False Truth 8-10: 3 Action-Packed Romantic Detective Mystery Thrillers To Keep You Up All Night (Jordan Fox Mysteries Series)

by Diane Capri

  Mom was making a new recipe for dinner. She wasn’t a great chef, so she followed recipes closely. This recipe was a little complicated, Jordan remembered. Sunshine Salmon.

  She imagined Brenda lugging the groceries into the kitchen through the back door because that’s how she usually entered. Fewer steps from the car with heavy bags. She would have changed clothes. Maybe poured herself a glass of white wine because she saw chefs on TV cooking shows drink the wine they used for a good recipe.

  This one called for oranges and the Turtle Road house had an orange tree out back. She’d have gone outside again for fresh ones. She’d have kicked off her shoes in the kitchen. She liked to walk around in bare feet inside the house.

  The cookbooks were open and the ingredients chopped. Jordan took an imaginary whiff and smelled garlic, dill, tomatoes and oranges. In her mind’s eye, she saw the concoction in the large skillet simmering on the stove, almost boiled dry by the time Jordan entered the room that night.

  “Earth to Jordan.” Tom’s teasing voice seemed to carry from a far distance. The keyboard clacking had stopped. “Are you okay?”

  She shook herself from the almost trance-like state she’d fallen into. “Yeah. I’m good. What’s up?”

  “I’m getting a refill. Can I bring you anything?” He stood with his coffee cup.

  She shook her head and raised her still full glass of water.

  “Where were you just now, anyway?”

  She felt the blush staining her cheeks. “Uh, thinking about the actual timeline. I think the investigators could have been more precise.”

  “How so?” Tom called from the kitchen.

  She took a gulp from the water glass. “Mom was pretty far along with that dinner when she was attacked. She had to have been home about twenty minutes, at least, to make so much progress. I figure she was attacked closer to six fifteen.”

  He brought his cup back to the table and sat across from her. “Which means what?”

  “Well, let’s say they arrived about six-fifteen and the attack happened within five minutes and she died about six-twenty. It’s a narrower time frame. Gives us a better picture of how quick and expert these guys were. Timing is everything, right?”

  Tom nodded as if what she said made as much sense to him as it did to her.

  She talked the rest of it through, testing for logic holes. “Then only twenty-four minutes of elapsed time after they kill her until I arrived in the driveway at 6:44. The killers had to steal her wallet, grab every trace of their stuff, leave the house, probably jump into a boat, and get far enough away.”

  She drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “That’s the only way they could leave without a trace like they did. That’s why I didn’t see them. I didn’t run to the river to look for a getaway boat. I was trying to save my mother. But it was too late.”

  A single tear rolled down her face and fell onto the timeline document. Tom said nothing, which was the perfect thing to say.

  Jordan straightened up in the chair. “And then it says police arrived at 6:56. Which seems right. It was about thirty-six minutes after my mom’s death. They started working inside. By the time they went out to the backyard, the killers were long gone.”

  Remembering the details like that was hard. Looking at the photos in the redwell would be worse. She needed a breather. She stood and stretched and walked over to the French doors to stare at nothing outside.

  Tom seemed tuned to her mood because he didn’t follow her or try to comfort her. The time for comfort was long past. What she needed at the moment was answers. To get answers, she had to understand the facts precisely. And time was flying by.

  She returned to the redwell and located the folder marked Autopsy. Most of it was medical jargon she didn’t understand. She skipped straight to the conclusions.

  “I’ve got a hit,” Tom said a few moments later, barely glancing up from the laptop.

  CHAPTER 9

  “Aaron’s car wreck trial,” Tom said. “You know your mom testified at that, right? There’s stuff in here about it. The court transcript. Maybe a few other things.”

  “I’ve been trying to find that and it’s sealed because of his young age at the time, I guess.” She knew Aaron Robinson was convicted in a vehicular manslaughter case that sent him to lock up for four years. He was fourteen. Driving the car. And he might have been high on drugs at the time, according to what she’d learned so far. Her mom had testified on his behalf, but he’d been convicted anyway. “Can you flag it and I’ll read it later?”

  “I’ll speed through her testimony and see if there’s anything useful for right now.”

  Jordan finished reviewing the autopsy and the clinical photographs of her mom’s body during the medical exam. She ran both hands through her hair and closed her eyes. She felt like she could sleep for a hundred years.

  “What is it?” Tom glanced up when she sighed.

  “So it looks like the actual autopsy report was provided to my dad’s lawyer. It says two knives were used by two different attackers.”

  “How can they tell that?” Tom had settled back in his chair with the coffee.

  She shrugged. “Multiple stab wounds, but not frenzied, whatever that means. One wound pierced the heart in a spot that killed her almost instantly. The knives were never found. I can’t really figure out all the medical stuff, but it looks like they were able to identify one of the knives by type, the shorter one. And the other one, the one that struck the fatal blow, they actually found the purchase records for online.”

  She tossed one of the plastic sleeves across the table to him. It contained photos. Examples of the two knives, one police knew for sure and the other one they thought was most likely used. The good news was that neither knife could be tied in any way to her dad. Small blessing.

  Tom examined the photos, then cocked his head. “Is any of that new information for you?”

  “Not that part, no.” She felt tears pool in her eyes, threatening to spill over. She lowered her head and blinked several times. She cleared her throat and coughed. “The autopsy report says she struggled. Fought back. She had defensive wounds on her forearms. And they found skin and blood under her fingernails.”

  “I’m so sorry, Jordan. It sounds horrible.” He’d softened his tone. “But look, at this point that’s good news, isn’t it? DNA right? They can match it to her killers, can’t they?”

  “Maybe. I hope so.” Jordan stood and walked into the kitchen for a moment of privacy. He didn’t follow her. One of the reasons she liked him so much was that he seemed to understand when she wanted him around, and when she didn’t, too.

  “Dude. Your boys pedaled drugs.” Tom called out loud enough for Jordan to hear. She squared her shoulders and returned to the other room.

  “Aaron and Mark were drug dealers in middle school?” Jordan stood behind Tom and looked at his screen. “Why does that not surprise me?”

  He pointed to the email he’d found in Brenda’s archived email files. “Looks like marijuana mostly. And a little bit of coke.”

  “My mom knew about it?” She rubbed the back of her neck. How was she going to stay awake and do her job until almost midnight? She was dead on her feet. Maybe she could get in a quick nap before her shift started.

  “Yeah, but maybe not until after both boys had gone on to high school and Aaron was locked up. At least I haven’t found any emails or other mentions before then on this hard drive.”

  “So they both got away with selling drugs, and Mark Gifford may never have been arrested for anything at all.” Jordan pulled out her phone and sorted quickly through the photos she’d snapped of her mother’s yearbook pages. Two were photos of Mark Gifford at age fourteen. She’d also saved photos of Hugo Diaz from when she first saw him at the Drone Club practice field, what seemed like a lifetime ago.

  “Take a look at these photos.” She handed the phone to Tom. “Tell me whether you think Mark Gifford and Hugo Diaz are the same guy.”

&nbs
p; Tom swiped the photos back and forth a few times, examined them closely. “I don’t know, Jordan. Could be, I guess.”

  “What? They look identical.” She took the phone and pointed at the screen as she talked. “The yearbook photos are black and white, which makes the comparison a little tougher. But see the narrow placement of his eyes? Cheekbones? The nose width? He’s got facial hair now and he’s larger, but the jaw line is basically the same.”

  He scrunched his eyes and looked again. “Did you try running it through facial recognition software?”

  Tom had owned stock in a Silicon Valley tech company before it went public. He’d cashed out and moved to Florida to start a craft brewery. Of course, he’d forgotten more about computer software than Jordan would ever know.

  “You’re a genius!” She bent over and gave him a big kiss on the top of his head.

  He blushed. “Glad you think so.”

  “I do. I really do.” The sobering thought came immediately. “Thing is, I don’t have access to facial recognition software.”

  “No problem.” He stood and patted his pockets until he located his car keys. “Got ya covered. My software isn’t as powerful as the programs law enforcement agencies use, but it should at least narrow things down with your limited sample here. My laptop’s in the car. I’ll be right back.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Jordan glanced at the clock. Already 12:30 p.m. Not much time left.

  She commandeered the keyboard and quickly searched for information about El Pulpo’s activities in Tampa. Specifically, she looked for the first known arrests of El Pulpo members for selling drugs.

  Her hunch was that Aaron Robinson and Mark Gifford might have been selling marijuana for El Pulpo way back when. Which would mean that the El Pulpo connection to Robinson/Groves and Gifford/Diaz was established before Brenda Fox died.

  If true, the connection and its timing didn’t prove anything standing on its own. But El Pulpo could be the link between the past and the present.

  If she could find that connection, maybe she could persuade Agent Ryser to run the fingerprint and DNA analysis in her mother’s murder case and compare it to El Pulpo members. Brenda’s murder wasn’t an FBI matter. But the connection to El Pulpo, if she could prove it? Well, it could help the FBI case, maybe. At least, it couldn’t hurt.

  Failing that, maybe she could work with Clayton on it somehow. She’d figure that out if she struck out with Ryser.

  Tom came back with his laptop and booted up at the far end of the table. Jordan noticed they’d made a total mess of her boss’s dining room, but she didn’t care just now.

  “Okay, send those photos to me by email,” Tom said. “I’ll upload them into the software and let it run. It might take a while. Anything I can do to help you in the meantime?”

  She needed to get ready for work, fast. She explained what she was looking for and where she’d searched so far. Tom took over the El Pulpo research and she ran upstairs to shower.

  Twenty minutes later, she was dressed and ready. On her way to rejoin Tom downstairs, she called Clayton. He picked up on the first ring.

  “You okay?” He sounded distracted by noises she could hear going on in the background.

  “I am. Thank you. Thank you for last night, too.” She could picture him puffing up as he always did when she appreciated him. This time, he deserved it. She was grateful. “But I’m leaving for work and I can’t have the police following me around. It makes my bosses nervous.”

  “I understand.” He said I’ll be right there to someone else. “They’ll follow you to Channel 12 now. They’ll be there at the end of your shift. I’ll be at the mansion again tonight, too.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t argue, Jordan. If we hadn’t been there last night, you’d probably be dead now. We can’t figure out why they didn’t just kill you when they had the chance unless their plan was to make you disappear. Just give in graciously.” He hung up.

  She pulled the phone away from her ear and glared at his photo on the screen. “You are so maddening, Clayton Vaughn.”

  Tom glanced her way, opened his mouth to speak, and closed it again. Smart guy.

  “I’ve got about twenty minutes.” Jordan restored order to the contents of the redwell. She put two important photos at the front where she could find them quickly. “Have you had any luck?”

  “The earliest mention of El Pulpo’s presence in Tampa that I could find was in this obituary.” He pulled it up on the screen.

  She read the obituary headline quickly. Salvador Caster, Tampa’s Premier Shrimp Company. “That was last year. Nothing earlier?”

  “Not yet. I’ll keep looking.”

  “I’ll check Channel 12 archives if I get a chance. Might be easier to find because we keep everything.” She walked around to his laptop and looked at the screen. She gasped and her hand flew to her mouth.

  Tom’s software had finished comparing the photos of Mark Gifford and Hugo Diaz. Two of the clearest head shots were displayed side by side on the screen.

  98% match.

  Jordan stared at the screen. She swallowed hard. “What does this mean?”

  Tom stood behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders.

  She reached up and covered one of his hands with hers and slumped against him. His strength could hold her upright. He smelled faintly of yeast and hops. A scent she’d become a lot more fond of in the past couple of weeks.

  “The software has compared the images and also compared them to its database as well as publicly available headshots from certain websites. Based on that comparison, it’s saying that the older image is 98% likely to be the same person as the more recent one.”

  She nodded. “How accurate is the program?”

  “Not as accurate as it looks on those TV shows where they catch the bad guys in an hour. And it’s complicated because of the photo quality and Gifford’s pretty young in the yearbook photo. There are some other technical issues, too.” He squeezed her shoulders gently with both hands. “Truth is, we can’t use it in court to prove Diaz and Gifford are the same dude.”

  She blinked a few times and cocked her head. “But close enough to maybe encourage Clayton or Ryser to get a better confirmation? Like fingerprint or DNA matches?”

  “I hope so. You’ll have to ask them, I guess.”

  She patted his hand and stood upright. She leaned closer to the screen and pressed the laptop keys to take a few screenshots and send them to her phone.

  She glanced at the clock. 2:15 p.m. already. She moved around the table, collecting and re-storing papers and files into the big redwell. She found her mom’s yearbook, Riverside Middle School Footsteps 2006, and stuffed it inside, too.

  She snapped the redwell’s elastic into place and tucked the redwell under her arm. Now that she’d finally found it, she wouldn’t leave it lying around. “I’ve got to get to work. Thanks so much for helping me with all of this.”

  “Glad to do it. Anytime.” He wiggled his eyebrows and grinned. Which lightened her mood a bit, just as he’d meant to do. She lifted her mouth at the corner. “I’ll come back tonight and help you finish this up.”

  Jordan opened the back door, turned, and looked directly into his eyes. She really liked what she saw there. Too much, maybe. Still, Tom Clark just might be a keeper.

  “Believe me, I’d love to see you tonight. But I can’t, unfortunately.” The hurt she saw flash across Tom’s face pierced her heart a little. She reached up and gave him a quick kiss, which lingered a little longer than she’d planned.

  Truth was, Clayton Vaughn would be sleeping on her couch again tonight and there was no way she was going to have the two of them squaring off like roosters in a barnyard again.

  “Okay.” Quickly, he smiled and walked outside and slipped his sunglasses on. When she’d settled into Hermes’s driver’s seat, and moments before he closed the door, he said, “Call me later, though. I’ll be worried about you.”

  She smiled, w
aved, and zipped Hermes out of the driveway before she had a chance to change her mind. “Man, what a day, Hermes. Nowhere to go but up from here, right?”

  CHAPTER 11

  Jordan’s quick drive to work from Linda Pierce’s mansion left her no time to sort her feelings and compartmentalize. She was exhausted and wrung out already. Her head was swirling with images and events and deadlines and things to do. So much had happened since Detective Grey awakened her hours ago.

  Recalling Detective Grey raised the image of the stamp imprinted on those barrels and boxes at the ship hours ago. It looked too familiar, that fish hook. And yet, not quite familiar enough.

  Was it the symbol that had freaked Maria out? Or was it the bottles inside those wooden boxes? The boxes contained rum bottles that were filled with something other than rum. And the symbol meant something more than a fish hook. For starters, why put a fish hook on a rum bottle? There was no obvious connection between rum and fishing.

  And what was in those bottles, anyway? Detective Grey said they’d been sent out for testing. How long would that take?

  Hermes had reached the Channel 12 parking garage. When Jordan waved to the guard, she noticed that her police detail wasn’t behind her. Clayton, as always, was as good as his word.

  She parked and dashed into the building. She took the stairs two at a time.

  When she entered the second floor newsroom, the giant clock clicked over to 2:30 p.m. on the nose. The smell of pure excitement was fainter than usual. So was the noise level.

  Weekends generally had a sedating effect on the newsroom environment. Which was a major pro of working weekends. Another pro? In place of the afternoon meeting was a casual conversation that could hardly even be called a meeting. It was more like a chit-chat about a plan. Way less stressful. She had plenty of stress in her life already.

  Her internship would end when the next job opened up, at which point she’d either win or lose the competition with Drew Hodges. Meaning she’d get a real job or be unemployed. She was pretty sure which way the decision would go unless she could turn things around fast.