One Last Breath

by Laura Griffin

  “Huh?”

  “I knew it! You slept with him! How was it?”

  “How was what?” she asked, stalling. She’d always been pretty open with Cecelia when it came to matters of the heart—and the bedroom—but the details felt private this time.

  “The sex, Feenie! God! I bet it was great, wasn’t it? That man is gorgeous!”

  “I really don’t—”

  “Stop right there! I want to hear about it in person. Let’s go to Rosie’s for margaritas.”

  “I had breakfast there.”

  Several seconds ticked by while Cecelia digested this.

  “You had breakfast together? That’s so sweet! You have to come over, Feen. Robert has a golf game, and we can have a beer by the pool. I want to hear everything.”

  Her heart squeezed. It was just the opening she needed to show up at Cecelia’s house and poke around. She felt horrible. But then she remembered the girls on Josh’s boat and shook off her reservations. She glanced at the newsroom clock.

  “I’m at the Gazette right now. I’ve got to wrap some things up first, and I don’t have my car. Can you pick me up around one?” That would give her several hours to hang out with Cecelia and get back to the office before Marco showed up.

  “One o’clock. I’ll be there.”

  An hour later, Feenie sat on the edge of Cecelia’s pool, feeling exhausted from the strange and taxing exercise of talking to her best friend without telling her what was really going on in her life. She gulped down the last sip of the Corona she’d been drinking and gathered her courage.

  “Mind if I go get another one?” she asked.

  “I’ll get it,” Cecelia said from her chaise. She wore sunglasses and a powder-blue bikini, and her skin was slathered in suntan oil.

  “No, I’ll do it. I have to use the bathroom anyway.”

  Cecelia shrugged and handed her an empty bottle. “Get me one, too, then. There’s a lime on the counter.”

  Feenie took the glass bottles into the kitchen and tossed them into the recycle bin. Then she walked to the guest bathroom right next to Robert’s study.

  She stepped through the doorway into the study and surveyed the room, which was decorated in a masculine combination of dark wood furniture and leather upholstery. Everything looked orderly, from the meticulously arranged bookshelves to the stack of files on the corner of his mahogany desk. She pulled open one of the built-in mahogany-paneled drawers behind the desk. It was packed with files.

  Her gaze skimmed the folders. They were arranged alphabetically. All the labels dealt with personal topics, though. After checking the G section, she shut the drawer and tried the one below.

  The second drawer contained financial records. She thumbed through the files, but all of them related to Cecelia and Robert’s personal finances. There was nothing about Josh, or any other of Robert’s clients, for that matter.

  Feenie shut the drawer and glanced around the room again. The credenza held a digital camcorder and Robert’s extensive home movie collection—arranged chronologically, of course—and his DVDs. She scanned the shelves briefly. They proved Robert was a film buff, but this wasn’t exactly news. He kept a shelf of VHS tapes, too. She read the spines. They were home movies, from vacations, mostly. Feenie recognized some of the destinations—Las Brisas, Cozumel, the Caymans. She spotted a tape labeled “Monterrey” and frowned. She didn’t know Cecelia and Robert had ever been down there on vacation. She pulled the video off the shelf and took the tape out of the jacket.

  Instead of a home movie, it contained a professionally produced tape with the picture of a redhead wearing only a cowboy hat on the cover. Exxxciting Texxxas Vixxxens. Ick. Not what she’d expected from the straight-laced accountant.

  She quickly reshelved the tape and glanced over her shoulder. She was definitely invading their privacy here, and it wasn’t fun. She glanced at her watch. Hell. She’d been gone nearly ten minutes, and Cecelia was probably wondering what was keeping her. Feenie tiptoed out of Robert’s office, feeling both disappointed and relieved. She hadn’t found any incriminating papers, but she’d given it her best shot. If Marco wanted any more dirt on Robert, he’d have to dig it up himself.

  Cecelia dropped Feenie off in front of the newspaper office. “Good luck tonight,” she said, grinning.

  “Luck?”

  Cecelia looked at her over her shades. “Juarez. You’re staying on his boat again tonight, right?”

  “I guess so. We haven’t really talked about it.”

  “Trust me, you’ll be there. Sounds like he’s crazy about you. He’s probably already burned his little black book.”

  Feenie opened the car door. “I don’t think so. From what I can tell, his idea of commitment is a box of condoms.”

  “Don’t be too sure. You’ve practically moved in, haven’t you? And he didn’t even have to ask. I think he’s serious about you.”

  “I’m staying there for safety reasons,” Feenie reminded her.

  “Safety reasons. Uh-huh.” She winked. “Very convenient.”

  Sighing, Feenie watched her drive off. She was right, at least about the moving-in part. He hadn’t asked. Forced was more like it. He’d packed her bag for her, plunging his hands into all her private dresser drawers to grab socks, underwear, and T-shirts, while she’d stood there arguing. He’d paid zero attention to her. The man wouldn’t take no for an answer, particularly where she was concerned. And now they were living together.

  Maybe she should put some distance between herself and Marco and cool down a little. Her overheated libido wasn’t helping her make smart decisions.

  She dug her key card out of her purse and strode toward the glass door to the Gazette building.

  Pop.

  The glass shattered, and Feenie dropped to the pavement. Pop. Pop.

  Her brain identified the sound, but her body seemed slow to react. Then she heard herself screaming. She felt her hands and knees scraping across the concrete as she crawled behind a lamppost and tried to hide.

  She was going to die right here in broad daylight! Where was her gun? She fumbled through her purse.

  A tan SUV screeched to a halt just yards from where she hid. The Chevy Blazer. Oh, God.

  A man jumped out, gun drawn, and ran toward her.

  Chapter

  16

  F BI! Drop the gun!” he roared, leaping on top of her.

  Her wrist hit the concrete. The .38 disappeared. She lay on her stomach, shrieking, flattened underneath the man’s body.

  “Don’t move!” he shouted. Car doors slammed, and she heard yelling across the street.

  “On the count of three, we’re going to run for the car. Understand? Don’t stop. Don’t hesitate, no matter what you hear, okay? One, two—”

  Wait! What the hell was happening?

  “Three!”

  He hurled her forward a few feet and pitched her into the Blazer. He shoved her down onto the floorboard as he climbed over her, into the driver’s seat, and peeled away, tires screaming.

  Tan Chevy Blazer. FBI. He’d taken her gun.

  “Can you reach the door?” he yelled.

  Should she jump out of the speeding car or yank the door shut? Who was this man? Had he fired the shots? But then why was she alive?

  Still crouching on the floor, she reached for the door and dragged it shut.

  He glanced down at her, but then his gaze darted right back to the road. He took a series of sharp turns and drove a few minutes on a straightaway before coming to an abrupt stop.

  She knelt there, heart thundering, waiting for him to move. His right hand still gripped a black handgun. When he saw her eyeing it, he steadied the wheel with his knee so he could reach his free hand into the pocket of his navy windbreaker.

  “Special Agent Michael Rowe, FBI.” He flipped a billfold open on the seat next to her, and she looked at the photo ID. Brown hair, short, graying at the temples. He had a thick neck and a square jaw. Her gaze veered back toward the dri
ver. Sweat streamed down his face, but other than that, he looked like the picture.

  She watched the gun in his hand, still not sure whether to trust him.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, okay?” he said, reading her mind. “I just needed to get you out of the line of fire.”

  He’d thrown himself on top of her, between her and the bullets.

  “We’re safe now,” he said. “Will you sit up?”

  Her hands shook uncontrollably as she reached for his identification. She glanced at it one more time and then held it out for him.

  “Thank you,” he said, tucking it back into his pocket. He still hadn’t let go of the gun. “I need you to sit up now.”

  Her limbs felt like pudding, but she maneuvered herself into the seat and faced him, keeping a hand on the door handle. It seemed pointless, given that his gun was poised between them.

  “You carrying any more weapons?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “I believe you,” he told her, “but I still have to check, all right? Don’t be alarmed.”

  The pat-down didn’t take long, because all she had on were workout clothes. Her purse was abandoned on the sidewalk somewhere.

  Where were they?

  She glanced around and realized he’d taken her to the parking lot of a dumpy motel. She recognized the place from the night of her senior prom. It hadn’t looked any better then, and she’d been in a wine-cooler-induced stupor, which felt remarkably similar to her current state. Except that now, instead of being incoherent and happy, she was incoherent and petrified.

  “How did you get here?” Her voice sounded raspy. “I mean there. Back there. Just like that.”

  “We followed you from the Strickland residence.”

  She stared at him.

  “You’ve been under surveillance for a few weeks now,” he said.

  She cleared her throat. “Did you…see the person shooting at me?” She’d wanted to say, Did you kill him? but couldn’t get her mouth to form the words.

  “Not directly, no. We were down the street when the gunfire started. Looks like the shooter was in the alley across from your office. My partner went after him.”

  “Thank you. For jumping on me.”

  He smirked.

  A squawking noise made her jerk back. The agent reached for a black radio at his hip. She hadn’t noticed it before, or the holster there.

  “Rowe,” he said into the receiver.

  “Shooter bugged out,” a voice said. “Purnell is on the scene now, and the local PD just arrived. Target okay?”

  The agent glanced at her. “Looks like,” he said.

  Feenie looked down at her skinned knees and wrists. Other than that, she wasn’t injured. But she was a target. And if it hadn’t been for this FBI agent, she’d probably be a bullet-riddled target.

  “Purnell wants to interview her at HQ, twenty minutes.”

  “Got it,” the agent said, and replaced the radio.

  She cleared her throat, which felt like dust all of a sudden. “HQ?”

  He nodded toward the shabby hotel. “Headquarters, ma’am, such as it is.”

  “Headquarters for what?”

  “Our task force. We’ve got eight agents working here round the clock. Some of them, including me, haven’t had more than three hours of sleep in the last two days. So don’t take it personally if fuses are short in there.”

  He gave her a tired smile. “You ready?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway, because they’re ready for you.”

  Juarez pulled into the parking lot at Bayside Marina and noticed the guy loitering near the bait shop: dark hair, sunglasses, beer gut zipped into a freebie windbreaker from some charter fishing company. He could have been anybody, if not for the red baseball cap with the letters HTCC stitched across the front. Holy Trinity Catholic Church. It wasn’t some random guy, it was Hector.

  Juarez pulled into his regular parking place and watched him in his rearview mirror. Hector pivoted toward the pickup and, ever so slightly, made the sign of the cross.

  Okay. As meetings with Hector went, this was a little unusual. But Juarez knew Special Agent Hector Flores well enough to know that if he’d driven his ass all the way down here from Houston, he had a good reason. And if he was trying to be secretive about it, he had a damn good reason.

  Juarez adjusted his rearview mirror, gave Hector a brief nod, and went aboard his boat, pretending to pick something up. Two minutes later, he was back in the Silverado and heading across town to Holy Trinity Catholic Church, his and Hector’s childhood stomping grounds.

  By the time he pulled into the church parking lot, he’d figured out the significance of Hector’s visit. Juarez was under surveillance. How could he not have known? And for Hector to have come here, this was more than just some rookie agent sitting in a car. His phones must be compromised, too.

  Juarez entered the church and took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the cool darkness. Out of habit, he dipped his fingers in holy water and crossed himself before making his way down a side aisle. He stopped at a shadowy niche, where a statue of the Virgin perched on a pedestal surrounded by flickering white candles. An old woman sat in the pew closest to the statue, either deep in prayer or asleep. Juarez stopped a few rows behind her and sat down to wait.

  Several minutes later, Hector slid into the pew directly behind him. After a brief silence, Juarez heard him pull out the kneeler and arrange himself as if he were praying. Given all the shit they’d done as kids together, Juarez nearly laughed.

  “What brings you home?” he muttered to Hector.

  From the corner of his eye, Juarez saw him shake his head. “Marco, brother, you’re in some serious shit.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Hector didn’t say anything for a while, and Juarez waited patiently. He was probably scoping out the church to make sure no one had followed them inside. Finally, he seemed comfortable.

  “I hear you been asking about Armando Ruiz,” Hector said. “You’re starting to make a lot of people nervous.”

  “What do you know about Ruiz?”

  “I know that he’s dead.”

  Juarez bit back a curse. There went one of his best leads. “Are you sure?”

  “Killed in prison. Most likely by a fellow inmate connected to the Saledo family. Seems some people considered Ruiz’s big mouth a liability.”

  So Paloma and her partner’s deaths were definitely connected to the Saledos. That explained which cartel Garland was laundering money for.

  But it didn’t explain Hector’s presence hundreds of miles away from the Houston field office where he worked.

  “Marco, man, I need you to listen to me. Your sister was a beautiful girl. A smart girl. It isn’t right, what happened to her. I understand you being angry, man.”

  Juarez scoffed. Angry? He had no fucking idea. “Cut the shit, Hector. Why’d you come here?”

  He sighed heavily. “You need to back off, man. Back way the fuck off. Let law enforcement investigate, okay?”

  “Law enforcement?” Juarez clenched his teeth. “The SAPD hasn’t investigated shit in more than a year. I’m just supposed to sit back and let them handle this?”

  “The bureau’s involved, too, Marco. They have been since the beginning.”

  “Oh, yeah? And you expect me to believe they give a rat’s ass about Paloma?”

  “You’re right.” Hector lowered his voice as an old lady shuffled up the aisle and kneeled in front of the statue. “They don’t give a rat’s ass about Paloma. But they do care about her partner.”

  Juarez was so startled he nearly turned around. He tried to keep his voice down. “Ben was a fed?”

  “Yeah, working undercover,” Hector said. “He was on the task force investigating the Saledos.”

  Shit. That explained a lot of things, like why the SAPD investigation hadn’t gone anywhere. The FBI had probably stymied it beca
use they didn’t want to draw attention to their agent. Just the fact that the bureau had planted someone in Paloma’s squad confirmed Juarez’s suspicions that something was rotten up there.

  “Fuck,” Juarez muttered.

  “Pretty much.”

  Juarez sat there a minute, trying to rein in his temper. On one hand, he wanted to thank Hector for finally bringing him into the loop. He could probably lose his job just for being here like this.

  But on the other hand, he wanted to kill the guy for withholding the information for so long.

  “How’s your mother, man?” Hector asked him now.

  Juarez gritted his teeth. “The same.”

  Hector leaned closer. “Don’t make her go through this again. You hear what I’m saying? Let the task force handle this from here. You leave it alone.”

  Hector crossed himself and got up from the kneeler. “You hearing me?”

  Juarez looked straight ahead as the woman near the statue lit her candle. She had deep lines etched around her eyes, and she reminded Juarez of his mother.

  “Marco?”

  “I hear you, man.”

  “Good.” He touched his shoulder briefly. “Take care of yourself.”

  And then he was gone.

  Feenie stumbled over the threshold into the motel room. The air conditioning was set to arctic, and the place smelled like stale coffee.

  Three men were inside, two talking on cell phones and one seated cross-legged on the bed with a notebook computer in front of him. They all wore dark slacks, button-down shirts, and ties, and their eyes tracked Feenie as Rowe ushered her into a chair.

  “We got any water?” Rowe asked the room at large.

  Someone opened a mini-fridge near the television cabinet and tossed him a plastic bottle. Rowe plunked it down in front of her before disappearing into the bathroom.

  Feenie unscrewed the cap and tried to take a sip, but her hands were still shaking, and water dribbled down her shirt. Rowe reappeared with a damp towel and handed it to her.

  “You might want to clean up those scrapes,” he said.

  “Thanks.” She wiped the dust and blood from her cuts. Then she glanced up at Rowe. In jeans, a windbreaker, and sneakers, he looked casual compared with his colleagues. The jacket seemed absurdly out of place in the summer heat, but maybe he wore it to hide the holster.