One Last Breath Page 17

  Her stomach lurched. “Where’d you get that?”

  “One of the CIs called it in. A friend of mine at the department passed it on.”

  “What’s a CI?” she asked.

  “A confidential informant. Did you know about this?”

  She closed her eyes but opened them quickly as she steered Drew’s Tercel toward the Gazette office. She checked her rearview mirror for the phantom Chevy Blazer, but she didn’t see it. “Juarez kind of indicated—”

  “Are you fucking crazy? Drop the story, Feenie!”

  “But—”

  “You’re in way over your head.”

  Her temper flared. “At the pool hall, you said you wanted my help! God, you sound just like Juarez.”

  “What?”

  “You want my help, but then you want to shut me out!”

  “Look, Feenie, I understand your ambition. I really do. But you can get promoted without getting near this story. So drop it before you get hurt. I’m telling you—”

  “You can skip the lecture. I don’t need any more men telling me what to do.”

  “Oh, great, here we go with the feminist shit. I’m serious, Feenie. Stay away from this. And keep your friends away, too. I just saw Cecelia Wells and she seemed to know all about this research you’re doing. That puts her at risk, too. Did you ever stop to think of that?”

  When had McAllister met Celie? And how did he know her maiden name? “Her name is Cecelia Strickland,” Feenie said, “and I am trying to keep her out of it. But it’s kind of hard when she’s not a total idiot, and she knows Josh and she knows me, and she can put two and two together.” Plus, she’d been with Feenie that night at Josh’s boathouse, which made it next to impossible to keep her from figuring out something was up.

  McAllister had gotten quiet all of a sudden.

  “McAllister?”

  “Just be careful, Feenie. I mean it.” And he clicked off.

  Feenie steadied her arms and took aim at the target. She squeezed the trigger and watched a hole appear in the silhouette.

  “Not bad,” Juarez said.

  She dropped her arms and smiled. Practice was going much better today. “Thanks. I like this gun better.”

  Juarez smirked. “Thought you would. It’s light as a feather.”

  Feenie turned over the Smith & Wesson revolver and examined the textured black grip. It felt comfortable in her hand. The .38 was very compact, and although it wasn’t light as a feather, it certainly weighed less than Juarez’s Glock.

  “Where’d you get this, anyway?”

  “It’s my mom’s.”

  “Your mom’s?”

  “I got it for her after my dad passed away,” he said. “Someone broke into her house.”

  “Was she hurt?”

  His jaw tightened. “No. She wasn’t home, but it scared her pretty good. I thought the gun might help her feel safer.”

  “Does it?”

  “Nah, she won’t touch it. It just sits on the top shelf of her closet. She threw the ammo away, so I gave up and got her a dog.”

  “Must be hard being a widow,” she said, hoping he’d tell her more about his family. But of course he didn’t. He just handed her some more bullets. Feenie watched him, wishing he’d open up to her but doubting he would.

  Feenie loaded the gun again and squeezed off another round. Again, her aim was dead-on.

  He eased up next to her and squinted at the target. “You’re really coming along. Sure you haven’t fired a handgun lately?”

  “Just yesterday with you.”

  “You’re a natural, then.”

  Feenie noticed his relaxed expression and spotted her opening. “I talked to Dottie Garland today.” Avoiding his gaze, she put the gun down and punched the button to bring the target forward. Most of her shots had hit the silhouette this time.

  She glanced at Juarez and wasn’t surprised to see him scowling at her.

  “On the phone, I hope?”

  She unclipped the target and held it up for him to see. “Pretty good, if I do say so myself.”

  He ignored the distraction and crossed his arms. “Don’t tell me you went out there.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “I thought I told you—”

  “You asked me to help, and I’m helping. It’s hard to glean information from people over the phone. Besides, Josh wasn’t there. I made sure he was at work before I went over.”

  “Feenie—”

  “I got some good information. Josh and his dad are going deep-sea fishing. They leave tomorrow. Dottie says they’ve been fishing a lot lately.”

  Juarez cocked his head to the side and looked her up and down. As she’d suspected, the value of the information outweighed his concern for her. She felt a prick of disappointment but forced herself to ignore it.

  “What time do they leave?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow evening, I think. You want to follow them? It’d be a good way to learn more about their operation.”

  “That depends.”

  “On?”

  “On you,” he said. “I’m not sure I can trust you to stay out of trouble while I’m gone. Your track record of following directions isn’t good.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, don’t worry about me. You’ll know exactly where I am, because I’m coming with you.”

  Chapter

  12

  F eenie spent her Friday buzzing with anticipation. She worked from her desk, casting impatient looks at the newsroom clock and counting the minutes until it was time to leave. Again and again, she mentally reviewed Juarez’s plan as well as the few minor ways she intended to deviate from it.

  Finally, it was three-thirty, time to go get changed and into position before the Garlands set out on their fishing trip. Even if Josh and his father didn’t plan to fish, Feenie figured they’d want to depart well before sundown to maintain their cover.

  She checked her email one last time, relieved to see no last-minute messages from her editor, and then shut down her computer and stood to leave.

  “Getting a jump on your weekend?”

  She looked up to see John McAllister towering over her.

  “Not really, I’ve just…got some things to do tonight.” She shot a furtive glance at the clock.

  “Any chance you could change your plans?” McAllister handed her a slip of paper with a name and a number scrawled across it.

  “What’s this?”

  “Name of a buddy of mine in the police department. I told him we were training a new reporter, and he offered to take you on a ride-along tonight.”

  Feenie looked down at the paper and bit her lip. “Wow. I appreciate that, but—”

  “If you want to cover breaking news, you need to develop some sources within the department,” McAllister said firmly. “This guy’s one of the nicer cops on the force, and he’s happily married, so you don’t have to worry about him hitting on you every time you use him as a source.”

  Feenie met McAllister’s gaze. “I appreciate the help. Really, I do. But tonight’s no good for me. I’ve got a date.”

  He eyed her coolly. “Could you bump it to tomorrow? This guy’s expecting your call.”

  McAllister knew she was lying. She could see it in his face. She swallowed hard. “I really can’t. But I’ll call your friend and arrange to postpone.” She smiled. “Thanks for the help.”

  He looked at her for a long moment, then shook his head. “You have some kinda death wish I don’t know about?”

  “What? No—”

  He turned and walked away, and she blew out an exasperated breath. It was none of his business what she did with her Friday evening. She shoved the paper into her purse and stalked across the newsroom, taking care to keep her gaze trained on the door as she passed McAllister’s desk.

  “Malone, hold up.”

  She stopped. Dammit, he was going to make her late. She whirled around. “What?”

  He was standing beside his desk, shuffling through a fo
lder. “Here,” he said, holding something out to her.

  She sighed and backtracked toward him. “What is it?” she asked, taking the papers.

  She looked down and nearly dropped them. They were photographs. Of a corpse. An eyeless, bloated corpse with two black holes in the chest. Both repulsed and fascinated, Feenie thumbed through the stack.

  “That’s Brian Doring,” McAllister said. “Scavengers got to him before the ME.”

  “How’d you get these?” she asked hotly.

  He shrugged. “I’ve got sources.”

  She shoved the pictures back at him. “Well, why are you showing them to me?” She was angry now, and she couldn’t really say why. She didn’t even know Brian Doring.

  Still, she knew he’d been a person. And the idea of his autopsy photos circulating through the newsroom enraged her.

  McAllister took the pictures back and dropped them on his desk. Doring’s mutilated eye socket stared up at her.

  “A picture’s worth a thousand words,” McAllister said. “Just thought I’d make my point again before you and your date decide to do any more investigating.”

  Juarez waited in the dark, cursing her. What was taking so long? Josh and his dad should have left hours ago, and Feenie still hadn’t called to tell him their boat was pulling out.

  Maybe they’d spotted her. She was lousy at keeping a low profile. Fortunately, she made up for it by thinking on her feet. Still, no amount of sweet talk would convince Josh she had innocent intentions if he noticed her staking out his boathouse.

  They’d been over the plan half a dozen times. He’d told her she could be the point man for this surveillance, and she’d looked extremely pleased to get the job. She was supposed to wait for the Garlands to leave, then call and give him the heads up. Juarez was waiting in his boat, lights out, near where the harbor opened up into the bay. Even if Garland killed his running lights, Juarez would be able to track him at a distance using GPS. He’d slipped into the Garlands’ boathouse earlier today and placed the tracking devices, which should work great as long as the Garlands took the Grady-White or the Boston Whaler. If they took someone else’s boat for some reason, Juarez was screwed.

  Suddenly, the green light on the screen of his handheld computer started to move. Any second now, Feenie would call to report Garland’s departure. Then she’d head to their meeting spot at the marina. But instead of Juarez picking her up in his boat, Peterson would be picking her up in his car.

  She’d be mad as hell. Again. Which would be a crying shame, because Juarez would be forced to spend yet another night on that cramped little bench instead of in his own fucking bed.

  With a nice warm body beside him.

  But it couldn’t be helped. Tonight was likely to be hazardous, and Feenie would be safer with Peterson.

  The green light moved toward the mouth of the harbor, where Juarez was waiting on Rum Runner. As soon as the boat entered the bay, Juarez would follow. At a safe distance. Tonight’s half-moon would make Garland easier to track, but it would also make Rum Runner easier to spot. The good news was that Juarez had the element of surprise working for him, because Garland didn’t know he was being followed.

  Unless he caught Feenie sneaking around on his property. Her presence might just tip him off.

  Why the hell hadn’t she called?

  Juarez thought of the two men who might be after her: Todd Brassler and Vince Rawls. Two very well-trained and very lethal operatives, and he’d investigated them both thoroughly.

  Brassler was ex-Army and had been deployed in the mountains of Afghanistan. After a year of hunting terrorists in the rugged terrain, he had developed a reputation as an excellent tracker and an even better shot.

  He was also a wild card, according to his Army buddies. They all had the same feedback: when crossed, especially if he’d been drinking, Brassler was violent and unpredictable. He’d been dishonorably discharged from the Army and had since been working solo.

  Rawls was also a former military guy, but he’d been in the Marines. After leaving the service, he’d built a career as a thug for hire along the Texas-Mexico border.

  The local authorities knew about both men, but thanks to their military training, they were good at covering their tracks. They lived well under the radar, using aliases and moving around, avoiding the types of activities that would put their names or other vital information into electronic databases, which would flag them for investigators. Juarez’s usual bag of skip-tracing tricks didn’t work with these two.

  To make things even tougher, Brassler had been quiet for a while. Most of his suspected crimes had taken place prior to the last eighteen months. Juarez had been back and forth across the border trying to find out what he’d been doing during that gap, but he’d come up empty. It was as if the guy had fallen off the face of the earth.

  The phone numbers Feenie had given Juarez had been his best lead in months. The Mexican residential numbers had turned out to be nothing, but that listing for the Presidente InterContinental Hotel was important. A man using one of Brassler’s known aliases had checked into the InterCon just three weeks before Paloma’s disappearance. This supported Juarez’s theory that Garland had met with Brassler in Monterrey and contracted him to kill Paloma and her partner.

  But then there was the Chevy Blazer Feenie had spotted, which suggested Rawls might be Garland’s hired gun. After all, he’d been working regularly, while Brassler would be coming out of retirement to take this contract.

  This conflicting information was fucking frustrating. It wouldn’t matter so much, except that Juarez couldn’t stomach the idea of exacting his revenge on the wrong guy. When he caught up to Paloma’s killer, he needed to be sure he had the right man.

  Juarez thought of Feenie. It wouldn’t sit well with Brassler—or Rawls—that a little powder puff like her had given him the slip for nearly two weeks now. Juarez had a hard time believing it himself. In fact, he didn’t. If Brassler or Rawls had wanted her dead, she’d be dead by now. More likely, one of them wanted to draw out the game and have some fun—shadow her, tear up her house, get her good and frightened. The hit man was playing cat-and-mouse, and if Juarez was right, he had big plans for his prey when he captured it.

  A motor hummed in the distance and gradually grew louder. The green light on the screen showed the boat was about fifty yards away now and approaching quickly. He’d have to get moving soon.

  Finally, his phone vibrated.

  “Juarez.”

  “They just left.” Feenie’s voice was muffled, but just hearing it was a relief. “They’re headed to the south side of the harbor.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On my way to the marina. Are you going to pick me up, like we planned?”

  He hesitated a second.

  “Juarez?”

  “Looks like I won’t have time.”

  “We had a deal! I thought you wanted to keep an eye on me!”

  He smiled into the phone as he started up the engine. “I do. That’s why I’ve asked Peterson to pick you up. He’ll meet you in the parking lot at the marina. Don’t get out of your car unless you’re sure it’s him.”

  She fell silent, and Juarez imagined her face as she realized she’d been duped. Her cheeks would flush, and her chest would heave up and down. She was so damn sexy when she got mad.

  “You’re a lying jerk, you know that?”

  Juarez checked his gauges and put the boat in gear. “Sorry, babe. Safety first.”

  She didn’t answer, and the back of Juarez’s neck prickled. He looked up and saw Feenie standing in the doorway of the cabin.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  She folded her arms over her chest, which wasn’t heaving after all. “Coming with you. Did you think I’d fall for the same trick twice?”

  Shit. “Who’s staking out the boathouse?”

  “Teresa. She seemed really eager to help out.” Even in the near-darkness, he could tell she was smiling. She wor
e the same black getup she’d had on during the rainstorm at Garland’s boathouse.

  “This isn’t a video game, Feenie. This meeting could be dangerous.”

  “What’s more dangerous than sitting around waiting for a hit man to find me? I’d rather be here helping you. Anyway, it’s too late to take me back.”

  As she said this, a large Grady-White zoomed past their hiding place and veered into the bay.

  He watched the boat, then glanced at Feenie. She had him cold, and she knew it, too. He didn’t have time to take her back to shore, and he wasn’t willing to scrap the plan when they were inches away from collecting hard evidence against Garland.

  And Garland would lead him to Paloma’s killer.

  “Fine. But stay out of the way. And when the meet happens, I want you below deck.”

  She tossed her head. “Oh, really? Are you planning to tie me up and gag me?”

  “Don’t tempt me. Now, sit down so we can get going.”

  The instant she was seated, he punched the throttle forward and had Rum Runner riding high on the water. Now he had to trail the Garlands discreetly, get close enough to gather useful evidence, and keep a lid on Feenie at the same time.

  “If you get in my way, you’re going overboard,” he said.

  “Don’t worry,” she crooned. “You won’t even know I’m here.”

  After they’d been speeding through the water for nearly an hour, Feenie watched the green light on the computer screen stop moving.

  “Hold up,” she told Juarez. “Looks like they’re stopping.”

  Juarez glanced down at the GPS and nodded. He abruptly slowed. Feenie looked out over the choppy black water, but she couldn’t even see the Grady-White.

  “Where are they?” she whispered.

  He pointed over the bow, which was rising and sinking with the swells. “About eleven o’clock.”

  “Where?”

  “There. See the white light? And you don’t need to whisper. They’re too far away to hear us, especially with the wind out of the south.” He consulted the computer, which cast his face in a greenish glow. “We’re about thirty miles southwest of South Padre Island.”