False Truth 10 (Jordan Fox Mysteries Series)

by Diane Capri

  “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.”

  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, waved, 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.

  Richard Grady, the News Director, told her two days ago that Drew was a better job candidate because he supported the newsroom team and Jordan was always going off on her own, not completing her assignments, not getting her work done on time. She needed to prove that she was on Channel 12’s side or his vote would have to go for Drew.

  Fair enough. Could she do that? Prove she was on Channel 12’s side? She had to admit she’d given him no reason to believe so, even after he’d warned her. Until last night.

  Last night, she’d scooped the competition. She’d found Maria Ortiz. She’d called 911. She’d stood in that parking lot at The Grove during the FBI raid before any media or flashing lights arrived. She reported while Theresa shot video until every last minute was recorded. Channel 12 had the story first, more of it, and better than the competition.

  If that didn’t prove she was on Channel 12’s side, she didn’t know what would.

  She walked into the newsroom seeing the fresh workday as a fresh opportunity to win. After all, she was still alive, and the big bruise around her waist that hurt every time she moved proved staying alive was something she couldn’t take for granted anymore.

  And so far, even after all the times she’d dropped the ball, she was still employed. The equipment, the talent, even the location here at Channel 12 was a long-held dream come true. She was lucky to be working here.

  So why couldn’t she do more of what she’d done last night with Theresa instead of getting off course?

  Theresa! She should have checked in with Theresa hours ago. She should have followed up with Patricia already, too. She’d never called in last night, either. The bosses might not even know they had the footage for the story.

  Jordan Fox, where is your head?

  She ran her hands through her hair and clucked at her own lack of focus. Get it together, Jordan. Do you want this job or not?

  Her buzzing cell phone snapped her back to reality as she dropped her bag at a desk near Theresa’s. It was Richard Grady. He didn’t work weekends, so he must have been calling from home, which was never a good thing.

  “You went to the port this morning?” He jumped before she’d said hello. He sounded annoyed, at the very least. “Are you planning to package that story for the five o’clock?”

  Jordan looked at the floor and bit her lip. Truth was, she hadn’t given it a moment’s thought. How did he even find out?

  “We had no idea you were working on the human trafficking investigation since we pulled you off the Maria Ortiz connection.” He didn’t sound the least bit happy or pleased with her going off the reservation again. This wasn’t good. “Yet, you went with police on the ship they busted this morning? Without a camera?”

  He meant she should have called for a station camera, meaning she should have asked for support so they had a chance at a story, at the very least.

  Except she didn’t actually go on the bust. And honestly, reporting the story was the last thing on her mind when Detective Grey called her to the port at 5:03 a.m. She was half asleep, and she was more concerned with Maria and trying to help.

  But Richard was right. She’d screwed up. Again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t have much time to think about it. I should have let you know and asked to take a camera. The good news is that I learned about a new piece of evidence.”

  Was she allowed to tell him about the bottles on the ship or the fish hook symbol? Or even about Maria’s freak out? She wasn’t sure.

  “I really would like to consider you for the reporter position.” She could hear the frustration in his tone before he lowered his voice. “You show a ton of initiative. Which I love. But I’ve gotta see that coming through on air. Otherwise, you’re not getting anything useful accomplished. We can’t afford to keep an intern who doesn’t get the job done.”

  She believed him. He would love it if she translated her initiative into packages and reports on the breaking news stories-of-the-day. Frankly, so would she.

  But her best efforts always seemed to be trumped by risky behavior or sidetracks, often relating to her mother’s murder, which no one at work knew she was investigating and wouldn’t authorize if they knew. Just the opposite, probably. If Richard knew she’d been chasing her mom’s killers, she’d have been fired already.

  “Yeah. No, I get it. I do. I really am sorry.” She meant it, too. “I didn’t think you’d be interested in the ship video this morning because that wasn’t my assignment. And I was trying to stick to my assignments so that I can get stuff on air. You know?”

  She realized how hard she’d made it for him to choose her over Drew. In a way, she’d been trying to leapfrog the job of general assignment reporter and
go straight to investigative reporter. But she was too young and too inexperienced and too low on the ladder to pick and choose her assignments. She needed to embrace whatever assignments would most help the team. She had a lot to learn. She knew that.

  Knew it, but couldn’t do it.

  Richard had given her second, third, and fourth chances. He had a good heart, and a generous one. He was doing his best to be her manager and run interference with Patricia—a job she admittedly made difficult for him every day.

  She heard background noises. He was distracted. Already moving on.

  “Wait. Richard.” He needed ammunition if he was going to defend her behavior. “To clarify, I didn’t actually go down there this morning on my own. A detective I met at the scene last night called me because he knew I was the one who called in the 911 tip on Maria’s location—”

  “That was you? You were there? Last night? At The Grove?” He seemed unable to wrap his mind around that one.

  She cringed. She thought he knew. But how would he have known? She didn’t tell him and Theresa hadn’t had a chance, either. He was home long before the raid took place. He was a news manager, not a clairvoyant.

  CHAPTER 12

  Richard sighed heavily. “Drew didn’t mention that. I knew we sent him to the scene but I didn’t realize you were there, too.”

  “Yes, I was there with Theresa.” She didn’t say more because she was way too excited that Drew’s lack of honesty might have just cost him a point in The Great Intern Competition.

  “Way to go. That’s the kind of assertive attitude I’m looking for. Give me something I can use on air today, okay? And Jordan?” He paused. “Keep it up and you might pull this one out yet.”

  Yes! Finally, she’d done something right. She resisted the urge to fist-pump the air.

  The moment she hung up with Richard, Theresa was leaning in toward her desk. “So, you heard the news, right?”