The Last Move Read online

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PRAISE FOR MARY BURTON

  THE SHARK

  “This romantic thriller is tense, sexy, and pleasingly complex.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Precise storytelling complete with strong conflict and heightened tension are the highlights of Burton’s latest. With a tough, vulnerable heroine in Riley at the story’s center, Burton’s novel is a well-crafted, suspenseful mystery with a ruthless villain who would put any reader on edge. A thrilling read.”

  —RT Book Reviews, four stars

  BEFORE SHE DIES

  “Will keep readers sleeping with the lights on.”

  —Publishers Weekly starred review

  MERCILESS

  “Burton keeps getting better!”

  —RT Book Reviews

  YOU’RE NOT SAFE

  “Burton once again demonstrates her romantic suspense chops with this taut novel. Burton plays cat and mouse with the reader through a tight plot, credible suspects, and romantic spice keeping it real.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  BE AFRAID

  “Mary Burton [is] the modern-day Queen of Romantic Suspense.”

  —Bookreporter.com

  ALSO BY MARY BURTON

  The Forgotten Files

  The Shark

  The Dollmaker

  The Hangman

  Morgans of Nashville

  Cover Your Eyes

  Be Afraid

  I’ll Never Let You Go

  Vulnerable

  Texas Rangers

  The Seventh Victim

  No Escape

  You’re Not Safe

  Alexandria Series

  Senseless

  Merciless

  Before She Dies

  Richmond Series

  I’m Watching You

  Dead Ringer

  Dying Scream

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2017 by Mary Burton

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542046923

  ISBN-10: 1542046920

  Cover design by Mark Ecob

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  When love is betrayed, there is nothing to contain the demons.

  San Antonio, Texas

  Sunday, November 26, 12:35 a.m.

  He’d been following her for weeks. Watching. Observing. Loving the chase. The hunt. But he wasn’t a monster, nor was he evil. He was a man with a narrowly focused plan that gave his life purpose and structure. Some doubted he had the backbone to see this new plan through. Some didn’t think he had the balls. The commitment. But he did. He sure as shit did.

  He waited in the shadows and watched as the silver four door pulled into the convenience store lot. Closed car windows barely muffled “Amor Prohibido” blasting on the radio as the woman in the driver’s seat swayed, tapping her finger on the steering wheel.

  When the song ended, she rose out of the car, moving to the pump and inserting the nozzle into the gas tank. This evening she’d chosen a black swing skirt, white silk blouse, and booted high heels. Her accessories were gold hoop earrings, a twenty-inch pearl necklace that nestled between her full breasts, bracelets on her wrists, and of course, her five-carat engagement ring.

  She scanned the dark lot as if she sensed his gaze on her. She rubbed her hands over her arms, and then grabbing her purse, headed inside the convenience store.

  She waved to the clerk behind the checkout counter. She’d seen him dozens of times before. His name was Tomas, and he owned the place. He had big dreams of building his business. She disappeared into the ladies’ room.

  He grabbed his kit from the stolen van’s front seat and opened the door. The now-disabled dome light didn’t click on, leaving him shrouded in the safety of shadows as he left the door ajar. Nerves gripping his gut, he jogged across the lot.

  Kneeling at her back tire, he removed an ice pick from his kit. He tightened his grip around the wooden handle and jabbed the tip into the tire’s tread, wiggling it side to side. When he pulled the pick free, the air slowly hissed out. She had maybe five to ten miles before the tire went flat and she would have to pull over. At this time of night, those extra miles on I-35 would put her farther south in a more isolated stretch of road, creating the perfect trap.

  Light-headed with anticipation, he dashed not toward his van but toward the dumpster so he could blend into the shadows and watch as she emerged from the restroom into the glaring light of the convenience store. She had touched up her lipstick and fluffed her hair, and she was smiling as she paused by a display of chocolates. She never bought candy, only black coffee, but tonight she picked up a small bag of candies and clutched them close as if she were breaking a long-standing rule. She filled a to-go cup with her customary black coffee, paid as she joked with Tomas, and dumped several bills in a tip jar.

  Outside, she ran long fingers through her dark hair. Gold bracelets, glistening in the gas station’s lights, dangled from her wrist.

  After replacing the gas nozzle and the cap, she slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and turned up the radio. Instead of driving off as she always did, she ripped open the bag of candy and dug out a thick piece of chocolate. The beat of Latin music pulsated as she sat for several minutes simply eating. Finally she put the car in gear.

  His attraction to this woman had nothing to do with the gentle sway of her hips or the tilt of her head. He wasn’t drawn to the shape of her ass in the dark skirt, the curve of her brea
sts in the white silk blouse, or the slender line of her calves.

  That was all nice. But what made him really hard was the awareness that he was going to kill her.

  Thoughts of leveling his gun at her heart made his erection pulse. He was in control of the last minutes of her life.

  The power was intoxicating.

  Her taillights clicked on, and she drove toward the I-35 south ramp. He dashed back to his van and followed, lights off until he reached the interstate ramp. He gripped the wheel as he trailed her, careful to remain several car lengths behind.

  It was an unseasonably warm night, nearly moonless, and the stars were bright and clear. He turned on a country-western tune and rolled down his window, savoring the breeze on his face.

  Three minutes of driving. The traffic around them was sparse. The tire was still rolling. Her car would soon slow. She’d drop back from the small herd of cars. They’d be alone.

  Five minutes of driving. The taillights of the few cars had raced toward the dark horizon. Her car was slowing. The back right tire was already deflating. Seconds ticked by. He switched on his cell-phone jammer.

  Seven minutes of driving. The tire was nearly on its rim. The car rocked awkwardly. Her right blinker flashed on, and she pulled to the side of the road. Gravel kicked up under her tires as dry Texas dust swirled up.

  He pulled in behind her, killing his headlights quickly as more lights glared in his rearview mirror. He waited. An eighteen-wheeler blew past him, the rush of air slightly rocking the van. Cars stopped on the side of I-35 often enough that not everyone paid attention.

  Still, he needed to get moving. No telling who would come upon them or how long they would be alone. He had to move fast. It wasn’t safe out here. But the risk of his own capture amped up the rush of adrenaline that snapped through his body.

  His heart pounded as he checked his rearview mirror and saw only the dark stretch of highway. All clear, he clicked on a small camera sewn into his jacket and tucked the well-oiled Beretta into the waistband under his jacket. He got out of the van, his booted feet crunching against the fine gravel as he walked toward her car. His heart beat fast. His mouth was dry. His fingers tingled, and his gut tightened with eagerness he’d not felt in a long time.

  Slowly he walked toward the driver’s side window, and when he knocked on the glass, the woman flinched.

  He smiled, dispelling the tightness in his expression.

  She met his gaze and smiled.

  This was going to be more fun than he’d imagined.

  The game had begun.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The pills make the days’ oppressive routines possible.

  San Antonio, Texas

  Sunday, November 26, 8:00 a.m.

  Homicide Detective Theo Mazur parked on the side of I-35, twenty miles outside of San Antonio, behind the forensic van and the collection of Bexar County cop and rescue vehicles. Flares had closed the two southbound lanes, and a deputy was directing snarled traffic toward the access road that ran parallel to the highway. The morning sun cast a warm glow over the endless miles of brush, low prickly trees, and red dirt.

  Mazur climbed out of his SUV, and immediately the midseventies temps reminded him he was far from home. No crisp bite in the air or scents of snow. No rumble of the L trains or the honks of cars in congested Chicago traffic. A transplant from the Chicago Police Department, he had joined the San Antonio force just six months ago.

  Culture shock remained a daily annoyance, and today’s weather was simply one aspect. What had been automatic to him in Chicago—navigating the streets, eating at a favorite bar or restaurant, hanging out with friends, or hell, even knowing the names of the beat cops—wasn’t a given here. Every crime scene required a GPS. Every new uniformed cop was a test in name memory. What came naturally in Chicago took time here.

  The move south came when his ex-wife, Sherry, had told him seven months ago she was moving with their daughter, Alyssa, to San Antonio. He and his ex had lost their son, Caleb, to crib death two years ago. They’d called him their bonus baby, a gift after years of infertility. The boy’s death had devastated them both and shattered an already shaky marriage. After Caleb, when he and Sherry weren’t with Alyssa, they were buried in their jobs. He’d made captain. She’d left city government for a law firm that paid mid–six figures—enough to set Alyssa up in private school and later for any college.

  When Sherry announced the move days after they signed the final divorce decree, family, friends, and colleagues had expected him to stay behind and take frequent trips south to see his kid when he could. No one had predicted he would walk away from the job, the pension, and family. But he had only one surviving child, and he wasn’t letting anyone take her away.

  Gravel crunched under his loafers as he moved toward the yellow crime-scene tape and the uniformed officer standing guard. Across the highway on the northbound side, several news vans had already taken up their posts on the access road and were running film.

  Mazur moved along the side of the road, nodding to the officer. His nameplate read Jericho.

  “Nothing like pulling duty on Thanksgiving weekend,” Mazur said. All cops worked some holidays each year, but as he was now low man, he was on all weekend. This meant his holiday had amounted to a drive-by to see his kid on the way back from investigating a stabbing.

  The patrolman looked him over and shrugged, clearly not giving a shit about making small talk with the man whose arrival had snatched a local boy’s spot on the homicide team. “It happens.”

  Mazur did what he did best when he was pissed. He smiled. “Maybe there’s hope for the rest of us at Christmas. Personally, I’m angling for New Year’s off.”

  “Right.”

  Mazur’s smile vanished as he fished latex gloves from his pockets and slid them on. “Who was the first responder?”

  “Me. I’ve been here since three a.m. Answered a call from the victim’s husband.”

  “How did the husband know to find her here?” Mazur asked.

  “She called him. Said her car broke down. Rattled off the last exit she’d passed before her phone went dead.” He glanced at a small notebook. “Husband is Martin Sanchez. He says the victim is his wife, Gloria Sanchez.”

  “I’ve heard that name before.”

  “She and her husband own four car dealerships. She does all kinds of commercials. She’s the Queen of Cars. Always spouting catchy sayings.”

  The association triggered the image of a sultry brunette in a red sequin dress holding a scepter and singing a slightly off-key song about Christmas in July. “Where’s the husband?”

  “In the back of the squad car.”

  He glanced toward the black-and-white and caught the silhouette of a man in the backseat. His head was tipped forward into his hands.

  “Okay, I’ll get to him in a minute. Any problems with keeping the scene secure?”

  Jericho looked toward the access road on the other side of the northbound lane. “A couple of the reporters were trying to get under the tape, but we chased them off.”

  The I-35 Highway, or simply “interstate” to the Texans, ran north and south, stretching the fifteen hundred miles from Laredo, Texas, all the way up into Minnesota. The major trucking route was known for high-speed traffic and crashes. He’d responded to a few deaths on the strip in the last couple of months, but all had been accidental.

  “How did she die?” Mazur asked.

  “Shot point-blank in the chest.”

  He looked out over the endless horizon of orange-brown dirt and scrub trees. Miles back, there was an exit with a convenience store and a few fast-food joints, but here she was out on her own.

  “She couldn’t have picked a worse place to break down,” Mazur said to no one. He turned back to Jericho. “Who’s working the forensic investigation?”

  “Jenny Calhoun. She’s been here a couple of hours.”

  A familiar name. Friendly from what he remembered. Good. He’d had his fill of p
assive-aggressive bullshit for the day. “See anyone near the scene when you arrived?”

  “Only the husband’s car.”

  “Gloria Sanchez was driving the white four door?” Not the kind he’d expect a fancy auto dealer to drive.

  “She was.”

  “Thanks, Jericho. Don’t be such a chatterbox next time.”

  As his long legs chewed up the twenty feet to the car and Calhoun, he noticed the back right tire was completely flat. There were no other signs of damage on the car.

  The forensic technician was a tall, lean woman with blond hair she’d pinned up in a tight bun. He’d worked with Calhoun on a couple of cases in the last few months and found her dedicated.

  She didn’t look up from the camera’s viewfinder as she snapped pictures. It gave him a moment to study what remained of Gloria Sanchez.

  The victim’s white silk blouse was doused in crimson blood. Her right hand, draped over her left thigh, was ringed by a collection of narrow gold bracelets that winked in the morning light. A four- or five-carat diamond encircled her well-manicured ring finger, a pearl necklace hung from her slim neck, and her designer black purse lay on the floor of the passenger side. Her wallet was exposed along with a checkbook. Whatever the motive for killing her, it hadn’t been robbery.

  The chest wound had to have been instantly fatal. Bloody fingerprints smudged the outside of the door as well as the left side of her neck. He pictured a panicked husband yanking open the door and checking for a pulse. The driver’s side window was open, but there were no bloodstains on the button. Had she opened the window for her killer?

  Calhoun looked up and smiled. “Detective.”

  Latex snapped and crackled as he worked his fingers deeper into the gloves. “How’d you get so lucky to pull this shift?”

  “I volunteered. No family. Might as well work.”

  “You’re a good soul. Tell me what you have.”

  “As you can see, she was shot in the chest.”

  “I see bloody fingerprints.”

  “Husband panicked and touched the victim.”

  “Her window is open.”

  “It is.” She wrinkled her nose as if it itched and rubbed it against her shoulder. “Husband said it was open when he arrived.”

  “She trusted the killer,” he said.