One Last Breath Read online

  A pretty blonde in low-rise jeans stood next to the front door, talking on her cell phone. She was short and stacked, and she made Juarez think of another pretty blonde, the one he’d dumped at Peterson’s apartment on his way out of town. Feenie had protested wildly and called Juarez every foul name she could think of—which had been comical, really—before finally realizing nothing she could say would make him explain what was happening or bring her along. If this meeting took place at all, Juarez expected it to be brief. Still, he owed Peterson big-time. Babysitting a spitting-mad female definitely merited at least a case of beer.

  Juarez pulled the Silverado into a space and took a moment to look around. The far side of the lot was occupied by eighteen-wheelers and a few RVs. Beside the diesel pumps, underneath the garish light of the gas station, he spotted a black Ford Bronco.

  The caller was here.

  Juarez pulled out his Glock and checked it. He returned it to his holster before driving over to the pumping station and pulling up alongside the beat-up SUV.

  The kid slouching against it couldn’t have been more than twenty. He was hairless except for a soul patch under his bottom lip, and he wore olive-green cargo pants and an SS Bootboys T-shirt. Juarez noted the swastika tattoo on his right forearm, which confirmed his suspicions that the guy was a skinhead. Tonight’s phone call was no joke. Whoever this guy was, he knew details about Paloma that hadn’t been released to the media.

  The piece of shit had talked about her tattoo, the naked angel that Paloma had had inked just above her left hip bone on her eighteenth birthday. Few had seen it. Juarez himself wouldn’t even know of it except that he’d been at his parents’ house visiting one Sunday when Paloma had walked through the kitchen in a bikini, and his father had nearly had a stroke. He hadn’t cared so much that his daughter had a tattoo, but he’d thought the design she’d chosen was a sacrilege.

  The skinhead looked on sullenly as Juarez got out of his truck. He was tall but bony. He’d probably joined a white supremacist group in prison for protection. “You bring the money?” he asked.

  Juarez did a visual inventory of the guy’s silhouette. He wasn’t packing a gun, unless he had something small stashed in his combat boot. But that didn’t mean he didn’t have an armed buddy lurking around somewhere, possibly in the SUV.

  “Hey, fuckhead! Habla inglés?”

  Juarez stopped in front of him and crossed his arms. “Yes.”

  “I said, did you bring my money?”

  “We’ll get to that. First I want to hear about your cell mate.”

  The kid stepped away from the car and glowered down at him. He was taller than Juarez by several inches, so he’d mistakenly assumed he could take him on.

  “Money first. We agreed on a thousand.”

  Juarez pulled a roll of bills out of his pocket. He peeled off a hundred and held it up. “Here’s a down payment. You’ll get the rest when I get information.”

  “I’ll get it when I fucking want it, wetback.”

  In two swift motions, Juarez jabbed the kid’s throat and swept his feet out from under him. He landed flat on his back, and Juarez pinned him there, pressing the heel of his boot against his sternum. Something moved inside the Bronco.

  “Here’s how this is gonna work,” Juarez told him. “First, you tell your friend to aim that gun someplace else. Second, I let you stand up so you can tell me about your cell mate without attracting attention. Third, I give you the money. Comprende, fuckhead?”

  The punk was wide-eyed now and struggling for air. Juarez leaned on his boot and pulled his jacket back so the guy could see his Glock.

  The kid glanced at the Bronco and gave a slight shake of his head. Juarez stepped back and watched him struggle to his feet. His attention was focused on Juarez’s roll of bills.

  “About six months ago, I was doing a stint in Sugar Land,” he said hoarsely. “They put me in with this guy Ruiz.”

  “First name,” Juarez said.

  “I dunno, man. We were only together a few days. He just went by Ruiz. He was in for drugs.”

  “Okay. What’d he tell you?”

  He eyed the money again. Juarez got the impression he and his friend needed a fix.

  “He was always bragging about his hot-shit connections. Said he wouldn’t be in for long because someone was taking care of him.”

  “Taking care of him how?”

  “I dunno. But he was untouchable. Not like he was big or nothin’, but no one ever bothered him. He said he was related to Manny Saledo, and shit, maybe he was.”

  The kid’s story had a ring of truth to it. Manny Saledo was a notorious drug kingpin who controlled a large part of the Mexican marijuana market. Juarez wanted to hear more. “And?”

  “And he was transferred outta there a few days later. The day before he left, he started bragging about how a few years back, he helped some guy kidnap and torture a coupla cops. Said he watched the guy cap ‘em and helped bury the bodies.”

  Torture. Goddamn it.

  Juarez swallowed the bile in his throat and stared into the kid’s gray eyes. Was it possible he was looking at Paloma’s killer?

  An eighteen-wheeler rumbled up and hissed to a halt next to one of the gas pumps. Juarez sensed the driver climbing out of the cab, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from this skinny punk who might have murdered his sister. Juarez’s chest constricted, and he could hardly breathe. His rage was choking him.

  He searched the kid’s eyes, looking for something, some flicker of evil. Or even intelligence. But it wasn’t there. This kid didn’t seem capable of covertly kidnapping and murdering two cops. He barely seemed capable of holding up a liquor store.

  “Where?” Juarez asked over the noise of another approaching truck.

  “Where what?” the kid shouted back.

  “Where’d he bury the bodies?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Fuck if I know. That’s all he told me.”

  Juarez fought for control. “What’s your name?”

  “No dice, man. You think I want trouble with Manny Saledo?”

  Juarez started to pocket his money, and the guy panicked.

  “Okay, okay! My name’s…Dave Johnson. But this isn’t about me. I didn’t have nothin’ to do with Ruiz except for those three days in the joint. I told you everything I know.”

  “Oh, yeah? Then how’d you find me? How’d you know my sister’s a missing police officer?”

  The corner of the kid’s mouth lifted, and Juarez struggled not to bash his teeth in. Dave Johnson. What a load of bullshit.

  “Internet, man,” he said.

  “Internet?”

  “Yeah, I checked on the Web after Ruiz left. Read some news stories about two cops in San Antonio who disappeared. Article said your hometown, so I tracked you down.”

  That sounded like bullshit, too. There had to be dozens of Juarezes in Mayfield alone. What, had he taken out the phone book and dialed them all? If so, had he freaking called Juarez’s mother and asked her if her daughter was missing? Juarez wanted to kill the guy.

  “Hey, I ain’t got all night. Where’s the money?”

  Juarez held out the roll. When the kid reached for it, Juarez yanked it away.

  “Hey!” This time, he lunged.

  Juarez body-slammed him into the Bronco and pressed his cheek against the glass. Through the tinted windows, Juarez saw a chubby girl cowering in the backseat, clutching a pistol. She looked bug-eyed and terrified, and she was pointing the gun straight toward the ceiling. What a couple of posers. Juarez needed to end this.

  “How did you really find me?” Juarez growled in his ear. The kid smelled like BO and desperation.

  “Really, man. It was the Internet. I swear. You have a Web site! Gulf Shores Investigators. That’s how I found you.”

  The trucker fueling up his rig was starting to stare, and Juarez loosened his grip. “Dave” slumped back against the car and looked at Juarez’s hand.

  “Come on, man,” he pleade
d. “I really need the money.”

  Juarez grabbed a fistful of his T-shirt and leaned in close. “If you ever call, or touch, or even look at anyone named Juarez ever again, I will make you sorry you were born.”

  Juarez tossed a hundred on the ground and went back to his truck.

  What a fucking night. And it wasn’t over yet, either. Now he had to drive forty miles back to Mayfield and face the wrath of Feenie.

  Chapter

  11

  F eenie woke the next morning to the squawking of birds. She tried to sit up, but her body felt as if it was covered in sandbags. She remembered the medicine ball. Then she remembered Juarez.

  He’d collected her at Peterson’s apartment shortly after one a.m. Collected her, like she was a child out on a play date or something. Furious beyond words, she’d given him the silent treatment all the way back to his boat. Then she’d stalked into his bedroom and slammed the pathetically thin door, hoping the bench seat was every bit as uncomfortable as it looked. Soothed by the prospect of his misery, she’d curled up under his blankets and slept like the dead. Now her muscles ached, and she felt very much alive.

  Damn that medicine ball.

  She buried her face in the pillow and thought about going back to sleep. The sheets were soft and cozy and smelled like fabric softener. She opened her eyes. Gray sheets and a navy bedspread. Not fancy but comfortable. Was that the real Juarez? He was so secretive she really didn’t know.

  Feenie propped herself on her elbows and looked around. Sunlight streamed through the portholes, and she got her first good look at the place. The bed, such as it was, occupied the V-shape of the hull. The walls were lined with shelves, which overflowed with paperbacks. She surveyed the titles. He liked true crime and military history, apparently. Next to the books were a portable TV and some personal items: a sports watch, a framed photograph, a chipped mug.

  Feenie studied the picture. A dark-haired woman pushed a toddler on a swing. The woman looked to be sixty or so. His mother? And who was the child? A kid from a previous marriage, maybe? That was definitely something she needed to find out about. She reached for the watch. One look at it had her catapulting out of bed.

  “Juarez!” she yelled, yanking open the door. She scampered up the ladder and found him lounging in the captain’s chair with a newspaper.

  He glanced up. “Morning,” he said, and reached for his cup.

  Morning? Had he forgotten she’d gone to bed furious with him? And was this how he tried to make nice? By letting her oversleep? “It’s ten o’clock!”

  He checked his watch. “Nine fifty-five.”

  “I’m late for work! My boss is gonna freak!”

  He lifted his paper. “Looks like you’re doing fine to me.”

  She dropped her gaze and spotted her byline on the front page. It was the third time that week she’d made A-one. She started to smile and then remembered her outrage.

  “I’m supposed to be in a staff meeting in five minutes. Why’d you let me sleep so late?”

  “You needed the rest.” He tossed the paper aside and sauntered over. He put his hands on her shoulders and began kneading. Her anger seemed to evaporate right off her body.

  “You sore?”

  His hands felt heavenly, and she wanted to melt against him. She didn’t, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask him to stop. He turned her around so that her back faced him and kneaded deeper.

  “That feels good,” she murmured, hoping her knees didn’t give out. He had amazing hands.

  “We’ll lay off the weights today. Maybe do some cardio.”

  The mere thought of more exercise had her moaning.

  “Sorry, babe. Gotta whip you into shape. I’ve cleared my evening for target practice and another self-defense lesson.”

  “I can hardly wait. Hey, are you sure Chico’s is such a good idea? The guys in there look like the reason most women take self-defense lessons.”

  He brushed her hair aside so the warm pads of his thumbs could work on the knots in her neck.

  “I’ve been working out there for years, and I know most of those guys pretty well. After seeing us last night, they’ll think we’re together, which means they’ll be watching your back. It’s not a bad thing.”

  His hands felt wonderful, and she started to rethink her decision to sleep alone. She needed a man. Badly. Ever since her divorce, Cecelia had been telling Feenie to go have a fling. She was convinced a male distraction would help her get over Josh. Feenie didn’t know because she’d never tried it. Maybe that was her problem.

  No, her problem wasn’t about sex. Her problem was that her ex-husband had sent a hit man after her.

  Still…For the first time in her life, a fling sounded good. Especially with Juarez. He was extremely attractive, pure hormone overload. Of course, that was only when he wasn’t acting like an infuriating pig. Or when he wasn’t freezing her out. He was extremely attractive when he bothered to be nice.

  Right now, for example.

  His hands moved to the small of her back, and her breath caught. His thumbs worked on the tension at the base of her spine, and she released an unsteady breath.

  “I need something from you,” he said in her ear.

  Of course. Why else would he be showering her with kindness? She cleared her throat. “What?”

  “I need you to do some checking on the Garlands. We’re running out of time here, and we don’t have enough information to take to the authorities.”

  She eased away from his hands and turned around. She’d never admit it, but these constant inquiries about Josh were starting to hurt her feelings. She wanted to believe Juarez would be spending time with her even if she weren’t connected to the Garlands.

  But, of course, he wouldn’t.

  “You said the police were crooked,” she reminded him. “I thought that was why I’ve been avoiding them.”

  “They are,” he said. “Or at least some of them are. And those happen to be well placed within the department. I’m talking about the feds.”

  “You want to go to the FBI?” She’d known Josh was in trouble, but the extent of it was just starting to sink in.

  “I’ve got a friend in the Houston field office. I’m keeping him in the loop on my investigation in case something goes wrong.”

  Her blood chilled. “You mean in case you get killed.”

  His eyes remained flat. “My contact wants to help me, but he needs more information to take up the chain. So far, I’ve just got a couple of unexplained murders and some flimsy circumstantial evidence.”

  “Okay. So what do you want me to get?”

  “Records, bank statements, anything that could tie the Garland family to money laundering. If they’re running the amount of dope I think they are, we’re talking about serious funds.”

  “You think Josh’s parents are involved? That seems pretty far-fetched to me.”

  Juarez shrugged. “I don’t know for sure, but that law firm Josh and his dad work at might be a good front for moving money around. Isn’t Bert Garland the senior partner?”

  Feenie swallowed. “Yes.”

  “So he’s bound to know if his son is moving money through it. Or maybe he’s helping.”

  This was getting much too weird. Her former father-in-law helping dope smugglers? It didn’t compute. Feenie had never warmed up to the man, but she had a hard time imagining him laundering money for a drug cartel. She had an even harder time imagining him serving time in a federal prison.

  “Why do you think the Garlands are laundering the money?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “Which are?”

  “How much time you got?”

  Shoot. Not much. Still, she needed to understand what was going on. “Give me the nutshell version,” she said.

  “Okay. You remember about four years back a story about the DEA and Operation Money Trace?”

  Four years seemed like ages ago, and she’d been more interested in decorating magazines th
an newspapers back then.

  “I must have missed the story.”

  “It started with a traffic stop in Kimble County,” he said, “where they netted over two million in cash. It led to this major multiagency operation where authorities found a shitload of product and identified over two hundred mil in laundered drug money.”

  “This is the nutshell version?”

  “Just listen. It was a major bust. The head of the Saledo cartel went to prison over it. You ever heard of Jorge Saledo?”

  “No.”

  “What about Manuel Saledo? Goes by Manny. He took over for his brother a few years back.”

  “Neither of those names means anything to me,” she said.

  Juarez looked disappointed.

  “What, did you think I might’ve had them over for a dinner? Beer and burgers by the pool?”

  He sighed. “Could you hold the sarcasm and just listen for a change? Jorge Saledo going to prison was a big deal. But it didn’t slow down the traffickers for long. They started experimenting with new ways to get their product into the U.S. and their money south of the border. Lots of businesses with Mexican ties were targeted in the investigation, so the cartels started looking for less conspicuous ways to wash the money. They began expanding their contacts with non-Mexicans so they’d attract less attention.”

  “Non-Mexicans,” she said. “You mean like Josh.”

  “He fits the profile. He’s white, well connected, never been in trouble with the law. It’s a great cover.”

  “And you think Josh is using his firm?” It seemed pretty improbable.

  “Maybe,” he said. “I need access to the financial records so I can get an accountant to look at them and see if anything looks suspicious.”

  “What if nothing does?”

  “Then we keep looking. The law firm isn’t the only possibility. Your ex has other investments, right?”

  “Yeah. There’s some real estate stuff, but I don’t know much about it.”

  “Anything else?”