held. Attorney Jenny Lane had told her that in confidence. It was something she’d need to confirm from another source before she’d start throwing the information around.
“I don’t remember the exact date.” Sandy folded his hands across his ample stomach. “But you know every script that airs is logged into a database, right? Every word the anchors speak, except when they’re ad-libbing. It’s all in the computer system.”
Jordan did know about the database. “Is it easily searchable?”
Sandy’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “It’s doable. One of the editors can walk you through it if you have trouble.”
Jordan took a deep breath and jumped into the deep end. “I was really hoping to watch the raw footage of the press conference. You know, to see the presser from beginning to end. Not just the bits we aired on Channel 12.”
“Ah, I see. Let me think about that for a minute.” He rubbed his chin. “Why don’t you search—I hate to say this.”
Jordan’s heartbeat quickened and she leaned forward. “No, please. I’d appreciate the help.”
Sandy nodded as if he really did understand. “I know your dad was mentioned in that press conference. Search his name. Limit the terms of the search to within thirty days after the murder.”
“Why thirty days?”
“If I’m recalling correctly, the press conference happened soon after the murder. Within a week probably. But say thirty days to be safe. Okay?” He placed his hands on the chair’s arms and stood as if he was ending the conversation.
But Jordan wasn’t finished. She remained seated. “I was wondering, was there anything you ever uncovered, a detail however small, that maybe wasn’t reported on air or in print?”
“There might be something.” He rubbed his bald head, thinking about it. “Let me check my file here. I keep information like that at the very front.”
A file? Like an actual paper file? Jordan blinked to reduce her eyes from the size of saucers.
Sandy walked to a row of file cabinets along the wall, pulled open a drawer at mid-calf level and flipped through the folders to one far in the back.
Jordan marked the location it with a giant red flag in her memory. Third drawer, left-hand side. Near the back.
“Here it is.” He stood at the cabinet, opened the folder and scanned the paper in the front. “I thought this would be a home-run clue at the time, but police could never make anything of it. The email address for the buyer of one of the knives used in the attack.”
Jordan’s nerves blasted like a million nails along her entire body. She ignored the jabbing sensations and spit out the next question. “Can you tell me what it is?”
Without looking up from his file, he said, “Tragicrabbit.”
CHAPTER 31
Jordan collected Sandy Wall’s contact information and then hurried away from the newsroom before she passed out. She was fairly certain she’d been just a few molecules of oxygen away from fainting.
She made it to the lobby restroom downstairs and splashed cold water on her face. Again and again, until a pale shade of pink tinted her complexion and she was confident she could drive home without crashing her dad’s car.
Not that she was likely to forget, but just in case, Jordan wrote tragicrabbit on a piece of paper and stashed it securely in her sling bag.
By the time she walked in the door of her house, she’d jammed her mindset back to Weekend Mode. Her dad was too closely attuned to her moods. If she acted the way she truly felt at the moment, she’d give him another stroke.
Besides, it was nice to know that tomorrow wouldn’t be a rat race at work. Her story was already assigned. Flying by the seat of her pants was thrilling, sure. But Jordan needed a day or two to patch things up.
She took another nap and woke up in time to cook dinner for Nelson. They were just finishing up their meal when the doorbell rang.
Jordan looked out the side window from the kitchen. Clayton Vaughn. She had almost successfully forgotten about him for the past twenty-four hours. What the hell was he doing here?
She opened the door, to find him holding a bouquet of flowers and a get well card. Amazing and terrible, all at the same time.
She liked Clayton, but she wasn’t sure how much. She was pretty sure she liked Tom Clark a whole lot more. Besides, didn’t Clayton realize how awkward he was making her life by forcing a meeting with her dad? Why couldn’t they just keep their relationship professional?
Maybe because Jordan needed him. Maybe because Clayton knew that, too.
“Hi, Clayton. Nice to see you. Come on in.”
She introduced Clayton to her dad. The next twenty minutes of small talk felt excruciating until Jordan found a suitable place to yawn. “It’s getting late.”
“Right.” Clayton took that as his cue to leave. He shook hands with her dad again. “Nice to meet you, Nelson.”
“Don’t be a stranger. We don’t get as many visitors around here as we should,” her dad said.
Jordan stifled a groan and covered it with a smile. She led the way to the door.
“Walk me out, Jordan,” Clayton said.
Was she supposed to hug him? She didn’t plan on making a habit of that.
Outside, a loud buzz overhead distracted Jordan from the dilemma at hand.
Clayton looked up and pointed. “What the hell is th
at?”
It was green and approaching quickly.
“Isn’t he cute?” Jordan smirked. “He is called The Fly.”
She waved, flashing a huge grin, until she saw Clayton’s crestfallen expression.
The Fly was carrying flowers.
“Now I feel like such a bum,” Clayton said. “I delivered your flowers the old fashioned way. Next time it’ll be a private jet.”
Jordan took the flowers from The Fly and waved goodbye as he flew off.
She buried her nose in the roses and freesia and sniffed appreciatively. “It’s just some geeky guy looking for an excuse to use his ugly drone.”
Clayton laughed. “That thing is pretty ugly, isn’t it?”
They both smiled and leaned against Clayton’s car.
“Thank you for not delivering your flowers via an ugly mode of transportation,” Jordan said.
“Did you just call me Not Ugly? Coming from Jordan Fox, I think I’ll take that as a compliment.”
It had been a long day. She’d let him have it.
“Now that I know you really are glad to see me, I’ll stop by more often.”
Oh, boy. Good thing he couldn’t see her expression in the dark.
She wanted this relationship back onto a professional level, so she asked, “What’s going on with Hugo Diaz and his pal? You guys get him to confess to anything yet?”
“We won’t get a word out of the guy.” Clayton shrugged. “He lawyered up before we got him to the station. Lawyer was standing there waiting for him when he walked in the door.”
“The lawyer was there before Hugo even called him?” Sounded very odd to Jordan. She’d never met a lawyer with telepathy. But maybe he had a police scanner or something.
“Go figure, right?” Clayton sounded a little puffed up, though. “Here’s the interesting part. His lawyer is the same high priced scum-dude representing your pal Evan Groves.”
Jordan gasped. “You’re kidding.”
“Not even a little bit.” Clayton was probably scowling, but she couldn’t see his features in the dark.
Jordan said nothing, but her mind was whirling so much she almost didn’t hear what he said next.
“Almost forgot. I brought you something else.” Clayton reached into his pocket and pulled out a small rectangular object she could barely see in the ambient light spilling from her front door. He held the object out to her. “You wanted this back, didn’t you?”
He pushed a button and the screen light came up. A picture of Nelson Fox’s smiling face brightened the darkness.
“My phone! Oh, my god, Clayton!” Jordan held the phone to her chest as if he’d returned a baby to its mother. “Thank you! A million thank yous!”
Spontaneously, she leaned over and kissed him before she realized what she was doing.
She stepped back with a horrified expression on her face, which he probably couldn’t see. She hoped. Because she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. And he’d just come to her rescue once again, after all.
Clayton turned without another word, but she heard him whistling on the way to his car. She stood in the driveway watching him go.
And then she went inside to call Theresa to find out how she could get in touch with Tom Clark. She wanted to tell him she’d started training for his 5K.
After that, she’d try five more passwords to access her mother’s hard drive.
FALSE TRUTH 9
A JORDAN FOX MYSTERY
BY DIANE CAPRI
WITH BETH DEXTER
CHAPTER 1
While he waited for the lawyer to call, the boss watched Pipo’s execution again.
Pipo’s cell was the same as thousands of other jail cells. Furnished for two inmates, two cots rested parallel to each other on opposite walls. Between the cots, in the center of the back wall, one stainless steel toilet protruded. Next to the toilet was a stainless steel sink.
High above the sink, a rectangular window recessed into cement block walls, thicker than standard eight inches. Sturdy bars, well anchored into the dense blocks, crossed the window. Weak light filtered through from outdoors, suggesting the 7:05 p.m. time stamped on the video was accurate for October in Tampa.
Pipo lay on his back, greasy hair strewn on the pillow, thick forearm over his eyes, wide stocking feet protruding from the tent-sized orange jumpsuit. His ample chest rose and fell with even breathing.
The boss shook his head slowly. Poor tragic rabbit. Pipo had always been a good man. A follower, not a leader. But a loyal follower, and loyalty was hard to come by.
The Judas entered Pipo’s cell using a key the lawyer had provided.
Pipo didn’t stir. The drugs had worked well to sedate him, which was efficient. Less resistance. Less noise. He might have been asleep. His guards probably thought so, if they considered the matter at all, which they’d been paid well not to do.
He crossed the short distance to Pipo’s cot.
He leaned in. He might have spoken a few words, but if he did, they were not audible on the video. Pipo remained still.
He sat on the empty cot across the cell, pulled his long socks off. He wrapped one end of each sock around his hand and snapped the garrote taut. He slipped his bare feet into his shoes.
His hands were steady. He slipped the garrote around Pipo’s fleshy neck and pulled until the veins on his muscled forearms bulged with the effort and held it tight to crush Pipo’s windpipe and terminate breathing.
When Pipo’s chest stopped expanding, he removed Pipo’s socks and placed them on the cot.
He tied his own long socks together securely and fashioned the noose. He tied the loose end of the sock-rope to the bars on the window. He tugged on the knots, tightening them.
He strained to lift Pipo’s heavy body. Propped Pipo against the sink, slipped on the noose, and snugged it close.
He lifted Pipo’s body and stretched the noose taut before he suspended Pipo from the window bars and down the side of the sink.
He stood back to examine the scene. Everything was as it should have been. Pipo was heavy. The sock rope might not have held long enough to kill. But Pipo was already dead, so no problem if the body fell to the floor too soon.
Then, he looked around one last time, grabbed Pipo’s socks, left through the cell door, and locked it behind him.
He walked three cells down the row and pulled another cell door open. He entered, reached through to lock himself in, and handed the key to the lawyer.
He sat on the edge of his cot, removed his shoes, slipped Pipo’s socks onto his feet, and donned shoes once more.
He lay on his back in the same position as he’d found Pipo.
Cold bastard. Always had been.
The video stopped.
The boss replayed it again. He tapped his forefinger on the table like a metronome as he watched, marking time.
The killer had done well with Pipo. And with the DEA agent.
Unfortunately, he had also failed. He’d failed to stop the reporter, which was why Pipo was now dead and the killer would soon follow. But he was assigned to silence one more tragic rabbit first.
Groves. Hapless, hopeless, unlucky Groves. A curious sidekick for the killer, but they’d arrived at El Pulpo together and remained loyal to each other, in their fashion. Perhaps they’d find it appropriate to terminate together as well.
The boss watched the video twice more before the cell phone rang. Only the lawyer knew this number. The call was routed through servers on three continents before it reached the boss. After this one call, too short to trace, he would destroy the phone.
He’d been El Pulpo’s boss longer than any other boss before him only because he was a careful man.
“Yes,” the boss said.
“Termination confirmed.” The lawyer never wasted words.
“Yes,” the boss said again.
The boss expected the lawyer to terminate the call, but the lawyer stayed on the line.
“Yes?”
“The sickn
ess is not contained.” The lawyer’s tone was grim, but firm.
Not shocking. The boss expected something to go wrong with every plan. He was rarely disappointed. “Yes?”
“One death. Five in quarantine.”
The boss’s finger tapped while he considered the data. “Proceed as planned.”
“Of course.” The lawyer took a breath. “And the cleaner.”
Another project, another problem. Situation normal. “Yes?”
“He’s kept one. Again.” The lawyer hesitated half a beat. “The reporter’s on it.”
The boss frowned and wiped his palm over his face. The reporter. Again.
Jordan Fox had disrupted El Pulpo’s plans repeatedly over the past few weeks. Her interference had destroyed his product, pushed his team off course, and left him short-handed for the critical final stages.
He’d planned to deploy the contaminated water later. But the timing wasn’t critical. The threat was credible and the ransom would be paid. He’d simply collect the ransom money sooner than expected.
After that, El Pulpo’s Tampa operation would be offline until replacements were installed. Jordan Fox was responsible for the lost personnel and lost revenue.
Why couldn’t the kid just give up? He’d allowed her several opportunities, but she hadn’t taken them. She was too young to be so stubborn.
The boss shrugged. So be it.
He nodded, his decision made. Jordan Fox had interfered with El Pulpo’s operations for the last time. He gave the order. “And Fox.”
“Him? Or her?” the lawyer asked.
“Both.” Tragic rabbits.
Another half a beat passed before the lawyer said, “Understood.”
The boss waited until he heard the lawyer disconnect before he terminated the connection on his end.
He pulled the phone apart and removed its battery. He dropped the phone on the ground and smashed it with the heel of his boot. He bent to collect the pieces. He dropped pieces into four trash cans along the streets of the city as he made his way to the helipad for the short flight to Tampa.
