One Last Breath

by Laura Griffin

  “Hey, I’m talking here! I said I’m not spending the night with you, and I meant it!”

  He pulled into a gravel lot, where a hand-painted sign advertised live shrimp and mackerel. He backed the Silverado into a parking space facing out.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “Bayside Marina. You were saying?”

  She glanced around. Several long piers stretched out into the water, and dozens of sailboat masts thrust up into the night sky. Moonlight shimmered off the water, and the place looked deserted.

  “Are we…parking, for God’s sake?”

  He chuckled softly. “I hadn’t thought of that. But we are parked.” He leaned over and slid his hand behind her neck.

  “Juarez—”

  “Look, you’re here so I can protect you. That’s it.”

  She shook off his hand and looked around. “You mean to tell me you live here? At a marina?”

  “Yep.”

  “Like, on a boat?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you want me to stay on your boat with you?”

  “You’re catching on.”

  He unzipped the duffle at her feet, pulled out his Glock, and checked to make sure it was loaded. Then he surveyed the area around the truck. After a moment, his gaze landed back on her.

  “No come-ons, I promise,” he said. “I just want to keep an eye on you.”

  She watched him and felt her resolve waning. In all honesty, she’d felt safer for the past six hours than she had for the past several weeks. Her body was screaming for a good night’s sleep, and with Juarez on guard, she could get one.

  At least, she hoped she could. He’d said no come-ons, and she was tempted to take him at his word. Although his good intentions might not be the real problem here. It was entirely possible he had more willpower than she did.

  “Does your boat have a smoke detector?” she asked.

  He looked puzzled, and she could hardly blame him. Her obsession with smoke detectors was a little odd.

  “Sorry, no smoke detector. But I’ve got a fire extinguisher under the sink.”

  A sink. So it had plumbing. “Does your boat have a shower?”

  He smiled. “All the comforts of home. Hell, you can even have the bed.”

  “If it has you in it, I’m taking the floor.”

  “Not necessary. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

  “Your boat has a sofa?”

  “It’s more of a bench seat.” He shrugged. “I’ll be fine.”

  She followed him down the pier, past ski boats and sloops and a few yachts. He stopped in front of a white fiberglass fishing rig and offered a hand to help her aboard. The boat was spacious but kind of old, judging by the shape. Feenie couldn’t tell much else in the dimness. He led her down a short ladder into the cabin and showed her the galley and the head. He flipped on a light. As promised, there was a cramped shower. He opened a cabinet and gave her a towel.

  “I can probably dig up a spare toothbrush somewhere, too. And the bed’s just in there.” He nodded toward a dark little space that occupied the hull. “Make yourself at home.” He left her alone in the tiny bathroom and closed the door.

  Feenie immediately noticed the faint scent of shaving cream. It was such a masculine smell, and it reminded her just how long it had been since she’d shared quarters with a man. Josh had always been big on expensive colognes, which Feenie couldn’t stand, especially after she’d realized he’d probably been using them all the time to cover up other kinds of scents from his nights “working late.” She hadn’t hated the colognes at the time, but she hated them retroactively.

  Kind of like Josh.

  On a hunch, Feenie opened Juarez’s medicine cabinet. Horrible etiquette, yes, but she was besieged by curiosity. Ha! She’d been right. Not a bottle of cologne in sight. Just a few blue disposable razors, a tube of toothpaste, some sun block, and a can of Gillette shaving cream. For some reason, she felt relieved.

  But then her eyes veered back to the sun block. It was that pricey Bain de Soleil made especially for faces. Definitely something a female would buy. Clearly, Feenie was not the first woman to spend time on Juarez’s boat.

  She stared at the bottle, biting her lip. Curiosity killed the cat. That’s what Feenie’s mother used to say when she would find Feenie and Rachel snooping around for hidden Christmas presents. Except in this case, maybe curiosity was warning the cat. Feenie shut the cabinet, took off her clothes, and got into the shower.

  Afterward, she went into the sleeping cabin and found a T-shirt folded neatly on the bed. She slipped into it, switched off the light by the door, and crawled under the blankets to try to get some sleep.

  Given how exhausted she was, she thought she’d be out instantly. She heard the shower running and some rustling around in the galley and then Juarez’s footsteps on deck. He was as far away from her as he could get and still be on the boat. Good. She should really sleep. But she couldn’t relax. It was probably adrenaline or nerves or…something. Finally, she tossed back the covers and went into the galley. She opened the mini-fridge and found a few cans of Tecate. She grabbed a beer and was about to take it up on deck when she heard voices.

  “That’s the part that doesn’t make sense,” someone was saying. “Why not two to the back? And doesn’t your guy have military training?”

  “Yeah, sharpshooter.” She recognized Juarez’s voice and crept toward the ladder so she could hear better.

  “Okay, so you’d expect him to do something subtle, right? Like hide at a distance and use a scope.”

  “But instead we’ve got a close-range handgun,” Juarez said.

  “A .45, both jobs. Which—”

  The floor creaked under Feenie’s feet, and they stopped talking. They’d obviously heard her, so she might as well come clean.

  “Hi,” she said, going up the ladder. The guy talking to Juarez was tall and beefy, but she couldn’t see much more in the moonlight.

  “I thought you were asleep.” Juarez’s gaze swept over her, and she didn’t know whether the heated look was because he liked or didn’t like her modeling his San Antonio Spurs T-shirt in front of his friend. “Meet Rick Peterson, my former partner.”

  The man looked at Feenie and then back at Juarez. “Sorry, man. I didn’t know you had company.”

  “He doesn’t,” she said. “I mean, I’m just visiting.” That didn’t help, either. Juarez just stood there smirking. “I’m not that kind of company.”

  “This is Feenie Malone,” Juarez finally said.

  “Ma’am.” Peterson nodded and shook her hand, which felt pretty strange considering she had barely anything on and her hair was still damp from the shower. Anyone with two brain cells would assume she and Juarez were sleeping together, and Juarez didn’t seem at all eager to correct the impression.

  “Peterson was just filling me in on the ballistics reports from the Martinez and Doring murders.”

  “Oh.” As if she hadn’t already gathered that.

  “Feenie’s a reporter,” Juarez said. “She likes to eavesdrop.”

  She crossed her arms and turned to Peterson. “So you were saying? About the .45?”

  Peterson looked at Juarez, clearly not sure whether to continue.

  “It’s okay. She’s in the loop.”

  He cleared his throat. “I was just telling Marco, both victims were shot with a .45 at close range. Which is kind of surprising.”

  “Surprising because?” Feenie asked.

  “Well, ma’am, they were shot in the chest. Which means—”

  “Which means the victims probably knew their assailant because they let him get close.” It was a guess, but she thought it sounded logical.

  Peterson’s eyebrows went up, and she glanced at Juarez. “Am I right?”

  He cocked his head to the side. “It’s possible. It’s also possible they didn’t know the shooter, but he didn’t seem threatening. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have let him pull a weapon.”

  �
��Because cops and drug dealers are so street-smart,” Feenie said. “There’s no way they’d get taken by surprise like that. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “That about sums it up,” Juarez said.

  Peterson glanced at his watch. “Look, Marco, I need to get home. I just wanted to fill you in.” He turned to Feenie. “It was nice meeting you. I’d appreciate not reading about this conversation, you know, in the newspaper or anything.”

  Feenie smiled. “It’s off the record. If you see anything about this in the paper, it didn’t come from me.”

  “Thanks.” He nodded at Juarez. “Sorry for interrupting.”

  After he left, Juarez seated himself on the port side of the boat and hung his legs over the edge. He’d changed into jeans and a white T-shirt after his shower. Feenie sat down beside him.

  “Thanks for letting him think I’m your playmate,” she said.

  “Hey, I didn’t tell you to come up here dressed like that. What was he supposed to think?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t really consider it until it was too late.”

  “You mean until we caught you eavesdropping?”

  She rolled her eyes.

  He knocked his knee against hers playfully. “What happened down there? Couldn’t sleep?”

  “Nope.” She took a sip of beer. They had a nice view of the marina and the seemingly endless line of boats. She loved boats, but not enough to live on one. “How long have you lived here?”

  “About six months, I guess. I used to have an apartment, but living here’s cheaper. And it’s closer to downtown, so it cuts down on my commute.” He smiled. Mayfield wasn’t big enough for anyone to have much of a commute, so it had to be purely economics that kept him here.

  “So, you’ve had this thing how long, then?” she asked. His boat looked sturdy but aging. It was big, though, at least thirty-two feet.

  “Used to belong to my dad.” He took a swig. “After he died, my three brothers and I used her for fishing. But they don’t live in town, so it was really mostly me. Finally, I just bought their shares and moved in.”

  “Wow. Three brothers. That’s a big family.”

  “Yeah.”

  Bit by bit, she was getting a picture of his personal life. She’d have to be patient, though. He didn’t seem like someone to open up all at once.

  “What did your dad do?” she asked.

  “He was a cop.”

  Interesting. He’d followed in his father’s footsteps. Also interesting that he didn’t elaborate.

  “And your mom?”

  “She used to work at a preschool, in the nursery. But she quit a while ago. Started having back problems, probably from picking up babies all the time.” He looked at her. “What about your family?”

  Very crafty. The question steered the conversation back to her without making it seem as if he wanted to shut her out. If there was one thing she recognized, it was interview techniques. Make the subject comfortable. Give them just enough information to put them at ease, then let them talk.

  “Well, it’s just my dad and me, really. My mom and sister died in a car wreck when I was a kid.” She watched him but couldn’t read his face. It wasn’t just the darkness—he was good at masking his emotions. He hadn’t so much as flinched when she’d said the word died. Most people did. “My dad’s retired now. Used to be a manager at one of the oil refineries here, but now he lives in Port Aransas. He spends most of his time fishing and hunting and stuff like that.”

  “Tell me about your mom.”

  She looked away. “You know, for someone who doesn’t say much, you really get to the point, don’t you?”

  He shrugged. “I’m curious.”

  She sighed. “I don’t know. Like what?”

  “Like, what was she like? Career woman? Stay-at-home mom? Nut case?”

  She laughed softly. “None of those things, really. She was just, I don’t know, a mom, I guess. She worked as a librarian at an elementary school. She loved to read. She loved…” Her voice trailed off as she pictured her mother singing and moving her hips back and forth as she washed up the dinner dishes.

  “She loved…?”

  Feenie smiled. “This is gonna make her sound like a total dork, and she wasn’t, but she loved the Statler Brothers.”

  “The Statler Brothers.”

  “You’ve probably never heard of them, I know. They’re this kind of barber shop quartet out of…I don’t know, Tennessee, I think? Anyway, my mom loved them. I always think of her when I hear their music, which is pretty rare, really, because it’s not like it’s Top Forty or anything. I pretty much only hear it at my dad’s. He has all her old albums.”

  “The Statler Brothers, huh? Flowers on the Wall, that kind of thing?”

  He could have started speaking Chinese and she wouldn’t have been more shocked. “You’ve heard of them?”

  “Sure.”

  “No way. I can’t believe—”

  “I’m a Quentin Tarantino fan.”

  “Okay.” She wasn’t following.

  “That song’s on the soundtrack for Pulp Fiction, one of my favorite movies.”

  The fact that he knew it from a movie made it only a little less astonishing. “Okay, I’m officially impressed,” she said.

  He smiled at her in the moonlight, and she felt a warm glow. But then her thoughts turned serious.

  “There’s something I’m confused about,” she said. “It’s about your conversation with Peterson.”

  “I knew you were eavesdropping.”

  “That’s right,” she said, watching the smile leave his face. He probably knew what she was about to ask. “This guy you think might be trying to kill me, if he’s a sharpshooter, how come I’m not dead?”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment. “I don’t know.”

  Not the response she’d been hoping for.

  “So why are you bothering with all this self-defense stuff? If you’re right about this guy, I don’t really stand a chance.”

  “Great attitude,” he said. “I didn’t know you were such a cynic.”

  “I’m just trying to be realistic here.” She tried to sound tough, but he must have heard the fear in her voice, because he reached over and took her hand, surprising her. The concerned look on his face surprised her even more.

  “First of all, I don’t know who’s after you. Not for certain. But my two primary suspects have military training, so I’m worried. I want you to be able to protect yourself in case this thing gets up close and personal. I know you think I’ve been following you around because I’m paranoid or I just want to get you into bed, but that’s not it. I think this guy might try and grab you. Sometime when I’m not around.”

  “Wow,” she said. His words were giving her chills.

  “If you are being targeted,” he continued, “it’s because you have information or might get information someone doesn’t want you to have. If that’s the case, that person probably wants a chance to find out exactly what you know.”

  Her stomach did a flip-flop. “You mean before he kills me?”

  “I don’t know.” He squeezed her hand. “It’s just something I’m worried about.”

  Her heart was thudding so loudly she was sure he could hear it. She felt scared and confused. And on top of it all, she felt an unexpected wave of tenderness toward Juarez. Where did he get this fierce desire to protect her? If he loved her, that would be one thing, but she wasn’t even his girlfriend. She looked down at their intertwined hands. His was big and brown and roughened by calluses. Hers was small and smooth and lily-white by comparison. They were from two totally different backgrounds, but that fact seemed insignificant at the moment.

  She looked up at him, and his eyes were dark and warm. She held his gaze, trying to read what was in his mind.

  Then his cell phone buzzed, shattering the moment.

  He pulled his hand loose and dug the phone out of his pocket. Looking away, he flipped it open. “Juarez.” A
long pause. “Who the fuck is this?”

  He jerked the phone from his ear and checked the caller ID.

  “Listen, you sick fuck—”

  He stopped talking and went very still. “Where?” Another long pause. “I’ll be there. And you’d better be, too.”

  He snapped the phone shut and jumped to his feet.

  “What was that?” Feenie said, jumping up, too.

  “Come on.”

  “Come where? Who was on the phone?”

  He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the cabin door. “Put some clothes on. And get your purse.” He glanced at his watch. “We don’t have much time.”

  “Time for what?”

  He looked at her, his mouth set in a grim line. “We’re going on a field trip.”

  Juarez spotted the sign for Luv’s Truck Stop and careened across two lanes of traffic to make the turnoff. He sped across the pavement, ignoring speed bumps and stop signs as he searched the area for a black Ford Bronco. It wasn’t here. Juarez checked his watch. He was twenty minutes late, and the caller might have already left. Or maybe he’d never shown up in the first place. It would be just his shitty luck.

  Luv’s was bustling with late-night customers—truckers, mostly, by the look of the lot. Juarez slowed his pickup as he passed the restaurant entrance. There were dozens of people milling around smoking and talking. He let his gaze skim over the faces illuminated by floodlights and neon beer signs, looking for anyone who seemed to be watching him too closely. He saw a few working girls and a lot of middle-aged men wearing cowboy hats and shit-kickers. None of them looked like an ex-con out on a scam.

  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.