One Last Breath

by Laura Griffin

  “I want you to throw me a bone, okay? Give me a tip on something good so I can prove myself to Grimes. I’m within inches of losing my house, and I need to get on salary. But now that you’re back, Grimes is putting me off again. He just assigned me to cover a spelling bee, for crying out loud.”

  He grinned at her.

  “It’s not funny! I need a break. Otherwise, I have to start looking for a new job. I can’t afford to wait around forever making next to nothing.”

  “Okay, I get your point. I’ll find something and send it your way, all right?”

  Infinitely relieved, Feenie tucked the envelope back into her purse and helped herself to another wing. “Just one more thing. I need you to sit on the Martinez thing for a little while. I think I can get you some more information, but I promised my source I would try to keep a lid on the story until he gets a few things nailed down. He’s sort of involved in the investigation.”

  “Waiting isn’t my strong suit.” He took the last swig of his beer. “This source of yours. What’s his rank?”

  Feenie licked some spice off her fingers and fanned her mouth. “Well…he’s kind of ex-law enforcement.”

  McAllister gave her a sharp look. “It’s not Marco Juarez, is it?”

  She stopped chewing. “Why?”

  “Shit, Feenie,” he said, pushing the plate away. “You know who that is, don’t you?”

  She shook her head.

  “He got fired last summer for drug possession. They found marijuana in his car. It wasn’t enough to land him in jail, but it got his ass kicked off the police force. I wrote a story about it.”

  Feenie’s chest tightened. Juarez hadn’t told her any of that. Why hadn’t he told her that?

  “It may have been a plant, though,” McAllister said. “One of the cops—I think it may have been the guy’s partner—he didn’t like the bust. Guy called me up and gave me a big earful. Said Juarez wasn’t into drugs. Said the whole thing stank, but he didn’t have proof.”

  She hoped to hell the partner was right. Then she wondered why it mattered to her so much.

  “The partner told me something else that was interesting,” he continued. “This guy said the police chief had had it in for Juarez for months before the bust. Said he’d been looking for a way to get rid of him because he was a loose canon.”

  “Why’d they think that?” Feenie asked, although given her experience with Juarez, it didn’t seem like much of a stretch.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Think he had a history of insubordination or something. Hey, you’re not sleeping with him, are you?”

  “What?” Feenie felt her cheeks flame. Where had that come from?

  “Shit, you are, aren’t you?” McAllister sighed and shook his head.

  “No!”

  “Well, you should know, the guy hates reporters. Take it from me. I tried to follow up with him after my original story, but he wouldn’t give me the time of day. I dug around for a while on the phony-bust thing, but then the partner stopped talking and I couldn’t get anywhere with it. So if Juarez is talking to media all of a sudden, he has an agenda. You better find out what it is before you get involved with him.”

  Feenie got a sinking feeling in her stomach. She’d known Juarez had been using her, but hearing it from someone else stung.

  Something chirped, and McAllister reached for his cell phone.

  “McAllister,” he said, then fell silent for a few moments. “No kidding? Where?” He pulled a notepad from his pocket and began scribbling. “Boat ramp, right. I’ll be right there. Thanks for the call.”

  Lieutenant Brian Doring had been an all-state running back, a keen marksman, and a classmate of Juarez’s at the police academy.

  At the moment, he was crab food.

  Juarez watched the crime-scene technicians hover near the waterlogged body that had been found on the marshy shoreline of Laguna Bonita Park. Doring wore civilian clothes, down to a pair of brown cowboy boots. His shirt hung open, a crab clinging stubbornly to the fabric as a body removal team lifted the corpse from the salt grass and placed it on an unzipped black bag. In recent years, Doring had put on a few extra pounds, but now he looked especially bloated, his belly spilling over the waist of his jeans like a soggy doughnut. One of his eyes was missing, probably thanks to the crabs. Two workers in blue jumpsuits zipped him in for transport to the morgue as the bald-headed medical examiner looked on.

  “Shit. What a waste,” Juarez said.

  Peterson glanced over his shoulder and nodded. “He was a good cop.”

  He was a talented cop, yes. Calm in a crisis, best shooter on the force. But good? The jury was still out on that one. Getting gunned down while off duty wasn’t doing much for his reputation. Especially since it looked as if he’d taken two bullets to the chest, just like Martinez.

  “Damn, he’s a mess. Any guess on the caliber of the weapon?” Juarez asked.

  “Nah, not yet. But there’s a rush on this thing. Chief ‘s already shitting bricks over the potential bad publicity. He wants the autopsy done ASAP so they can send any slugs to the lab.”

  Juarez would bet his Chevy Silverado that ballistics would come back with the same caliber used to kill Martinez. If the bullets weren’t too misshapen, the lab might even be able to link the murders to the same gun. Juarez glanced around at the officers combing the vicinity for clues. On the far side of the park was a tricolored playscape surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. An officer was hunched next to the gate there, sifting through some dirt.

  “Strange place for a shooting,” Peterson said, reading Juarez’s mind. Laguna Bonita was a well-maintained park in a nice section of town. Kaitlin loved the swing set, and Juarez brought her to play here almost every weekend.

  That was about to change.

  A white news van pulled into the parking lot next to the boat ramp. It was followed by a black Jeep Wrangler. John McAllister hopped out and sauntered over to a pair of uniforms milling around near a cruiser.

  “Fuckin’ media,” Peterson said, shooting Juarez a dirty look.

  Juarez held up his hands. “Hey, man. I didn’t call them. I hate ‘em more than you do.” He reached for his car keys and nodded at Peterson. “Keep me posted, okay?”

  “You got it.”

  Juarez took a last look at the scene, which had already been roped off with yellow tape, and headed for his truck. Peterson had done him a favor by giving him the heads up about Doring, but he didn’t want to make his friend’s job tougher than it already was. The chief wouldn’t like Peterson talking to Juarez at a crime scene.

  He hitched himself behind the wheel and noticed McAllister watching him. Juarez scowled and drove away.

  Feenie cut through the water, enjoying the chill on her skin and the burn in her muscles. She tapped the side, counted off another lap, and switched to backstroke. The sun had disappeared an hour ago, and stars were beginning to wink through the lacy canopy of leaves. With Mrs. Hanak out of town visiting her daughter, Feenie had the whole backyard to herself. She’d turned her radio up louder than usual and even considered swimming naked in the moonlight. Practicality had won out, however, and she’d donned her old blue Speedo. She was almost finished with her laps, and her body felt nice and tingly. She closed her eyes and let herself glide.

  She loved her pool. It had been one of the first things to draw her to the house on Pecan Street. The old-fashioned architecture had been a major selling point, but the pool had been the clincher. She’d liked the thought of taking a dip whenever she wanted or doing laps in the heat of the summer. But most of all, she’d envisioned the pool filled with kids. Growing up, she’d never had such luxuries, which made her even more determined to provide them for her own children.

  She’d expected to have a houseful of children by now. Or at least a couple. She’d planned on being a stay-home mom, happily filling her time with her kids’ activities, involved in their lives—but not overly so—showering them with hugs and kisses when they came hom
e from school. She and Josh would be the perfect parents, sharing a perfect house, a perfect marriage, a perfect family.

  That was Plan A, and it had been an abysmal failure. Not only was her house devoid of family, but it was about to be repossessed. And now there was that hole in the kitchen…

  Plan A was history.

  Plan B had been to meet an eligible bachelor and get remarried without missing a beat. After a few disastrous setups with friends of friends, she had dumped that plan, too.

  She was on Plan C now. According to Plan C, she would continue to live in the house she loved, but she was no longer waiting for Mr. Right to come along. She’d realized such a creature didn’t exist, at least not for her. Under Plan C, she would develop her career, take charge of her financial well-being, and stand on her own two feet. Practically speaking, this meant she’d learned to use the red Toro mower that lived in her storage shed, and she’d learned to go to movies by herself without feeling like a social reject. So far, Plan C was working. Its main appeal was that it didn’t require a man.

  As for the children, Feenie still intended to have them, but she wasn’t convinced she needed a man for that, either. Maybe she’d adopt. She knew foreign adoptions were becoming more and more common, but she hadn’t really looked into it.

  So that was Plan C. The main drawback was not having anyone to share the parenting. Still, it could be done. Her father had managed fine as a single parent.

  The plan wasn’t perfect, but Feenie didn’t believe in perfection anymore. Not when it came to her love life, anyway. Her house was another matter. Despite the hole in the kitchen, she still thought her house was about as close to perfection as she could get.

  Feenie counted off lap number fifty and hitched herself out of the water. Her heart thudded, and her muscles felt rubbery. But it was a good feeling. Time to go into her perfect house and sink into a perfectly relaxing bubble bath.

  She’d worry about the repo man later.

  She stood up and squeezed the water from her hair. It was another warm night, and pleasant. The hum of cicadas filled the air, singing backup for Willie Nelson’s easygoing twang on the radio. Fireflies blinked near the hibiscus bushes lining the back fence, and Feenie paused to watch, remembering how she and Rachel used to love chasing glitter bugs together when they were kids.

  She glanced around now, suddenly realizing just how dark it had become. She should have thought to turn on the patio lights before her swim. Come to think of it, she should have kept her Mace handy. Or maybe she shouldn’t even be out here in the first place. It would be smart to get inside. Shivering now, Feenie searched around for the towel she’d left on a lawn chair.

  A lawn chair now occupied by a man, watching her from the shadows.

  Chapter

  8

  S he gasped, stepped backward, and fell into the pool.

  When she came up for air, Juarez crouched at the water’s edge and laughed at her. It was dark, but there was no mistaking the white flash of teeth. He held out her towel.

  “What are you doing?” she sputtered. She paddled to the side and rested her arms on the concrete apron. It still felt warm from the day’s sunshine.

  “Watching you.”

  “I can see that.” She tried to lever herself out, but a sudden onslaught of nerves had her arms quivering as she slid back into the water. Juarez tossed away the towel, reached down, and lifted her from the pool. He set her lightly on her feet in front of him.

  “Why are you here? You scared the hell outta me!”

  Her pulse was racing now, from the scare, and the exercise, and the realization that Juarez was standing between her and her beach towel. And she had on nothing but a tissue-thin swimsuit that did little to hide her postdivorce cellulite. Goose bumps sprang up all over her skin, and she folded her arms strategically over her breasts.

  “Cold?” he asked.

  She pressed her lips together and tried not to throttle him. “Could you hand me my towel, please?”

  “I could.” He smiled and stepped closer. She was trapped next to him unless she wanted to take another dip.

  Fine. She could get over her vanity. After all, just the other night, he’d seen her half-undressed and hadn’t run away screaming. In fact, he’d done the opposite. Bolstered by the memory, she planted her hands on her hips and tipped her chin up.

  “What do you want, Juarez?”

  His smile faded. “You didn’t answer your phone. I was worried.”

  “I don’t usually take calls from the pool.”

  He frowned down at her for a moment. Then he snagged her towel off the ground and handed it to her. “Why isn’t your kitchen fixed? I told you my friend would do it for cheap.”

  She wrapped the towel around herself and tucked the corner into her cleavage. “Yeah, well, cheap isn’t the same as free. I don’t have the money right now.”

  “You don’t have the money,” he stated.

  “That’s what I just said, isn’t it? You see a money tree growing in my yard?” She breezed past him and headed for the back door. He followed her inside without an invitation.

  “I thought you were loaded.”

  She felt her patience draining away. Why did everyone assume she was some spoiled airhead? She drove a heap, she barely had a stick of furniture, and she hadn’t been shopping for anything besides underwear in more than a year. Yet many people still thought she was leading the pampered life she’d had with Josh.

  “You thought wrong.” She opened the refrigerator and reached for her water bottle. She slammed the door shut without offering him a drink.

  He smiled indulgently, as if he knew she was lying but didn’t want to pursue it. He was so damned arrogant.

  “You want details? Fine,” she said. “I hardly got a dime in my divorce, I’ve exhausted the money I got from selling my Mustang, and I’m not exactly setting the world on fire careerwise, in case you hadn’t noticed. I’ve got bills stacked up to the ceiling, and somehow I haven’t been able to get my hands on the twenty-five hundred dollars I need to get my roof fixed.”

  He watched her, his face neutral. “When’s your next paycheck?”

  What the hell? That was none of his business. “Friday,” she snapped.

  He nodded. “I’ll give Carlos a call. Put down whatever deposit you can, and I’ll tell him to get started this weekend. In the meantime, you can stay at my place.”

  Feenie stared at him, speechless.

  “Go get packed,” he ordered.

  “Why would I want to stay at your place?”

  His jaw tightened, as if she’d wounded his pride. Was his ego really that inflated? Evidently so.

  He stepped closer and gripped her shoulders. “You want details? Fine,” he said, mocking her. “There’s been another murder. Probably the same gunman who killed Martinez. I’m pretty sure you’re on his hit list, your house is wide open, you can’t afford a hotel room, and I want you somewhere I can keep an eye on you. So you’re coming to my place.”

  Despite the warmth of the towel, her goose bumps were back. What had happened to her boring, run-of-the-mill life? Tonight she’d sleep with her gun and her pepper spray. And her cell phone.

  “I can protect myself just fine, thank you. I don’t need a bodyguard.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You have no idea what you need. And your little pop gun is no match for this guy. He took out a cop and a drug dealer, and both of them had a hell of a lot more street smarts than you, babe. So get your stuff together. We’re leaving.”

  Feenie despised being called “babe.” Josh used to do it all the time, usually in front of his jackass friends.

  She plucked Juarez’s fingers from her shoulders. “I’m not leaving. This is my house. Josh tried to boot me out of here once before, and I fought him tooth and nail. I’ll be damned if I’ll let him win now. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Juarez stared down at her, clearly exasperated. “You’re gonna get yourself killed, you know. Over what? A house?
Don’t be stupid.”

  “It’s more than a house, and I’m not stupid. I know how to handle a gun, and I can protect myself.”

  He arched his eyebrows, and Feenie remembered how he’d taken her down at the boathouse without breaking a sweat. Okay, so she might not be the best at hand-to-hand combat, but she could hold her own with a gun.

  “Fine,” he snarled. “It’s your neck. What do I care what you do with it?”

  He stormed out the back door, muttering something in Spanish. Feenie felt sure it wasn’t complimentary.

  Despite her bravado, she couldn’t relax for the rest of the evening. She decided to put her nervous energy to good use by beefing up her security. She closed the door between her kitchen and living room and dragged her mangled sofa in front of it. The thing weighed a ton. No way could someone push it aside from behind the door, at least not without making a racket. Then she dead-bolted the front door, checked the window locks, and turned on all the downstairs lights. She was thankful, her electric bill was one of the few she’d paid on time. With Mrs. Hanak living in the garage apartment, Feenie couldn’t afford to let the electricity and water get cut off. She’d let her phone and cable go instead. She didn’t miss the cable, especially since her TV was out of commission anyway, but it would have provided a nice distraction. As it was, she had nothing to keep her mind occupied except Juarez’s dire predictions.

  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.