False Truth 6 (Jordan Fox Mysteries) Read online

  “Okay. See you tomorrow, then.” He placed his hands in his pockets and sauntered off, which wasn’t exactly the reaction she’d been hoping for.

  Jordan settled into an edit bay and finished the Instant Pop Star piece she’d started the day before. The task wasn’t so atrocious when she simply skipped through the so-bad-they’re-supposed-to-be funny auditions, and zeroed in on one inspirational story—a contestant from Clearwater who lost his wife in the war and had been raising their baby girl as a single father. The final product wasn’t as good as the Dominique Wren piece would have been, but that was water under the bridge. She had to move on.

  Now for the Haiti mini-documentary. Jordan still wasn’t sure which angle to take. Reporting on the possibilities of 3D printing in a clinical environment, after she’d found out the limitations at the Sabatier clinic, wouldn’t be as uplifting as planned. But it would still be an educational, hard news piece. She’d have to go to Tampa Southern Hospital for a couple local interviews, maybe compare and contrast local conditions here to those in Sabatier. But after that, the story would be in the bag, and she could stretch it to a three-parter, as Richard had requested.

  But she’d promised Saint Louis she would try to publicize the Medicine Factory and its dangers. Auntie Marie and most likely Saint Louis, too, had died to give her the chance. That story had the potential to be a groundbreaking exclusive with international implications.

  Truth was, while Jordan could sense the Medicine Factory was dangerous, she had no real facts about what was going on there. Unless the orange tablets she’d given Clayton turned out to be the Super Adderall that killed Ruby. Then she’d have a blockbuster story. But for that, she’d simply have to wait until Clayton called.

  Jordan was completing an upload of all of her pictures and video from the trip and mulling over the options, when she remembered she could pull up the live weather camera video streaming from the campus of Plant University. It was still aimed at the university, offering a bird’s eye view of the clinic.

  The view wasn’t much different from what she’d seen at street level a few hours ago. Squad cars still blocked the entrances to the parking lot. Crime scene tape still warded off access to the clinic’s interior. No one was walking around outside.

  She sat back in her chair and looked at the monitor for a while. Nothing happened. No one came in or went out. The scene was about as interesting as hibernating fish. Maybe a little hypnotic, even.

  A shrill ring of the phone in Jordan’s edit bay made her jump. It was Richard.

  “Welcome back, world traveler.”

  “You make the trip sound glamorous,” Jordan said. She didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. “It really wasn’t—”

  “I know, I was kidding.”

  Jordan rolled her eyes at his attempted joke. Someday she’d tell him how far from glamorous the trip had really been.

  “Wanna come to my office for a minute?” he asked.

  As if she had an option. “Sure.”

  He was waiting for her, sitting in his big black leather chair overlooking the Hills River. “I wanted to hear about the trip and take a look at your outline for your story.”

  Her outline?

  Jordan didn’t have an outline for the Haiti story. She wasn’t even sure which angle to take. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to get his opinion here. “I’m glad you asked. I have a few options.”

  Richard’s eyebrows pulled together and his nostrils flared. “What do you mean, you have a few options. You don’t have an outline done?”

  “There have been some new developments—”

  His face flushed a deep red, all the way to his ears. “One of the conditions you agreed to before we authorized your trip to Haiti was that you’d come back with a hard news story ready to go.” He slapped his left palm with the back of his right hand rapidly three times. His tone was as hard as the results he demanded. “Now where’s your hard news story?”

  CHAPTER 12

  Jordan hoped the floor would open up and swallow her whole. She waited a couple of moments to give it a chance.

  Nope. Still here.

  She took a deep breath, sat up straight, and clasped her hands together. “I, uh, finished the Instant Pop Star piece, and thought it turned out really well. But the Haiti piece is, um, more complicated.”

  Neither his posture nor his tone softened at all. “How so?”

  In one big rush, barely stopping to breathe, she told him about the Medicine Factory and Auntie Marie and Saint Louis and the Tonton Moun Nui and Ruby Quinn and Super Adderall and the orange tablets she’d given to Clayton.

  He waited for her to finish before interrupting. And his red face faded a bit, which she took as a good sign.

  “Stories will always be developing. That’s what’s going on here. But we can’t wait until a story is completely finished before we tell it.” Richard had nodded and listened. He didn’t seem moved by her excuses. “Our job is to keep the public informed of what’s going on. So while we’re waiting to see what happens with Ruby Quinn’s murder, do the story on Super Adderall abuse at Plant University.”

  Jordan didn’t see that one coming. Her head began shaking back and forth before she realized it. “If we air that, we’ll tip our hand. The dealers will flee the country. Ruby’s killer might get away, too.”

  His eyes narrowed. “We aren’t the police. If you want to solve crimes and arrest suspects, you’re in the wrong line of work. Our job is to inform and, frankly, entertain the public.” Richard had leaned forward in his chair. He seemed more entrenched with every word. “And I’ve gotta hand it to you on the Super Adderall story. The 3D printers thing can be good, too, depending on how it plays out. But you may have uncovered a real epidemic with the Super Adderall.” He stood and walked around to the front of his desk and leaned against it, hands loosely clasped. “We could brand the story with our motto: Channel 12, Your Eyes and Ears, we’d get huge ratings from young people and parents alike, and it’s got the fear factor.”

  “But—”

  “Yes. I like this.” Richard raised his clasped hands together and pointed with both index fingers. “Then, if it does turn out that Super-Adderall comes to the U.S. from the Medicine Factory in Haiti and all those missionary doctors are involved—”

  “I didn’t say the missionaries were involved!”

  “—and if we can prove it, then we already have the background piece ready to go. Those are all big ifs, Jordan. We’re not losing the story we do have while we wait for those ifs to happen.”

  Jordan understood his points about ratings. But she didn’t agree that ratings were more important than helping Saint Louis, whether he was alive or not. Or even half as important as catching Ruby’s killer and getting Super Adderall off the streets.

  But orders were orders, and she was the intern, not the boss.

  “I’d better get to work then.” She stood and put a smidge of cooperation she definitely didn’t feel into her voice.

  When she reached the doorway, Richard said, “Jordan?”

  She turned.

  Maybe he thought he’d come across as too callous because he said, “You’re doing a lot of good for our community here. Just think what a difference we could have made if we’d aired this story yesterday. Ruby Quinn might still be alive.”

  She realized he was trying to make her feel better. But she knew in her bones airing the Super Adderall story too early was a disastrous decision. Just as she realized any further argument on the subject would get her into deeper trouble than she was already in. “I know. You’re right.”

  Jordan got back to the edit bay and emailed Dr. Chelsey Ross, asking for an interview so she could at least put the Super Adderall story together somewhat responsibly. There. Now the wheels were turning. She labeled the request urgent because she needed the interview before tonight.

  She glanced again at the weather cam. Still a lot of mesmerizing nothingness going on.

  Would patients feel safer if
they knew they were being watched, going in and out? Or would they be horrified? Probably depended on why they were there. Some medical problems were more sensitive than others.

  Of course, Channel 12’s weather cam wasn’t really watching the patients. It was watching the weather.

  The weather came and went, too. Most of the time, the camera probably wouldn’t catch anything much.

  Take tornados or, better yet, lightning strikes. Lightning strikes didn’t happen that often. Catching lightning on video was kind of a lucky fluke, really.

  Most people who went to the clinic had colds and scrapes and needed vaccines. Not very many would have something like a secret sex-change treatment, after all. Capturing images of clinic patients with sensitive medical problems was a little like catching lightning, wasn’t it?

  Jordan sat bolt upright in her chair.

  Yes. It was exactly like catching lightning on video.

  The weather guys ran video of lightning all the time. Tampa was the lightning capital of the world. Some of the shots were spectacular.

  Why didn’t she think about that before?

  Jordan’s pulse was racing. She dialed the phone, impatient, excited.

  On the fourth ring, someone picked up.

  “Storm Center, Heidi Wyatt.”

  Her words tumbled out. “Heidi, it’s Jordan Fox. I know you’re busy.”

  Heidi laughed a little. “Relax Jordan. Unless a hurricane is coming, I’ve got a minute. What’s up?”

  “Tell me, does the weather camera you showed me yesterday let us look at video from the past or is it livestream only?” Jordan held her breath, hoping for the answer that she knew had to be there.

  “I believe the cameras hold the video for twenty-four hours,” Heidi said.

  Yes! She fist pumped the air.

  Twenty-four hours. Jordan glanced at the clock. Barely four o’clock right now.

  That meant the camera should still have video from the time frames surrounding Ruby’s murder. The video might show Ruby’s killer coming or going.

  At the very least, Jordan might get her hands on a lead that no one else had.

  She tapped into the weather camera archive system using Heidi’s instructions. She found the moment where Ruby parked the white SUV in the lot and dashed through the rain to enter the clinic. Her night shift was 11:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. The video clock recorded her arrival at ten minutes before eleven last night.

  Not long before Jordan left the station for home.

  A chill ran all the way through her body from her toes to her scalp. Jordan had been outside and across the street right about the time when Ruby was killed. The realization twisted her stomach in knots.

  Jordan watched Ruby’s arrival twice more. Her heart ached in her chest and her vision blurred. These may have been some of the last moments Ruby spent alive. The smart, hard-working, sweet young mother of two who cared too much for her patients. If only Jordan could go back in time and warn Ruby…someone is coming to get you.

  But who was that someone? Jordan rewound and replayed the video out in real time again. There had been one other vehicle already parked in the lot when Ruby arrived. It was the dark sedan Jordan had noticed before she went home last night. Ruby must have seen it when she drove into the lot. Which could mean she had recognized the car and felt comfortable with its presence.

  Jordan watched the clinic entrance for visitors after Ruby arrived. She saw no one for the first four minutes. But at minute sixteen, a red Pontiac Firebird whipped into the parking lot and parked diagonally across two spaces—one of which was a handicapped spot. She remembered seeing it there last night because she’d thought it audacious.

  The parking lot was practically empty on Sunday night. Still, a flashy car, parked in a showy way, where it shouldn’t be parked at all, was pompous and telling. It said he knew he could get away with breaking the rules. Would he have behaved differently if he’d known someone was watching?

  The area wasn’t well lit and the video was dark. But Jordan saw the driver’s door open and a thin male climbed out. He walked deliberately toward the clinic entrance and passed under a street lamp. White or gray tank top, red gym shorts, light hair. He carried a backpack.

  If he was visiting the clinic because he was sick, she couldn’t see any signs from here. He was well enough to drive a car, and he was walking at a good clip.

  He opened the door and entered the building.

  CHAPTER 13

  Little hairs stood up on the back of her neck and raised gooseflesh along her limbs. Something was familiar about him. She felt like she’d seen him before.

  Or maybe she was letting her imagination run too wild again. She shook off the notion like a dog shakes water from its coat.

  Still, when Jordan rewound the video and watched it again, the feeling remained.

  Had the weather cam captured lightning here? Was this guy Ruby’s killer?

  “Hold on there, Jordan. Don’t get ahead of yourself.” He could easily have been a student with every right to be there and having nothing to do with Ruby at all.

  There was no activity on the tape for seventy-four minutes.

  Then, the guy in the red shorts came out of the clinic door. He carried his backpack. But instead of returning to the Firebird, he walked west until he left the video’s range.

  Jordan found a school map online. There was only one major building west of the clinic on campus. The athletic facilities. He could have been going there. But there were other options, too.

  When Jordan and Amy went to the theater on Tuesday night, they’d parked in the Plant University lot and walked. Lots of people did.

  This guy could’ve been meeting a friend, or possibly heading to Saturday night at the Tampa bars and clubs west of the university. But he was dressed for a workout, not the upscale South Tampa bar scene. The athletic building was a better guess.

  Before the 24-hour time frame expired and the video was lost forever, Jordan uploaded the relevant video segments to her phone.

  Then she went back and paused the video on a shot of the guy under the street lamp. She clicked and typed a series of keystrokes to enhance the image and zoom in. Still too dark and blurry to see clearly.

  Jordan didn’t recognize the guy in red shorts with the flashy car, which was disappointing. But looking at him still made her uneasy. Someone would know him.

  She’d give the video to Clayton. She didn’t have the resources to identify Mr. Red Shorts, but Tampa P.D. did.

  Meanwhile, she enhanced the image of the dark sedan and zoomed in enough to identify it as a Mercedes. A full-sized, four-door. Black or very dark blue. Mercedes didn’t make that many models. She identified this one with a quick web search as an S-Class Sedan.

  She kept working on the license plate image. The angle was odd, but with a bit of computer magic, she isolated a partial. It was the standard Florida plate with three letters on the left, oranges in the center, and, presumably three letters on the right, although she couldn’t isolate those. A Hills County plate.

  Channel 12 resources could identify the owner if she had a full plate number. But on a partial like this, she wasn’t sure. She’d run it anyway. If she couldn’t find out who owned the sedan in the next few minutes, she’d turn that over to Clayton, too.

  Jordan dialed Clayton’s number from her cell phone while she was waiting for the report on the partial license plate. His voice mail picked up. Her message was quick and cryptic. “Call me. I’ve got something to show you.”

  After that, she couldn’t think of any more excuses not to get her real job done.

  She’d been back at work on the Super Adderall story Richard wanted almost twenty minutes, when Clayton finally called back.

  “Sorry. We were in a meeting. What have you got?”

  Jordan was right in the middle of a crucial bit of video editing. “Did you get the tox report back on Ruby yet? Or identify the chemistry of those orange tablets?”

  “I thought you wan
ted to show me something.” He sounded miffed.

  She kept working. “I do. But I want to know the answer to my questions first.”

  “These things take a little time.”

  She hit the save button and turned her full attention to Clayton. “How long before you’ll have it?”

  “I don’t know, Jordan. I’m not the pathologist.” He sounded exasperated with her now. “I’ve got people waiting for me. Do you really have anything to show me or not?”

  Jordan didn’t have the resources Clayton had. She couldn’t do this part of the job by herself. But she worried she was betting on the wrong horse. He didn’t seem to be making progress at a good pace.

  He demanded, “Yes or no?”

  “What about surveillance video?”

  “For the Ruby Quinn murder? We checked. There is none.”

  “What if you’re wrong about that?”

  “Jordan, I gotta go.” He hung up.

  She redialed. He picked up. “I’m sending you three video clips right now. I’ll wait until you open them.”

  She heard him click to open each video. She waited to give him time to watch them.

  His voice lost its edge. “Where did you get these?”

  “Channel 12 Weather Cam.”

  “Damn. Clever. I never would’ve thought of that.” Clayton’s tone seemed close to admiration. “I’ll get this over to the detectives. Maybe they can identify this guy and question him tonight.”

  “The white SUV is Ruby’s,” Jordan said definitively. Clayton didn’t argue. So she moved on. “I’ve got a partial plate on that Mercedes S-Class sedan, but I haven’t been able to match it up yet.”

  “The Mercedes belongs to the doc on duty before Ruby Quinn’s shift started. Shifts overlap by half an hour. Long enough to transition the patients they were treating. He was probably the last guy to see her alive when he left a few minutes before 11:30 last night. Let me find his name here. Hang on.” Like she’d be hanging up. After a few moments, he said, “Guy’s name is Dr. Peter Wren.”