by Diane Capri
She didn’t move so much as an eye flutter.
“Sticking your nose into things that are none of your business. Making everything worse. Trying to get me locked up forever.” His anger had escalated to something like rage. A bit of spittle landed on the table when he said, “You’ll get yours. Just like she did.”
“Huh. Didn’t see that one coming. I figured Mark, here, for the leader of your little dynamic duo.” Jordan jerked a thumb toward Gifford, unperturbed. She ignored Groves and turned to Diaz once more. She shook her head. “So you’re taking orders from him. Good to know.”
Diaz snorted a little. His head jerked slightly backward. The smirk firmly in place. “Can’t put anything past you, princess.”
A buzzer sounded. The officer opened the inmate’s exit. “Time’s up, folks. Visitors, please remain seated. Inmates, this way.”
All the inmates filed out, but Jordan, Diaz and Groves didn’t move.
The officer said, “Let’s go, Diaz. Groves. These people have to get to work.”
Groves was still glaring at her, pure hatred oozing from every pore. Diaz tapped Groves on the shoulder. “Time to go.”
He waited until Groves stood and shuffled toward the exit. Diaz followed. At the threshold, Diaz glanced at Jordan one last time. His gaze met hers. He raised three fingers to his lips and blew her a kiss.
That was when the shaking started.
Numbly, she followed the other visitors back to the waiting room and returned her pass to the officer at the desk. She noticed the waiting room was full again and a new line of visitors was waiting.
Two well-dressed men stood talking with another officer when she passed through the lobby. One was tall and burly. The other was leaner, wiry. Lawyers, probably.
They seemed familiar, probably because they had the look. The look that said they knew what they were doing and they owned the place. She’d experienced that attitude from lawyers when they were in court, too.
When she passed them, she noticed the faint aroma of tobacco.
Both men turned to watch Jordan’s group of visitors leaving. She felt their eyes linger on her, probably because she was the last one in the line through the exit door.
She’d been through the wringer the past few days and she still had so much to do. But what she needed was sleep. And lots of it. Hermes took her straight back to the mansion, with her police detail following behind her.
When she entered the back door, she could hear Clayton snoring in the other room. She grabbed the note she’d left on the counter, stuffed it into her bag, and trudged upstairs.
This time, she was already sleeping before she fell into bed.
CHAPTER 21
When the phone rang to wake her up this time, Jordan looked at the screen with a bleary eye and jumped out of bed immediately. It was already 2:00 p.m. She was due at the station in thirty minutes.
“Yeah?” She’d put the phone’s external speaker on, run into the bathroom, put the phone on the counter and splashed water on her face.
“There’s been some news. The strange liquid in the bottles on the boat?” Ryser seemed to be considering whether to say it aloud. “The contents of those bottles tested positive for concentrated typhoid bacteria contamination.”
“What?” Jordan stood up, water dripping down her neck. She grabbed the hand towel to stop the damage to her shirt, too late. “Did you say typhoid? Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Ryser’s tone was unequivocal. “The bottles are filled with water, contaminated with the bacteria that produces typhoid fever.”
“All of them?” Jordan wasn’t awake enough to think straight.
“Every one we’ve tested so far that is not rum.” Ryser was curt and to the point. “The gold liquid in the rum bottles and barrels we’ve tested contain uncontaminated Haitian gold rum. So far.”
Typhoid fever. That’s what Dr. Chelsey Ross and Dr. Eric Lee had contracted. Dr. Lee had become sick first, when they were in Haiti. Dr. Ross said he probably infected the rest of the team. Dr. Lee died. The others were all quarantined at Tampa Southern Hospital.
Jordan had been vaccinated before she went to Haiti, but the others she traveled with were vaccinated, too. They still got typhoid fever.
From now on, she was only drinking and cooking with bottled water. Sealed bottled water. Of a reputable brand. And no dining out until everything was settled.
The wheels in her head turned faster and faster until the railcar that was her mind settled on a first destination.
“Work.” Jordan cleared her throat. “I’ve gotta tell work. Can I pass this news along?”
Agent Ryser owed her no favors. She said nothing.
“I really, really need to get ahead of this.” Jordan heard the desperation in her own voice and bit her bottom lip to stop herself from pleading. She pulled off the water-stained shirt and rummaged through her clothes for another one.
Finally, Ryser gave her permission. “The information will be released soon anyway.”
Jordan laid the phone down and shoved her arms into the clean shirt before she dialed again.
Patricia answered Jordan’s call to the station.
“Hey, I haven’t had a chance to bring you up to date yet.” Jordan said, straining to keep her voice low and calm. “The report is just in. Breaking news. Authorities have confiscated a supply of contaminated water. High concentrations of the bacteria that causes typhoid fever.”
There. Now no one could accuse her of not being a team player on this one.
“How do you know?” Patricia sounded completely unimpressed and preoccupied.
Oh, come on. Are we playing this game?
Antagonizing Patricia wasn’t a good career move, so she swallowed and thought about her answer briefly before replying.
“My source at the FBI told me.” She was allowed to have sources. That was a good thing for a reporter.
“Huh.” Was that disbelief Jordan heard in Patricia’s voice? “Because we just got a media release from the Florida Department of Health. Two new typhoid fever victims are at Tampa Southern Hospital. Total of two deaths and eight serious cases. Confirmed.”
Detective Grey said the typhoid-contaminated water on the ship hadn’t been unloaded. All of it was confiscated. But there were new typhoid victims confirmed in Tampa?
No way that was a coincidence. There must have been previous shipments, who knows when. Which meant the cartel’s plan was already well underway.
Jordan knew typhoid fever was a disease that was treatable and rare in the United States. But it could progress to cause death in some people. Dr. Eric Lee was an example. So the disease was progressing rapidly here, or it had been undiagnosed and untreated for at least a month. Maybe longer.
“Did the Department of Health say how the victims contracted typhoid fever?”
Patricia said, “No confirmation yet, but both victims had been jet skiing on Bear Creek Lake within the past two weeks.”
Bear Creek Lake was a popular local recreation site a few miles west of the Gulf Coast of central Florida, a bit west of Sarasota.
“They must have swallowed a mouthful of water when they took a spill or something,” Patricia said. “Seems unlikely, though. It would take a lot of contamination to do something like that.”
So the cartel had been working on this for a while. Could mean a big project. Could mean a huge project.
Jordan hung up and called Ryser back about the victims, including Dr. Ross and Dr. Lee and the medical team.
Ryser was already on the move. “We’re going to the lake right now. You coming?”
“I’ll meet you there,” Jordan said. The words typhoid fever still rang in her head. She’d assumed that Dr. Ross and Dr. Lee had contracted typhoid fever in Haiti. But what if they’d been infected in Tampa?
CHAPTER 22
Jordan called Patricia from the car. “I’m on my way to Bear Creek Lake. I don’t have another assignment today, so I can help out with this breaking news.”
“We have a crew on the way. They’re almost there. We don’t need you to report on it.”
No no no no no. This was her story. This was the story she’d been working on ever since Flynn, Sal, and the shrimp boats. She deserved to be the face on this story when it aired. Crap!
She might have to tip her hand. She was desperate. Desperate to impress, and desperate to be seen as a team player. And most of all, desperate to get past the disastrous tweeting incident.
“I have some information to contribute to the story.” Jordan swallowed hard. Time to pull out all the stops. “This might be the beginning of a major typhoid fever outbreak in Tampa. Because it might be the work of the El Pulpo cartel.”
Patricia huffed air out her nose like an angry rhinoceros. “Are you kidding me, Jordan? That’s called jumping to irresponsible conclusions. This is why we don’t put you on air.”
Jordan bit her tongue and waited.
“Well, this typhoid fever story is going to fill all of our newscasts today,” Patricia said, “so it’s not like we could run any other story from you today anyway. So go on. Go to the lake. I’ve got nothing better for you to do.”
Yes! She’d prove Patricia had made the right choice. Jordan knew she could offer something to this story. She knew she simply had to do it.
Jordan called her dad on the way over to let him know she wouldn’t see him today and why. He coped better when he knew about potentially dangerous situations before they happened. Made no sense to her. But he claimed he could at least pick and choose when to worry. Otherwise, he worried non-stop.
She wanted to tell him about her visit to Groves and Diaz this morning. She wanted him to know they’d confessed to killing her mom. She wanted to tell him they’d killed Brenda because they were crazy. It wasn’t anything she’d done wrong.
But that was news better delivered in person. Her day off was Tuesday. Ryser might also have the positive fingerprint report on Diaz and maybe the DNA match to Groves by then, too, which her dad would be relieved to see.
She parked, got out and looked toward the lake. Calm fresh water glistened in the afternoon sun. The ground morphed from soil to sand as it approached the water’s edge. Portions of the lake were already cordoned off.
Mack’s Raw Bar had been commandeered for the occasion. Mack’s was a local place with a Caribbean vibe. The specialty was fresh seafood, but he served burgers and salads, too. Jordan and just about everyone she knew had eaten here many times.
Mack’s food was amazing, the atmosphere casual, and Mack hosted local bands for live music on the weekends.
She loved the house specialty, raw conch salad. Fresh Gulf conch, right out of the shell. Raw fruits and vegetables, a bit of hot pepper, all chopped by hand. Fresh squeezed lime juice over everything. Her mouth was watering just thinking about it. Which was when her growling stomach reminded her she’d had nothing to eat today.
She felt sorry for Mack, though. This whole thing was going to kill his business.
From that news helicopter flying around overhead, the crowd surely resembled ants at a picnic. Everyone Jordan saw wore badges visible outside their clothes, either media or government. Curious onlookers had been escorted away and inbound traffic was blocked.
Multiple media trucks gathered in Mack’s large parking lot. She’d seen live trucks for News Channel 12 and three other stations. A fleet of assorted SUVs was likely providing backup equipment for each station. Cable news outlets were set up in a different area. A few print reporters and internet bloggers wandered around on foot.
FBI vehicles were plentiful. Agent Ryser and a dozen or more of her closest FBI friends, no doubt. Unmarked black Suburbans could belong to FBI, Florida Department of Health, Centers for Disease Control or other government agencies. Unlike the media, the agencies didn’t always display their logos on the doors.
There was no way the other media knew this situation was related to El Pulpo. Even Channel 12 didn’t necessarily believe her. Not that she blamed them. She hadn’t shared her INTEL yet.
This story was a big deal simply because it was typhoid fever in Florida. Like the Ebola scare last year, the disease instilled fear in everyone.
Jordan had read through a couple of websites quickly after Dr. Lee died. Vaccines were readily available in the U.S., but they were typically given only to people who were preparing to travel to nations where the disease was prevalent. Typhoid could be spread through contaminated water or food or contact with an infected person. And it could be deadly.
Even though typhoid fever was treatable with antibiotics in developed, prepared countries like the United States, the word “deadly” was a catch phrase that got people squirming, whether the reaction was rational or not.
She spotted Agent Ryser standing beside a large FBI vehicle the size and shape of an armored truck. Agent Lincoln Hunt, the lead agent on the drone case resulting in several El Pulpo arrests, stood next to her. They were talking to a woman wearing a Centers for Disease Control ID and holding a clipboard.
Jordan walked over to join them. Maybe it was stupid to think the cartel would attack her in such a public situation, but being surrounded by sharp shooters couldn’t hurt.
She walked up in time to hear Ryser ask the woman, “Is this situation caused by the same typhoid water that we seized from the ship?”
“We’re testing the lake water now against the samples from the bottles. But there’s probably no way of knowing unless it’s some freakishly modified strain of the virus. But the timing is suspicious and it’s probably not coincidence.”
Jordan looked at the woman’s CDC nametag. “Can I quote you on that, Dr. Peters?”
“No.” Agents Hunt and Ryser spoke simultaneously. Ryser sent a glare Jordan’s way that encouraged her to keep quiet and listen or be banished.
Dr. Peters said, “This is a smallish lake, but all the samples we’ve taken so far have much higher concentration of the bacteria than any other contaminated lake in our records.”
Agent Ryser asked, “Any conclusions you can draw for us on that?”
Dr. Peters grimaced, as if she didn’t want to reach the conclusions that came readily to mind. “It could mean large quantities of the bacteria were dumped here. The bacteria multiples quickly. It doubles every twenty minutes under the right conditions.”
Jordan said, “What conditions?”
“Pretty much what we’ve found here,” Dr. Peters explained. “Warm water. The right quantities of phosphorous, nitrogen, magnesium and sodium.”
Agent Hunt spoke up. “Is there any other reasonable explanation? Other than intentional contamination from that stuff in the bottles?”
“Well, sure.” Dr. Peters cocked her head and tapped her pen against her front tooth. “We could have multiple contamination delivery systems. In fact, given the amount of contamination and the number of serious cases we’ve already discovered, it’s likely to have been introduced several weeks ago and in several ways simultaneously.”
“Like what?” Ryser asked.
“You could have the stuff from the water bottles, dumped where the water is shallow and warmest, maybe one to two months ago. Particularly in Florida where you have so many residents and tourists from around the world, visitors could spread the bacteria at restaurants, theme parks, theaters, private homes. Typhoid is common in many countries.” Dr. Peters was warming up to her hypothesis. “The early symptoms are mild. The kind of thing kids get all the time. Fever, stomachache, nausea, and sometimes a rash.”
Jordan wished she had a recorder running.
Dr. Peters cleared her throat and continued. “Parents don’t recognize the symptoms as typhoid, the kids don’t get early treatment, and the kids keep spreading the bacteria around. Adults pick it up. It gets spread on food, doorknobs, hand towels. Stuff like that. After a month or two, especially since it keeps spreading, you’d have quite a problem.”
Jordan wasn’t buying it. Her News Nose said this was El Pulpo’s work. Seriously
large quantities of contaminated water were dumped here by El Pulpo. Likely El Pulpo had introduced the bacteria in several other ways, too. She wouldn’t accept any other answer.
Jordan spotted Theresa across the parking lot waving to her. She excused herself and hustled over. She felt a slight cramp in her stomach. What was the incubation period for typhoid fever again? One to three weeks? She’d been back from Haiti for longer than that. She’d have been sick a while ago. Probably.
Theresa leaned close. “Did you see that Drew’s here?”
Ugh. “Of course he is.”
“That’s bad news for you if you want the reporter gig.” Theresa paused. She didn’t look happy to share what she knew. “I heard Patricia and Richard discussing things today. Because Heather’s leaving. They have to make decisions. And they were saying good things about Drew. A lot of good things. I think he’s winning.”
“Not for long, he’s not. I have a total advantage on this story.” She glanced around looking around for him. “God! Why does this happen?”
Theresa said, “He’s working even though he’s off today.”
“It’s Sunday. He’s not off on Sundays.”
“He got the day off because he worked late Friday night.”
Jordan clenched her fists at her side. Even her voice was tight. “Are you kidding me? I worked late Friday night.”
“Yeah but he was assigned to that story and we were there by choice.”
“Great. So showing initiative means I don’t get rewarded. Because that’s fair.”
“He was at the station this morning, too. And you weren’t.”
“So an intern is supposed to work around the clock now?”
“No. But Drew does. And you don’t. If you were trying to operate a newsroom with a severely decreased budget, which intern would you choose?”
“Crap!”
