One Last Breath Read online

  Yikes. “You think Martinez killed him.”

  “It fits. A killing like that looks pretty personal.” He furrowed his brow. “I told you in the beginning, you want to be careful here. Martinez is bad news.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  He swigged his beer and watched her, as if he was waiting for her to say something. “Want to tell me what this is about?”

  “Nothing, really. It’s like I said, I’m just doing some background stuff for a story.”

  “A story about Martinez or drug smuggling or what?” He looked intent now, and she knew she shouldn’t say too much.

  “Something like that.”

  He stood up and stepped toward her, his eyes darkening. Feenie eased away, but he didn’t back off. “Let’s get something straight,” he said. “Information is a two-way street. I’ll help you get some, but I’m gonna want something in return.”

  She looked up at him and felt her pulse jump. What kind of “something”?

  “Um, Juarez, I think you’ve misunderstood—”

  “Next time I see you, I want a better explanation for why you’re asking all these questions. Got it?”

  Feenie bit her lip. An explanation. Okay. But that still posed a problem. She’d been so excited to have a source, she hadn’t counted on the quid pro quo. Grimes was right—she was totally green.

  “Okay,” she said, wishing her voice didn’t sound so meek.

  “Good.” He smiled suddenly and handed her his half-empty bottle. “I’ll be in touch. Thanks for the beer.”

  Juarez sat behind the wheel of his truck and flipped open the passport he’d snaked from her file box. Francis Malone Garland. He was in luck. The passport was four years old, so it would include several years of travel with her ex.

  His cell phone rang.

  “Juarez,” he said, thumbing through the pages.

  “Marco? Is that you?”

  No matter how many times he explained that this was his cell number, his mother always acted surprised to hear his voice on the other end.

  “Yeah, Mom. It’s me.”

  The passport was filled with stamps, mostly Mexico—Cozumel, Cabo San Lucas, Puerto Vallarta. A few stamps from the Caribbean. It didn’t tell him much at first glance, but he’d have to check out the dates and compare them to what he had on Garland.

  “Where are you, Marco? It’s almost eight.”

  Almost eight…What happened at eight?

  “Kaitlin’s been waiting for nearly an hour,” she continued. “You promised to take her out for ice cream tonight.”

  Shit. How had he forgotten? He tossed the passport aside.

  “I’m on my way, Mom. Tell Kaitlin I’ll be right there.”

  “You can’t take her out now! It’s almost her bedtime!”

  He pictured his niece waiting by the front door. He was such a jerk.

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday. So what if she’s up a little late?”

  “Marco…” His mother’s voice had that familiar ring of disapproval.

  “I’ll have her back by nine. Promise. Look, I’m almost to your house.” He threw his truck in gear and tried to come up with the shortest route to his mom’s neighborhood. It would take him ten minutes at least, even if he sped the whole way.

  “Oh, all right,” she said. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt—”

  “See you in a minute.”

  He flipped shut his phone and eyed the passport sitting on his passenger seat.

  Francis Malone Garland.

  Feenie Malone.

  His gut told him she wasn’t involved, but he wanted to make sure. If he’d learned anything from being a cop, it was that you could never be too careful.

  And you couldn’t trust anyone. Not even pretty blond cheerleaders.

  Chapter

  5

  F eenie jogged through her neighborhood, trying to ignore her throbbing muscles and the suffocating humidity. It was too late in the morning for a run, really, but the chocolate doughnut she’d picked up on the way to the office made it mandatory. She didn’t regret treating herself, though. Working on a Saturday morning called for special indulgences. She’d put in three hours at the Gazette writing up a gas station robbery from last night, organizing her desk, and copying down names and numbers from McAllister’s Rolodex. Whatever Grimes threw at her next week, she wanted to be ready.

  She felt a stitch in her side and slowed her pace. It was hot. And running always seemed like such a masochistic sport. Tennis was more her thing, but Feenie had long since ceased to be a regular at the Mayfield Country Club. Running was free, and she made an effort to do that or swim several times a week. She still had ten pounds to shed from the twenty she’d acquired after her divorce, and losing the weight suddenly seemed like a priority.

  It was Juarez’s fault, damn him. If it weren’t for him, she wouldn’t be obsessing over her imperfect body. Not that he was ever going to see it.

  Probably not, anyway.

  God, was she really considering getting involved with him? He was practically a stranger. And he was so not her type. He was bossy and infuriating and entirely too…carnal. Any sane woman would stay away from him, which was just what Feenie intended to do after she finished using him for her story.

  Or was he using her? She couldn’t decide why exactly, but whenever he offered to help her, she got this needling suspicion that he was up to something. Yet another reason not to get mixed up with him any more than absolutely necessary.

  Rivulets of sweat slid down her neck. Feenie distracted herself from the scorching temperature by admiring the pretty houses and waving at people out working in their yards. As she turned onto Pecan Street, the familiar buzz of a power saw filled the air. Her neighborhood was in transition, with many of the homes undergoing renovations as retirees sold out to young families. She wondered which house was getting a facelift this time.

  She neared home and realized the buzzing noise was coming from her driveway. She halted in her tracks, almost getting clipped by a tan SUV pulling away from the curb.

  Juarez stood outside her kitchen, wearing jeans and work boots—that was it—and holding a chain saw. Wood chips carpeted the driveway, and her dismembered pecan tree sat neatly off to one side. Leafy branches overflowed from two of her trash cans.

  She was up the driveway in three strides. “What are you doing?”

  He turned around, and heaven help her. His perfectly sculpted upper body was covered in a thin layer of sawdust and sweat.

  This was why she was out jogging in the zillion-degree heat. Compared to this ideal specimen of humanity, she felt like a Gummi Bear.

  “Hi,” he said, dropping the saw onto the grass. He picked up the last few pieces of wood and placed them on the pile. Mrs. Hanak appeared out of nowhere with a glass of lemonade and a plate of oatmeal cookies. Juarez gave her one of his smiles and took the glass. He tipped it back and finished it in one long gulp, his Adam’s apple moving as he drank. Feenie got butterflies in her stomach just watching him.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hanak. That hits the spot.”

  Mrs. Hanak beamed under the praise. She was wearing her best housedress.

  Apparently, Juarez was an equal opportunity flirt. Feenie’s temper festered.

  “Well, we sure appreciate your help, Marco,” Mrs. Hanak said. “That tree’s just been sitting there for days now.”

  Mrs. Hanak shot Feenie a pointed look and shuffled back to her house with the empty glass. Juarez took a cookie from the plate he was holding and offered one to Feenie. When she just gaped at him, he shrugged and put the plate down.

  She folded her arms over her sports bra, wishing she’d worn a T-shirt.

  “I want to know what you think you’re doing to my tree.”

  Juarez hooked his thumbs through his belt loops and stared at her. He looked like a Levi’s ad, and she had to glance away to keep the butterflies from starting up again.

  “I’m getting it out of your kitchen. Having a big hole in your ho
use isn’t great for security. Just ask Mrs. Hanak.”

  “Well, it’s my house, isn’t it? What gives you the right to just come over here and start sawing?”

  He smirked. “Are you going to try and tell me you weren’t planning to have it removed? I just did you a favor.”

  Okay, it was a favor. It had certainly saved her the trouble and expense of hiring someone. But still… it took a lot of nerve to show up at someone’s house with power tools.

  He stepped close to her, and she smelled wood chips and a hint of sweat. The butterflies were back.

  “Want to know something?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Huh?”

  “Your cheeks get red when you’re pissed off. It’s pretty hot.” He reached over and tucked a curl behind her ear, and she flinched. “Why are you always so skittish around me?”

  The smug look on his face told her he knew exactly why she was so skittish around him. Her eyes dropped to his chest, and she felt her throat constricting.

  “I’m not. I just—”

  He bent his head down and kissed her. Very lightly, just a brush of the lips. Every muscle in her body tensed.

  “Relax,” he muttered.

  “I don’t want to relax.”

  “Liar.”

  He wrapped his hand around her neck and tipped her head back. The next kiss was deep and seductive. He tasted wonderful, all tart and sugary, and she felt the heat coming off him in waves. He was standing close, but he touched her only with his mouth and his fingertips. She was kissing him back, she realized, and jerked away.

  “Why did you do that?” she squeaked.

  “You wanted me to.”

  He stepped back from her, and she felt instantly chilly, which didn’t make sense, because it was hot as Hades, and she’d just been running. She was standing in her driveway in her workout clothes, for God’s sake.

  “I don’t want you to do it again,” she said, although at the moment, she couldn’t think of one good reason why they shouldn’t go inside and jump straight into bed.

  He shrugged and picked up his saw. “Okay, I won’t. Hey, you don’t have a fireplace, do you?”

  She blinked at him. “A fireplace?”

  “Yeah, I thought I’d haul this wood off for you. If you don’t have any use for it.”

  He’d just kissed her stupid in the middle of her driveway, and now they were talking about firewood?

  “No, I don’t have a fireplace.”

  “Great,” he said. “Move so I can back my truck in.”

  She stepped aside.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “And here’s the number for a friend of mine. He does remodeling, and he’s cheap. Drop my name, and he’ll get your kitchen back together in no time.”

  She nodded.

  “Until then, I’ll put a tarp over the hole. It’s not safe to leave it like this.” He winked at her. “Pretty woman like you should be more careful.”

  After loading his truck, Juarez slipped into the house. He heard the shower running upstairs as he walked into the living room and spotted the portable file box sitting in a corner. He quickly replaced her passport in the folder where she kept it and eased out the front door.

  So far, everything about her checked out. She’d done plenty of traveling with her husband down in Mexico and the Caribbean, but it looked like vacation stuff. She hadn’t been out of the country in two years, since her divorce, he guessed.

  It looked as if she wasn’t part of Garland’s business dealings, but he still couldn’t be sure. Based on everything he’d dug up about her so far, she was a model citizen. Sure, she had a less than stellar credit rating, but who didn’t these days? Other than some sloppy bill-paying habits, she seemed to be a Girl Scout.

  But then again, that might be a front. He needed to get closer to her.

  Juarez started his truck and glanced at the upstairs window. This woman was smarter than he’d expected. And she was reluctant to trust him, which meant her instincts were good, too. If she kept probing, it wouldn’t take her long to put all the pieces together.

  He intended to be around when she did.

  The last thing he needed was a reporter going public with information about Garland. He felt fairly sure he could keep a lid on any news stories Feenie might write, but she wasn’t his only concern. Reporters were like buzzards—they attracted each other to a carcass. That meant the clock was ticking on his covert investigation.

  The information he had from Paloma was sketchy, but he’d managed to fill in many of the gaps since her disappearance. Feenie Malone might be able to fill in the rest. Involved or not, she had access to key information. And he needed to get his hands on it before Garland got wind of what she was up to.

  If he didn’t, two years of painstaking work would be down the drain. He wasn’t about to let that happen.

  Feenie was jarred awake by the persistent hum of her cell phone. She groped around on her bedside table until she found the damn thing and mumbled hello.

  “You asleep?” someone asked.

  She pulled the phone away from her ear and checked the number. She didn’t recognize it or the voice.

  “Who is this?”

  “Juarez. Are you really in bed? It’s barely ten.”

  Feenie looked at the clock. “It’s ten-fifteen, and I had a long day.” A long week was more like it. “What do you want?”

  Ever since the kiss in her driveway Saturday, she’d been irritated with him. The encounter had given him the upper hand, and she didn’t like that. She needed to get things between them on a more professional footing.

  “I need to see you. Meet me at Rosie’s in fifteen minutes.”

  She paused, still clearing the cobwebs in her brain. He wanted her to meet him now?

  “It’s the middle of the night,” she said. God, she was exhausted. The police beat was tougher than she’d ever imagined. She’d been up at the crack of dawn covering a traffic fatality in the next county. And now Juarez was interrupting her much-needed rest. “Can’t it wait ‘til morning?”

  “Fifteen minutes,” he repeated.

  “I don’t even think they’re open this late.”

  “You’ll be glad you came. Trust me.”

  He clicked off.

  She entered the restaurant wearing a Texas Rangers jersey and a sullen expression. The shirt fit nice and snug, and her curls tumbled haphazardly around her face. He smiled at her, and for once it wasn’t fake.

  “This better be good,” she said, sliding into the booth. She crossed her arms and scowled at him.

  “You know, the last time I saw you looking like that, you were holding a .22,” he said.

  “Cut the crap, okay? I’m not in the mood.”

  Rosie appeared at their table and nodded at him.

  “Hola, Marquito. Cómo andas?”

  In rapid Spanish, he greeted Rosie and ordered some enchiladas. When Rosie left, Feenie seemed to have softened up somewhat.

  “I didn’t know you knew Rosie,” she said.

  Juarez shrugged. “Everybody knows Rosie.”

  “In your circles, maybe. I’ve been coming here for ages, and she won’t give me the time of day.”

  “She doesn’t know a lot of English,” he pointed out.

  “Our features editor has been trying to do a story on her for years. She won’t talk to him. He even offered to interview her in Spanish.”

  “Yeah? What’s his name?”

  Feenie frowned. “Paul Gutterson.”

  “There’s the problem.”

  She rolled her eyes and leaned her forearms on the table. “Get to the point, Marquito. Why am I here?”

  “I’ve got something for you,” he said.

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Martinez is in trouble again.”

  Rosie returned to the table and slid the enchiladas in front of them. Two Coronas came next. Feenie looked surprised but immediately reached for the beer.

  “What
kind of trouble?” she asked when they were alone again.

  “He’s dead.”

  Juarez dug into his enchilada plate, savoring the greasy strands of cheese. He washed the first few bites down with a swig of beer, all the while gauging Feenie’s reaction.

  Total bewilderment.

  “But…but how?” she sputtered.

  “Gunshot. Turned up in a parking garage.”

  “When did this happen?”

  Juarez leaned back in his seat and watched her. Her skin had paled, and her usual snotty attitude had vanished. She was either an Oscar-worthy actress, or she had no prior knowledge of what he’d just told her.

  The knot in his stomach loosened.

  “Last night,” he said.

  “But I was at the police station just this afternoon. I didn’t hear anything about it.”

  “Murder happened in Corpus, so it’s not in the log. And the cops around here who know about it would never tell you.”

  “Well, why not?” she demanded. “I’ve been making inquiries about him for days.”

  “No one likes you.”

  She jerked her head back, apparently shocked by this revelation. “No one likes me? Why the heck not?”

  “They think you’re a lightweight. They don’t want to deal with you.”

  “What, just because I have breasts, no one takes me seriously? I’m not John freaking McAllister, so they decide to freeze me out? I’m trying to do a job here, dammit!”

  Her cheeks were flushed now, and he tried not to smile. He liked her when she was fired up like this, but he wasn’t buying the diligent reporter act for a minute. He was ninety-nine-percent certain her questions about Martinez went beyond journalistic curiosity. She had some other agenda, and he needed to know what it was.

  “It’s not the breasts,” he said, eyeing them appreciatively. “If anything, they should help. It’s this attitude you’ve got going, like you’re better than everyone. You’re going to have to bring it down a notch. And you’re going to have to prove yourself to these people.”

  She glared at him. “How am I supposed to do that if everyone’s keeping things from me?”