“Are you okay?”
She swiped at her cheeks. “Yeah, I’m just…all this is a little intense, you know?”
He stepped closer and put his hand on her shoulder to comfort her. She smelled like coconut oil. Jesus. He needed to get out of there.
“McAllister!”
He jerked his head up. The cop who’d been talking to Cecelia was charging toward him. “Does your friend there drive a blue Explorer?”
He looked at Cecelia. “You drive an Explorer?”
“What? Oh, yes. Sorry.” She turned around, breaking contact with his arm. “I guess I’m parked in the middle of the street.”
She turned back to face him. Her cheeks were wet, but she smiled. “I need to go. Thanks, McAllister.”
Juarez screeched to a halt next to Feenie’s white Kia and sprinted toward his boat. He saw movement aboard and readied his gun. But it was Feenie, and she was alone.
“Where the hell have you been?” he thundered. When the cops told him she’d been shot at, he’d practically had a heart attack right there on the sidewalk.
Feenie, on the other hand, looked strangely calm for someone who had just dodged three bullets. She stepped off Rum Runner and onto the pier, and he noticed the duffle bag slung over her shoulder.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving. What does it look like?”
“What do you mean, leaving?”
She brushed past him without a look. “Leaving. Taking leave. Packing up. Moving out. Hitting the road—”
He grabbed her arm and pulled her back around.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Feenie, come on—”
“I mean it!” She jerked her arm free and glared at him.
He watched, amazed, as she stepped backward. What the hell? He tucked his gun back in its holster.
“What’s this about, Feenie?”
“That’s a great question. You tell me. You drop into my life, offer to help me. Next thing I know, I’m in your house, I’m in your bed. I’m feeding you information right and left, and what are you feeding me? A pack of lies, that’s what!” She stepped forward and jabbed a finger into his chest. “I’m sick of being lied to!”
“Feenie, slow down. What—”
“You know the worst thing, Marco? The worst thing is you could have told me. I would have understood.”
Her eyes welled up. Here it was, the tearful breakup scene he’d been dreading. It always happened sooner or later when he got involved with a woman, but damned if he understood what was causing it right now.
“Feenie…” He took a deep breath and tried to get the exasperation out of his voice. “Would you just tell me what happened?”
She stepped closer and lowered her voice. “I know about your sister, Marco. I know about Paloma.”
He set his jaw and tried to control the flare of temper that shot up every time someone mentioned her name.
“What does Paloma have to do with you?”
“Quite a bit, apparently. Especially since you’ve been using me to draw out her killer.”
“Is that what you think? You think I’d do that?”
She smiled ruefully and patted his cheek. “I don’t think, Marco. I know.” The smile vanished. “Now, get out of my way before I use one of those moves you taught me.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“I mean it. I’m mad as hell. Don’t mess with me right now.”
He stepped back and watched her throw her bag into the Kia. Then she got in and peeled away without a second glance. He’d pissed off a lot of women in his time, but this was a new height, even for him. He’d let her cool off…for about five minutes. Then he’d go talk to her.
The Kia disappeared, and he realized he didn’t know where she was going. And she’d been in a killer’s sights just hours ago. Goddamn it. She should be here. With him.
“Shit,” he muttered, boarding his boat. He was going to need his GPS again, this time for Feenie’s car.
He walked through the cabin, surprised at how bare the place looked without her clutter everywhere. No sandals by the door. No toothbrush on the sink. No lacy things drying on the towel rack. His gaze wandered to the bed.
She’d left something for him with a sticky note attached. It was the concealed weapons permit he’d given her.
Marco,
I’m keeping your gun for now, but you can have the permit. The FBI guys tell me it’s phony.
—Feenie
P.S. You’ve got an audience, so don’t do anything stupid.
So she’d talked to the feds. Perfect. That explained where she’d gotten the idea he was using her as a lure. It was just the sort of scheme they’d cook up.
So they wanted to turn her against him. Now, why Would they want to do that? What good would it do the feds if she dumped him on his ass?
He crumpled the note and tried to think. She was pissed. Royally. She’d go crying to Cecelia or her father. Except that she wasn’t really the cry-on-your-shoulder type. When she got upset, she pushed people away.
She’d go home.
And that’s what the feds wanted. They planned to isolate her, then step back and wait. And now that they knew she was a target, they’d be ready this time. He wasn’t using her as bait, they were.
Fuck that. Feenie needed his protection, and he was going to give it to her, whether she liked it or not.
Feenie lounged by the pool in her terry robe, enjoying an iced coffee and a burst of pride.
Her first Sunday feature.
She’d interviewed dozens of students and teachers for the story, and it had turned out even better than she’d hoped. She’d done her best to put people at ease, and her status as a Northside alum probably had helped. After interviewing kids from various cliques, teachers, coaches, and parents, she’d pulled it all together and given readers an in-depth look at the social dynamics of a high school. Her article provided a glimpse into the world of high school athletics—the competition, the hazing, the peer pressure. And Drew’s photographs, which occupied a two-page color spread in the Sunday A-section, were the cherry on top.
She felt good, confident, even elated. If Grimes didn’t promote her now, he was an idiot. She’d already decided that if he didn’t give her the job she’d earned, she’d march right into his office and ask for it. She had enough faith in her abilities now to stand up for herself.
She wouldn’t be walked on. Not anymore.
The high-pitched buzz of a table saw filled the air, and she cast a glance over her shoulder at the house. Marco’s friend and his crew had come out on Saturday as promised and put in a full day on her kitchen. Feenie had given Carlos most of her last paycheck as a deposit and worked out a plan for the rest. She’d pay interest to stretch the payments out over three months, but she didn’t particularly mind. It was the best she could do if she didn’t want to rely on Marco’s charity. And she wanted to avoid that at all costs.
“It’s about time you did somethin’ about that eyesore.”
Feenie turned around. Mrs. Hanak stood on the patio in a periwinkle blue pantsuit.
“Morning, Mrs. Hanak. You headed to church?”
“Yes.”
“Pretty shoes.”
Mrs. Hanak frowned down at her periwinkle slides. She considered it a sacrilege to wear pants and flat shoes into the house of God, but a bad hip and varicose veins had persuaded her to break with sixty years of tradition. Still, she always dressed up the look with a fake white chrysanthemum pinned to her lapel.
“Thanks,” she said. “Did your friend leave?”
Feenie put down her paper. “What friend?”
“Marco What’s-his-name. He was here last night when I went to bed.”
Feenie lifted her eyebrows. “Here as in here?”
Mrs. Hanak tipped her head to the side. “Well, not here, exactly. Down the street. His pickup truck was parked in front of the Millners’ from seven until at least ten, when I went to bed.”
Fe
enie masked her irritation. It would take some pretty intense spying to notice someone’s truck parked halfway down the block all evening. But that was just Mrs. Hanak’s style. Marco, on the other hand, came as a surprise. Why would he stake out her house all night? He didn’t strike her as the obsessed-jilted-lover type.
“He’s gone now,” Feenie said firmly.
Mrs. Hanak sniffed. “Too bad. That one’s a hunk.”
After Mrs. Hanak left, Feenie heard a car pull into the drive. She looked over her shoulder, expecting Marco’s Silverado, but instead she saw a familiar gray Buick. A towering, silver-haired man climbed out of the car and stalked up the drive, not even pausing to glance at the workers hammering away on Feenie’s roof.
“Hi, Dad,” she said, getting to her feet. “What are you doing here?”
He stopped in front of her and crossed his arms. Feenie lifted her chin and braced for a blast of criticism.
“Are you all right?” he asked instead.
“I’m fine.”
“Why didn’t you call me? My own daughter’s involved in a shooting, and I have to read about it on the Internet?”
Since when did her dad surf the Internet? “How on earth—”
“I tried calling, and your phone’s not working.” He raked a hand through his hair, and she could tell he was rattled. “What’s going on, Feenie?”
She sighed, regretting her decision not to call him last night. But it wasn’t as though she’d actually been injured, and she hadn’t wanted to worry him. The strategy had obviously failed, though, and now he was not only worried but angry with her, too.
“Have a seat, Dad. I guess I should fill you in.”
He pulled up a patio chair and waited for her to elaborate. She watched his face, thinking about how much to tell him. He looked distressed, and he’d probably been frantic for the two-hour drive down to Mayfield.
“How’d you run across this on the Internet?” she asked.
“That McAllister fella did an article about the shooting.”
“You read the Gazette? Online?”
“I signed up for an electronic subscription after you told me ‘bout your promotion,” he said. “How else am I supposed to get your articles? Port Aransas isn’t in your coverage area.”
Feenie leaned back in her chair, astonished. She had a hard enough time visualizing her computer-phobic father using the Net. But it was even harder to imagine him following her career.
“I had no idea,” she said.
“Yeah, well, I figured you didn’t. Otherwise, you woulda called me instead of making me read about it. This has something to do with Josh, doesn’t it?”
Leave it to Frank Malone to get right to the heart of the matter.
“He’s in a lot of trouble right now, and I’ve been helping do some research into it. I guess he found out I was involved.”
He looked down and muttered a curse.
“It’s okay, though. You don’t need to worry. The FBI has me under surveillance, so I think I’ll be safe from here on out.”
His gaze shot up. “The FBI? Goddamn it, Feenie! What’s that son of a bitch gotten you into?”
She closed her eyes, wishing for the millionth time that this would all just go away. She didn’t need this. And her aging, worry-prone father sure as heck didn’t need it, either.
She reached for his hand. “Dad, really. It’s okay. I can’t tell you everything, but you have to trust me When I say I’m safe now.” She hoped she sounded more convinced than she felt.
He regarded her warily. “You got a gun in the house?”
Guns. Of course.
“I have my .22,” she said. “Plus, a friend of mine lent me his .38. He’s been giving me lessons.”
Her dad shifted in his chair and looked uncomfortable. “A friend, huh? What, like a roommate?”
She smiled. In his clumsy way, he was inquiring about her love life. But how could she possibly explain? She didn’t even understand it herself.
“No, he’s not a roommate.” Not anymore.
Her dad looked skeptical.
“Look, he’s just…he’s a friend, okay?” Although that was being generous. He wasn’t really a friend at all. And he definitely wasn’t someone she planned to sleep with. Ever again. “But he’s a former cop, and he’s helped me learn to protect myself. Plus, the FBI is watching.”
His frown deepened, and she realized she wasn’t necessarily helping matters. Her dad was a man of action. He didn’t like leaving things up to other people.
“You could help me, too, if you want,” she said. “How about we go to the firing range where I’ve been practicing? You could give me some pointers.”
He stood up. “All right. Let’s get going, then. No sense wasting time.”
For the first time since his arrival, her dad looked somewhat relieved. Feenie’s guilt subsided.
“Thanks. Come inside and have some coffee while I get dressed.” She stood up and gave him a peck on the cheek. “And I’m sorry you had to come all the way down here. I really didn’t mean to worry you.”
He patted her awkwardly on the back. “Parents always worry. You’ll understand someday when you have kids.”
Yeah, right. Motherhood had never seemed farther off on her horizon.
She led her dad toward the back door, but he stopped to gaze up at the workers placing shingles.
“You lost the pecan?” he asked.
“Yep. Lightning bolt.”
“Now, that’s a shame.” His gaze shifted to Feenie, standing there on the stoop, holding open the screen door. He cleared his throat. “So this friend of yours. Any chance I’ll get to meet him while I’m in town?”
Feenie left Chico’s feeling sweaty, spent, and completely invigorated. She never would have believed punching bags and medicine balls could give her such a high, but tonight she’d loved every minute of it. It was her third workout without Marco. In his absence, Chico’s brother Eduardo had swooped in to help coach her on free weights—as part of her one-month trial membership, he’d said. They both knew that was just a euphemism for free use of the gym, at least until Feenie’s finances got back on track, but no one seemed to mind. Chico probably thought it was good for business to have a few women around the place.
Clutching her pepper spray, Feenie headed for her car. She’d had her gun and her spray close at hand ever since her meeting last Saturday with the FBI.
Footsteps sounded behind her, and Feenie quickened her step. Despite the sweat, the hair on the back of her neck stood up. When the footsteps sped up to match her own, Feenie took a deep breath and whirled around.
“McAllister!” she yelped, nearly bumping into him.
“Shit.” He grabbed her wrist. She’d been an instant away from dousing him with pepper spray. “Put that away.”
“What are you doing here? God, you scared me!”
He smiled. “I can see that.”
She stuffed the spray into her purse. “You always stalk women in parking lots, or is this a special occasion?”
“I was looking for you. The stalker gig was filled.” His gaze veered toward a black pickup parked at the back of the lot.
Marco. Again. She hadn’t spoken to him in four days, but she’d seen him at least a dozen times—parked down the street from her house, parked near the Gazette when she left work, even loitering around the grocery store when she went shopping. He wasn’t making much of a secret of following her, unlike Agent Rowe, whom Feenie had spotted only once—just a fleeting glimpse as she’d driven to work this morning. So the FBI was tailing her discreetly, while Marco was practically broadcasting his mission with a megaphone. Just what was he up to?
“How about a Cuba libre?” McAllister asked, drawing her attention away from the Silverado. “And if you’re hungry, I’ll buy you some buffalo wings.”
She sighed. “I’m trying to cut back, actually. All this working out has me kind of on a health kick.”
“Okay, but I don’t think anyplace arou
nd here sells wheat germ. Want a frozen yogurt?”
She glanced again at the pickup and could almost feel Marco’s eyes boring into her. He didn’t like McAllister, and he was probably jealous. Watching her leave with him would get under his skin.
“Yogurt sounds perfect,” she said.
Fifteen minutes later, they were seated in a booth at Hal’s Helado. The place offered two flavors of frozen yogurt and twenty kinds of ice cream. Feenie had ordered a chocolate banana split.
McAllister nodded at her bowl. “That’s some health kick you’ve got going there.”
She licked a dollop of whipped cream from her spoon. “It’s got potassium,” she pointed out.
He slurped his double-chocolate shake. “I haven’t had one of these in years.”
“I believe that. Fact, I’ve never seen you drink anything besides beer and coffee.”
He shrugged. “My body’s a temple. I let other people worship it.”
Feenie rolled her eyes. “I can see why you’re such a hit with women. So what’s this about? You didn’t bring me here to flirt.”
His smile faded. “I need to talk to you.”
“Uh-oh.”
“About a story I’m working on involving your ex.”
“Uh-oh again.” She shoved her bowl away and took a deep breath. “Okay, hit me.”
“A woman came into the paper last week. Wanted us to look into doing an article about the Mayfield Food Bank. I remember you saying you used to work there.”
“That’s right. Who was the woman?”
“Ana Rivas. You know her?”
“Sure,” Feenie said. “We were in charge of organizing the lunch service back when the food bank had a soup kitchen. I didn’t realize she was still working there.”
“She is.” McAllister sipped his shake. “She’s got all these complaints because the food bank’s been taking in a lot more donations lately, but they haven’t increased the number of families they’re serving in the valley. Actually, according to this lady, they’re cutting back. She thinks someone’s skimming off the top, but she doesn’t know who.”
One Last Breath (Borderline Book 1) Page 23