She was a cute pain in the ass, though. She still had that hot little body. Just watching her got his blood going, and he remembered having the same reaction the first time he’d seen her.
Finally, the taillights glowed as she backed out of the space. Juarez pulled out behind her. Pain in the ass or not, she knew something. Wives and girlfriends always did. He hoped that something would lead him to Paloma. No one had seen or heard from his sister or her partner in two years, and Juarez had come to the grim conclusion that they were dead. He was too much of a realist to let himself believe otherwise. He’d been investigating Paloma’s disappearance since the beginning, and all the evidence led back to Josh Garland. He’d either killed her or paid someone to do it for him.
Either way, the result was the same. Paloma was gone, and Juarez had to get up each morning knowing he could have prevented it if only he’d paid more attention. In a life filled with fuck-ups and missed opportunities, that fuck-up was worse than all the others put together.
The Kia rolled to a stop at an intersection, and Juarez hung back discreetly, making sure she didn’t spot the tail. He probably didn’t need to be so careful, but he couldn’t help it. Although he wasn’t a cop anymore, his training was second nature. Plus, he couldn’t afford to get sloppy, not where Feenie Malone was concerned. He had to handle her in such a way that she’d give him what he wanted without even realizing she was being handled.
Juarez couldn’t make things right again, he knew, but he could make them better. He could do what everyone else had failed to do so far—figure out what really happened to his sister and give his family some peace. And when he solved her case, when he found out who was responsible, he’d make sure they got what they deserved. He’d had two years to ponder just what that meant, and he had a vivid imagination.
Chapter
3
Feenie started at the cop shop. Her first objective was to find out if local police had any record of Rico Martinez and his misdeeds. As Feenie walked across the parking lot, she dug her seldom-used press pass out of her purse and wiped the lint off it. She’d received the pass when she’d joined the Gazette staff a year ago, but so far, none of the funeral directors and wedding coordinators she habitually dealt with had demanded her credentials. Surely the Mayfield Police Department would be more attuned to security.
They weren’t. Without even glancing at her ID, the receptionist-dispatcher directed her through a set of double doors to booking. Once inside, Feenie stood before a chest-high counter and a glass window. She introduced herself to the balding guy sitting at a desk behind the counter and asked to check a report. He didn’t move, so she held up her media pass.
He looked thoroughly unimpressed.
“Where’s McAllister?” he wanted to know.
John McAllister regularly covered the police beat. He subsisted on coffee, beer, and cigarettes and was known for his crude jokes. He’d never told them in Feenie’s presence, but she’d heard them repeated in the break room.
“I don’t know,” Feenie said. “I’m here to get some background information, and I need to see some police reports.”
Frowning, the cop heaved himself out of his chair and plopped a plastic binder onto the counter.
“This here’s the log. Help yourself.” With that, he returned to his desk and started rearranging papers.
Feenie opened the book. Every entry in the log included a number, a few cryptic words, and a date and time. It appeared to be a list of incidents arranged in chronological order. She flipped to the back of the book and scanned the dates. The log contained incidents only as far back as one week.
Unless Rico Martinez had been in trouble with the Mayfield police during the past seven days, the book was useless to her.
She cleared her throat. “Um, excuse me. Do you know how I might look up something by person?”
The officer folded his arms over his belly and stared at her.
“You know, see if someone in particular has a record with the department?”
The cop got to his feet and shuffled over. He leaned an elbow on the counter and looked Feenie up and down. After letting his gaze linger on her breasts, he seemed to conclude that she merited further conversation.
“Who you looking for, darlin’?”
“His name’s Rico Martinez. I want to see if he has a police record here.”
“Rico Suave?” The cop looked surprised.
“That’s right.”
“Why you asking about him? He operates outta Corpus.”
“Look, I just need to know if you have anything on him,” she said. “I’m doing a background check.”
“A background check, huh? That stuff ‘s not just sitting around, you know. Someone’s gonna have to look it up on the computer.” The cop’s eyes narrowed. “So, what’s this about? Why didn’t they send McAllister over here?”
“It’s a joint assignment,” she improvised. “Now, would you mind helping me?”
The cop set his jaw.
Feenie’s patience was slipping. “It’s a matter of public record, you know.”
Clearly, Officer Beer Gut didn’t care for pushy females.
“You want that information, you’re gonna have to fill out a pee-ya sheet,” he said.
“A pee-ya sheet?”
He reached under the counter and pulled out a piece of paper, which he slapped down in front of her.
“Public Information Act, dollface. Cripes. Who’d you say you work for? The Barbie Channel?”
Feenie fought back the urge to strangle him. She picked up the form, folded it in half, and tucked it into her purse. “Fine. I’ll get this right back to you.”
After spending three hours squinting at old newspaper articles on microfilm in the Mayfield library, Feenie was having a severe Tex-Mex craving. She unearthed the twenty-dollar bill she kept buried in her glove box for emergencies and headed for Rosie’s.
Rosie’s Tamale House had started as a truck that made the rounds at local construction sites. Word spread, and within three years of founding her business, Rosie had two trucks operating in town and a diner just across from the courthouse. Judges, lawyers, and county bureaucrats packed the place every weekday to fill up on handmade tamales and local gossip. Feenie and Cecelia joined the crowd every Friday at noon. Today was only Thursday, but Feenie desperately needed a tamale fix.
The aroma of homemade tortilla chips greeted her when she entered the restaurant. Her mouth began to water as she made her way to the back. The lunch crowd had dissipated, so her favorite booth was empty.
Feenie placed her order with the teenage waitress. Then she retrieved the PIA form from her purse. She’d never filled one out before, but it didn’t look too complicated. She fished a pen out of her bag and completed all the blanks, wondering what her editor would do if he got wind of her little fact-finding mission. She might have to try a subtler way of getting information. At the moment, however, she couldn’t think of one, because the waitress placed a steaming plate of tamales in front of her. Feenie took a bite, closed her eyes, and enjoyed a moment of pure bliss.
“That looks good.”
Feenie’s eyes flew open. A dark-haired man in a black leather jacket loomed over her table. He wore ripped jeans and scuffed black boots and about half a week’s worth of beard. He looked like a member of Hell’s Angels. To her horror, he slid into the seat across from her and picked up a tortilla chip.
“You should try the enchiladas,” he said, casually dipping the chip into her bowl of queso.
Feenie managed to swallow the bite she’d been chewing. “Who are you?”
He seemed menacing, and the impression was confirmed when he met her gaze. His eyes were jet black, and his left eyebrow was bisected by a thin white scar.
Knife fight, probably.
He didn’t answer, just looked her over with a slow, penetrating stare. Her throat went dry.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked.
“Um…no. Should I?
”
“Marco Juarez,” he said, extending a hand. “And I sure as hell remember you.”
Chapter
4
He remembered her? From what? His name didn’t ring any bells, which seemed odd. Her world wasn’t populated by biker guys, so she felt sure she’d recall meeting one.
“Feenie Malone,” she said, taking his hand. It was big and warm, and she tugged hers loose almost instantly.
The waitress appeared, wearing a coquettish smile Feenie was sure hadn’t been in place two minutes ago. “Hi, Marco,” she said. “Get ya somethin’?”
He smiled back at the girl, and Feenie realized her mistake. He still wasn’t handsome, but he no longer looked like someone from Dog the Bounty Hunter.
“Just a Coke,” he said, winking.
That was it. Three words, and the waitress nearly swooned. When she disappeared, Feenie leaned back and folded her arms.
“That’s pretty impressive, but don’t you think she’s a little young for you?”
He smiled again, and Feenie willed herself not to respond the way the waitress had. It was tough. The guy had great teeth, and there was something undeniably sexy about his shaggy hair.
“I still have no idea who you are.” For lack of something better to do, she took a sip of her Diet Coke. The fizzy liquid cooled her throat and calmed her nerves a little while she waited for his explanation.
“I’m the police officer who came to your house a few years back. You were shooting up some statues, I think.”
The day Josh had moved out. Or, more accurately, the day she’d thrown all his possessions out their bedroom window and laid waste to his trophies with her .22. She recalled the polite, well-groomed officer who’d come into her kitchen for lemonade. Add a few inches of hair and some black leather, and this was the same guy.
“You look different,” she said, picking up her fork and returning her attention to the tamale plate. She didn’t want to seem flustered. “I didn’t know they let cops dress like that.”
“I’m undercover, you could say. So, how’s your husband doing? What was his name? Jeff something-or-other? Y’all work things out?”
“His name is Josh, and he’s no longer my husband. So no, we didn’t work things out.”
“Sorry to hear that,” he said blandly.
He didn’t look sorry. In fact, he looked smug. And something about his gaze was sending warm little darts through her body. Was he flirting with her?
The waitress returned with his Coke, and Feenie asked for the bill. She wasn’t really interested in rehashing the second-worst day of her life with an unkempt stranger.
“It’s been nice chatting with you, Officer Juarez, but I really need to get back to work.” She dug the twenty out of her purse, placed it on top of the check, and slid across the booth to leave.
“Wait,” he said, slapping his hand down on hers.
His eyes bored into her, and she pulled her hand free.
“What is it you want, Officer Juarez?”
He smiled now, and the seriousness melted away. He leaned back and draped an arm over the seat. “Just thought I’d offer to give you a hand, that’s all. I hear you’re checking up on Rico Martinez.”
She tried to mask her amazement. “Where’d you hear that?”
He shrugged. “Word gets around. I can help you get some information on him if you want.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
His mouth curled up at the corner. “I feel sorry for you.”
She didn’t say anything, and he shrugged again.
“Suit yourself. Just thought I’d clear some of the red tape, but if you can’t use the help—”
“I didn’t say I couldn’t use it.” Not having a single inside source anywhere, she needed all the help she could get. Officer Juarez would be her first contact.
“Okay, then,” he said. “Why don’t you explain to me what you’re looking for, and I’ll see what I can find out?”
Feenie hesitated. She didn’t know if she should trust this man, but she didn’t have much to lose. She’d read everything she could get her hands on about Rico Martinez, but the newspaper articles about him had dried up after his drug trial six months ago, the Corpus Christi trial for which Rico—a part-time auto mechanic—had somehow managed to hire one of the most expensive defense attorneys in San Antonio. Now, wasn’t that interesting? And if that weren’t strange enough, the judge had conveniently dismissed the charges against him after the attorney had argued that there was a problem with the search of his client’s apartment.
“All right,” she said. “I’m trying to find out if Martinez has been in trouble recently.”
He reached for another chip. “Any reason to believe he has?”
She paused again. She didn’t want to give too much away and she certainly didn’t want to tell the police her suspicions about her ex-husband. Not that she felt obligated to protect Josh—any trouble he was in was his own doing—but she didn’t want to embarrass herself by starting unfounded rumors about a member of one of Mayfield’s most prominent families. Her ex-father-in-law was a control freak, and Feenie knew he wouldn’t hesitate to sue her if she messed with his family’s reputation. She had to tread carefully where the Garlands were concerned—they had connections throughout the legal community in Mayfield and the entire county.
“No reason in particular,” she said. “I just ran across something suspicious, and I thought I’d see if there might be a story there.”
“Want to elaborate on that?”
“Not really.”
He watched her, but his face was unreadable. “You know Martinez is dangerous,” he said. “He’s violent, he’s trigger-happy, and he’s not that bright. He won’t like it if he finds out some eager young reporter’s asking questions about him.”
“Somehow I doubt Martinez subscribes to the Gazette,” she said. Wow. Did he really think she looked young?
“He’s probably not an avid reader,” Officer Juarez said, “but he’d most likely find out if he was the subject of a news story with your name attached to it.”
“If he’s in enough trouble to merit a story, he’s got bigger problems than bad publicity.”
He cocked his head to the side. “Even if nothing makes it into the paper, people talk. Martinez has connections. You sure you want to get into all this?”
She tried to look unconcerned, but she was getting a feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach. “Yes.”
“Okay. I’ll check out his rap sheet. See if anything recent pops up. You got any other names you want me to check out while I’m at it?”
Feenie had the vague feeling she was being pumped for information. She remembered the second man in her photo, but she didn’t have an ID on him. She shook her head.
He leaned closer and rested his forearms on the table. “Anything else I can do for you?” His voice was low now, and it wasn’t her imagination—Officer Juarez was definitely flirting.
Feenie’s cheeks heated. “No. Thank you.”
“How can I contact you?”
Any way you want.
He raised his eyebrows, and for a mortifying instant, she thought she’d said that out loud.
God, she needed a date. She dug a scrap of paper from her purse and jotted down her name and number. When was the last time she’d given a man her phone number? Bill Clinton must have been president.
“I lost my business cards,” she lied. “Here’s how to reach me at the Gazette. My home phone’s underneath. I appreciate your help, Officer Juarez.”
He looked mildly amused. “Just call me Juarez.”
“Okay, Juarez. Thanks for the help.”
Almost as soon as she settled into her cubicle the next morning, Drew walked past.
“Hey, Drew, can I talk to you a sec?” He turned, and she lowered her voice a notch. “Do you still have that print from the other night? The photo I took?”
“Sure,” he said, stepping into her cube. “I haven’t
had a chance to work on that second guy yet. I’m not optimistic about getting an ID.”
Feenie glanced around, but no one seemed to be eavesdropping. Of course, in a newsroom, you could never be sure.
“Mind if I hang on to those prints?” she asked.
“No problem. Just swing by the photo lab. Hey, and there’re kolaches in the break room.”
Feenie perked up immediately. With her kitchen inoperable, last night’s dinner had consisted of a granola bar and a soft drink. She fetched a pastry and then stopped by Drew’s desk, where he had discreetly left a manila envelope for her. She returned to her cube feeling as if her day was off to a good start.
“Malone! Get your butt in here!”
She froze, cream cheese kolache halfway to her mouth. She recognized the tone in her editor’s voice but had absolutely no idea what she’d done to deserve it.
“What’s he want?” Feenie hissed at Grimes’s assistant, who sat just outside his office in the cubicle next to Feenie’s.
“Beats me,” Darla said, shrugging.
Besides answering phones and handling payroll, Darla’s job included getting the early lowdown on absolutely everything that happened at the Gazette. For her to have no idea why Grimes wanted Feenie in his office was not a good sign.
Feenie shoved her breakfast and the envelope into the desk she shared with another part-time staffer. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped into the lion’s den.
“Yes, Mr. Grimes?”
He stood behind his desk with his arms crossed. He wore his usual Men’s Wearhouse tie, and his salt-and-pepper hair needed combing. An avid runner, Grimes had a perennial tan and had avoided the usual pooch most men had acquired by the age of fifty. He was attractive, actually, if you got past the presentation.
“Close the door,” he snarled.
Feenie obliged and calmly took a seat in the chair across from his desk. With his demanding nature and occasional temper tantrums, Grimes reminded Feenie of her father. The best way to deal with him was to match his anger with tranquility.
One Last Breath (Borderline Book 1) Page 4
