One Last Chance. Justine Davis
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One Last Chance
Justine Davis
JUSTINE DAVIS
lives on Puget Sound in Washington. Her interests outside of writing are sailing, doing needlework, horseback riding and driving her restored 1967 Corvette roadster—top down, of course.
Justine says that years ago, during her career in law enforcement, a young man she worked with encouraged her to try for a promotion to a position that was at the time occupied only by men. “I succeeded, became wrapped up in my new job, and that man moved away, never, I thought, to be heard from again. Ten years later he appeared out of the woods of Washington State, saying he’d never forgotten me and would I please marry him. With that history, how could I write anything but romance?”
Para Elia de la Cova, mi preciosa suegra— who with a heart so beautiful took in a loner and made her feel loved.
Yo te amo, mamacita.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
Chapter 1
“Am I boring you?”
Chance Buckner’s hands stilled, and he looked casually sideways at the man in the gray suit who stood before him, hands on where his hips would be if they were detectable.
“You would be,” he said lazily, “if I was listening.”
Unconcernedly he went back to the informational sheet the speaker had handed out. Almost right, he thought, holding it up for a sighting, then lowering his hand to make a minor adjustment to one of the wings of the paper airplane.
Out of the corner of one eye he saw the livid flush rising above the older man’s collar, and had to smother a grin. He heard a cough but didn’t dare look at his partner. He knew that if he locked eyes with him, his laugh would break loose; he and Quisto had a way of communicating without words that got them into trouble nearly as often as it saved them.
“Perhaps you can explain to me, Detective Buckner,” the man said in barely suppressed fury, “just why you are here?”
In one smooth, fluid movement, Chance levered his lean, muscled body away from the wall he’d been leaning against. He drew himself up to his full six-foot-two height, topping the shorter, older man by at least six inches.
“I’m here,” he said with slow emphasis, “because you guys blew it. I’m here because you guys can’t find your butts with a map. I’m here because you guys couldn’t make a case on a guy you had under your thumb for two damned years.”
“You son of a—”
The man broke off, sputtering. He whirled toward the fourth man who had been sitting at the head of the long table that sat in the center of the conference room, quietly observing.
“If this is an example of this department’s discipline,” he spat out, “then we haven’t got a chance of nailing Mendez!”
“You had your chance, in Miami.”
The man’s red face snapped around to glare at Chance’s partner, the source of the comment, a compact, wiry, dark-haired young man with flashing brown eyes who was seated at the other end of the table. Quisto looked back, totally untroubled. The gray-suited man spun back toward the man at the head of the table.
“I was told we would have complete cooperation, Lieutenant!”
A pair of dark eyebrows rose over an inscrutable pair of brown eyes. “I was told,” the lieutenant said mildly, “to listen to what you had to say, and do whatever you asked. I don’t recall you asking me to maintain order for you.”
Chance managed to convert his burst of laughter to an apparent fit of coughing, but at a warning glance from Lieutenant Morgan he stifled even that. Quisto wasn’t quite so lucky, and drew another furious glare.
“If you can’t control your own men—”
“I have no problem with my men, Mr. Eaton. They know their job, and they do it well. But perhaps we can speed things up by setting down some basics. As a result of your office’s investigation—”
“We chased Mendez right out of Miami,” Eaton said smugly.
“Yeah,” Chance said caustically. “He was so scared he barely had time to pack up his whole operation and move it here.”
“Listen, pretty boy—”
“Gentlemen,” Lieutenant Morgan interrupted, in a tone his men had come to know meant they were pushing the limits of his considerable patience. “Let’s get on with this. As I was saying, as a result of the federal investigation, Paolo Mendez has taken up residence in Marina del Mar. So regardless of how or why, he is now our problem. As is—” he paused and opened the file folder in front of him on the table “—the establishment he intends to open.”
Eaton looked blank. “Establishment?”
“He’s taken out a lease on an empty building on Marina Boulevard. He’s already remodeling. Word is he intends to open a club of some sort.”
Lieutenant Morgan handed out a sheet of paper to Eaton, whose crimson face did not fade a bit as he read the report.
When he had finished, he cleared his throat and spoke reluctantly. “Well, er, yes. Good information.”
“Thank Detective Buckner. He had it within twenty-four hours of Mendez’s arrival, despite the fact that he is using the name Paul de Cortez.”
Eaton’s expression told everyone in the room exactly what he thought of the idea of thanking Chance Buckner for anything, short of dropping dead. Quisto smothered a snigger, and got a third glare.
“This is obviously going to be his cover for his drug activities.” Eaton slapped the report down on the table. “We will begin the surveillance immediately, of course. We already have the necessary court orders.”
“You mean we will,” Chance muttered, knowing all too well that it was unlikely that the federal agents would be the ones doing most of the tedious stakeout work.
“You have a problem, Detective Buckner?”
“Yeah. Something’s making me sick.” The look Eaton gave him made his glance at Quisto seem like a loving gaze. Chance waited just long enough to make it obvious what—or who— his problem was, then said easily, “Must have been that burrito at lunch. It was too…heavy.”
Eaton’s color deepened, but Chance’s innocent expression never wavered, and Eaton had to let it pass.
“Why don’t you tell us what you have in mind for the stakeout?” Jim Morgan threw Chance another warning glance as he spoke to Eaton. Chance shrugged and, pulling a chair from the table and placing it against the wall, sat down.
The agent’s voice hadn’t improved since he’d begun. It still had the annoying, buzzing timbre of the fly trapped in the upper corner of the office window. The hum of the insect seemed infinitely more interesting as the man elaborated on procedures any first-year cop would know. And it had been a long time since Chance Buckner