One Last Breath (Borderline Book 1)

by Laura Griffin

  “Fine. Let’s hear it.”

  “See, it all goes back to this anniversary present. For our first anniversary, Josh gave me a thirty-six-foot Grady-White with twin Yamaha engines.”

  His eyes widened. “Shit, do you know how much a boat like that costs?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. That’s why this is important. If you’d just listen—”

  “You have my undivided attention.”

  “Good. The boat was called Feenie’s Dream. We used to take her out into the Gulf for day trips, spend the night in Las Brisas occasionally. I loved that boat. Josh told me he lost her in a poker game right before our divorce. I was naive enough to believe him.”

  Juarez looked skeptical, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Anyway, last week, I was out covering a story over near Fisherman’s Grill, when Josh pulled up with some girl in the Grady-White. When I confronted him about it, he acted like I was crazy, like it wasn’t the same boat. So I went to get proof.”

  “You went to Garland’s to see a boat.” He didn’t sound convinced. “You mean you never got a tip from Martinez?”

  Feenie frowned. “I never knew anything about Martinez until the other day.”

  He watched her for a few moments, and she tried not to squirm. She knew he was trying to figure out if she was lying.

  “A couple weeks ago, I got information that Martinez and Garland weren’t getting along,” he told her. “They were arguing about money. Martinez wanted more, and Garland didn’t want to give it to him. Martinez threatened to tip off the media about his illegal import/export business if he didn’t pay up. I figured Martinez picked you because you work for the Gazette, and you’d also have an axe to grind with your ex-husband.”

  “Why go to the media?” she asked. “Why wouldn’t he tip off the police?”

  She saw his jaw tighten and remembered what he’d said earlier about crooked cops.

  “So,” she said, putting it together, “Martinez threatened to expose Josh to the press—which he would hate because he’s been running for mayor of this town practically since he was born—and Josh didn’t like being bullied.”

  The only thing Josh hated more than bad publicity was ultimatums.

  “Where’d you get this tip?” she asked.

  “I let myself into Martinez’s apartment and planted a bug. He was stupid enough to brag about blackmailing Garland to one of his buddies.”

  She was pretty sure private investigators weren’t allowed to just break into people’s homes and hide listening devices, but she didn’t comment. “Who do you work for, anyway?” she asked instead.

  “Gulf Shores Investigations.”

  “No, I mean who hired you?”

  She watched his eyes, and there it was again—that flicker of evasiveness that had been bothering her since he’d approached her at Rosie’s.

  “Garland’s made some enemies over the years,” he said. “Probably even killed a few. I work for one of the victims’ family.”

  She couldn’t stand to think of Josh tearing families apart. Feenie knew what grief felt like, and she didn’t wish it on anyone, no matter what their loved one might have done.

  “So, you think Josh had Martinez killed?”

  Juarez cocked his head to the side. “Either that, or he did it himself.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Josh to me.” Feenie surveyed the ransacked kitchen. “Trashing my house isn’t his style, either. He doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. And he wouldn’t have wanted to risk getting caught.”

  Juarez shrugged. “You’d be surprised what people will do when they’re cornered. Or maybe he just did this to scare you.”

  Now, that sounded like Josh. Terrorizing her definitely would have appealed to him. He liked to play games with people.

  But what if this wasn’t just a scare tactic, and Josh had someone dangerous on his payroll?

  “You think maybe whoever killed Martinez is after me now?” she asked. “Maybe he wants to see if I know anything?”

  The grave expression on Juarez’s face was a yes.

  She was beginning to feel sick, like a giant hand was squeezing her stomach. She put the water bottle on the counter and closed her eyes to think.

  “You shouldn’t stay here tonight,” Juarez said, voicing her thoughts.

  “I know. I’m just trying to decide where to go.” Why did he have to sound concerned? And why did she want to believe it was genuine?

  “Crash at my place, if you want. It’s small, but I promise not to hog the covers.”

  She glared at him. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, do you?”

  He gave her a slow, penetrating look, and she felt her hormones kicking in again. She needed to get away from him before her brain shut down completely.

  “I’d better stay with Celie.”

  Sunday afternoon, Feenie was kneeling on her bathroom floor, cleaning up broken glass, when the front door creaked open. She dropped her hand broom and reached for her cell phone.

  “Yoo-hoo!” Cecelia’s voice floated up from the foyer. “Special delivery!”

  Feenie tucked the phone back into her pocket, alongside the vial of Mace she’d been carrying around nonstop for the past two days. Moments later, Cecelia breezed into the bathroom, loaded down with shopping bags.

  “Hey there,” Feenie said, sinking down onto the side of the tub for a break. She felt whipped. She’d been cleaning all weekend, stopping only for a few fitful nights of sleep in Cecelia’s guest room. “I thought you had a party to go to.”

  Cecelia rolled her eyes. “Just some business thing of Robert’s. We called in sick. Whew, it smells like a perfume counter in here!”

  “Tell me about it.” Feenie’s head was pounding from being surrounded by Bijan fumes for the past hour.

  Feenie had tackled her bedroom and bathroom last, because merely standing in the doorway made her feel violated. Her sheets and mattress had been slashed, her closet torn apart, and the contents of her dresser drawers strewn everywhere. She’d rehung and refolded everything she could salvage, with the exception of her underwear. The idea of some stranger combing through it gave her the willies, so she’d pitched it all in the trash and decided to treat herself to a trip to the mall. At least one of her credit cards wasn’t maxed out.

  Her bathroom had been left in shambles, too— cabinets rifled, drawers emptied, glass bottles shattered on the floor.

  Feenie eyed the shards, wondering if she’d ever walk barefoot again in her own house.

  “What’s that?” she asked Cecelia, nodding at the shopping bags.

  Cecelia smiled brightly. “Oh, you know. Just some odds and ends.” She pulled out a brand-new set of sheets, butter-cream yellow, the same color as Feenie’s bedroom.

  “You didn’t need to do that, Celie.”

  “I know. But I wanted to. I’ve got a comforter over there by the door.”

  “Hey.” Robert appeared in the doorway in his typical weekend attire of Dockers and a golf shirt. “You guys wanna give me a hand with the mattress?”

  “What mattress?” Feenie asked.

  “We got you a mattress,” Cecelia said. “You said your box springs were okay, so we didn’t bother with that.”

  Feenie’s eyes started to sting as she picked her way across the floor. “Y’all shouldn’t have done that. I can’t pay you back right now—”

  “Hush!” Cecelia said, enveloping her in a hug. “What are friends for? I can’t have you in my guest room forever, can I? We’re trying to make a baby. We need privacy for our wild and crazy sex life!”

  Feenie rubbed her runny nose on the back of her hand and smiled as Robert blushed.

  “God, Celie,” he muttered, sending her a look.

  “Well, it’s true!”

  He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and cleared his throat. “So, anyway, about that mattress?”

  “Thanks,” Feenie managed. “I really appreciate it.”

  “Forget about it,” Cecel
ia said. “It’s no big deal.”

  Together they muscled the queen-size mattress up the stairs and move the ruined one into the spare bedroom. Feenie’s television and the sofa were beyond repair, and she asked Robert to carry the TV out to her garbage can. The next big trash pickup was six weeks away, so Feenie and Cecelia simply shoved the tattered sofa against the wall. It would have to wait.

  Then Cecelia unpacked the new linens and helped Feenie make the bed. The fluffy cotton comforter was printed with a soothing pattern of pale yellow roses. As Feenie tucked in the edges of the top sheet, her gaze landed on something peeking out from under the bed. It was her favorite photograph, a picture of her mother and Rachel taken the year before they died. The snapshot was bent at the corner from where someone had stepped on it.

  A lump lodged in Feenie’s throat. She picked up the picture from the floor and gingerly wiped it with the tail of her shirt before sliding it into the drawer of her nightstand.

  “I’m so sorry this happened,” Cecelia said quietly.

  Feenie swallowed her anger. “Thanks for coming over. You and Robert have been a big help.”

  “What did the police say?”

  “I still haven’t made it over there. I’ll go right after y’all leave.” This was a fib, but she couldn’t tell Cecelia what was really going on. In reality, Feenie had no plans to go to the cops, because Juarez had told her they might somehow be involved. Instead of bringing in official police, Juarez had stopped by Saturday morning with a fingerprinting kit. He’d lifted some latent prints from her doors and windowsills—prints that most likely belonged to Feenie—and he’d also carefully photographed a shoeprint from one of her back flower beds. He’d been very diligent about collecting evidence, but he didn’t seem at all optimistic it would lead anywhere. Feenie wasn’t optimistic either.

  Late that night, Feenie lay beneath her new bedspread and color-coordinated sheets. She was tired to her bones, but still she couldn’t sleep. Every sound outside had her sitting up in bed and reaching for her .22. It wasn’t much in terms of firepower, but her aim was dead-on, thanks to a father who was a card-carrying member of the NRA. She couldn’t stop feeling jumpy, though. When she wasn’t thinking about her home being invaded again, she was thinking about the mess she’d gotten herself into.

  Juarez was right: she was in a world of trouble, and it wasn’t going away. And although Juarez had offered to help, Feenie wasn’t sure about his motives. Looking back on it, he’d been pumping her for information all along. Despite whatever attraction they had between them, she was just a piece of the puzzle to him. His client must be paying big bucks, because he seemed willing to go to great lengths to solve the case. She couldn’t trust him.

  As much as she wanted to.

  Why was she so gullible when it came to attractive men? They always used her for their own ends, and she always fell for it. Josh had used her to keep his house and to be his arm candy at social events throughout their marriage. Juarez had used her to further his investigation. Feenie was tired of being used.

  She wouldn’t let it happen again. In fact, it was time to turn the tables. She needed to come up with a strategy.

  The doorbell rang, and Feenie bolted upright. She reached for her gun and glanced at the clock. It was after ten. She kicked back the covers and tiptoed to the window, clutching her .22 in both hands. She peered through a narrow gap in the curtains and saw a black pickup parked in front of her house.

  “Goddamn him,” she muttered, grabbing her terry robe off the end of the bed. Ten seconds later, she was staring through her peephole at a surly looking man in a black bomber jacket.

  Feenie swung open the door. “Kind of late for a visit, don’t you think?”

  Juarez looked her up and down, his gaze pausing briefly on the front of her robe. Then he glanced behind her and frowned. “That thing loaded?” he asked, brushing past her into the house.

  “Yes.” She closed the door, turned her back on it, and crossed her arms.

  She’d leaned her gun against the corner by the stairs. Juarez picked it up, pointed it toward the floor, and checked the chamber.

  She blew out an annoyed sigh. “I hope you have a good reason for waking me up.”

  He replaced the .22 against the wall and shrugged. “Didn’t expect to see your car here. I thought you were staying at Cecelia’s.”

  His gaze dropped to her chest again, and she glanced down. A scrap of pink lace was peeking up from the terry cloth. She adjusted the robe and shook her curls out of her face. “I came home to get my house back in order.”

  He shoved his hands into his pockets. “You really think that’s a good idea?”

  Instead of answering, she tipped her head to the side. “Don’t you have some fleabag motels to stake out or something?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm. Well, it’s been a long day, and I’d really like to get back to bed, if you don’t mind.”

  He raised an eyebrow suggestively, and a tingle ran down her spine.

  “Please? I’ve been cleaning all weekend, and I’m wiped out.”

  He strolled casually into the darkened dining room, as if she hadn’t just asked him to leave. “Buddy of mine ran those prints through AFIS. No hits.” He peered into the living area, where she’d left the overhead light on, and frowned at the mutilated sofa. “You need some new furniture.”

  “I’ll get right on that.” She trailed him into the dining room. “What’s AFIS?”

  He turned around, and she realized she’d made a tactical error.

  “Fingerprint database,” he said, closing in on her.

  She backed up a step, bumping into the wall beside the doorjamb. His face was shadowy, but for once she knew exactly what he was thinking.

  He slid his finger down the collar of her robe. “Why’re you so anxious to get rid of me?” His voice sounded eerily quiet. His knuckle brushed her skin, and an electrical current charged through her body. “You got company?”

  “No.”

  His finger trailed lower, exposing more of that damned pink nightgown she’d bought that afternoon at the mall. She should have stuck to plain, practical underwear, but she’d been feeling sorry for herself so she’d gone a wee bit overboard on a few things.

  He edged closer still. “You want company?” He smelled like summer air and leather, and his breath was warm against her temple.

  She wondered if he could hear her heart pounding as she tried to dream up something reasonable to say. She couldn’t think of a thing, and her back was pressed firmly against the wall as he stared down at her with that gleam in his eyes.

  This could not happen. What about turning the tables on the men who were using her? She was just as vulnerable now as she had been after their first kiss on the driveway. Only now, it was the middle of the night and they were in a darkened room alone together.

  She eased sideways, half expecting him to take her arm, but he didn’t. She wandered back into the foyer and did a huge fake yawn-and-stretch.

  “I am so beat,” she said, turning back around to see him now slouched against the doorway. “It’s been a long, tiring weekend.” She put her hand on the doorknob in a gesture of non-Southern inhospitality. She didn’t care if she was being rude; she needed him out before he talked his way upstairs under the pretense of checking her security.

  He eyed the doorknob irritably, and then finally stepped close and gazed down at her.

  “Keep your gun close,” he said. His hand covered hers on the knob. “And don’t open the door for any more strangers.”

  Chapter

  7

  Teresa Muñoz swiveled around in her desk chair when Juarez stepped through the door of Gulf Shores Investigations. She put the caller she was talking to on hold and gave him a smile.

  “Didn’t know you’d be in today,” she said. “Your mother just called, and there’s a pile of messages on your desk.”

  “Who’s that?” Juarez asked, nodding toward the phone.

&nbs
p; She rolled her eyes. “George Wainwright. He’s called twice for an update on the Masterson case. Want me to put him through?”

  Juarez recalled the file sitting on his desk. It contained information on a workers comp claim. Juarez Was fairly certain the claim was bogus, but he hadn’t found time to gather the evidence yet.

  “Tell him I should be checking in later and I’ll get back to him by close of business.”

  Teresa glanced at her watch. “That’s in half an hour.”

  Damn. Where had the day gone? “Tell him I’ll call him in the morning,” he said. “First thing.”

  Juarez hated insurance work, but it kept the agency afloat. Between his insurance work, skip traces, and a steady stream of suspicious spouses, he cobbled together enough income to subsidize the investigation of Paloma’s disappearance. Ever since the San Antonio police had closed her case file, Juarez had been on his own.

  Juarez entered his sparsely furnished office and rummaged through the messages Teresa had stacked neatly on his desk, separating out the few that needed responses. He didn’t want to get sidetracked, but he couldn’t afford to ignore his paying clients. After returning a few calls, he unlocked his safe and pulled out the folder that had brought him into the office today.

  The Paloma file.

  It was pretty thin given that he’d been working on it for two years, but Juarez wasn’t big on writing things down. He knew what he knew. Still, he appreciated the value of hard evidence, so he’d slid a few photographs and relevant documents into the folder with his sister’s notes, hoping that someday everything he’d compiled might see the inside of a courtroom.

  When—not if—it all came together, Josh Garland and his cronies were going down. They’d spend the rest of their days locked up, and Juarez could finally give his mother some peace.

  Not everyone would make it to trial. Juarez had other plans for the person who had last seen his sister. After twenty-three months of investigating, Juarez had narrowed it down to two suspects. Both were hired guns operating along the border. Both had reputations for being lethal and extremely discreet. They were expensive, too, which was why they typically only worked for drug lords or other scumbags wealthy enough to shell out big bucks to eliminate their enemies. Plenty of guys were known for doing nickel-and-dime shit, but that hadn’t been the case with Paloma. Whoever had abducted her and her partner—both trained law-enforcement officers—had been clever enough to do it without leaving a trail. So Juarez had quickly dismissed the typical lineup of street hoods and zeroed in on more professional candidates. After crossing several off his list for logistical reasons, he’d been left with two names: Todd Brassler and Vince Rawls. When he found out which one of them had ended his sister’s life, he planned to take care of the fucker himself.