Would someone really try to attack her in her own house? The more she thought about it, the more she felt like a sitting duck. She considered calling Juarez back and telling him she’d changed her mind, but she’d feel like an idiot. Plus, she hadn’t been lying to him about her shooting skills. If the need arose, she could protect herself.
At least, she hoped so.
After a thorough tour of the house and a brief shower, she threw on a T-shirt and climbed into bed. She had just settled under the covers when she heard a noise downstairs.
She sat up and reached for her gun. She waited, breathless, hoping it was merely her imagination.
Snap. She held her breath. Snap. Snap.
It wasn’t her imagination. Someone was making noise in her kitchen.
Feenie wrapped herself in her fuzzy robe and shoved her cell phone into the pocket. Gun in arms, she tiptoed toward the stairs. If someone intended to get to her from the kitchen, they’d have to move the sofa first. Feenie crept halfway down the stairs and waited for the telltale noise that someone was trying to do just that.
Snap. Whip.
It was the tarp flapping! Feenie tipped back her head and sighed with relief. Still armed, she hurried toward the kitchen, just to make sure. She shoved the sofa over a few inches and cracked the kitchen door so she could peer inside and make sure.
No bogeymen. Just a flapping piece of plastic. Tomorrow she’d take Juarez’s advice and give his builder friend a call.
Two minutes later, Feenie was back in bed with her gun positioned beside her. As she reached for the lamp, her gaze landed on her cell phone. She grabbed it impulsively and dialed.
He picked up right away. “Frank Malone.”
The familiar drawl immediately made her feel safe. “Hi, Dad. It’s me. How’ve you been?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just hadn’t talked to you in a while, and I thought I’d call to chat.”
“You never call to chat. What’s going on?”
God. Why couldn’t they ever have just a normal conversation? “Nothing, Dad. Really. I was just, I don’t know, lonesome for the sound of your voice.”
Her father was totally unaccustomed to such emotionally loaded statements.
“Dad?”
“You sure you’re okay? You didn’t get fired, did you?”
She squeezed her eyes shut. Why did she even bother? Everything was about accomplishments with him. They could never just talk.
“No, Dad, I didn’t get fired.” Although she still hadn’t actually been hired. At least, not full-time. Of course, she’d led her father to believe she had more of a real job. She hadn’t wanted him to worry, and he’d done nothing but worry about her ever since her divorce.
She’d been crazy to think she could tell him what was really going on in her life. Break-ins and hit men. He’d worry himself to death over it.
She fell back on her usual tactics. “Everything’s good, Dad. Wonderful, in fact. I may even be getting a promotion.”
“That’s great news. Is this an editor’s job?”
Damn. Why did she back herself into these corners? She’d told him she was a staff writer, so naturally he’d assume the next step up was editor. If he only knew. “No, nothing like that. Just a more important job on the news desk.”
“Well, that sounds fine,” he said. “I’m real proud of you.”
After wrapping up their conversation, she felt better. And sleepier. She replaced the phone on her nightstand, killed the light, and tried to get some sleep.
She dreamed about fire.
It started the usual way—the crash of metal, the dizzying spin as the car rolled over, a stinging sensation traveled up her side. When she looked out the window, everything was upside down. Her father’s voice came to her, faintly at first but then stronger. Then she was lying on her back next to a ditch. Everything was upside down still. She couldn’t see her dad, but she could hear his voice. She turned her head to look for him, but all she saw were flames licking up from a twisted pile of metal that had once been their family sedan.
Her cheeks burned from the heat of the blaze, and she looked away. Her mother and Rachel stood on the side of the highway, watching the flaming wreckage with curious expressions. She called out to them, but they didn’t hear her. They never did.
Feenie stared at the ceiling, trying to regulate her breathing. It was a dream. She’d had it countless times before. She hated the dream, but she loved it, too. For a brief moment, everything was all right again. Her mother and sister stood near her. Alive. Unbroken. Unburned.
She sat up and reached for the glass of water she always kept by her bed. She tried to throw off the covers, but they were clingy and damp.
After a few sips of water, she stopped shaking.
Would Josh really send someone to kill her? Obviously, she thought so, or she wouldn’t have had the dream. It came to her during times of stress. She’d had variations of it almost every night in the months following the accident, but over the years it had become less frequent, vaguer. Sometimes she wouldn’t dream about the accident at all but simply fire. Kitchen fires, forest fires, brush fires.
Feenie glanced at the smoke detector perched above her door. The red light blinked down at her reassuringly. She was safe. She just needed to get some rest before work. She eyed the gun beside her on the bed. It was loaded and ready. She sank back against the mattress and tried to will herself to sleep.
Which, of course, wasn’t possible. Maybe yoga breathing would help. She closed her eyes and tried deep, even breaths. Slow…and rhythmic. Slow…and rhythmic. Slow…and rhythmic. But something about slow and rhythmic reminded her of Juarez, and before she knew it, her heart was racing again.
Damn Juarez. Damn him for leaving her alone like this.
Forget that she’d insisted. Forget that she’d practically kicked him out. If he really cared about her, he wouldn’t have left her alone tonight. He would have stayed, if not to protect her, then at least for the sex.
Unless he didn’t find her attractive.
No, that wasn’t right. She knew he was attracted to her. She’d felt it.
But if he really was attracted to her, and if he really did care about her, why wasn’t he here?
Because he’s just using you! a voice told her.
There it was. The unvarnished truth. In fact, he’d probably only stopped by tonight to see if she had any new leads for him—
Feenie bolted upright and reached for her .22. She could have sworn she’d heard a noise. Not the tarp but a high-pitched, rattling sound.
There it was again. She eased the gun down as she eyed the glowing cell phone on her nightstand. She’d set the damn thing to vibrate during an interview this afternoon.
She snatched up the phone. “What?”
“Malone! Are you asleep?” It was Grimes, and he sounded much too awake for eleven fifty-five.
“Um…no?”
“We’ve got a fire, goddamn it! What the hell’s wrong with your home phone? And why didn’t you answer your pager?”
Feenie fumbled with the lamp switch. The device in question was clipped to the crumpled jeans on her bedroom floor. It, too, was set to vibrate. Great. She was surrounded by vibrators.
“Malone?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Sorry. Did you say there was a fire?”
“At Northside High School. Get there ASAP. McAllister’s tied up, so I need you to take this. Interview the fire chief and some witnesses on the scene. This is tomorrow’s top story.”
Feenie glanced at her clock. She had two hours to get herself to the high school, interview sources, and file a front-page story before the presses started at two a.m.
“No problem,” she said, and hung up.
McAllister had come through for her, and now it was up to her to prove herself. She threw on her jeans and gathered her unruly hair into a ponytail. Shoes and purse in hand, she stumbled out of her house and made her way to the scene.
&n
bsp; It seemed strange that she’d been called out to cover a fire the same night of her dream. Or maybe it wasn’t strange at all. Maybe the dream hadn’t resulted from stress but from her brain picking up the sound of sirens while she’d slept. She wasn’t a psychologist, but it seemed plausible. As she sped toward the high school, she tried not to focus on her phobia. It was her first breaking news story; she had to nail it.
Her alma mater was surrounded by fire trucks, police cruisers, and several ambulances. Nearby residents—awakened by the noise, no doubt—stood in the school parking lot, gawking at the spectacle. Smoke billowed out from the school gym.
She watched the play of flames behind a row of windows on the bottom floor. She shuddered, remembering how she’d struggled through advanced algebra in that very classroom.
But she couldn’t let this become personal. Every news reporter covered a fire eventually. She just wished this one hadn’t happened so soon after her dream. Her fear was fresh, palpable. She took a deep breath and trudged into the fray.
She spotted Drew standing atop his Tercel, trying to get a good shot with his zoom lens. Fires were invariably dramatic, and whatever he ended up with would be splashed across page one in the morning.
Feenie skirted the crowd and tried to identify the people in charge. The fire chief stood near a red Suburban, barking orders and pointing at the building. She took a step toward him, but a burly police officer immediately blocked her path.
“This is a secured area,” he told her. “Emergency workers only.”
Feenie dug her media pass out of her purse and waved it in front of him, to no effect. Rolling her eyes, she darted to the other side of the crowd and tried to locate an opening. Barricades surrounded the main entrance to the building, and a row of emergency vehicles made access to the side entrance nearly impossible.
Nearly.
Feenie recalled the back entrance to the girls’ locker room. The doorway was hidden from the street by a tall hedge, making it the perfect place for sneaking cigarettes when the cheerleading coach wasn’t watching. Feenie had used it on many occasions during her four-year career at Northside. She walked around the side of the building until she saw the familiar hedge. The door had been propped open, and firefighters streamed in and out.
She stood off in the shadows for a few moments, watching and listening and trying not to let the acrid smell of smoke bother her. The emergency workers filed back and forth, dragging hoses and communicating with clipped phrases and hand gestures. After a few minutes, she concluded that the worst of the fire was concentrated in the boys’ locker room and that someone was trapped inside. Feenie took out her cell and called Drew. He arrived at the doorway just in time to snap a photo of two firefighters hauling a pair of unconscious teenagers out of the smoke-filled gymnasium.
Fifty minutes later, Feenie put the final touches on her first breaking news story. No one had been seriously injured, although Feenie had sustained her first war wound when she’d jumped between two teenage girls who were fighting over whose boyfriend was to blame for the fire. Was it the varsity football captain, who had organized a hazing event for freshmen ball players in the school gym tonight? Or was it Northside’s biggest offensive tackle, who had provided beer and pizza for the athletes and then “suggested” the freshmen torch a pile of pizza boxes? After interviewing teens in the parking lot, as well as the fire chief and the school principal, Feenie felt confident all sides of the story were represented.
Her article would be widely read tomorrow. Even Without injuries, a fire at one of Mayfield’s three high schools was big news. The gym was destroyed, and the campus had been shut down indefinitely. Parents were going to want to know if and when their children could safely return to school.
Despite the fire chief ‘s official statements about “unknown causation” and “pending further investigation,” Feenie’s article provided details and quotes that would give people an idea of what really happened. That was her job, wasn’t it? To cut through all the official mumbo-jumbo and tell the public the truth? For the first time since joining the Gazette, she felt she was performing a public service. Her hands flew over the keyboard, and her chest swelled with pride.
Grimes stood behind her, reading every word as it appeared on the screen. She heard him mumbling at various points in the story and tried not to flinch when he reached over her to delete her last three paragraphs and change the lead. Finally, he stood back and nodded.
“Not bad, Malone. Go rest up, and I’ll see you at eight.”
Juarez woke up with a pounding headache made worse by the seagulls screeching outside his window. He’d spent most of the night drinking bourbon, watching reality TV, and battling insomnia, only to doze off sometime before dawn. Now it was after eight, and he felt like shit.
He pulled on some jeans and went up on deck.
The day’s first shrimp boat was cruising into the marina, trailed by a whining flock of scavengers. Juarez stood at the helm, rubbing the kink in his neck and cursing every last one of the noisy little fuckers. He looked up and winced at the sunlight.
A large brown pelican perched on the dock. Juarez didn’t mind the birds usually. In the sixth months since he’d started living on his boat, he’d actually come to like them, but this morning they grated on his nerves.
His stomach growled, reminding him that he’d skipped dinner the night before. His desk was piled with work, but he’d be useless without fuel. He ducked back into his cramped living quarters, grabbed a shirt and shoes, and drove to Rosie’s.
The place was crowded with morning regulars. On his way in the door, Juarez stopped and bought a newspaper. He took an empty seat at the counter and plunged into the Doring story.
“Hola, Marquito,” Rosie said, wiping down the counter in front of him with a damp rag.
He ordered coffee and migas and then put his crankiness on hold for a minute so he could answer Rosie’s inquiries about his family. People who knew about Paloma always made a point to ask about his mother. How was she holding up? When would they see her back at mass? Was she still taking care of that beautiful granddaughter? After satisfying Rosie’s curiosity, Juarez turned his attention back to his paper and finished the Doring article.
John McAllister had been thorough, but he hadn’t made the Martinez connection. Not yet, at least. When the ballistics report came out, it wouldn’t take him long. Typically, those reports could take weeks, but someone at the FBI had a bug up his ass about this shooting, and the bureau had generously “offered” to analyze the slugs at their own lab, or at least that’s what Juarez had heard. Peterson had told him the chief was in a hurry for the ballistics, too. What a coincidence. Juarez wondered whether the FBI was just being helpful or was horning in on the investigation for other reasons.
Juarez knew for a fact that Mayfield’s chief of police was on someone’s payroll, which was why Juarez had lost his job over a bogus drug charge. He was fairly sure that members of the San Antonio PD were on the take as well. His theory was that Paloma and her partner had learned of the corruption through their investigation, but one of their suspects ratted them out before they could take it very far. The two detectives—Paloma and her partner—probably had been set up by someone they knew. How else to explain two trained investigators showing up for work one morning and then disappearing without a trace? Juarez would probably never know for sure, but he did know he didn’t trust the local cops. In Mayfield or San Antonio. At least his FBI contact and Peterson were reliable.
“So what do you think?”
Juarez turned and raked his gaze over the curly haired blonde standing at his elbow. “Hey, Feenie,” he said, wondering why he should be glad to see the person responsible for his crappy mood. “Shoot any prowlers last night?”
She grinned. “Obviously, you haven’t read your paper. I was barely home last night. I covered the school fire.”
Juarez scanned the front page. Her story was right below the photo of a firefighter carrying a kid through
a doorway.
“Congratulations,” he said. “You finally made the front page.”
She gave a little toss of her head, and her curls bobbed. “Yeah, well, it’s about time.”
He noticed three parallel scratch marks on the side of her chin. “Get in a cat fight?”
She lifted her hand to her face. “Stopped one, actually. You can still tell?”
“Yeah.”
Sighing, she pulled a compact from her pink handbag and began powdering.
Rosie slid a plate in front of him and watched Feenie with a raised brow. Juarez pretended not to notice the look, and Feenie was oblivious, as usual.
“So I went by your office,” Feenie said, stuffing the compact back into her purse. Today she had on jeans and a plain white button-down, but somehow she still managed to look like a debutante. He chalked it up to the girlie-looking pink sandals she wore. They matched her purse and her fingernails. He glanced at her feet again. And her toenails, dammit.
She leaned an elbow on the counter. “Teresa said I might find you here. Do you ever eat anything besides Mexican food?”
He filled a tortilla with scrambled eggs, potatoes, and sausage. “Not really. Why’d you go by my office?”
Her perky expression faded, and she glanced over her shoulder. Juarez paused with the taco halfway to his mouth. “What happened?”
She shrugged, obviously trying to look nonchalant but failing. “Nothing, really. I just need a favor.”
“Let’s hear it.”
She dug into her front pocket and produced a scrap of paper. “Could you check this license plate for me? I think someone’s been following me.”
He examined the paper: tan Chevy Blazer UT3???. “You don’t have the full tag?”
“That’s all I could get. It was a Texas plate, though.”
“When was this?”
She glanced over her shoulder again. “This morning, when I was headed to work. So I pulled into a gas station and bought some coffee. I think he noticed me watching him, because he slowed a little, but he didn’t stop. He went right through the intersection.”
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