One Last Breath

Prologue

Reynosa, Mexico

5:25 p.m.

Detective 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 her 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 woman? 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.

That’s a utility easement back there, so I don’t see what the big deal is.

What’s your name, ma’am?

She started to speak, then bit her lip. Feenie. Feenie Gar—I mean, Malone.

Okay, Mrs. Malone—

"That’s Ms.!"

Peterson appeared and retrieved the gun from the driveway.

Okay, Ms. Malone, Juarez said. Let’s cool off for a minute, all right? Now, my partner here is going to hold on to your gun while we go inside and talk.

She looked him over then, her blue eyes simmering. Her neighbor had been right about the firecracker thing. This woman was hot, in more ways than one, and she had a defiant streak that Juarez admired.

Look, Ms. Malone. He leaned in and lowered his voice. Several curious neighbors inched closer. Whatever you’re doing here, I’m sure he deserves it. But you’re causing a disturbance, and I’d hate to have to haul you off to jail. There’re kids watching.

She glanced at the crowd behind her and bit her lip again. She seemed to calm down fractionally, and some of the color faded from her cheeks. Okay, Officer…?

Juarez.

Okay, Officer Juarez.

Why don’t we go inside now? He surveyed the debris on the driveway. Keep any other guns in the house?

She tossed a look over her shoulder as she led him to the back door. Sure. My husband collects them. The .22 is mine.

Where does your husband store his guns, ma’am?

She opened the screen door and ushered him inside. In the safe, usually, but right now they’re at the bottom of the swimming pool.

Juarez stopped short. The swimming pool?

That’s right. With his clubs and his flat-screen TV. She smiled sweetly. I’m feeling much better now, Officer Juarez. Can I fix you some lemonade?

Chapter

1

Mayfield, Texas

Two years later

Feenie stood in the middle of the vacant lot, straining to concentrate as the noonday sun blazed down on her. It wasn’t the heat, really, that made concentration impossible, but the way the man next to her was peering down her shirt.

"That’s Wolf, no e at the end," he said helpfully, leaning closer as she scribbled in her reporter’s notebook.

Feenie stepped back, hoping he’d get the hint. Thank you, Mr. Wolf. And you said you’ve been with Lansing Corporation how long?

Five years. He flashed his overwhitened teeth. And I should tell you this development promises to be one of the most luxurious gated communities on the Gulf Coast. We’ve spared no amenities here.

The talking points were straight out of Lansing’s media packet, and Feenie wondered why the PR department never bothered to tell employees to mix it up just a teensy bit so their quotes didn’t sound so canned.

This community will set a whole new standard for luxury retirement, he plunged on, reciting the press release verbatim. We believe it’s simply a question of when, not if, other developers will try and follow our lead. But of course, part of what we’re offering is a spectacular waterfront view, and I should point out that properties like these are in limited supply now that the federal government has cracked down on development of coastal wetlands.

I see, she said, taking notes. Wolf would be expecting her to write an article that would make people want to rush out and buy one of these expensive lots she was standing on. But she’d already been warned not to write a fluff piece, so as soon as she finished talking to this guy, she planned to place a few calls to the Army Corps of Engineers to see if she could get the other side of the story.

Feenie glanced up, and, no joke, Wolf was looking straight at her boobs. What a sleaze. She was beginning to understand why Mary Beth, her colleague at the Mayfield Gazette, had been so eager to drop this story on her desk. Mary Beth had claimed she’d had an emergency dentist appointment and couldn’t make it to the interview, but Feenie now suspected the real emergency had been finding a way to avoid spending the afternoon with this creep.

Of course, even if Feenie had known the real reason she’d lucked into this assignment, she still would have come. It was an actual news story, slated for twelve inches of column space on page three. It was Feenie’s first chance to write something besides obituaries and wedding announcements, and she couldn’t afford not to leap on the opportunity.

Even if it meant spending the afternoon being ogled by a jerk with a fake-and-bake tan.

Thank you for showing me around, Mr. Wolf. Looks like I’ve got everything I need here, and I really should be getting back to the office. It’s been quite a pleasure meeting you.

She extended a hand, half expecting to get struck by lightning for uttering such a bald-faced lie.

The pleasure’s been mine, Wolf said, taking her hand and dropping his gaze again. This guy was unbelievable. And she wasn’t even wearing anything remotely sexy today, just taupe slacks and a white button-down. If she ever had to interview Wolf again, she was definitely going with a turtleneck.

Before you leave, Wolf said, still holding on to her hand, I’d like to give you a better idea of the view we’re talking about here.

She tugged her hand away, and he started walking toward a flight of wooden stairs leading up to an observation platform.

I appreciate it, Mr. Wolf, but I really have to get back soon. My deadline—

Oh, this will only take a minute, he said over his shoulder.

The observation deck was flanked by empty lots. But only about fifty yards away was Fisherman’s Grill, a crowded waterfront restaurant. Surely Wolf wouldn’t have the nerve to put any moves on her in front of the entire lunch crowd. She huffed out a breath and followed him up the stairs.

From this vantage point, prospective buyers can see what a magnificent view they’ll have when they invest in a Lansing home. Without exception, all our lots are designed for sunset vistas.

Feenie glanced at her watch—another hint he probably wouldn’t pick up on—and then took a cursory look around. Sunlight glistened off the water, and a quartet of brown pelicans soared overhead. The view was nice, she had to admit. And the breeze fifteen feet up felt coolly refreshing. She moved the damp hair off her neck and immediately regretted the gesture. Now Wolf was staring at her with a smug look.

I notice you don’t wear a wedding ring. How’s a pretty girl like you manage to stay single?

Okay, no points for originality. This guy was a loser, hands down, but she didn’t want to alienate the primary source for her first actual news story. Maybe, just maybe, if she did a good job with this assignment, her editor would promote her from part-time stringer to full-time features writer. The position came with a salary and benefits, and Feenie sorely needed both. Her desk was awash in unpaid bills and overdue notices.

She forced a smile. Too busy to date, I guess. Look, I hate to be rude, but like I said, I have a deadline, so—

She lost track of the thought as she glanced past Wolf.

No freaking way, she muttered.

Wolf turned to see what had grabbed her attention.

A thirty-six-foot Grady-White had just pulled up to the dock at Fisherman’s. Feenie watched, mouth agape, as Josh Garland stepped off the boat and tied the bowline to a cleat. Then he held out his hand and helped a blond woman in an impossibly small bikini disembark.

"That lying bastard!" she hissed.

You know Josh Garland?

She tore her attention away from Josh. She was supposed to be conducting an interview, dammit, and she’d just lost all semblance of professionalism.

Uh…yeah. Who didn’t know Josh? He was the golden-haired hometown hero who’d gone off to break all kinds of football records as a wide receiver for UT. He was a local celebrity.

So…he’s your boyfriend? Wolf persisted, clearly Wondering how this latest development affected his chances.

No. He’s just…no. Um, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Wolf, I need to get going.

Minutes later, Feenie charged across the dining room at Fisherman’s and plowed straight through the double doors leading to the deck outside. She spotted Josh and his most recent plaything strolling up the pier. The girl was busy tying a gauzy cloth around her waist in a vain attempt to appear clothed. Josh had less flesh on display. He wore a silk Hawaiian-print shirt, khaki shorts, and leather sandals. This was his Tommy Bahama look.

Feenie strode up to him and fisted her hands on her hips. Just how stupid do you think I am?

Surprise flared in his eyes, but he quickly recovered. Well, look who’s here. Hey, Feenie. Long time no see.

What the hell do you think you’re doing, Josh?

He draped a proprietary arm around the blonde’s shoulder. Not that it’s any of your business, but we’re about to have lunch.

He tried to sidestep Feenie, but she anticipated the move and blocked his path.

"Nice boat, Josh. She jabbed a finger toward the end of the pier. Funny, I think I may have seen it somewhere before. Yes, as a matter of fact, I think it’s mine. I think you stole it!"

The girl’s eyes widened, and Josh burst out with a fake laugh. Dream on, he said.

I’m not blind, Feenie snapped. "I don’t care what name you’ve painted on the side of that thing. It is my boat, and don’t even try to act like it isn’t!"

Josh sighed heavily. Please excuse my ex-wife, Tina. She’s a little delusional.

Delusional? Feenie shot back. You’re the one who’s delusional if you think I can’t recognize my own boat! You told me you lost that boat in a poker game! Let me remind you, this is a community property state, Josh. And let me also remind you that hiding assets during a divorce is a serious offense! Oh, wait! But you’re a lawyer, so I guess you already knew that. Too bad you won’t be able to plead ignorance when I take you back to court!

Josh gave her one of his dismissive looks, and Feenie felt the familiar surge of indignation that had plagued her throughout her marriage.

Don’t mind her, he said in the girl’s ear. And she really was a girl, twenty at the most. Feenie wondered where he’d picked her up. Maybe she was the receptionist at his law firm, just as Feenie had been once upon a time before she was stupid enough to get married.

She’s going through early menopause, he continued. "It makes her kind of loco sometimes."

Josh smirked, and Feenie realized he’d said that purely for her benefit. He knew full well she was touchy about the fact that she’d just turned thirty and her biological clock was tick-tocking away.

She shifted her attention to Josh’s date and felt a faint stirring of sympathy. Fair warning, honey, this one’s not a keeper.

Feenie turned on her heel and stalked off.

•   •   •

As Cecelia steered her blue Ford Explorer down the Garlands’ street, Feenie twittered with adrenaline.

I can’t believe you talked me into this, Cecelia said. You look like a cat burglar.

Feenie zipped her sweatshirt. It was black, just like the jeans and baseball cap she had on. So what?

So if someone sees you poking around in the dark like that, you could get arrested. Or shot!

Cecelia cast her a worried look as she neared the turnoff to the Garlands’ waterfront estate. Josh’s parents lived in a sprawling mansion at the top of the property, while Josh occupied the lavish guest cottage near the water. He’d lived there ever since the divorce.

Feenie checked her watch. It was after nine already, and she didn’t have time for a lecture. Josh played poker at the club on Wednesday nights, and Feenie wanted to see his living quarters while he wasn’t home. She allotted precisely two minutes to deal with Cecelia’s cold feet.

Celie, I appreciate your concern. But I know what I’m doing, okay? Now, are you in or not?

Not the most persuasive sales pitch in the world, but Feenie knew it was all Cecelia needed. Ever since Josh had teamed up with some unscrupulous attorneys to screw Feenie out of everything in the divorce, she and Cecelia had been devising ways to get him back. Most involved maiming, but tonight’s plan could work too.

Cecelia glanced over her shoulder, as if they were being chased by a fleet of police cars. I don’t like this, Feenie. This is trespassing! Home invasion! If Robert finds out, he’s going to kill me!

Cecelia’s husband was an accountant, a real stickler for rules and regulations. Feenie gave Cecelia a pleading look.

Oh, all right! Cecelia said. But make it snappy, okay? Ten minutes. I’ll circle the neighborhood and come back. I want us long gone when Josh gets home.

Cecelia stopped the car in front of the Garlands’ secondary driveway, which led directly to the guest cottage. Feenie hopped out before Cecelia could change her mind.

Thunder rumbled in the distance as Feenie crept up the drive. Feeling a few raindrops, she moved off the gravel and onto the carpet of St. Augustine grass covering the property. Soon the guest cottage came into view and, alongside it, a weathered boathouse. She ducked behind a clump of sago palms and surveyed the situation.

The driveway in front of the guest cottage was clearly illuminated by a pair of floodlights. Feenie spotted two vehicles: a yellow pickup truck sporting oversized tires and the silver Porsche Cayenne that Josh had been driving around town ever since he’d made partner—big shocker—at his father’s law firm.

Shoot. Had he changed his poker