One Last Breath

by Laura Griffin

  “How do you expect me to get my hands on all this evidence? I don’t even know where to look!”

  “Use your feminine intuition. You lived with the guy for five years. Where do you think he’d hide something?”

  She watched his expression. Unyielding. Determined. She’d never realized before just how tenacious he could be when he wanted something. Lord help her if he ever applied that same tenacity to her.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll give it some thought. But in the meantime, I’ve got a job to do, I’ve got bills to pay, and your friend is coming by my house this weekend to get started on my repairs. He’s expecting a deposit. I need to go into the office today to do some work and pick up my paycheck.”

  He didn’t look entirely satisfied, but at least he let it go. “Sounds good. I’ll drop you off. But no leaving the building. For any reason. When you finish up, I’ll come by and get you.”

  “This bodyguard thing is going to get old real fast. How am I supposed to be a reporter if I never leave the building? There are only so many stories I can cover over the phone.”

  He stepped closer and put his hands on her shoulders, and she realized physical contact was one of the many techniques he used to get what he wanted.

  “Not too much longer, I hope,” he said. “I’ve got some new leads I’m working on today. If I can nail down the identity of this contract killer, it shouldn’t take me too long to get the situation under control.”

  What exactly did that mean? “Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me everything?”

  He shrugged. “Some things you don’t want to know. Trust me.”

  Sure. She should just trust him.

  He stroked his hands down her arms. “So what’s this hang-up you have about smoke detectors?”

  She saw concern in his eyes and wondered again whether it was genuine. “You’re changing the subject,” she said.

  “Does it have something to do with Garland?”

  She sighed. “No. It has to do with my mom and sister.”

  “I thought they died in a car wreck.”

  God, he was persistent. “They did.” She cleared her throat. “But the car caught fire and—”

  “Understood.”

  “I just feel better, you know, when there’s a smoke detector—”

  “Got it. You don’t have to explain.”

  She eyed him warily. “You don’t think I’m weird?”

  “What does it matter what I think? You feel better with a smoke detector, I’ll get you one.”

  “You don’t need to—”

  “Forget it, okay? I’ll get you one. It’s no big deal.”

  John McAllister mounted the steps to Feenie’s front porch and rang the bell. Where the hell was she? She hadn’t been at that morning’s staff meeting, and she wasn’t answering her cell or her pager. He’d tried her home phone, but it had been disconnected, apparently.

  He didn’t have time for this shit. He needed to talk to her. He reached for the bell again just as the door swung open.

  But it wasn’t Feenie who’d opened it.

  “Hi there.” Cecelia Wells stood before him with her trademark thousand-watt smile. She wore one of those white tennis outfits that clung to everything and barely reached the tops of her thighs. Fuck.

  For once, he was at a complete loss for words.

  “You’re probably looking for Feenie,” she said cheerfully. “She’s not home right now. And you are…?”

  “Uh…” Christ, she had no idea who he was. Of course she didn’t. Why would she? “John McAllister,” he finally managed.

  She stuck out her hand. “Cecelia Strickland. I’m a friend of Feenie’s.”

  Strickland. Right. She was married now. He knew that. He belatedly shook hands and hoped she didn’t notice he was a complete moron.

  “I’m just leaving her a note right now,” Cecelia said, opening the door wider. “She hasn’t been answering her phone.”

  Apparently, she hadn’t noticed, or maybe she was just too polite to say something like “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing on my friend’s porch in the middle of the morning?”

  “You need to leave her a message, too?” she asked instead.

  “Um, sure.”

  She’d turned her back on him and headed into the house. He followed her inside, trying not to stare at her legs in that skirt.

  “You’re with the Gazette, right?” she asked as they entered the living room. “Feenie mentioned you guys were working together on a story.”

  The place was nearly empty of furniture except for a coffee table and a sofa shoved up against a wall. The couch didn’t have any cushions, and the armrests had been shredded. What the fuck?

  “I just left a note on her table,” Cecelia said. “Here’s some paper if you want to write something.” She passed him a pen and a sticky note, brushing his hand with hers as she gave it to him.

  Now what? He’d followed her in here, and now she expected him to leave a message. But no way was he writing down the rumor he’d heard at the police station and leaving it sitting in the middle of Feenie’s house. He needed to talk to her in person. Now. He stared down at the paper. Then he looked up, and Cecelia was smiling at him.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I know all about the Josh thing. But even if I didn’t, I’m not a snoop, so you don’t need to worry.”

  “You always let yourself into your friends’ houses?” he asked.

  Her smile widened. “Just my best friend’s. I’ve got a key. She leaves the place open half the time, anyway. It’s not like she has much to steal.”

  He looked around. Feenie hadn’t been kidding, apparently, when she’d said money was tight.

  He returned his attention to the paper he was holding and scribbled something meaningless.

  “ ’Course these days, she’s trying to be more careful,” Cecelia continued. She dangled a key ring from her finger. He’d never noticed her hands before. They looked feminine and soft. Like the rest of her.

  She’s trying to be more careful. He remembered the reason he’d come. Feenie was mixed up in something dangerous, and he needed to warn her. He put the worthless note on Feenie’s table and turned to Cecelia.

  “Any idea where I can find Feenie? It’s really important.”

  A little line appeared between her eyebrows. “Is there something wrong?”

  “No. Well, I mean, probably not. It’s just—” She looked outright worried now. “It’s work-related,” he finished lamely.

  “Well, you could try Rosie’s. She might have gone there for a bite. Or maybe she’s back at the newsroom?”

  “I’ve been there already.” He checked his watch and moved for the door. “Look, I’ve got to go. If you see her, tell her to call me.”

  She smiled. “Sure thing. Nice meeting you, McAllister.”

  He stared at her.

  “That’s what they call you, right?” She looked worried again. “Feenie always said—”

  “No, that’s fine. You can call me—whatever.” Shit. He reached for the doorknob. “I’ve really gotta go.”

  Feenie sat in Dottie Garland’s sunroom, fidgeting with an earring and trying to ignore the knot in her stomach. She hadn’t been to Josh’s parents’ house in nearly two years, and despite the fact that she maintained a cordial relationship with her former mother-in-law, being in the woman’s house was just a tad too uncomfortable. Feenie glanced at her watch. The maid had gone to fetch Dottie nearly ten minutes ago, and she still hadn’t appeared. What if Dottie called Josh? But why would she if she had no idea what her son was up to?

  Maybe Dottie had been on the phone with Josh when the maid told her Feenie was waiting downstairs. What if Josh had told her to stall so he’d have time to—

  “Feenie!” Dottie breezed through the doorway With a smile on her face and reached for Feenie’s hands. She wore a yellow linen suit and matching pumps with little bows on the toes. “What a pleasant surprise! What brings you here
?”

  After exchanging air kisses, Feenie gathered up the stack of newspapers she’d brought and fixed a smile on her face. “I was in the neighborhood, and I wanted to drop these off. I thought you might want extra copies.”

  The Garland estate had been the focal point of this spring’s Home and Garden Tour, and the Gazette had run a feature article in last Sunday’s paper.

  “Well, aren’t you sweet?” Dottie said.

  Yeah, that’s right. Sweet as pie.

  “The photographs of your house turned out so pretty,” Feenie added, feeling like a liar and a kiss-up now.

  Dottie beamed. “They did, didn’t they? Bert and I were very pleased with how everything looked. And Mary Beth’s article was lovely.”

  “So, the Home and Garden Tour was successful?”

  “Oh, yes,” Dottie said. “Nearly double last year’s turnout. And we raised five thousand dollars for park beautification. We’ll be putting in a hike-and-bike trail at Laguna Bonita this summer.”

  “Sounds like someone needs to write a follow-up.” Feenie passed her the stack of papers. “Mary Beth’s pretty swamped right now, but I’d be happy to cover it. Would you and Bert be available for an interview soon? I’d love to get his perspective on all your philanthropy work. Maybe we could do it at his law office, so he wouldn’t be inconvenienced.”

  Dottie looked uncertain. “I don’t know. Bert doesn’t like his picture in the paper. He’s not photogenic like Josh.”

  “Well, we don’t have to do pictures this time. I’ll keep it brief. Just a few quotes.” Feenie had been racking her brain for a way to get into Josh’s law firm, and interviewing his father during business hours seemed like the best bet. “Maybe you can plug the hike-and-bike trail and drum up some local sponsors.”

  “Now, that’s an idea. I hadn’t thought of involving local businesses.” Dottie clasped her hands together and her rings sparked in the sunlight. “I’ll work on Bert. But it’ll have to be next week. He’s got a closing tomorrow afternoon, and then he’s going deep-sea fishing with Josh. They’ll be gone for the weekend. How does Monday sound? I’ll check with Bert’s secretary.”

  Feenie tried to keep her face neutral. “Monday’s fine if this week looks too hectic…. I didn’t know Josh liked deep-sea fishing.”

  Dottie waved a hand. “He didn’t used to, but you know how he likes the water. He and Bert have been out all the time lately.”

  No kidding? “Are they having any luck?”

  “Guess so.” Dottie smiled. “I’ve got a freezer full of fish, and we’re running out of ways to cook them.”

  Juarez had spent two solid hours on the phone when Teresa stuck her head into his office.

  “I’m going to lunch,” she said. “Can I pick you up a sandwich or something?”

  He glanced at his watch. Nearly one o’clock already, and he was still running down a background check on this Ruiz, who’d supposedly done time in Sugar Land. He hoped like hell he wasn’t going to have to drive up to the prison. He needed to stick around and keep tabs on Feenie.

  “No, thanks,” he said. “Hey, my friend at the FBI didn’t call, did he?”

  “You were on the phone. I put the message right there on your desk.”

  The pink message slip was under his coffee cup. “Shit, I knew it,” he muttered, reading it. NIBIN, the nationwide forensic firearms identification database, had linked the bullets from the Martinez and the Doring shootings. The murders were committed with the same weapon, which meant most likely the same killer.

  “Did you ever call Wainwright back?” Teresa asked. “He’s getting really impatient about that workers comp case. And that insurance company in Corpus called again this morning. They need an update from you by five.”

  “Huh?” Juarez looked up. Teresa was wearing a worried frown, her default expression these days. He knew she was anxious about the chaotic state of the business, but there wasn’t much he could do about it at the moment. Lately, everything non-Paloma-related had taken a backseat. Sometime in the last week, he’d passed the point of caring about his other clients.

  “Wainwright. And the insurance company. They both need to talk to you.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said. “Hey, and I’m still waiting on the hot list from Corpus.” Juarez was having trouble tracking down that Blazer, so he’d asked Teresa to call Corpus PD for a list of recently stolen cars. He’d already checked San Antonio and Austin.

  “I put it in your in box.”

  “Right. Thanks.” He snatched it up and took a moment to give Teresa a reassuring smile. She was a good assistant. He’d been through two others before he’d managed to recruit her away from the Mayfield PD dispatch desk. He wondered if Feenie was right when she’d said Teresa was bored.

  He looked down at his stack of neglected files. “Hey, you interested in taking the lead on this workers comp case for Wainwright?”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Me?”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty buried. You could go through the paperwork, make a list of anything that raises a red flag, any inconsistencies you see.” He passed her the file. “If you think the claim’s fraudulent, we’ll come up with a game plan for getting proof.”

  “Really?” She smiled broadly and took the folder. “I’d love to handle it. Actually, I’ve already skimmed through the file, so it shouldn’t take me long to come up to speed.”

  “Great,” he said. “We’ll touch base later. Have a nice lunch.”

  Teresa already had her nose in the file. She glanced up. “What? Oh. I think I’ll get started on this instead.”

  Feenie had been right, apparently. The woman had good instincts about people, he had to admit.

  Except when it came to her ex. Of course, Josh Garland had that all-American jock look about him that women drooled over. She’d probably been toast the minute he decided he wanted her.

  Juarez skimmed through the list. A light brown GMC Jimmy had been reported stolen last week in Corpus. Its tag began with UT8.

  Could Feenie have mistaken the Jimmy for a Blazer? Very possible. He’d ask her about it again.

  And here was a gem: Corpus was the site of the last known permanent address for Vince Rawls, one of his two chief suspects. Juarez had worked up a thorough profile of the guy and knew that the former Marine lieutenant had a brother who operated a chop shop in Corpus Christi. Coincidence? Probably not.

  Shit. Ever since Feenie had given him that list of Garland’s contacts, he’d been so sure Brassler was his man. Now it looked like Rawls might be the guy.

  Maybe Garland used more than one contract killer. Maybe Brassler had murdered Paloma and her partner, and now Rawls was gunning for Feenie.

  Juarez needed to be certain. He needed to get more on this Ruiz in Sugar Land and find out if he was affiliated with anyone in particular. And then Juarez could pay him a little visit behind bars. Maybe he’d be willing to use his knowledge of the crimes as a bargaining chip to shorten his sentence. It would be a tough sell, though. In Texas, admitting involvement in a cop killing was a good way to end up on Death Row.

  This was getting complicated. It would be so much easier if the feds could get enough dirt on Garland to bring him in for questioning. Garland was obviously the one who had orchestrated all this shit, and he was the one who had all the answers. Juarez would trade his right arm for the chance to see Josh Garland rotting behind bars for the rest of his life. The pretentious prick deserved hard time, and Juarez intended to make sure he got it.

  Feenie would help him. Juarez felt confident she had insider information, like the BlackBerry thing, that she hadn’t even tapped yet. And her best friend being married to Garland’s former accountant was a stroke of luck. Juarez was pretty sure Feenie would go nuts if he suggested she go sniffing around Robert Strickland, but there might be a subtler way to find out if the accountant knew anything. Juarez had investigated the guy, and he’d come out clean—squeaky, in fact—but that didn’t mean he was in the clear. He could
just be covering his tracks.

  Again, Feenie could help him find out.

  He was counting on her for a lot. More than he felt comfortable with, actually. But he didn’t have a choice. Bringing his sister’s killers to justice was his most important objective. And he’d do whatever he had to do to get the job done. If Feenie was reluctant to help him, then he’d just have to find a way to persuade her.

  Feenie turned on her cell phone as she left Dottie’s house. Four new messages. One from Cecelia and three from McAllister. Now, that was weird. She punched in his number.

  “Shit, Feenie. Where have you been?”

  “Nice greeting,” she said.

  “Don’t you keep your phone on? Jesus, I’ve been looking for you all—”

  “What’s wrong?” It wasn’t like McAllister to sound worried. He never worried about anything. Ever. Except maybe getting laid.

  “The ballistics report just came back on Doring,” he said. “Bullets recovered match the ones from Corpus Christi. Remember Rico Suave? Same gun.”

  “Okay.”

  “Same gun, same shooter,” he said. “At least, that’s what the cops think.”

  “I already knew that. Juarez told me.”

  Silence on the end of the line.

  “McAllister?”

  “Well, did your source tell you there’s a rumor someone’s working a hit list? And that your name is on it?”

  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?”