One Last Breath Read online

  One Last Breath

  Laura Griffin

  For two years she’d been dreaming of ways to nail Josh Garland…. Tonight she was going to do it.

  Feenie crept toward the thirty-six-foot Grady-White her ex had christened Feenie’s Dream. She’d recognize the boat anywhere—the pristine white hull, the shiny handrails. The logo painted on the side said Sea Breeze, but that didn’t matter. She knew that boat right down to the teak cabinets, which she’d lovingly oiled countless times. It was her boat, or at least half of it was, and Josh had stolen it right out from under her. God, how had she been so gullible?

  Feenie unzipped her sweatshirt, pulled out the camera she’d hung around her neck, and snapped a picture, then eased closer for a clearer view.

  When Josh appeared she watched, fuming, as he activated the boat hoist, lowered Feenie’s Dream into the water, and hopped aboard. Beer in hand, he swaggered to the helm.

  She wanted to scream. She wanted to wrestle the keys from him and pitch them right into the bay. Not caring anymore whether he spotted her, she stomped closer and snapped another picture, muttering as the camera clicked. “You lying, cheating piece of—”

  Her feet flew out from under her, and she splatted facedown on the ground. All the air rushed out of her lungs, and a hand clamped over her mouth.

  “Don’t move.”

  For Doug

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not have been possible without the encouragement and dedication of Kevan Lyon, who loved Feenie from the start and never once suggested I change her name. I’d like to thank Amy Pierpont and Maggie Crawford for giving priceless editorial advice, as well as Abby Zidle, who took on this project with enthusiasm and offered invaluable insights.

  I’d also like to thank my late grandmother, Rubalee, who set a high bar for everything and inspired me to write romance novels when she observed that “it takes a hell of a man to be better than no man at all.” I hope everyone finds theirs.

  Prologue

  Reynosa, Mexico

  5:25 p.m.

  D etective Paloma Juarez opened her eyes and tried to focus. The darkness swirled around her, and she couldn’t see anything, not a scrap of light. Her skull felt as if it had collided with a sledgehammer. The mist in her mind cleared, and she remembered it hadn’t been a sledgehammer but a combat boot. Was her jaw broken?

  Goddamn combat boots.

  She tried to sit up, but her arms and legs felt numb. She was still bound. Giving up on movement for the time being, she rested her head on the floor and tried to orient herself. She was naked. The cool concrete pressed against her skin. The room smelled like chemicals…ammonia, maybe? The air felt muggy. She ran her tongue over sore, swollen lips and tasted blood.

  His stream of questions had been endless. What had she given away? What had she managed to keep from him? Threats and blows had come after each question, followed by an icy rush of terror when her interrogator had reached for his belt. No amount of police training had prepared her for that.

  Her breath rasped in and out. In a small, objective corner of her mind, she realized she was hyperventilating, beginning to panic. She had to come up with a plan.

  Any minute, they might come back.

  She squirmed against the concrete, willing her arms and legs to come alive. Soon they flooded with sensation, and her wrists and ankles burned where the bindings had cut through her skin. Ignoring the pain, she maneuvered herself onto her knees. The flesh was raw there, too, but that was the least of her problems.

  She managed to stand. Surrounded by darkness, there was no way she’d find something to cut her bindings. She needed to escape the room, to put as much space as possible between her and her captors. She began hopping—tiny hops that stole the breath from her lungs and had her heart thundering.

  She bumped against something hard and reached out her bound hands to touch it. It felt smooth, metallic. And curved. A storage drum? The room she’d been in earlier had looked like some sort of warehouse.

  Voices approached, followed by some shuffling. A door opened, allowing a narrow shaft of light into the room. Paloma crouched behind the drum and tried to disappear.

  “Where the fuck she go?” It was a male voice, the one called Ruiz.

  “Gimme the flashlight.”

  Her body quivered with recognition at the second voice. The American. She shrank lower, praying he wouldn’t find her.

  She knew it was futile. The light swept over her.

  “Got her,” he said.

  The flashlight shone in her eyes, bright and blinding. She couldn’t see the man holding it, but she didn’t need to. His face was permanently engraved in her memory banks. He had leathery skin and frigid gray eyes and a smile that had utterly unnerved her.

  “Going somewhere?” he snarled. “We’re not done with you.”

  “Please.” Her voice sounded hoarse. “I already told you everything I know. Just let me go.”

  He moved closer, and she caught the familiar stench of sweat and tequila. The odor was stronger than before, and she tried not to think about what that meant.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? But that’s not the plan. I think you’ve got something left to tell us.”

  “No, I—”

  Her face hit the floor with a crack. Something warm gushed from her nostril.

  “I’m going to ask you one more time. And I want an answer. If I don’t get one, you’re gonna end up like your partner. Got it?”

  Her heart lurched. “Where’s Ben?”

  A knee dug into her back between her shoulder blades. “Same place you’re gonna be if you don’t cooperate. Now. Who else knows?”

  “I already told you—”

  “I want names! Who else have you talked to?”

  “I told you, I—”

  A boot crashed into her rib cage, sending pain zinging through her body. She whimpered and curled into a ball, realizing her fate had already been determined. No matter what she said, they were going to kill her, just as they’d killed Ben. Oh, God.

  She thought of Kaitlin—her plump cheeks, her swinging pigtails, her singsong voice in the morning: See ya later, alligator! And the last thing she’d said to her daughter that day: After a while, crocodile! Why hadn’t she added I love you?

  “Ten seconds…” he said.

  Something cool and hard nudged at her temple. How had this happened? She was a cop. A good one. At least, she had been until today. Today she’d made mistakes. She and Ben had walked right into an ambush.

  “Nine…”

  She was going to die. The only thing she had left was the name. Her brother’s name. Marco was the one person besides Ben who knew the most important detail of her investigation. And she was thankful Ben didn’t know he knew. If he had…

  She couldn’t think about what they’d done to Ben. She had to think about her family. She had to protect them.

  “Eight…”

  These men couldn’t find out about Marco. She had to end this before they came up with a way to drag it out of her.

  “Seven…”

  “Okay, okay!” she said. “I’ll tell you! Please. Don’t hurt me anymore.”

  The flashlight beam shifted, illuminating the patch of concrete next to her head. Blood had pooled there. From her nose? Her mouth? It hardly mattered now.

  Hail Mary, full of grace.…Paloma saw her mother, eyes closed, clutching her rosary. The Lord is with thee—

  “Six…”

  Blessed art thou amongst women—

  “Five…”

  “Just let me sit up!” She took a deep breath. The flashlight beam shifted onto the bloodied toe of the black boot. Using all her remaining energy, she pulled herself onto her knees. Her ribs ached, and he
r nose throbbed, but her lips twitched into a smile.

  “The name you’re looking for is…” She paused, swishing saliva and blood around in her mouth. She inhaled deeply and spat on the boot. “Fuck you.”

  Nothing happened. She enjoyed a minuscule moment of triumph. Then the boot swung back.

  Mayfield, Texas

  5:50 p.m.

  Feenie Garland was having the day from hell.

  It had started at ten that morning when she’d returned from her tennis match to find a note taped to the fridge: Call caterer! Her husband had failed to get further details, but it didn’t take Feenie long to fill in the gaps. The caterer was sorry, but because of an unforeseen problem, she couldn’t deliver the food for tomorrow night’s charity auction. The problem? The woman’s kitchen had been shut down by the health department. Now Feenie had ninety-six people coming to her in-laws’ waterfront estate for a party and nothing to serve.

  Her day took another nosedive at noon when the Texas swing band she’d booked called to say their lead singer had laryngitis.

  Yeah, right. She’d bet her favorite pair of black stilettos that Swingtown had opted for a better gig. Or at least something that paid more than peanuts.

  Charity auctions were always such a pain to organize. You had next to nothing to spend, yet you had to provide food and booze and entertainment that Would make wealthy donors want to write checks. Sure, the ticket sales helped, but the real dollars rolled in when people got tipsy enough to plop down ridiculous amounts of money for less-than-amazing junk.

  How did she always get roped into these things? She’d been a straight-A student, for God’s sake, and editor of her college paper. Was this really the best use of her talents? Charity auctions and tennis tourneys? It might have been okay if only she had something more to focus on. Something that really mattered. Maybe if she had a baby…a pudgy, smiling baby to give her life focus. Maybe then she wouldn’t feel so adrift.

  “Earth to Feenie!” a voice snapped, interrupting her pity party.

  “Sorry. What?”

  Cecelia Strickland rolled her eyes. “I said, what about your mother-in-law’s cook? Could she handle it?”

  Feenie eyed her best friend across the breakfast table and scoffed. The idea of Dottie Garland’s seventy-year-old cook catering a party for a hundred was ludicrous. “I don’t think so. She’s a great cook, but she’s slow as molasses. We’d be better off doing it ourselves.”

  Cecelia raised an eyebrow.

  “No way, Celie. Neither of us cooks worth a damn.”

  “Well,” Cecelia said, tucking a perfectly highlighted lock of blond hair behind her ear. Like Feenie, she hadn’t showered or changed since tennis that morning. They were in full crisis mode. “We could call the club. Think they could do it in a pinch?”

  Feenie pursed her lips. The idea had merit. The Mayfield Country Club wasn’t known for its outstanding cuisine, but the auction planning committee—which consisted solely of Feenie and Cecelia—was desperate. Plus, the Garland family had practically founded the place, and Feenie’s mother-in-law could use her influence with the manager. And the Mayfield Food Bank fund-raiser was a worthy cause. Who wouldn’t want to help raise money to feed the hungry?

  “That’s a thought. It’ll be a rubbery chicken breast and undercooked pasta, but who cares, right?”

  “Not me,” Cecelia said. “We’re on the verge of Ritz crackers and Cheez Whiz here.”

  The phone rang. Feenie sprang from her chair to grab the receiver off the kitchen counter. Maybe the caterer hadn’t been shut down after all. Maybe Swingtown’s lead singer had made a miraculous recovery. She lifted the phone to her ear and prayed.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s me.”

  “Oh.” She heaved a sigh.

  “You sound elated,” Josh said.

  Feenie gave Cecelia an apologetic look and took the portable phone into the living room. “Sorry. I’m having a nightmare day here. You won’t believe what’s happened with the auction.”

  “Can’t talk now,” her husband said. “I’m on my way to the courthouse, and Sanderson just called to tell me we’ve got a mediation tomorrow morning. I’ll be here all night.”

  “Oh.” Feenie felt deflated. She’d been looking forward to eliciting some sympathy from Josh over the auction fiasco. He typically didn’t give a hoot about her charity work, but this event was at his parents’ house, after all, and she’d expected at least a flicker of interest.

  “It’s okay,” she said, trying to sound cheerful. She didn’t want to add to Josh’s problems if he was having another stressful day. He’d been working so hard lately. “I’ll warm up some of that leftover lasagna for you when you get home.” Thank heaven Stouffer’s cooked better than she did.

  “What?” he asked, obviously distracted. “Feenie, I can’t talk right now. Really, I’ve gotta go.”

  “Never mind. We’ll talk later. Don’t work too hard, sweetheart.”

  She blew a kiss into the phone, but all she got back was a dial tone. Sighing, she returned to the kitchen, where Cecelia was hunched over a phone book.

  She tapped a pink fingernail on the page. “Here’s the number for the club. Want me to call, or should we get your mother-in-law to do it?”

  The phone rang, and Feenie glanced at the caller ID.

  “Josh again,” she told Cecelia, cradling the phone on her shoulder. “Hey, sweetheart. What’d you forget?”

  Instead of her husband’s voice, she heard breathing. Heavy breathing. And panting. And moaning. The moaning sounded oddly familiar. Then a woman’s voice: “Oh, baby! Oh, yes! Oh, baby! Oh, yes! Ohhhhh…”

  Feenie gasped and dropped the phone.

  Officer Marco Juarez hated domestics. It was always the same shit: Drunk man slaps woman around. Woman calls the cops, hysterical. Cops hightail it over and find everybody’s kissed and made up, even though the woman has a shiner and a bloody lip. No matter what you said, the victim always resisted filing charges.

  Maybe this call would be different. So far, it was, by virtue of the fact that it had come from a rich neighborhood. Juarez turned onto Pecan Street and drove past the tidy row of restored bungalows. He rolled to a stop in front of a yellow and white two-story, where a crowd had gathered in the driveway. He turned to his rookie partner.

  “Follow my lead.”

  Peterson nodded eagerly and checked his weapon.

  Juarez raised his eyebrows. “Why don’t you start by talking to bystanders, see if we can get a feel for what’s happening?”

  “Got it,” Peterson said.

  Juarez slammed the door of the cruiser and walked up the driveway. Most everyone looked like your typical nosy neighbor. A white-haired man in aqua Bermuda shorts stood off to the side with his arms crossed. He scowled as Juarez approached him.

  “ ‘Bout time y’all got here. Gal’s been at it twenty minutes now. She’s hot as a firecracker.”

  Juarez looked up the driveway and spotted the “gal” in question. She had a head full of blond curls and wore one of those short, pleated skirts that barely covered her rear end. She was loading what looked to be a .22.

  A deranged cheerleader?

  With fluid ease, she tucked the slender rifle against her shoulder, aimed at something on the back fence, and fired. A shiny object burst into smithereens. A beer bottle? No. Several more objects were lined up on the fence posts.

  Juarez glanced around. Suits and ties were strewn about the driveway. He eyed the upstairs windowsill, where a pair of boxer shorts had hit a snag on the way down. They fluttered like a battle flag in the evening breeze.

  Former cheerleader, deranged wife, he decided.

  “What’s she shooting?” he asked the neighbor.

  “Dunno. Think it’s a vase or somethin’.”

  “It’s a trophy,” a woman put in. She was blond, thirtyish, and looked as if she’d just come off a tennis court. “Last year’s club championship.”

  “You know this wo
man?” he asked her.

  “She’s my best friend.”

  “She intoxicated?”

  The woman snorted. “Nope. Just pissed.”

  Juarez waited for more.

  “She just found out what a prick she married,” the woman said, as if that explained everything.

  “Her husband inside?” Juarez touched his sidearm, and the woman frowned.

  “You don’t need that, for heaven’s sake! No one’s inside. Only thing in danger ‘round here’s those trophies.”

  Procedure called for him to draw his weapon anyway and disarm the subject, but Juarez wasn’t much on rules and regulations, especially when they went against his gut instincts.

  And his gut instincts at the moment told him the friend was right—this woman was armed, but she wasn’t dangerous. Not yet, at least.

  The wife reloaded, and Juarez watched. She was pretty, actually. Graceful. She knew how to handle a gun, too, and for some reason, the combination made his pulse pick up.

  “Ma’am,” he said, walking toward her. “I’m gonna have to ask you to put the gun down.”

  Instead of complying, she turned and glared at him. Her cheeks were flushed pink, and blond ringlets fell over her eyes. He put her at late twenties, five-five, a hundred and thirty pounds. He couldn’t help noticing a very nice share of the weight was concentrated up top.

  She turned back around, aimed the gun toward the fence, and fired, this time taking out a little brass statue. She was a hell of a shot.

  “Ma’am.” Juarez stepped closer and clamped a hand on the barrel. It was still warm.

  “What?” she demanded.

  “Put the gun down.”

  She huffed out a breath and laid the gun on the pavement. Then she crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a venomous look.

  “Mind telling me what’s going on here, ma’am?”

  If possible, her cheeks flushed even more. “Target practice. Why? Is there a law against shooting golf trophies?”

  He repressed a smile. “No, but there’s a law against firing a weapon within city limits.”