by Diane Capri
She thumbed through her photos until she found the best one of Claire’s bubblegum-pink car. “These swirly scratches were made deep in the paint to my friend’s car outside Infidel Brewery a couple of weeks ago. I thought they were just scratches, but now I can see the fish hook there.”
“How is that related to El Pulpo?”
“I can’t prove who keyed Claire’s car. And she’s already had the damage repaired, so you can’t see it for yourself. But Hugo Diaz was there that night and I chased him out to the parking lot after he tried to roofie another girl’s drink.”
Ryser took the phone and looked at the damage to Claire’s car. She touched the screen and sent the photo somewhere by email. She returned Jordan’s phone. “Any more?”
“One more.” Jordan thumbed through to the photos she’d received from Detective Grey. “Here the fish hook is stamped on the barrels and boxes inside that El Pulpo container on the ship this morning, after the FBI raid.”
Once again, Ryser examined the photos, emailed them, and returned the phone to Jordan. “Is that all?”
Jordan slumped into the chair. All of a sudden, she felt drained.
She did have more evidence. Nothing as strong as what she’d already shared, but compelling in Jordan’s mind. Two pairs of fishing boots had left footprints at the murder scene and the boots were never found. Two knives, one ordered online by that tragic rabbit email address. The escape by boat into the Gulf that left no trace of the boat or the killers to this day. And the mysterious lack of any paper trail for Groves or Diaz before they surfaced in Tampa less than a year ago.
All of these pointed a bright red arrow straight to El Pulpo as far as Jordan was concerned. Aaron Robinson and Mark Gifford were simply not capable of making all of those things happen on their own.
She said nothing. She’d given Ryser enough. It was Ryser’s turn to offer something valuable now.
Ryser didn’t offer anything at all. Not even a comment. Was she processing what Jordan told her? Or what?
She glanced at the clock on Ryser’s wall. Already well after six o’clock. She’d promised Theresa she’d be back at the station long before now. She had two stories to package for the eleven o’clock newscast.
“I’ve got to get to work.” Jordan stood, collected the photos and the autopsy report off Ryser’s desk and returned them to the redwell. “Can you find out about those fingerprints and the DNA?”
“I requested the partial prints from the coin. Looks like they came in while we were talking.” Ryser looked at her computer screen and punched a couple of keys. “I’ll run them against the Groves’ and Diaz’ prints collected when they were recently arrested. We might be able to get an answer later today.”
“But listen. I don’t want you to get your hopes up.” Ryser turned to look at Jordan. Her voice was friendlier. Maybe she wasn’t so angry about Jordan’s 911 call and the botched raid anymore. “A fingerprint match, even if we get one, is some evidence that Hugo might have been at the scene. He’s got one of the best lawyers in the state, Brad Shane. Shane will say partial fingerprints on a coin isn’t enough to convict Diaz. He would probably be right.”
Jordan nodded. She’d expected that after what Jenny Lane told her about reasonable doubt.
Maybe the fingerprints alone wouldn’t convict, but they had more. “What about the DNA?”
“That’s a little more complicated.” Ryser settled back into her chair. She rested her hands on the chair arms. “The DNA from your mom’s fingernails has been tested and it’s in the system. We have DNA from Groves, I believe. But I’m not sure about Diaz. I’ll find out. If we have it, we can compare and see if we have a match.”
Jordan’s breath caught in her throat. “And if the DNA does match?”
“We’ll cross that bridge if we get to it,” Ryser replied. “But right now, you’re way farther along than you’ve been for five years. Be satisfied with that. We’ll get to the bottom of your mom’s case, Jordan. You’re not the only one who never gives up, you know.”
Jordan had heard that before and she believed it. But she was tired of waiting. She wanted her life back. And her dad’s life back. Five years was long enough to wait.
“You’ll call me as soon as you know anything?” Jordan asked before she left.
“I promise.”
CHAPTER 17
Ryser didn’t call until almost 11:30 p.m., which was a good thing because Jordan wouldn’t have been able to take the call any earlier.
She and Theresa had worked furiously against deadline. They sent both packages, the ropes course and the FBI raid, off to producers at the very last second.
Jordan was proud of the ropes course story. Patricia wasn’t thrilled with it because Jordan had focused on the course itself instead of promised positive results. They’d run it anyway if they needed the filler. The important thing was that Jordan had completed her assignment.
The FBI raid story was solid, beginning to end. It was some of her best work, and Theresa’s too. They might even win an award with that one. Richard should be pleased. She hoped.
When Jordan’s phone rang at 11:30, they were both slouched in the break room. Jordan felt like limp spaghetti. She probably looked like it, too. Theresa didn’t look much better.
“I’ve got to pick this up,” Jordan said.
“No problem. I’ve got a date tonight.” Theresa jumped up and dashed off down the hallway, makeup bag in tow.
Jordan grinned weakly. That woman is a force of nature. “Jordan Fox.”
“Thought you’d want to know right away.” Ryser’s tone wasn’t full of victory, but it was closer than what Jordan heard from her earlier today. “The unidentified partial prints on the coin at the scene. Looks like they might belong to Diaz. Keyword might. I’ve sent them off to our expert to examine and decide.”
Jordan tried to breathe, but air came neither in nor out. She nearly choked on the lump in her windpipe. She propped her elbows on the arms of the chair and dropped her head into her hand.
“Are you there? Jordan?”
“Yeah. Yeah. That’s really good news.” She wiped a moist strand of hair from her face.
“It’s better news than we had before, but it won’t be enough to convict him of anything.” Ryser, as always, bringing her back down to earth. “The circumstantial evidence is strong. Diaz had no reason to be in the house. The coin was found under her body. No other prints are on the coin, front or back. So it’s reasonable to assume he dropped it there at some point before she died. Doesn’t prove he killed her.”
“At least we know it’s possible. That’s more than we knew before.” Man up. Spit it out. “What about the DNA? If it belongs to Groves and Diaz, that will convict them, won’t it?”
“It should. I can’t promise. Strange things happen at trials sometimes.” Ryser cleared her throat. “Still waiting on a possible match with Groves. But it looks like we don’t have a DNA sample from Diaz.”
“Can’t you get one? I mean, can’t you just go swab his cheek or something?”
“Don’t I wish.” Ryser’s sarcasm made Jordan feel a little more normal. “We’d need Brad Shane’s consent. Fat chance of that happening.”
“Oh.” This conversation had more ups and downs than the stock market.
“And before you ask, yes, we’re already trying to get a court order.”
“How long will that take?”
“Don’t hold your breath.” Riser sounded weary now.
“And the face recognition?” Jordan stood and paced the room. “Is Diaz really Mark Gifford? Because if he is, I might be able to find more evidence against him.”
Jordan heard a phone ringing in the background. Ryser picked it up, said a few words Jordan didn’t hear followed by, “Hold on.”
“Jordan, I’ve gotta go. The quick answer is, I believe they’re the same guy. But we’re still trying to confirm. I’ll call you as soon as I have more.”
“Okay. Thanks,” Jordan replied, but R
yser had already hung up.
CHAPTER 18
She was back at the Pierce mansion now, and it was after midnight. Her police detail had come inside with her and searched the house. Now, two were stationed out front, and two more were stationed in a boat watching the back property line.
Clayton would be here to stay the night when his shift ended.
She hadn’t expected to solve the case in one day and she had good evidence in play with Ryser’s team. It was okay to sleep a few hours and pick things up tomorrow. She was exhausted, but too keyed up to sleep after her conversation with Ryser. If she went to bed now, she’d be looking at the ceiling for a couple of hours.
The hot tub beckoned from the patio beyond the French doors. Surely she’d be safe there, with all the police around her, right?
She poured herself a glass of wine and took a long sip. She changed into her swimsuit, collected her phone, found a towel, refilled the glass, and bought the wine bottle along to the hot tub.
She sunk into the luxuriously heated water and sighed. Her muscles released their long-held tension. Even the bruises encircling her torso relaxed. It would be so nice to share moments like this with Tom.
Maybe their relationship would go in that direction when Ryser busted El Pulpo’s boss and Jordan solved her mom’s murder. Maybe then, her life would finally be normal for a twenty-two-year-old.
Wouldn’t that be great? Claire would love that, for sure. Girlfriends on the town. Jordan giggled. She felt a little tipsy. She sipped more wine and rested her head back to look at the stars.
She hadn’t lived a normal life in such a long time. What would that be like? Her dad fully functioning. Maybe even back to the work he loved as a high school principal. No police following her around. No death threats against her or her dad. The freedom to do as she pleased. Date Tom. Sounds like heaven. She sighed again.
She took another sip of her wine, and relaxed another notch. Ideas floated through her head. Maybe she could push some buttons if she confronted Groves and Diaz with her suspicions. Maybe they’d say something incriminating. Worth a shot.
She reached for her phone to text Jenny Lane. This might be a stretch, but can you help me get into the jail to visit Groves and Diaz?
Couldn’t hurt to ask, right?
Jenny’s reply text came immediately. One word. No. That’s all. Not even an explanation. Zero wiggle room.
Back to thinking. What did her mother’s murder have in common with the work of the cartel? Facts started to meld together in her mind, flowing with the relaxing water and the wine.
The J/Hook symbol. That was all, really.
But her mom had known Robinson and Gifford before they somehow became Groves and Diaz.
Diaz drew the symbol in Claire’s car. He might have drawn it at Brenda’s murder.
Somehow, he’d dropped a coin in her kitchen. That coin was under her body.
Robinson and Gifford were selling drugs in middle school. Brenda knew that at some point. Where do middle school boys get drugs to sell?
Maybe the drugs came from El Pulpo.
Maybe that’s how the killers got away, too. On an El Pulpo shrimp boat.
Who would know?
El Pulpo.
Hey! That rhymes! She giggled again.
The first sip of her fourth glass of wine went straight to her head. It released the mental muscles that kept her from doing stupid things.
Her thoughts leapt from lucid to loosely jumbled. Gazing at the steam escaping from the hot tub and rising into the night sky, she wondered whether Groves and Diaz would be released from jail.
Groves had been offered a plea deal already. Diaz would probably deal, too. They had that shark lawyer, Shane. He might get them released. Maybe they’d go into witness protection, even, like Salvador Caster.
If that happened, she’d never find them. They’d never be brought to justice. She’d never know for sure if they’d killed her mom. Or why.
Her dad would always live under the cloud of suspicion. She’d never live a normal life.
She couldn’t let them get away. Not again.
She felt desperate. As if nothing would ever be right in her life again.
She was tired of looking over her shoulder. Tired of hiding all the time. Tired of being watched and worried.
She took another swig of wine and settled deeper into the water. Her eyes closed. Her breathing slowed. She felt so relaxed. More relaxed than she’d been in years.
There must be something she could do to end all of this.
El Pulpo was watching her. Trying to kill her. Trying to kill her dad, too.
El Pulpo wanted her out of the way. She knew that much for sure.
Maybe she should let them find her. That’s how Diaz was arrested. He’d kidnapped her and when Clayton’s team found her, they arrested four El Pulpo soldiers, including Diaz.
Maybe she could do that again. On purpose this time. Set herself up. Let them walk right into a trap.
Clayton and Ryser would hate the idea. She would act first, confess later.
She could lure them out.
They’d come after her when her detail was around. She’d tell Clayton and Ryser. They’d be ready, just like with the raid last night. The FBI would swoop in and capture the boss this time, too.
Yes. Great idea. That would work. It worked once already.
Twitter was the perfect choice. She could send a message to the world. Journalists did that all the time. Sent messages to the world.
El Pulpo would see it because they saw everything she did.
What should she tweet? What would bring El Pulpo out into the open to get her?
She stumbled out of the hot tub, dried off, and laid flat on a poolside chair, covering herself with her wet towel.
She typed: Hey Octopus King. You’re about to be calamari. Squid ink everywhere. Too spineless? Show yourself!
Send tweet.
Easy as that.
Clayton would be here soon. She’d tell him her plan.
She grinned as she fell asleep on the lawn chair.
It was a stupid thing to do. She realized it when she woke up two hours later. She’d seen too many drunk tweeting disasters to have done something this dumb.
What the hell is wrong with you, Jordan? You need a keeper. You can’t be left alone for a minute.
She grabbed her phone and deleted the tweet, but the damage was done.
Six missed calls. One from Detective Grey. Three from Agent Ryser. Two from Richard. Crap!
No calls from Clayton. Curiously.
Which was when she noticed the mansion was lit up like a football field. Uniformed police swarmed everywhere.
How the hell did she sleep through all of that? It felt like a tiny man with a hammer was beating the inside of her head.
She was a prisoner inside her own life and this time, the prison was one she’d made herself.
Clayton was walking toward her. The look on his face was pure fury.
She had nowhere to hide. She stood and wrapped the still damp towel around her. “I’m going to get dressed.”
She fled upstairs before he could utter a single word.
CHAPTER 19
What the hell had she been thinking? That question, in one form or another, came at Jordan from Clayton, Ryser, her police detail, Richard, and from Jordan herself. For the next three hours, she’d been battered and bruised by the questions for which she had no better answer than good intentions.
What she’d really wanted when she sent the tweet was to get El Pulpo out of her life. What she’d accomplished was to make herself a bigger target and narrow her freedom even further.
Ryser had been the angriest. She’d helped Jordan with the fingerprints and the DNA. She’d worked hard on the El Pulpo investigation for two years. She’d lost friends and colleagues along the way. And Jordan’s tweet made her job that much harder. Ryser didn’t appreciate that. Not even a little bit. Jordan didn’t blame her.
When
everyone who wanted to chew her out for sending that tweet finally stopped ranting, and her headache felt like Paul Bunyan slamming an axe between her temples, Jordan dragged herself to her room and tried to sleep.
After twenty minutes, she gave up. She showered and dressed. She grabbed her sling bag and the heavy redwell.
It was 6:15 a.m., more than an hour before sunrise.
She felt an overwhelming certainty, deep in her gut that time was running out.
Visiting hours at the Hills County Jail began at 6:30 a.m. She could be in and out again before Clayton even woke up.
Her plan was simply to tell them she knew who they were, their real names. She’d say Hugo’s fingerprints were on the coin. She’d say the DNA matched to them both and let Hugo worry about where his sample had come from. She’d say she knew they’d killed her mother. She’d say they would be charged with the murder.
What she wanted to know was why.
She didn’t expect to get answers. Not really.
But she wanted to look them in the eye and tell them she knew what they’d done. She wanted them to believe her. She wanted them to worry for a change.
That wasn’t enough, and it wasn’t justice for her mom or her dad. Not by a long shot. Justice would come later.
But this was something that only she could do. If she didn’t do it now, the chance might be lost forever.
Downstairs, Clayton was snoring on the couch. She left a note on the kitchen counter so his head wouldn’t explode when he woke up and found her gone. She locked the back door and walked to the driveway.
She locked the redwell in Hermes’s trunk and waved to the officer behind the wheel of the cruiser. Two minutes later, she was headed in the right direction. The cruiser followed behind her. Four miles west of downtown, she turned into the Hills County Jail visitor’s parking lot.
From the second she approached the driveway until she left the premises again, she knew cameras would record every move, every word spoken by her and everyone else around her. She resisted the perverse urge to wave and smile at El Pulpo, the FBI, Tampa Police, and anyone else who might be watching.
