False Truth 7 (Jordan Fox Mysteries)

by Diane Capri

  “Your life, your problem.” Blunt, as usual.

  Jordan replied, “Anyway, they want me to do some story about Isabella somebody. Do you know who that is?”

  “Isabella De Luca.” Theresa’s voice was almost drowned out by what sounded like a passing train.

  “Hang on. I can barely hear you.” Jordan had zipped around the pedestrians and finally crossed over the Hills River Bridge before the train faded into the distance on Theresa’s end. “Yes. Isabella De Luca. That’s her.”

  “Daughter of a rich and famous investor in New York City. Celebrity in the financial world.” Theresa rattled off the facts like she was reading them from a tabloid at the checkout counter. Maybe she was. “Up-and-coming socialite. Probably made a few national celebrity websites today.”

  “I’ve been disconnected from the news all morning.” Crap. The one time Jordan hadn’t kept her eye on the alerts on her phone and something important happened. She’d never make that mistake again. “How do you know all of this?”

  “It’s my job to know.” Theresa teased, but she was right. “Well, the news today is that Isabella De Luca’s nude self was photographed by paparazzi using a drone. The pictures were leaked. Sorta like that Prince Harry scandal a while back.”

  “Really? Naked pictures?” Jordan was appalled and fascinated all at the same time. “A drone? Aren’t those used for shooting terrorists or something?”

  “Now, she’s mad as a hornet. Pushing for tighter drone regulation laws. Other celebrities are coming forward and making similar complaints about paparazzi with drones.” Theresa took a breath and ended with feigned boredom. “Blah, blah, blah.”

  Jordan wasn’t having any of that nonsense from the reporter who claimed to love the easy work. “Oh, come on. Naked Isabella De Luca photos are way more interesting than Instant Pop Star.”

  Theresa laughed. “It gets better. Some rapper asked what if a paparazzi drone flies above his swimming pool to snap pictures of his kid, then crashes into the water, and electrocutes the kid?”

  “How the hell am I supposed to localize that, anyway?” Jordan’s tone sounded a little panicked to her own ears.

  Theresa laughed again, as if the question was a joke. It wasn’t. “Gotta go. Talk later.” She hung up.

  Just great. Jordan’s question was so dumb that her best friend at work wouldn’t even take it seriously. Now what was she supposed to do?

  This could be one very long day. She’d wanted to ask Theresa how to find the best information from her mother’s press conference, too. Maybe Theresa would call back later.

  By the time she’d parked Hermes and hoofed it into the station, it was eleven a.m., a full three hours earlier than she usually arrived.

  The wall of windows admitted a wide ribbon of sunlight across the expansive newsroom. Jordan had never been to the station this early in the morning. The newsroom had a whole different vibe from nightside and weekends.

  The morning news team entered each day filled with blissful ignorance, until breaking news shattered their plans. Surely it was a pattern they were used to. When news came in late the day, preparations inevitably became more tension-filled as the clock ticked ever closer to show time.

  Jordan reported straight to Richard’s office, hoping for another clue about what she was supposed to do with the obscure paparazzi story. Through the glass wall she saw him seated behind his desk, alone.

  She tapped the doorframe. “Quick question. Was there a specific way you wanted me to localize the Isabella De Luca story?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said, in his standard, matter-of-fact style. “We just need to make sure we have it covered. Some kind of local angle. Let me know if you need ideas.”

  In other words, figure it out and I’ll let you know if you fail.

  She wouldn’t fail. No chance. Never. Not. Ever. “I’m on it.”

  She woke up a computer near the Reporter Zone of Messy Desks and logged in. A couple articles on the Isabella De Luca situation elaborated on Theresa’s quick take. Jordan did a fast search of the De Luca family to see if they had any local ties.

  In her experience, there was a Florida connection to everything.

  But maybe not this time.

  Nothing immediately drew any local ties to the family, and she didn’t have much time to dig around for a lead. She needed an available angle…and fast.

  Could it be almost lunchtime already? The six o’clock news wasn’t far enough away.

  “Hurry, Jordan. Stop fooling around.” If anyone heard her talking to herself, they had the grace not to say so. Besides, more senior producers did it, too. Sometimes. She hoped.

  After the local angle, she’d need some sort of interview on the topic. Video, too.

  She could pull generic video footage of drones and the De Lucas from YouTube, write a story incorporating all of that, and edit it by 5:30.

  Ideally, the package should be ready at 4:30 in case stories got shifted and the producers needed to run hers at five.

  No pressure. “You can do it. You’ve done it before.” Sort of.

  Jordan’s legs began to bounce. She pressed her heels into the carpet and held them there. “No need to panic.”

  Yet.

  She’d learned a lot of skills in journalism school, but no class could simulate the pressure of an Actual Real World Deadline. She was still learning what it felt like. And more slowly, how to cope with the stress.

  The clock marched ever closer to lunchtime, and Jordan remained stumped. How could she localize the story? Only five more minutes. Then, she’d give up and admit failure. She’d be forced to ask Richard for those ideas he offered. Before he left for lunch.

  Drew would never do that. Ask the boss for help.

  She sat straighter and concentrated on the computer screen. “Come on, Jordan. You can do this. You know you can.”

  The rapid tap of high heels she’d recognize anywhere echoed down the hallway. Jordan’s pulse quickened. Theresa. To the rescue. Just in time. Shiny leather bags adorned her shoulders, as always.

  Jordan’s pulse slowed to a normal human rate. She had somebody on her side at her side.

  “Thank God you’re here,” Jordan said, exhaling as she spoke.

  Theresa plunked her bags down at her desk near Jordan. “Missed you too, girl.”

  “I’ve looked up everything about Isabella De Luca and her family, and I can’t find a single local tie.” Jordan ran her fingers through her hair and dismissed the urge to tug. “This story has nothing to do with Tampa or even Florida.”

  Theresa looked at Jordan and cocked her head. “You know, you don’t have to make the story about drones hounding celebrities…”

  Jordan had already thought of that angle. “Florida has drone legislation but it only relates to police.” Jordan propped her elbows on the desk, head in her hands, defeated. “So I don’t know who would talk on camera about that or how to incorporate that with a story about paparazzi.”

  “Nah, chin up. This is a good story.” Theresa walked over and stood by Jordan’s chair, casually, as if she wasn’t really throwing a lifeline. “Don’t worry about the paparazzi angle. Drop that part. It’s really not a story about naked celebrities.”

  “It isn’t?” Jordan looked up toward Theresa.

  “It’s about drones. You can talk about what drones can do.” Theresa sounded excited about the idea, so maybe it was a good one. “Mention how some people think they’re dangerous or should be illegal. Say other people think they’re really cool. Then call it a day.”

  Would Jordan ever be as relaxed at work as Theresa? “You make it seem so easy.”

  “And you make me feel so old.” Theresa smiled a little, though. “Look, every story isn’t a life-changing masterpiece. It’s just one day’s work.”

  Right. They didn’t expect her to turn in an award-winning investigative piece every day. That wasn’t the nature of her job.

  She was supposed to be quick and accurate and truthful
, help fill the time in the newscast, entertain, and give perhaps one piece of information that almost anyone watching could find useful. Thinking of it like that made her assignment seem almost doable.

  Jordan recapped. “So I mention Isabella de Luca, then go off on a tangent about the danger of drones. Or lack thereof.”

  “Yep! Perfect!” Theresa dug through one of her ginormous bags. “Don’t tell me I forgot my hairspray…”

  Jordan shifted in her seat. She still didn’t have anyone to interview. She rubbed her temples with her fingertips, as if she was giving her brain an electrical boost, then stared at her computer.

  Three internet searches later and bingo.

  A local high school with an active drone club. She couldn’t simply show up, though. Media needed permission to intrude on school grounds or interfere with school activities. She found the right names, made two phone calls, and sweet-talked her way to permission to attend Boden High School’s two p.m. drone club meeting.

  Jordan informed Patricia of her plans. “Take Drew with you,” Patricia ordered. “He got here early.”

  Excuse me? Was that a jab? Take the teacher’s pet and her biggest competition along? Implying she didn’t trust Jordan to adequately cover this story alone. That was the way Patricia rolled.

  Typical.

  She saw Drew across the room and said, “Grab the keys and equipment. We’re headed out.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Drew and Jordan rolled up in the news truck to the Boden High School football field where the drone club held their after-school meeting.

  “How do you wanna divide this?” Drew asked. “You want me to shoot video and you be reporter?”

  Jordan lifted her eyebrows. Drew was offering her the lead role. Either he had ulterior motives, or he was lazy. Or he was a nice guy. Regardless, he’d made it easy for her to do what she’d planned anyway. “Perfect.”

  They hopped out of the truck and closed in on what Jordan quickly identified as Dork City.

  Six or seven pale guys of various shapes and sizes were scattered along the far side of the track beside the grass, drooling over their flying machines. Holding them up. Comparing them. Twisting screwdrivers and pulling wires out of their insides.

  The whole thing was a foreign concept to Jordan and, frankly, didn’t interest her at all. A whole club devoted to man toys? What was the difference between this and the remote-control cars neighborhood boys played with on the sidewalks? Drones flew. Whatever.

  This was her story and she would make it into something special. Somehow. Apparently, to some people, drones were fascinating. She checked her pockets to make sure she had everything.

  “You know anything about drones?” she asked Drew.

  “Just enough to know that they’re freakin’ awesome and Channel 12 needs to buy one.” He grinned like a kid at Christmas.

  If regular guys like Drew thought drones were so cool, why did a high school drone club attract such geeks? Maybe these were the guys who engineered them as well as simply flying them. Or something.

  “Let’s get sound and video and split,” Jordan said, leading the way. “’Cause I still have to get a negative angle on the story, too.” She was the reporter. It was her responsibility to shape the story objectively. “And, call me crazy, but I feel like these guys are a hundred percent pro-drone.”

  “What exactly is the story angle we’re going for?” Drew asked. “Drone laws? Or a fun piece on recreational usage of drones or what?”

  Jordan didn’t say she had no clue, which was the truth. “I’m branding it The Future of Drones for now. So we’ll see.”

  Drew shrugged, unimpressed. “You’re the lead. Your call.”

  Okay. She knew The Future of Drones wasn’t the strongest title. But she could keep the story objective instead of falling into politics or something. Playing it safe was better for her career than going political on a topic she knew little to nothing about.

  Drew lugged stuff across the field—a camera, tripod, and bag full of gear which included microphone, camera battery, mic cable and stand, bug spray, wireless microphone transmitter, earpiece, and gloves for rolling up cables.

  Jordan considered offering to carry something, but decided against it.

  If Drew needed help, he didn’t say so.

  Jordan had her hands full trying to make these guys comfortable and get them to talk about what drones could do. If she could persuade them to explain the dangers, too, that would be a bonus. Her interviews would be done. She could meet her deadline.

  But she wasn’t optimistic.

  She looked up into the air just in time to see a foot-long flying device zooming straight toward her head.

  She sidestepped and ducked just in time to avoid a nasty hit.

  “Hey!” she yelled, glaring at the boys across the field.

  Another drone came toward her, this one slightly smaller and shaped differently, but with the same vector.

  Jordan sidestepped and ducked again, lower this time. She plopped on her butt onto the grass.

  The guys across the field doubled over in snorts and laughter and, even worse, she whipped her head around to see Drew laughing hard, too.

  “Drew, come on man.” Jordan gave him major stink eye and pushed herself into a standing position. “You aren’t helping.”

  She’d been buddy-buddy with him so far, but only one of them would win this competition. Jordan had inherited her father’s determination.

  “I’m sorry, it’s just—” Drew straightened up and got a stronger grip on his gear. One look at her face sobered him fast. “It was slightly funny. For a moment.”

  “No, it wasn’t funny, actually.” Jordan furrowed her brow and refused to look at him. “Those things could have freaking blinded me.”

  “I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat and stopped grinning, but his eyes still twinkled. “I was transported back to my high school sense of humor. You’re right. Not funny.”

  “Let’s go.” Jordan set off across the field.

  Drew easily kept stride with Jordan, even burdened like a pack mule. Man, this guy was annoying. Was there nothing he couldn’t do?

  Jordan monitored the sky for approaching drones, picked up her pace, and reached the track where the guys were tinkering with their remote controls and boxes of tools. They were all dressed in wrinkled t-shirts, black socks, untied athletic shoes, and khaki cargo shorts with bulging pockets.

  “Nice aim there,” she said, trying to play it off. “We’re from News Channel 12.” One little guy looked at her cautiously. “You’re not in trouble.” She smiled to reassure. “It’s just a fun feature story. Is there a club president here?”

  The little guy had scrambled away, and was replaced with another, acne-prone kid with strong body odor. He gave her a blank stare, as if she were speaking a foreign language. Everyone else responded by continuing to tinker or goof off and failing to make eye contact.

  “Go long!” one boy yelled to another student a few feet away.

  Jordan was only twenty-two years old, but it suddenly became very apparent to her that twenty-two was vastly older than these boys, who probably averaged out at age fifteen and a half.

  Jordan had done her fair share of babysitting back in the day. She summoned her best “Seriously kids, it’s time to get ready for bed NOW” voice and tried again.

  She approached the one she’d tagged as the instigator. A lanky brunette with overgrown eyebrows and an oversized smile.

  “Hi, I’m Jordan Fox.” She extended her hand. “I’m with Channel 12.”

  She spoke loudly enough to be heard over the buzzing drones. There seemed to be at least four of them over the field at any given moment.

  The lanky guy offered a limp handshake and nodded. “Hey.”

  “Which one of you is the club leader?”

  “Uh, that would probably be Calhoun,” lanky guy said.

  “Calhoun?”

  Lanky guy pointed to a six-foot tall, even paler kid, sta
nding in the corner. He wore the same clothes as the other boys, but a wide belt around his middle provided a place to hang more tools.

  Calhoun held a clipboard and examined another kid’s drone, pointing out this and that until Jordan approached. She could see why this guy was the leader. He seemed actually able to focus on a task and seemed to have some sort of authority. He was also the only one who looked like he’d washed his hair in the past two days.

  But whether he had any social skills or ability to articulate remained to be seen.

  She extended her hand to Calhoun. “I’m Jordan Fox from News Channel 12.”

  Another limp handshake. “Hi.”

  So far, he was scoring zero for articulation.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions about drones? I’m just trying to learn about them for a news story. Nothing negative.”

  He nodded, and Jordan grabbed onto that as a sign that he’d at least try to answer a question if she asked it.

  “Hey, Drew!” she shouted.

  When Drew didn’t answer, Jordan looked around, only to find him halfway across the field, his camera gear on the grass, arms raised at right angles like he was a goal post.

  Jordan pursed her lips. This must be what it was like to have a little brother. “Dude,” she yelled at him across the way. “Are you here to work or play?”

  She motioned for him to come over, and, when he finally made eye contact with her, he snapped back to reality, looking sheepish for the first time since she’d known him. He grabbed his gear and rushed over.

  Jordan shook her head. There really must be some kind of innate male attraction to drones. Maybe he just couldn’t help it.

  “I’m sorry, Calhoun.” Jordan turned her attention back to the guy with the clipboard. “Can we get a microphone on you and ask you some questions? Will you tell me about your drone club?”

  Calhoun shrugged and hung his head and mumbled. “Basically we all meet once a week and most of us have our own quads—”