One Last Breath (Borderline Book 1)

by Laura Griffin

  “We lost him,” Stevenski said.

  “You want to repeat that?”

  “I don’t know how it happened,” his partner said. “I personally followed him to the boarding area.”

  Rowe bit back a curse and swerved the Blazer into the parking lot. He stopped but didn’t cut the engine. In this heat, with no air conditioning, he’d surely have a heat stroke. “What did Purnell say?”

  Stevenski cleared his throat. “I, um, haven’t told him yet. I was hoping you’d make the call.”

  Great. Now, in addition to locating Juarez, Rowe had to cover his partner’s ass. He could sympathize with Stevenski’s plight, though. The young agent was still on Purnell’s shit list because the Malone woman had given him the slip when she went to Punto Dorado.

  “You’re sure it was the right flight?” Rowe asked.

  “I saw the reservation myself. Flight one seventy-two into Tucson. Eleven-twenty a.m. He bought an electronic ticket from his office computer, but he never got off the plane.”

  “And you watched him board?”

  Silence.

  “Shit, tell me you saw him get on the damn plane.”

  “Not exactly. But he was in the boarding area—”

  “In the boarding area isn’t the same as on the plane!” Rowe thumped his head back against the seat. This case was going to sink his career.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Check the passenger manifest. Chances are he’s not on it, but check anyway. Then look at the tapes from the security cams in the airport garage. My guess is he’s left already.”

  “Okay. We’ve got a guy staking out the detective agency in Tucson. Do you want me to have him interview the contact? Contact’s name is Ortiz.”

  “Ortiz is a decoy,” Rowe explained, struggling for patience. His partner said nothing, and Rowe knew he was reviewing the way Juarez had played him.

  Rowe sighed. “Who’s Ortiz work for again?”

  “Sonoran Investigations,” Stevenski said. “They’re a small shop on the outskirts of town. Juarez called Ortiz from his office this morning, asked him to run down everything he could on Brassler. That was just before he bought the e-ticket. Should we interview this guy?”

  Private investigators often helped each other with cases that crossed state lines, and they usually got paid for their trouble. But the chances of the decoy knowing Juarez’s real whereabouts were minuscule. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to ask. They were grasping at straws now.

  “Yeah, do that,” Rowe said. “And when you’re done, review phone calls. Flag anything suspicious, and get back to me. He’s on the move, we just have to find out where.”

  “You got it.”

  “I’ll call Purnell. But no more fuck-ups, or we’ll both be sorry.”

  “I understand.”

  Rowe flipped shut his phone and stared out the window. If he didn’t bring Brassler in soon, the guy was going to wind up with a bullet in his back. And they really needed some information only he could provide. So far, Garland had been a disappointment. He’d been interviewed nonstop since his arrest, and he’d refused to give up anything, even after the murder charges had been added. Rowe believed adding those charges so soon had been a tactical mistake, but, of course, no one wanted his opinion. Now the bastard had dug in his heels, refusing to divulge crap while his defense attorney played hardball.

  They needed Brassler more than ever, and time was running short.

  “Where are you, Juarez?” Rowe muttered, steering back onto the highway and heading for HQ.

  He’d faked a trip to Tucson, so where was he really going? Somewhere much closer, probably. The girlfriend surely knew something, but she wasn’t talking. And nothing interesting had come from watching her house. Juarez was too smart to contact her directly, but he’d communicate somehow. The guy was whipped. Rowe recognized the signs.

  He didn’t call.

  She’d known he wouldn’t, but knowing didn’t take the sting away. Feenie drove by the marina a few times, but his truck was gone. She left several messages on his voice mail, which he didn’t return. With each passing day, the tension built. She tried working it off at the gym, but that didn’t help. Ditto for the firing range and work. The knot between her shoulder blades was becoming unbearable.

  On the second Friday with no word, she went to Rosie’s and found Cecelia already seated in their favorite booth, reading a newspaper.

  “Any word from Marco?” she asked as Feenie slid in across from her.

  She shook her head.

  Cecelia folded her paper and put it on the table. Like everyone else, she’d been tracking the story through McAllister’s articles in the Gazette. Today’s headline was about Josh’s uncle, who had been arrested yesterday after the joint task force raided his grocery stores.

  “How are you holding up?” Cecelia asked.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “This article says Josh has an alibi for the Gazette shooting,” Cecelia said. “Apparently, there’s proof he was at his law office across town at the time.”

  “On a Saturday?” Feenie hadn’t had time to do more than glance at the morning paper. Or maybe she just hadn’t made time. She’d been trying her best to get everything Josh-related out of her mind.

  Trying but failing miserably.

  Cecelia tapped her finger on the newspaper story. “According to this article, there’s a security video showing him entering his law office just before three—”

  “How are you doing?” Feenie asked, cutting her off. On Wednesday afternoon, a couple of FBI agents had shown up at Cecelia’s house to interview her about her connection to Josh. At the same time, another team of agents had arrived at Robert’s accounting office, where they’d interviewed Robert and subpoenaed all the firm’s records related to their now notorious former client.

  “I’m okay,” Cecelia said. “Robert’s a little freaked out, though. He swears the records are all in order, that if anything, they’ll clear his name. But his partners still don’t seem too happy about this. I think they’re going to ask him to resign.”

  “But why? He didn’t do anything.”

  Cecelia shrugged. “I guess just the hint of suspected impropriety is too much for them. They’re pretty uptight about negative publicity.”

  Feenie never realized the ripples this thing would have. It seemed everyone she knew was affected one way or another. “That sucks.”

  “Yeah.” Cecelia faked a smile. “So, how about we drop the subject for an hour and talk about something else?”

  The waitress came by, and they ordered margaritas. They started chatting, but then McAllister appeared, obliterating any hope they might have had of having a normal conversation. He sported his typical button-down, wrinkled chinos, and scruffy hair. The combination should have looked sloppy, but somehow on him it came off as sexy.

  “Hey, ladies. Mind if I join you?”

  “As a matter of fact—” Feenie demurred.

  “Not at all,” Cecelia said, smiling up at him.

  Before Feenie could scoot over, McAllister slid into the booth next to Cecelia. Then the waitress came by with their food and asked McAllister if he wanted anything.

  “I’ll have the taco plate. And a water.” He gave Feenie a pointed look. “I don’t like to drink on the job.”

  What a load of bull. They both knew he spent most of his lunch hours at Eddie’s Pool Hall. “What are you doing here?” Feenie asked, not caring that it sounded totally rude.

  “Same as you guys. Having lunch.”

  “We were just talking about how we didn’t want to discuss the Garland case,” Feenie said. “So if you’re planning to talk about it, I suggest you get another table.”

  Cecelia gave her a puzzled glance, obviously having no clue why she was being such a bitch.

  He shrugged. “Fine by me. Let’s talk about something else.” He turned to Cecelia. “Feenie tells me you work for the Red Cross. That must be interesting. I’m thinking about
writing a story about their efforts with displaced hurricane victims.”

  Oh, please. It was a ridiculous ploy, but he managed to keep Cecelia engaged for the entire meal. Finally, they paid the bill and made their way to the parking lot. McAllister pulled out a pack of cigarettes as Feenie hugged Cecelia goodbye.

  “You got a minute?” he asked Feenie, who turned around to glare at him.

  “What was that? I told you, she’s married. Go find someone else to play with!”

  “I wanted to give you a heads up,” he said, ignoring the comment. “Word is, the feds are looking for your boyfriend. Any idea where he might be?”

  “No.”

  He lit his cigarette and took a drag. He exhaled the smoke, looking at her intently. “You need to work on your poker face.”

  “I have no idea. I haven’t heard from him, okay?”

  “Okay. But you might want to think about getting a message to him. The FBI knows he’s gunning for someone—I don’t know who, but I think they do. And they’re watching. Just thought you might want to pass it along.”

  He took out his keys and headed for his Jeep, leaving her standing there fuming.

  “Excuse me,” a voice said.

  Feenie turned around to see a short, plump woman standing behind her. Her dark brown hair was curly and streaked with gray. She looked vaguely familiar. “Yes?”

  The seconds ticked by as the woman stared. She wore a floral print skirt and a neatly pressed black blouse. A crucifix rested on her ample bosom. She had kindly brown eyes, but for some reason, they made Feenie uneasy.

  “Can I help you?” Feenie asked impatiently.

  “You don’t know me.” The woman’s voice was hesitant. “But Rosie says you know my son.”

  Chapter

  21

  You’re Marco’s mother?”

  The woman smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. They looked immensely sad. “I’m Maria Juarez.”

  Feenie held out her hand. “Feenie Malone. It’s nice to meet you.”

  They had one of those awkward, woman-to-woman handshakes. God, now what? What could she say to this woman? That because of her, her son had gone after a dangerous fugitive? The woman already knew something was amiss, or she wouldn’t be standing there.

  “I need to talk to you. Can we sit?” Maria nodded at a bench by the restaurant entrance.

  “Sure.”

  Feenie perched stiffly on the end of the bench and watched Maria.

  “Marco talks to you, yes? Spends time at your house?”

  “Uh, not lately,” Feenie said. “I haven’t talked to him in about two weeks.”

  Her brow furrowed. “But he calls you, yes? Have you heard from him soon?”

  “You mean recently? No, I haven’t.”

  She looked crestfallen. Her hands tightened around the strap of her handbag, and she took a deep breath.

  “If I hear from him, I’ll tell him to call you,” Feenie said.

  Maria nodded and unzipped her purse. She wrote an address and phone number over a coupon for frozen dinners, then handed it to Feenie. “You can reach me there. Anytime. And if Marco calls, please tell him to call home.”

  “Is everything all right at home?” Feenie asked. “Is Kaitlin okay?”

  “Sí, sí. Kaitlin is fine.” She smiled slightly. “She keeps asking for Marco, and I don’t know what to tell her.”

  “I’m sure he’ll call soon,” Feenie said.

  Maria forced another smile. “You could call me—how you say?—a worry wart? All my children say I’m a worry wart.”

  Feenie bit her lip. “I wouldn’t worry, if I were you. He’s probably just busy.”

  Maria stood and fingered the beads at her neck. “Bueno,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

  Cecelia was going to be sick. She stared at the television and knew she was going to throw up. Or faint. Or possibly die.

  It couldn’t be true.

  Yet it was. The evidence was staring right at her, irrefutable, on the screen. She’d found the tape in Robert’s closet when she’d gone looking for…what? She didn’t know. Evidence of an affair? Evidence of fraud? He’d been acting strange lately, almost secretive. Yet less than an hour ago, Celie had actually felt guilty for snooping, for doubting her husband, for even entertaining the possibility that the FBI might be right to ask questions about his association with Josh. She’d thought there was a teeny tiny chance he’d have some sort of papers linking him to Josh’s operation. Or maybe she’d thought she’d find nothing, and she could put her fears to rest finally and stop feeling alienated from her own husband.

  Less than an hour ago, she’d felt guilty for doubting him, for not being the faithful, trusting wife she’d always been.

  And now this.

  The black-and-white footage showed a bird’s-eye view of a familiar office lobby. It was Josh’s lobby, the lobby Cecelia had been in dozens of times when Feenie had worked there. Cecelia had walked through those same glass doors, past that same fake ficus tree, and approached the same reception counter where Feenie had sat. On a typical weekday, she’d find Feenie on the phone, the lobby around her swirling with attorneys and support staff and delivery men.

  But that lobby was deserted in this footage, taken on a recent Saturday afternoon. Cecelia rewound the tape and watched it a second time.

  The date and time stared at her from the bottom of the screen: May 16, one-fifteen p.m. Not a soul in sight. She fast-forwarded through the tape, slowing as it approached three o’clock. The lobby remained empty. Three-ten. Still no one. Three-thirty came and went, and still nothing. She fast-forwarded through until six p.m. and saw no one, not a single person, enter or leave the building. Whatever tape Josh’s lawyers had produced to give him an alibi, it hadn’t been this one. And this one was the original. This one was real. She knew it as surely as she knew that she’d found it on the top shelf of Robert’s closet.

  With a trembling hand, she picked up the portable phone from the coffee table and dialed Robert’s number. He was working late, or so he’d said. The refrain was so familiar, she’d stopped questioning. He was working late. Too late for dinner. Too late for sex. Too late for talk, or argument, or anything that would explain what something like this was doing in his possession.

  His voice mail clicked on. She hurled the phone against the wall.

  She had to get out.

  She ran up the stairs, two at a time, and yanked open the hall closet. She pulled out an overnight bag and tossed it onto her bed. She flung open her dresser drawers, grabbed handfuls of clothes, and stuffed them into the bag. Then she wrenched her cosmetics drawer open and emptied its contents atop all the clothes. She zipped the duffle, carried it into the hallway, and pitched it down the stairs. As an afterthought, she raced back into the bedroom and grabbed her migraine prescription from the bedside table.

  She went downstairs and peered out the front window. No headlights coming down the street. No Accord pulling into the driveway. She snatched her cell phone from the desk in the hallway and punched Feenie’s number.

  Voice mail, dammit. Didn’t anyone answer their phone anymore?

  “Feenie, it’s me. You’re not going to believe this.” Her voice caught. “Um…I need to talk to you.” Where was her goddamn purse? She headed for the kitchen. “I found—”

  Robert stood in the doorway. He held his computer case in one hand and his keys in the other. She jumped back, crashing into the doorjamb and dropping the phone.

  “Hi,” he said. “What’s going on?”

  She stepped backward. “You’re home.”

  He deposited his computer and keys on the sofa and loosened his tie. Cecelia glanced over his shoulder at the television, and her heart skipped a beat. A frozen image of Josh’s lobby filled the screen.

  Robert walked over and kissed her cheek. “Sorry I’m late. Have you eaten dinner?”

  Had she eaten? Dinner. Meatloaf and potatoes. You lying bastard.

  “I’ll fix you
a plate,” she said instead. She walked into the kitchen, listening for his footsteps behind her as she scanned the counter for her keys. They were there, by her purse. Any second now, he’d look at the television and demand an explanation. Any second now—

  His footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  “What happened in here?” he called down from the bedroom. “It looks like a tornado whipped through.”

  “I’m…I’m organizing my dresser.”

  Cecelia rushed into the living room, ejected the videotape, and jammed it into her purse as she crossed the kitchen. She glanced frantically out the breakfast-room window. Robert’s Accord had blocked her in. She scurried back into the living room, snatched his keychain off the sofa, and raced for the back door.

  Feenie dumped her mail onto the kitchen counter and sifted through it. For the first time in months, the sight of bills didn’t bring on a stress headache. She was catching up with the help of her new salary. Her house was safe from foreclosure, at least for now.

  The promotion to full-time news reporter hadn’t given her the lift she’d expected. It was a boost to her self-esteem, sure. Her first real job, the first time she’d really stood on her own two feet. But something was missing. Feenie’s gaze wandered to the patio, devoid of trikes and roller skates, the swimming pool’s surface placid in the evening light.

  She was alone.

  She hadn’t minded before—at least, not really. Kicking Josh out had been such a relief, in many ways, she hadn’t spent much time focusing on how empty her house felt with all its unused rooms and un-played-in corners.

  She should call her father. Their relationship had warmed since his visit to Mayfield. To Feenie’s surprise, her dad had begun e-mailing her several times a week. His messages were filled with commentary about her stories, mostly, but sometimes he’d intersperse other tidbits—what he’d been up to that weekend, how the fishing was going, the obligatory reminder to get her oil changed or check her tires. And Feenie always wrote back. She never would have imagined revitalizing their relationship over the Internet, but somehow it worked for them. It wasn’t as if they were having gut-wrenching heart-to-hearts, but for her father, it was progress. She decided to pay him a visit soon. July Fourth was coming up. It was always a tough holiday for them both, but it would be easier if they spent it together.