Her Cop Protector
Her Cop Protector
Sharon Hartley
One hot Miami mystery Homicide detective Dean Hammer has two dead bodies on his hands and just one connection: a pretty activist named June Latham. She swears her only concern is rescuing the tropical birds she loves, but something isn't adding up. As Dean begins to unravel the mystery of June's troubled family, he realizes she's in danger.But that's not all. Dean's hotter for June than even the sweltering Miami weather can explain. Now if only she would put aside their differences and let him protect her… Otherwise she'll be next in the sniper's scope.
One hot Miami mystery
Homicide detective Dean Hammer has two dead bodies on his hands and just one connection: a pretty activist named June Latham. She swears her only concern is rescuing the tropical birds she loves, but something isn’t adding up. As Dean begins to unravel the mystery of June’s troubled family, he realizes she’s in danger.
But that’s not all. Dean’s hotter for June than even the sweltering Miami weather can explain. Now if only she would put aside their differences and let him protect her... Otherwise she’ll be next in the sniper’s scope.
“I looked you up last night.
Guess what I discovered?”
“That I’ve never been married?”
“No, that you—” June paused as his words sunk in. “You’ve never been married?”
“Wouldn’t want to make any woman a widow. So, what startling thing did you learn about me?”
She shook her head. Once again Dean had thrown her off balance. How could he possibly know she’d tried to determine his marital status? “Forget it.”
“Maybe I don’t want to forget it. Whatever it was sure ruffled your feathers.” He grinned, obviously amused by his bird reference.
“Ha-ha,” she said, not finding him funny.
“Hey. I seem to remember you inviting me on this little jaunt. Did I misunderstand?”
She sighed. “No. I thought you would enjoy yourself. That was before I knew you preferred to hunt birds with that high-powered rifle you’re so damned good with.”
“Ah,” Dean said, noting June’s face had flushed a delightful pink in her anger, making her even more attractive. “Got it now.”
Dear Reader (#ulink_3f03dc43-cb94-5a99-9067-6dd386c8d913),
I’ve loved birds since I was a little girl. When my mother couldn’t find me, she knew my nose was either buried in a book or I was watching birds at my feeder. Maybe it’s the wonder of flight, maybe it’s their showy colors (in the bird world, males are usually the most colorful), or perhaps it’s their lively songs. Whatever it is, I’m still a birder and lead bird walks on Sunday mornings during the spring and fall migration seasons in Miami.
Bird numbers are declining all over the world because of habitat loss and other stresses. However, there are strategies anyone can employ to help, backyard feeders being one. Why not participate in citizen science and help with the Christmas bird count? Check out a free bird walk in your area. You might find a hobby that will fascinate you for the rest of your life.
Her Cop Protector is a story I loved writing since it features birds, a hot cop and a mystery. Subtropical South Florida provided a steamy setting for a sexy romance. I hope you’ll enjoy reading June and Dean’s story as much as I loved telling it!
I love to hear from readers. Email me at sharonhartley01@bellsouth.net.
Stay present!
Namaste,
Sharon
Her Cop Protector
Sharon Hartley
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
SHARON HARTLEY writes contemporary romances that revolve around cops and the fascinating but dangerous people who inhabit their world. After creating plots where the bad guys try to harm the good ones, she calms herself by teaching yoga, cultivating orchids and hiking in the natural world. An avid birder, during migration season Sharon leads weekend bird walks in South Florida. Please visit her website at sharonshartley.com (http://www.sharonshartley.com).
This book is dedicated to all the beautiful birds stolen from their homes who don’t survive the journey.
Contents
Cover (#ud873906a-3345-5da0-a987-0764e6ae1b35)
Back Cover Text (#u960209d2-88c8-5f31-b00b-5280ee670c9d)
Introduction (#uf83bb8bd-1a37-5de6-9e59-0d2122a292ca)
Dear Reader (#uf6f0d4e0-3eb3-5ba0-9281-b2c8c038e2a2)
Title Page (#u1e366c6f-b0a6-5449-95dd-b17f9bcc564c)
About the Author (#udc7c9111-2107-5c04-bf04-ef91a37c48e0)
Dedication (#ua44f6d9c-29b7-5c49-a8c1-90d0a6edb320)
CHAPTER ONE (#ud85840c5-1c39-543a-933a-5f553d41e29a)
CHAPTER TWO (#ub1b36c00-4419-5933-b3d6-164bf1f91e1c)
CHAPTER THREE (#u7e619b1b-788d-5270-8c51-ce14c47efc41)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u55c5cce5-734e-5b81-9432-3445523af5f9)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u62e54b32-1819-508b-96bf-f9ad8160b181)
CHAPTER SIX (#uad48f29e-278e-56c9-b8df-ddfbf9540628)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_01405d90-aa01-57ff-8d5b-03bdc3ffea24)
WHEN JUNE ENTERED the air-conditioned chill of the North Beach Pet Shop, dozens of colorful birds came to life with raucous squawks. Well, no wonder. She glanced up at the bell rigged to clang whenever the front door opened. An early warning system.
To her left, a tall man in his forties behind the counter nodded at her. Colorful tattoos curled around both of his biceps. Piercings in both ears and his left nostril. “Let me know if I can help you,” he said.
“Just looking,” June said, in her best attempt at portraying a bored browser. She’d gotten good at that.
He returned to reading a magazine. Was this guy the owner or an employee? That would make a huge difference in his reaction in the next few minutes.
She sniffed the air to detect any foul odors. Mostly old cedar chips from the bottom of cages. Not too bad. At least this shop kept the smuggled birds in fairly decent conditions.
June snuck a glance to the rear wall, where the birds continued their noisy protest in floor-to-ceiling cages. A majority of monks. Some yellow-headed amazons and a few macaws. Exactly what the informant had reported. Birds flapped obviously clipped wings in futile attempts at liftoff. A few made it off perches and slammed into the wire barrier blocking their escape with a disappointed shriek.
June bit her bottom lip and looked away. After the initial rush of sympathy, familiar anger mushroomed inside her chest, making her heart rate ramp up. No good, June. Remain calm if you want to help. Inhaling deeply, she lifted a container of dog shampoo from the display next to her and pretended to study the ingredients.
Remember, these birds are the survivors, she reminded herself, allowing the breathing technique time to work. Triple or quadruple this number didn’t survive the journey.
She strolled toward the right side of the store, where an assortment of puppies romped or dozed in five-by-five wire cages stacked one on top of the other. A honey-colored cocker spaniel eyed her hopefully as she approached. When he reared up on his hind legs, she reached through the wire and stroked his soft head. This immediately gained the attention of a feisty Jack Russell terrier who pounced over to nudge the spaniel out of the way.
Too bad she couldn’t save these furry sweeties. Their lives were equally sad, but disgustingly legal, products of puppy mills all over the country. She tested the air again. Definitely less pleasant on this side of the shop, but lingering disinfectant made the smell tolerable.
She glanced back at the clerk. He kept his head down and remained focused on his reading, so she continued toward her target: the birds. She needed evidence. Even from a distance of six feet she could see that their legs were banded, supposed proof of being bred in captivity. But she knew better. The barbarians now created counterfeit bands to thwart the Fish and Wildlife Commission’s attempts to curb smuggling.
As if counterfeit bands could make this group of wild birds appear tame.
Of course, FWC didn’t approve of her unorthodox methods. Even less of her trips to South America with the Tropical Bird Society to stop poachers at the source. Bird smuggling was hardly a high priority to the US government. They were much more worried about drugs. FWC didn’t have enough manpower or budget to stop thousands of birds from being murdered each year.
She reached inside her jeans pocket, fingers tightening around her phone. She needed one good peek at a counterfeit band for confirmation. She’d take photos, enlarge them and she’d have her proof.
The door clanged behind her, signaling the entry of another customer. Her heart tripped into a faster pace again, but maybe this arrival would provide a distraction from her own activities.
The clerk murmured a greeting, and the newcomer, a male, grunted a reply as June leaned closer and peered at the leg of a magnificent scarlet macaw who glared back at her with haughty disdain. The bird stepped away with a short cackle.
“Hold still, my beauty,” June whispered, focusing on the leg band, looking for the telltale signs of the fake markers, a bruised leg and missing scales—yes, there. Definitely bogus. She nodded to herself. But she already knew that.
With another sideways look at the clerk, she raised her phone, positioning her body to hide her actions. The second customer—a man—stepped next to her. She ignored him and raised the camera. You’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, buddy. Sorry.
The customer said something during her first click, but he whispered his words and she couldn’t stop gathering evidence to ask him to repeat himself. She kept clicking, gathering images of as many captives as possible.
“Hey” came a rough shout from behind her. “What the hell you think you’re doing?”
June ignored the clerk. Beside her the new guy spoke again—the inflection sounding like a question—but his words were lost in the resumed squawking of agitated birds roused by the hostility of the clerk hurrying toward her.
“Damn it, lady. Stop taking photographs.”
June didn’t stop until a rough hand closed around her upper left arm and squeezed hard.
“Hey,” she said, trying to pull away. “That hurts.”
“It’s gonna hurt a lot more if you don’t hand over that camera.”
She glared at him—but went still when she met his dark eyes. Fear flared in her belly as the man tightened his grip. This was precisely what Agent Gillis had warned her about. She shouldn’t have come alone when Jared got sick and canceled.
She slid the phone into her pocket. “Let go of me or I’ll file an assault charge.”
“I don’t think so, lady. You just give me your phone.”
“Or what?”
“Or else you’ll be very sorry. These are my birds, and I don’t want you taking photographs.”
So he was the owner. Bad luck, but explained his vigilance. June again tried to wrench out of his grasp, but he only squeezed harder. She swallowed, the pain in her arm now making it difficult to concentrate. She pushed away the stirrings of panic. Would this man really hurt her?
Hell, yes. The jerk’s greed caused the murder of hundreds of smuggled birds.
“I’ll scream,” she said.
“And who do you think will care?”
Before she could answer, a brilliant red bird swooped over her head. She ducked instinctively, as did the shop owner.
“What the—” the owner shouted, finally, blessedly, releasing his grip.
The macaw flapped madly, but clipped wings made it impossible for him to go far.
Rubbing her arm, June turned in time to watch the new customer fling open the last cage and urge its prisoners to flee.
“What are you doing?” the owner shouted.
As if in answer, birds streamed out of confinement. Triumphant screeches resonated through the shop as feathered creatures in hues of green, blue, red and yellow attempted flight, but most only hopped awkwardly around shelves and the filthy floor of the shop.
The front door clanged again, and June focused on the back of the liberator as he rushed outside. A flight-worthy yellow-headed parrot zoomed for the opening. Oh, no. Fearing he’d be crushed by the closing door, she held her breath. But vivid green wings flapped through safely and disappeared into a patch of blue sky, no doubt headed for the closest tree.
“Shit,” the owner moaned.
With a sigh, June withdrew her phone again and called the police.
* * *
DETECTIVE DEAN HAMMER heaved himself out of his police cruiser into heavy tropical air. Shaking his head, he eyeballed the peeling paint of the mom-and-pop pet shop in the seedy business section of North Miami Beach—a long eight miles from South Beach. He’d been busted not only off his beat, but off his regular gig. His lieutenant’s cute idea of punishment. Yeah, real cute.
“Hey, Hawk,” his temporary partner—a fresh-faced rookie whose training was also part of his exile—asked across the roof of the vehicle, “when was the last time you responded to a disturbance at a pet shop?”
“Yeah, well, that would be never, Sanchez.”
Sanchez grinned. “Do you think the pets inside are rioting?”
“Funny. If you learn one thing while working with me, Sanchez, you need to be ready for anything on a call.”
Sanchez nodded and glanced toward the shop’s facade. “Yeah, I know, I know.”
You just think you know, rookie. Dean patted the Kevlar vest under his shirt and moved toward the entrance. “Things can go south in a heartbeat.”
“And you must be prepared,” Sanchez mimicked. “I bet you won’t need your Remington M24 here, though.”
“God, I hope not,” Dean said as he jerked open the door. A sniper gun at a pet shop? A giant cowbell clanged overhead as he entered.
“Jeez,” Sanchez breathed behind him over a cacophony of shrieking birds. “What the hell happened here?”
Good question, Dean thought, focusing on dozens of colorful parrots hopping and leaping in aborted flight attempts around the shop. No bodies. No citizens bleeding. No apparent robbery.
Damn if Sanchez hadn’t nailed it. The birds had staged a riot and broken out.
A man, presumably an employee, chased the animals with little success. As soon as he got close to a parrot, the bird squawked and deftly hopped away. He’d managed to capture a few, though, since cages in the rear of the shop housed parrots. Dean looked for and spotted a surveillance camera on the back wall.
“Be careful where you walk,” the man shouted. “Don’t step on any of them.”
“Uh, right,” Dean said, his attention zeroing in on the only other person in the shop, a tall, knockout blonde in her midtwenties who stood by the cash register yacking on a cell phone.
“And arrest her,” the bird chaser said. “She’s responsible for this.”
Arrest her? Dean’s mood lightened. He’d like to interrogate this one, her sophisticated beauty reminding him of the Russian models who frequented Ocean Drive.
“You the owner?” Dean asked the man.
After a pause where he seemed to consider his answer, he said, “Yes. David Glover.”
“Did she release the birds?” Sanchez yelled over the bird noise.
“I did not,” the woman replied. She lowered her phone and gave the owner a look that would freeze lava.
“But your partner did,” the owner shouted.
“I don’t have a partner,” she said.
“Yeah, right. Like you never saw the guy before.”
“Never. And you’re the one who should be arrested.”
“For what?”
The blonde turned to Dean. “I called the authorities.”
“You bitch,” Glover said. “Only because I was too busy with—”
“Hold on, hold on,” Dean interjected, the squawking of both human and bird now giving him a major headache. “Sanchez, help this guy round up the birds while I interview this nice lady.”
The blonde nodded and dropped her phone into a large purse slung over her shoulder, its strap pressing between very nice breasts.
Sanchez grinned. “Good thing you warned me to be ready for anything.”
“You’re a real comedian, Sanchez.” Dean pointed a finger at the owner. “We’ll talk after you get your merchandise under control.”
The blonde smiled. “Let me know how that turns out,” she said to the owner.
Dean suppressed a laugh and interrupted the owner’s heated response. She had a point. The shopkeeper wasn’t dealing well with his escapees.
“You got an office in the back I can use?” he asked.
Dean noted Glover’s second hesitation. Apparently the man had secrets to protect. “I won’t look at a thing,” Dean said, holding up his arms.
“Yeah, go ahead,” Glover said and resumed chasing his birds, sidestepping around a growing accumulation of bird droppings.
The blonde smiled again, obviously finding the owner’s frustrated lunges for his elusive birds hilarious. Glad to escape the noise, Dean ushered the woman toward the back. He liked the way she moved—her legs seemed to glide over the floor and she held herself with perfect graceful posture.
Inside the tiny dump of an office, he motioned for her to sit in a chair facing a messy desk. He also sat and removed his interview notebook.
“Why aren’t you in uniform?” she asked.
“Because I’m a detective.”
Her eyes widened. “They sent a detective?”
Dean nodded. “Bird riots demand the full attention of the Miami Beach Police Department.”
“Ha-ha.”
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
“June Latham.”
“Address?”
After he got the basics, he said, “So, why don’t you tell me what happened here this morning, Ms. Latham?”
“This pet shop markets illegally captured wild birds.”
Dean glanced up from his notes. “How do you know?”
“Their leg bands are counterfeit.” She shifted her weight to one hip and crossed a slim, shapely leg. “I came here to gather proof for Fish and Wildlife.”
Dean rubbed his chin, thinking. “So you liberated these illegal birds so they could fly free again.”
“Of course not. Releasing them without a safe harbor plan could harm them.” She bit her bottom lip and looked down. “Actually, I should go help that clod before he harms one. He has no idea how to handle birds.”
“And you do?”
“Yes.” She leaned forward. “Can you arrest him?”
“Like he said, for what?”
“For selling illegal—”
“I think you know I can’t do that.”
She sat back and crossed her arms. “An arrest would teach him a lesson.”
“Not my job.” Although, considering his forced time with rookie Sanchez, maybe lessons were his job. “So, who released the birds? That’s the crime I’m investigating.”
“I don’t know who he was. Some customer in the shop. I never saw him before.”
“Give me a description.”
She shrugged. “I barely looked at him. Maybe fifty or sixty, bald. Taller than me, maybe six feet. Really thin.”
“Not bad for barely looking at him,” Dean said. “So, what happened?”
“When that jerk grabbed my arm— Hey, that’s a crime.” She sat up straighter. “Assault.”
“Do you want to file charges?”
She leaned back, glancing toward the outer room. “Let me think about that.”
“Go on. The owner grabbed you...”
June Latham rubbed her arm with long, graceful fingers. Dean followed her movements, noting with disgust a red mark where someone had taken a stranglehold on her body. No question the area would bruise. He also noted well-toned biceps and triceps and wondered where she worked out.
“He wanted my phone. He wouldn’t let go of me. We argued. Suddenly a macaw flew over my head. When I turned, I saw this customer opening all the cages and urging the birds to escape.”
“So you maintain you had nothing to do with releasing the birds.”
She raised her chin. “I never lie.”
“Good to know,” he said, closing his notepad, believing she told the truth today. But everybody lied on occasion. “You’re free to go.” Review of the video surveillance would reveal if there had even been a crime.
She didn’t move. “You’re not going to do anything about the smuggled birds, are you?”
“I wish I could.” See, now, there was a lie. Although he’d love to score points with this tall, blonde goddess, he was a homicide cop, not a bird savior.
“Do you know that wildlife smuggling is the third largest illegal trade in the world economy? Only drugs and weapons are bigger.”
Actually, no, he didn’t know that little factoid. But of course she didn’t lie. “So take your proof to Fish and Wildlife.”
“You know the birds will be gone by the time they act.”
“I can’t help that.”
“You could impound the birds as evidence.”
Dean assessed the woman before him. So here he had a true bleeding-heart activist. A rare breed these days, thank God, because they were nothing but a giant pain in the ass. “When I talk to Mr. Glover, will he admit the birds are illegal?”
“No.”
“Then it’s your word against his.”
“But remember I have proof,” she said, holding up her phone. “And I repeat, you could take the birds into protective custody pending investigation.”
A bunch of shrieking, pooping birds in the Miami Beach Police Station? Yeah, that’d get him out of his lieutenant’s shit can.
Dean handed her his card. You never knew. Maybe she’d call. “Let me talk to the owner. I’ll document your allegations in my report, but that’s the best I can do.”
“That’s the best you can do?” Disdain laced her words. “Really?”
Dean stood. Not likely she’d be calling. “You’re free to go, Ms. Latham.”
“But the birds aren’t.” With a final frosty glare, she moved toward the door.
* * *
JUNE DESCENDED FROM the rear exit of a county bus at her stop on Brickell Avenue. The monstrous vehicle belched poison out its exhaust pipe, changed gears with a low rumble and lurched north toward downtown Miami.
She removed her cotton sweater, thankful for the hot August sun to thaw out her supercooled skin. Bus drivers in Miami always kept their AC at arctic levels, since hot air blasted their faces at each stop. Her shoulder muscles relaxed as she breathed the salty fragrance from nearby Biscayne Bay. Dwarfed by scores of surrounding condo towers, she walked the landscaped path toward the Enclave’s entrance. At least she was home.
What a disastrous morning. And she’d accomplished nothing.
Actually, she’d succeeded in something: stressing out an already traumatized group of birds.
She rubbed her arm, which still ached where that horrible man had squeezed. And the gorgeous raven-haired cop, Detective Hammer, had seemed more interested in ogling her than doing his job. Picturing his handsome face with its I’ve-seen-it-all-before expression, she wanted to dismiss him from her thoughts but couldn’t. There had been something about him, something darkly vital that warned her as surely as the noisy bell at the pet shop.
Of course she’d email her photos to Agent Gillis, but by the time Fish and Wildlife noticed, the birds could be shipped to California.
Would Glover harm them? She hated to think he’d dispose of living creatures to avoid a fine. But why wouldn’t he? He obviously didn’t care that intelligent animals had been wrenched from their jungle homes, shipped under dreadful conditions a thousand miles away and then cooped up inside a tiny prison. And to think she’d even helped round up the darlings and placed them back in jail so Glover couldn’t break a wing, the whole time acutely aware of the detective’s intense blue eyes scrutinizing her movements. Hammer had even helped her corner one African gray parrot.
So she’d only made matters worse for the birds. Maybe she should listen to Agent Gillis and stop her commando raids to gather proof. Unless...well, maybe Glover wouldn’t be so quick to deal with poachers next time one approached him. That was something, wasn’t it?
Something, not much. But no, she couldn’t stop. She had to try.
The condo’s automatic doors whooshed open, and she entered the chilly elegance of the Enclave’s lobby.
“Why such a sad face, Junie?”
Jerked from her tumbling thoughts, she nodded to Magda, the condo’s dark-haired, eagle-eyed concierge seated in her usual spot behind the sleek oak counter.
“My goodness,” Magda continued in her lilting accent, “you look like the condo association made you get rid of Lazarus.”
Alarm shot down June’s spine. Nothing happened in this thirty-story building that Magda didn’t know about first. “Has there been another meeting? What have you heard?”
Magda held up long, manicured fingers. “I was kidding.”
June blew out a breath. Not funny, but Magda couldn’t know how worried she was about that rumor. Among others. “Good.”
Magda leaned forward, resting on her forearms. “So, what’s wrong, sweetie?”
“Just a rotten morning,” June said. The less said about her investigative activities, the better.
“Were your buses late again?” Magda persisted.
“Actually, the system stayed on schedule today.”
Magda shook her head. “I don’t know how you manage to get around Miami on a bus.”
“You just have to make that commitment,” June said and then added with a grin, “and allow enough time.”
“I need my car. Will your uncle be at the Labor Day party this year?”
“He hasn’t decided.” June removed her key from her purse and stepped to the bank of mailboxes on the wall left of Magda’s position. “The weather’s been great in New York, so he’s not sure he wants to come when it’s so humid here.”
“So, when was the last time you drove the Cobra?”
June paused in removing mail from her slot. When had she last driven Uncle Mike’s antique gas-guzzler? She’d promised to fire it up at least once a week. She grabbed mail and stuffed it inside her bag. “Thanks for the reminder. Guess I’m going down to the dungeon later.”
Magda’s face wreathed in a maternal smile. “I know you hate the parking levels.”
“What would I do without you, Maggie Mae?”
Magda blushed, looking pleased. “Oh, you do fine, Junie.”
“The jury is still out on that. Will I see you at the pool later?”
“Of course,” Magda replied, buzzing June through the security door to the elevators.
Stepping inside a waiting car, June punched PH and swiped her fob to allow the elevator to ascend to the thirtieth floor. She closed her eyes as she was gently swept upward—like the wings of a bird flying up to her private aerie in the sky.
No, she reminded herself, opening her eyes. Her uncle’s aerie. A temporary refuge. She must never forget this luxury didn’t belong to her. Not anymore. Not for a long time.
And really nothing had ever been hers. Greed had been her parents’ downfall. Had she once been like them? She couldn’t remember.
What did it matter anyway? Nothing she remembered from her idyllic childhood had been real.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_59926acf-27ac-5505-bf2c-794631854ada)
DEAN RUBBED EYES strained from watching grainy surveillance video and leaned back in his chair. He’d played the bird-shop security video four times since returning to the station. It backed up June Latham’s version of events.
She and the mystery man hadn’t entered the premises together. He’d released the birds while the owner confronted June. She never spoke to the guy before he rabbited out of the store.
Dean lifted his mug from the table and swigged cold coffee. Why the hell did the guy open those cages? Maybe he got religion from the sight of Ms. Latham and decided to help her cause. Dean snorted. That was as likely a reason as any. Who knew why citizens did anything anymore?
And why did he give a fig about June and her smuggled birds? He’d told his rookie the review was good training. Yeah, right.
“I don’t see a crime to investigate,” Sanchez said beside him.
“Not by the woman,” Dean said.
“Glover won’t be happy.”
Dean nodded, remembering the shop owner’s sputtering outrage when June walked free. Hell, even if he tracked down this bird liberator, what would be the charge? A misdemeanor—malicious mischief or some such nonsense. Hardly worth the police’s time. “He’ll get over it.”
“Do you think Glover’s birds are illegal?”
“Who knows?” Dean shrugged. What he really meant was Who cares? “Not our jurisdiction. But I told the woman I’d send my report to Fish and Wildlife.”
A grinning Detective Lloyd Miller entered the viewing room with a steaming mug and glanced at the scene frozen on the monitor. Dean knew what Miller saw. Escaped parrots covering the floor and shelves of the North Beach Pet Shop.
“Whoa, Hawk. So the rumor is true. You got yourself a serious situation here. Birds on the lam, huh?”
“Haven’t you got somewhere else to be, Miller?”
“And here I come with a sincere effort to help your new case,” Miller said with an injured air. “My seven-year-old daughter has a little green parakeet named Birdie Bird. I’m offering her expert assistance with this bird caper.”
Sanchez snickered.
Dean gave Miller the finger. He should be used to the mocking. The entire station had been riding him since the lieutenant busted him back to patrol. Didn’t matter what case he caught, his fellow officers loved to remind him how low he had sunk.
Miller sat down and raised his mug toward the viewing screen. “I say blast those felonious birds from the air with your rifle. Tough shot, I know, but you’re just the man for the job.”
“Are you really as good a shot as they say?” Sanchez asked.
“Oh, he’s good,” Miller replied. “State champion. And very quick on the trigger, right, Hawk?”
Dean squeezed his mug, staring at his trigger finger. Best not to react. The less he said in response to this schoolhouse shit, the quicker the shit would end.
“It’s why we call him Hawk,” Miller added.
“I’ve never taken a shot that wasn’t righteous,” Dean told Sanchez.
“Not even the Wilcox kid?” Sanchez asked.
Dean leveled a look at the rookie. Damn rumors. “The Wilcox ‘kid’ was eighteen going on thirty-five with a rap sheet three miles long. He threatened his two young hostages with a semiautomatic.”
“And you took him down?”
“Something like that,” Dean said, shoved paperwork on the bird-shop case into a file. He’d been right to take that shot. He didn’t regret a damn thing he’d done that day—only Lieutenant Marshall’s decision to punish him for acting before the captain’s go-ahead. But his lieutenant hadn’t been on scene. Marshall didn’t see what Dean saw through his scope.
Had he been too quick? No frigging way. The way he saw it, only the bad guy died that day. He should have gotten a commendation, not reassignment.
Lieutenant Marshall entered the viewing room carrying a slip of paper. Dean sat up, glad he hadn’t made his thoughts verbal.
“Your lucky day, Hammer.” Marshall handed Dean the assignment sheet. “We got a body in the Sea Wave Hotel on Ocean Terrace, and I got nobody else to send. Take Sanchez. And don’t shoot anyone.”
* * *
DEAN TURNED ONTO Ocean Terrace and drove past a boarded-up art deco hotel on North Beach. If you asked him—and of course no one ever would—he considered its design as good as anything on South Beach. Not for the first time, he wondered why the beautiful people flocked to Ocean Drive seven miles south but avoided Ocean Terrace. Same beach, same architecture. But a homeless population wandered here instead of gorgeous European models.
A sleek twenty-five-story high-rise towered over the smaller historic gems, its shadow momentarily blocking the relentless August sun. Someone had tried to turn the neighborhood before the great economic bust. It’d happen eventually. Someday this area would become a gold mine for a brilliant developer with good timing.
But right now the only thing open was a half-assed surf shop instead of a celebrity-owned gourmet restaurant.
Across the street, Dean noted a large woman, hair covered with a bright yellow turban, sitting on a wheeled walker facing the dunes. Huge tortoiseshell sunglasses hid most of her face. Her head swiveled as she followed the police cruiser.
He also spotted a cart decorated with wooden and beaded jewelry on the wide sidewalk close to the dunes. Where was the owner? He or she would have to be found and interviewed.
“There it is,” Sanchez said, pointing to a three-story structure with faded pink and aqua paint. The roof featured a stair-step roofline, leading to a spire at the apex. Neon signage announced they’d arrived at the Sea Wave Hotel.
“I see it,” Dean said. Maybe five or six onlookers stood behind the crime-scene tape that blocked entrance to the hotel’s lobby. Filthy clothing, backpacks and a couple of shopping carts told Dean these were street people.
He continued his assessment as he braked to a stop in front of the Sea Wave. Not many people around. Pitiful few tourists—but of course South Florida was in the middle of the mean season.
The heat enveloped him like a wet sponge when he exited the air-conditioned cruiser. Not even 11:00 a.m. and already sweltering. He smelled the ocean—and damn if he couldn’t actually hear the crash of waves. You didn’t get that on Ocean Drive.
“Jeez, it’s hot,” Sanchez said.
“That’s why we live here, genius,” Dean said, still evaluating the scene. The subject hotel sat in the shadow of two larger properties, the one to the right part of a well-known hotel chain and better maintained.
Dean stared at the dirty glass block and one oversize porthole window in the hotel’s facade. A series of streamlined balconies wrapped around the sides of the structure. Satisfied he understood the setting, he stepped onto the hotel’s wide, covered porch, where he was met by a young male uniformed officer whose badge read Robert Kinney. Dean had seen him around but didn’t know him.
“You first on the scene?” Dean asked.
“Right,” Kinney said with a nod.
“What have we got?”
“Body on a balcony on the second floor. Gunshot wound to the head.”
“Who called it in?”
“Multiple 911 calls. A single shot was heard at 7:18 a.m.”
Damn early in the day for a murder. “Any witnesses?”
“No.”
“What else?”
The officer checked his notes. “The vic is one John Smith from Tulsa, Oklahoma.”
“John Smith? You’re kidding me, right?”
Kinney shrugged. “The room is registered to John Smith. Room twenty-two.”
“Okay. My partner and I will check the scene. You and other officers begin interviewing bystanders and determine if anybody saw anything.”
Dean entered the lobby and scanned its contents. Along the south wall, a sparse breakfast buffet on a long table. Straight ahead, stairs covered with filthy carpet led to a hall and rooms. To the right of the stairs was the front desk, where the only other occupant, a thirtysomething heavyset clerk, leaned against the counter, watching him. The way the guy rubbed his dark beard told Dean the clerk was plenty rattled. A surveillance camera hung over the desk.
Dean nodded at the clerk and proceeded up the stairs, followed by Sanchez. The carpet, which Dean noted was full of sand, covered the same cracked pink terrazzo as the lobby.
The door to unit twenty-two stood open. Dean looked through the room onto the balcony, where the medical examiner, Dr. Owen Fishman, a good man he’d worked with before, looked to be finishing up with the body. Dean nodded to himself and he pulled on latex gloves and cloth booties over his shoes. Excellent. He’d have control of the scene soon. The forensics team was still maybe ten minutes out.
“Inventory the room,” he told Sanchez. “And begin making sketches. We go in and out the same way each time we access the scene.”
The smell slammed into Dean when he crossed the seedy motel room toward the balcony. The smell was always the first thing. That coppery smell of old blood—lots of blood—and spilled guts.
God help him. He’d missed it.
He was back. He had a murder to investigate. Maybe his lieutenant had been right to bench him for a while to make him remember how much he loved his job. Maybe he’d needed that reminder to follow the rules.
Dean moved onto the balcony, where the ME completed his initial exam.
“Got a time of death?” Dean asked.
“Good morning, Hawk,” Dr. Fishman said with a grin. “So you’re back?”
“Depends on how quickly I can close this case.” Dean snapped a series of photos of the body with his phone.
“Well, we’ve got a mystery here.”
“Let me hear it.”
“I’m putting time of death approximately seven thirty. GSW to the head. I’d say the shooter was on the roof of the Night’s Inn next door.” Fishman motioned with his head.
Dean looked across a narrow alleyway to the Night’s Inn. “You’re saying a sniper took the vic out?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
But why? Dean wondered, taking a good look at the man’s face for the first time. This John Smith appeared to have lived on the streets for some time. Shabby clothes, no jewelry, dirty hair, unkempt.
So how did this down-and-out vic wind up on the balcony of a hotel, which although clearly not the Ritz, easily cost a hundred bucks a night? Definitely a mystery, Dean thought, feeling more jazzed every minute.
“The vic’s obviously a vagrant,” Fishman said, agreeing with Dean’s thought process. “No ID.”
“He pissed somebody off somewhere,” Dean said.
The doctor rose. “Will I see you at the autopsy?”
“You got it.”
Fishman grabbed his medical kit. “So, who would go to the trouble to set up a difficult shot on this guy?”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“Hawk,” Sanchez yelled.
Dean looked over and saw the forensics team had arrived and were suiting up to process the scene. He snapped a series of photos of the room, then exited to give the new arrivals space, careful to travel the same way he’d entered to avoid any more contamination than necessary.
“Come with me, Sanchez,” he said to his rookie. “We’re going to talk to the desk clerk.”
The clerk remained where Dean had last seen him, leaning against the desk counter watching the police activity. He straightened when Dean and Sanchez approached, a guarded expression on his bearded face.
“I’m Detective Dean Hammer, and this is Officer Ruben Sanchez.” Dean stuck out his hand for the clerk to shake it.
“Walt Ballard,” the clerk said, rubbing his hand on his jeans before shaking Dean’s.
“Were you on duty when the shot was fired?” Dean asked. He withdrew his spiral pad to make notes.
“Yeah. I start work at six a.m.”
“What can you tell me?”
“I’d just started a new pot of coffee for the breakfast buffet when I heard this pop. I knew right away it was a gunshot.”
“You familiar with guns?” Dean asked.
“Not really, but—well, it was a strange, scary sound. Not normal, you know. Nothing I heard around here before.”
“What happened next?”
Ballard shrugged. “Couple of screams from upstairs. Another guest came down, a guy, and told me there’d been a shooting. I called 911.”
“Did you go up?”
Ballard shook his head. “No, sir. I went nowhere near that room. I didn’t want to get shot.”
Dean believed him. “What can you tell me about this John Smith?”
“He checked in yesterday at noon. Polite enough, but secretive, like. Nervous, you know what I mean? Looking around constantly.”
“You ever see him around here before?”
“Never.”
“Did he have ID?”
Ballard hesitated. “He paid cash.”
Dean gave the clerk a hard look. “You don’t require ID?”
“If a prospective guest has cash, we let him stay. This time of year it’s tough for the owner to break even.”
“Did he have luggage?”
“One small airline carry-on type with wheels. Black.”
Dean nodded. That was what he’d seen in the room. “Did he have a vehicle? Ask about parking?”
“No.”
“Did you see anyone suspicious that morning?”
“No one but our regulars wanting a handout when I shut down the buffet.”
Dean stared at Ballard, looking for obvious tells that the man was hiding something. “Didn’t you think it odd that a vagrant had cash to pay for the room?”
“What do you mean?” Ballard looked confused. “John Smith might not be his real name, but he wasn’t any vagrant. Believe me, I know the type. There’s plenty in this neighborhood.”
Dean withdrew his phone and brought up a photo of the body. He shoved the phone in Ballard’s face. “That John Smith, the guy you checked into room twenty-two?”
Ballard’s eyes widened. He looked as though he’d hurl.
“Jesus,” he breathed. “Oh, man. Oh, shit.”
“That’s not John Smith?”
“No, sir, that’s not John Smith. That’s Rocky. He’s homeless, a regular, hangs around here all the time. Sweetest guy ever. I let him sweep up and eat leftovers from the buffet when I shut it down.”
* * *
“SO, WHAT SEEMS to be the problem with Killer today?” June asked Mrs. Callahan, the elderly owner of the tiny Yorkshire terrier shivering uncontrollably on the examination table. June stroked her hand across the dog’s soft head, and he raised pleading, liquid eyes to her face.
Killer really didn’t want to be here. But then most dogs hated a trip to the veterinarian, knowing precisely where they were the second they entered the door and certain they were in for some cruel torture—like an injection via a long, sharp needle.
“I just don’t know what to do,” Mrs. Callahan answered. “He won’t stop trying to eat his rear end.”
“It’s okay, sweetie,” June murmured to the dog. “I won’t hurt you.” She ran a gentle hand across the dog’s bluish-gray fur to comfort him, then backstroked to look for problems and found an angry, inflamed area.
“We’ve got a hot spot back here,” June said. “Have you checked for fleas?”
“My Killer does not have fleas,” Mrs. Callahan stated, peering over her thick glasses.
“Are you treating him with preventative medicine?” The dog twitched beneath June’s hand, then licked her fingers.
“Oh, I don’t believe in chemicals.”
“I see,” June said. “But he’s got fleas. Lots of them. That’s why he’s scratching.”
Mrs. Callahan’s face flushed. “Are you sure?”
“I’m afraid so.” June parted Killer’s fur to expose pink skin, and two or three of the hateful biting beasties scurried for cover.
Mrs. Callahan’s mouth popped open. “Oh, no. Poor Killer. I—I swear I looked and didn’t see any.”
The woman looked so distressed and embarrassed, June smiled at her. Both Mom and patient needed comforting today. And Mom might need new glasses.
“Dr. Trujillo will be in shortly, but don’t worry. She’ll give Killer something to make him more comfortable.”
“Thank you, Junie.”
“You’re welcome. Just be patient. The doctor is running a little behind this morning.”
June stepped out of Killer’s examination room just as Dr. Marisol Trujillo arrived. Her boss, the owner of Brickell Animal Hospital, wore her customary starched white lab coat over casual slacks, her smiling face framed by short hair that had turned a shade of soft gray at age fifty. Dr. Trujillo held a cafecito from Café Lulu in her right hand. June closed the examining room door, thinking that tiny foam cup contained enough caffeine to power a jet.
“Sorry I’m late, June,” the doctor said in her lilting Hispanic accent. “Dios Mio, you know what traffic can be on US One.”
“Actually, no.” June stepped behind the hospital’s counter and grinned at her boss. “Remember I walk to work.”
“Don’t rub it in. I know all about your light carbon footprint.” The doctor took a sip of coffee and left bright red lipstick on the rim of the white cup. “Any emergencies?”
“No, we’re good. Only Mrs. Callahan with Killer in room one.”
The doctor sighed and moved toward her office at the rear of the hospital. “What is it this time?”
“Fleas.”
Dr. Trujillo didn’t pause. “Of course it is. I’ll be right in.”
“Killer is shaking so hard I think the fleas might jump off to save themselves from whiplash.”
The doctor laughed and entered her office as the front door to the animal hospital opened. Knowing it couldn’t be Elaine, Dr. Trujillo’s receptionist, June glanced over to find Agent Donald Gillis, her contact with the Fish and Wildlife Commission, an old and dear friend of her parents’, stepping into the waiting room.
Had he already been to North Beach Pet Shop? Had he rescued the birds? She’d emailed him her photos almost immediately, but realized it was much too early for him to have visited North Beach and returned. Plus, that didn’t look like a pleased expression on his handsome, dignified face.
“Agent Gillis,” June said.
Gillis nodded. “June.”
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Although she had a sneaking suspicion.
“Well, let’s see. Something about escaped birds taking over a pet shop on North Beach?”
June sighed and sat down in a swivel chair. She’d kept such worrisome details out of her email and hadn’t expected Gillis to hear about yesterday’s disaster so quickly.
“Who ratted me out?” Had Dean Hammer actually contacted Fish and Wildlife? The idea improved her opinion of the guy, but there was no way Gillis could have seen any report this fast.
“Your buddy Jared posted the photos on Tropical Bird Society’s Facebook page.”
“Oh, great,” June muttered. Jared was a Facebook junkie. “I didn’t know you were a friend of our society.”
“How else am I going to follow your dangerous activities?”
“I didn’t do anything dangerous.”
“Jared’s post said you went alone.”
Oops. June looked down to the desk. Damn Jared and his Facebook fetish. “He got sick. But it was broad daylight in a public place. I was fine.” She met Gillis’s eyes again, resisting the urge to rub the sore, bruised area on her left arm.
“We’ve talked about this, June. Confronting smugglers is a terrible idea.”
“This guy wasn’t the smuggler, just a greedy consumer of cheap, illegal birds.”
“Please let my agency take care of it. It’s our job.”
“But you’re too damn slow,” June said. “And you know it. You should be on Miami Beach right now confiscating those poor birds instead of lecturing me.”
“You could get hurt, June.”
“I’m careful. I promise. Don’t worry about me.”
A small smile softened Gillis’s face. “I promised your parents I’d look out for you.”
June stiffened. “So you’ve told me.”
“They were worried about what would happen to you if they went to prison.”
“Uncle Mike took care of me.”
“June. Your parents loved you very much.”
“Yeah? Seems to me they loved their money more.”
“I’m sorry you think that way.”
She raised her chin. “Come on. Weren’t you disappointed by what they did?”
Gillis looked away, so June knew she’d touched a nerve. He was trying to use guilt over her parents to make her cease her commando raids, when he had to have been hurt, embarrassed even, by their criminal activity.
“Everyone makes mistakes,” he said.
“But some mistakes can’t be undone.”
Gillis remained quiet for a moment, and she wondered if he’d become lost in memories of good times. Gillis’s deceased wife and her parents had been best friends. The couples frequently traveled and socialized together.
“Do any of their old employees ever contact you?” he asked in a wistful tone.
“You mean employees of Latham Imports?”
“Yeah. Your parents had some very loyal workers who took the criminal charges and the fire hard. I thought some might stay in touch.”
“I haven’t talked to any of them since the funeral, but Uncle Mike spirited me away.” June shrugged, wishing Agent Gillis hadn’t brought up her parents. “Truthfully I try not to think about my life before the fire.”
Gillis’s eyes widened. “Oh, but, June, you—”
The phone jangled. Elaine, the receptionist, wouldn’t be in until later. “I’ve got to get back to work,” June said. “Are you going to check out the birds on North Beach?”
“The shop opens at ten a.m., and I’ll be waiting.”
“Thanks,” June said, reaching for the phone. But she suspected the parrots were long gone by now; who knew where and under what conditions? If Detective Hammer had agreed to take them into custody for safekeeping, she wouldn’t have to worry about where they disappeared to. But no, the man couldn’t be bothered to even check out her photographic evidence.
As the image of the detective eased into her brain, she shook her head, knowing it wouldn’t soon leave. His dark good looks crept into her thoughts way more than they should, especially considering how uncooperative he’d been with her investigation. Yes, the man was gorgeous in that bad-boy sort of way and in fabulous physical shape—to be honest, the sexiest man she’d seen in a long time—but she didn’t get what she found so compelling about him, even if he had helped with the bird roundup.
But Gillis was right about one thing. She needed to be more careful. When she got caught gathering evidence, it only made circumstances more difficult for already stressed birds.
She looked at the bruise on her left arm, remembering how much it had hurt when Glover grabbed her and squeezed. She rotated her shoulder and felt a dull ache. No real harm done. Still, even if she wouldn’t admit it to anyone but herself, she had been frightened.
From now on she’d only go on a raid when she had backup available.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_6b8e09dc-b415-5497-a9f2-f3f8610a14d5)
DEAN STEPPED ONTO the roof of the Night’s Inn and examined his surroundings, looking for signs of a sniper. A strong onshore breeze swirled around him, and the afternoon sun beat down on his shoulders. Heat shimmered off patches of black tar beneath his feet. He could see and hear the crashing waves of the Atlantic Ocean to his east. The high-rises of downtown Miami were visible far to the northwest.
He walked to the south edge of the structure. Below him, the vic’s balcony jutted from the Sea Wave in plain view. The body had been removed—already on its way to the morgue—but dark blood stained the concrete floor. Yellow crime-scene tape flapped in the gusty wind in front of the hotel.
Beside him, a huge olive-green air-conditioning compressor provided good cover. He nodded. Perfect place to hide.
All the shooter had to do was hunker down beside the compressor and wait for the target to step onto the balcony. Dean examined loose gravel next to the machinery and, yeah, a disturbed area indicated someone had moved around up here. No clear shoeprints to make a mold.
How long had the perp waited for his victim? All night? No, the shooter had probably positioned himself just before daybreak, but time in the hide could stretch out forever.
Dean closed one eye and held up his thumb as if taking aim. He sucked salty, humid air into his lungs. Wait for it, he told himself and let out half his breath, finding the most stable part of the cycle. No tremors. The best time to take the shot.
No doubt that was what the murderer had done. Dean felt that certainty shimmering in the steamy air around him. But why? He needed to find out who this vagrant was, what he’d done that would make someone kill him.
Dean searched the roof, but found no evidence that would help him identify the sniper. Whoever he was, he—or she—was damn good. They’d left nothing behind to give them away. But that was what he’d expected. Someone skilled enough to make that shot would also be careful. Very careful. And cautious.
Satisfied with his examination of the roof, Dean descended stairs reeking of stale urine. Likely vagrants figured out a way to sleep here on rainy nights.
On the slow elevator ride back to the Night’s Inn lobby, he decided to send Forensics to the roof to process the area, although he doubted they’d find any trace of whoever had shot Rocky—a name as likely to be fake as John Smith.
Damn, just who was this Rocky? Why did someone want him dead?
Motivation, he thought. I need to find the motivation and then I’ll know why, and that can lead me to the who.
He hoped the desk clerk had the surveillance video ready. They’d caught a break there, as the owner kept his lobby video a week because of a string of recent burglaries in the area. Dean hoped for a good image of John Smith and anyone else entering the Sea Wave in the past twenty-four hours. Although a shot of the perp was unlikely. His emerging profile of the shooter didn’t indicate the man was stupid.
Sanchez met him on the terrazzo porch of the Sea Wave. “Anything?” he asked.
“Nada,” Dean said. “Roof area was clean. Have you finished with the possible witnesses?”
Sanchez nodded. “Nobody saw anything suspicious.”
“Talk to them again. Find out if anyone sleeps in the stairwell leading to the roof next door.”
“You’re thinking they could have seen someone heading up?”
“You never know. I’m going to check out the surveillance. Find me when you’re done.”
Dean entered the lobby. He spotted Ballard in an office behind the front desk and moved in that direction.
Ballard looked up from working with antiquated video equipment. “I’m not quite ready, Detective.”
“What’s the problem?”
“It’s slow. I’m still looping back the twenty-four hours you wanted.”
“How long?”
“Give me ten more minutes.”
Dean nodded, but frustration gnawed at him. Time was ticking. The first forty-eight hours were critical. He glanced outside to the ferocious glare of the tropical August sun and spotted the woman with the yellow turban by the dunes still perched on her walker. She was facing the hotels now, looking away from the beach, probably watching the police activity.
Time for a little chat.
She watched him approach, but her expression didn’t change. When he got near, he could see his reflection in her huge sunglasses and suspected she had corrective lenses behind the dark ones. He noted a blue cooler in a wire shelf at the bottom of the walker.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said.
“You a cop?” she asked.
“Good guess,” he said and displayed his badge.
“Thought so. Someone got murdered, didn’t they?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Been out here since daybreak. Heard the shot, then saw the body come out. Don’t have to be a rocket scientist.”
“You heard the shot?”
“Sure did.” The woman pulled a tall can of beer from her cooler and took a long drink. Condensation rolled down onto her hands. She put the beer back in its nest of ice. “Was wondering when someone’d come talk to me.”
Dean wondered how much she’d had to drink, hoping she hadn’t started with beer at seven thirty. “Could you tell where the shot came from?”
She pointed toward the roof of the Night’s Inn. “I seen the tip of the rifle right there.”
Dean felt a smile form. He’d been right to talk to this woman. “Did you see the shooter?”
“Sure did.”
Finally. Dean withdrew his notepad. “Male?”
“Male, but couldn’t see his face, so don’t ask me to make no sketch. He had a hat pulled down low. Couldn’t even see the color of his hair.”
“Age?”
“Couldn’t tell. But he was tall and quick, like. Skedaddled out of there within a minute. Knew what he was doing.” The woman nodded. “Just like in the movies.”
Dean hoped her report wasn’t a figment of the woman’s imagination, a result of too many Hollywood movies and too many swigs of beer. “Why didn’t you report seeing the gun?”
“Yeah, right.” She shrugged. “No one believes an old lady.”
“What’s your name, ma’am?” He talked to his witness a few more minutes, but got no further useful information. She lived in a local apartment, so he could contact her later, if necessary.
Across the street, he spotted Sanchez reinterviewing the street peeps on the porch of the Sea Wave. Sweat ran down Dean’s back, and he envied his partner’s shade. With a sigh, Dean moved toward the woman with the beads, but a quick interview told him she’d set up her cart around 9:30 a.m. and hadn’t even been in the area when the shooting went down. Dean shut his notebook and walked back to the hotel.
Ballard had the surveillance video ready to view in the small office, so Dean sat at the desk preparing himself for more eye strain. Jeez. What luck to have two cases in two days with video to sift through. But that was modern police work. Everything had gone digital and high-tech.
“Any way to speed this up?” he asked the clerk as the video rolled.
“The red button.”
“Thanks. Say, you got any coffee left?” A shot of caffeine was just what he needed for the task ahead.
When Ballard returned with lukewarm brew, Dean murmured his thanks and continued reviewing the video. Most of it was a static view that captured the front desk and entrance to the guest room area. When a figure entered the frame, Dean slowed the stream to real time to try to make an ID, look for anything suspicious. He wanted to find when Rocky had gone through that doorway to his death, see who the man had talked to.
He’d been watching for over thirty minutes when Sanchez joined him. Dean paused the surveillance. “Anything?”
“Nobody saw a thing.”
Maybe they did and maybe they didn’t.
Street people didn’t give up information without some cash motivation, which this case didn’t yet warrant. And when they did reveal details, frequently the intel was fiction, brought into existence via a painful past and too much booze. The homeless were seldom reliable witnesses, but you couldn’t discount their version of events immediately.
Dean nodded and rolled his chair to give the rookie more room to watch.
A quick blip on the left of the frame caught his attention. A man had entered and moved out of view toward the buffet table. Dean backed up and slowed the video down. All he could see was half a shoulder, but something about the man looked familiar.
He stayed out of the frame for two minutes, but then reentered and stood by the entrance to the hallway in full view of the camera.
Dean sat up straighter. Holy shit.
“Hey,” Sanchez said in an excited voice. “That’s the guy from the pet shop, the bozo that released the birds. He’s even wearing the same ugly shirt.”
Dean made a note of the time. Three thirty yesterday afternoon, three hours after the pet-shop incident.
As he watched, Rocky, the dead vic, sidled up to the bird liberator. The two spoke for several minutes. Rocky rubbed his abdominal area as if saying he was hungry. Seemed friendly enough, but Dean made a mental note to get a lip reader to watch the conversation. He needed a translation.
“Ballard,” Dean yelled toward the front desk, pausing the video. “Come in here.”
The clerk entered the office, eyebrows raised.
Dean indicated the monitor. “Who is this guy talking to Rocky?”
Ballard focused on the frozen image. “That’s John Smith.”
“The guy who rented the room?” Sanchez asked.
Ballard nodded.
“You’re sure?” Dean asked, a shot of adrenaline charging him up far better than any caffeine. The first break in a case was often the most important.
“No question,” Ballard said.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Dean said. What were the odds?
There had to be a connection between the delightful June Latham and John Smith. He needed to find what it was. Maybe Smith was another bird nut. Ms. Latham said she didn’t know him, but Dean now wondered about that.
He needed to have another conversation with her.
Dean checked the time. Just after three. He was almost done here. Should be no problem making it to the animal hospital where she worked before they closed at five.
* * *
JUNE STROKED HER palm across the velvety soft fur of a tiny black-and-white kitten in the cardboard box on a stainless-steel examining room table. The kitten arched his spine into her hand, obviously enjoying the attention. Three littermates, two more black-and-whites and one orange tabby, were extending their paws up the sides of the cardboard in a pitiful attempt at escape. They weren’t quite strong enough yet, but the undersize feral mama watched her babies nervously from inside a cage next to the box.
“That’s Oreo,” Felicia Mayer said, the client who’d brought the litter in.
“They’re adorable,” June said. “Where did you find them?”
“Believe it or not, Mama chose my backyard to give birth in.”
June glanced back to the mother, who now paced the cage, searching for her own escape. “Mama’s no dummy. She knows where food is available.”
Felicia, a dedicated cat lover, had founded Feline Rescue, an organization that trapped feral cats, had them spayed and then found safe homes. She used her ample powers of persuasion on Dr. Trujillo and other vets in the area to provide services at a reduced rate. June herself had donated more cash than she could afford to Felicia’s cause.
Felicia smiled and stroked the tabby, the runt of the litter. “The kits seem pretty healthy, but I wanted Dr. Trujillo to check them out.”
June estimated the kits to be four to six weeks old. Ready to be weaned. Oreo licked her finger with a rough tongue.
“You’re already attached to them, aren’t you?” June asked.
Felicia lifted the tabby and rubbed its fur across her cheek. Mama cat whined, a mournful sound. “Yes,” she said. “I couldn’t help it. They’re so cute and helpless.”
“Are you going to keep all five?”
Felicia shrugged and shot a glance to the mother. “Probably. Unless I find really good homes.”
“How many cats do you have now, Felicia?”
Felicia replaced the kit in the enclosure. “I feed about twenty, but they’re all spayed.”
June smiled at the thin, dark-haired woman who’d made it her mission to save every stray cat in South Florida. Considering her own work with birds, who was she to say a thing about Felicia’s obsession with felines? “You’re a good person.”
Felicia sighed. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just nuts.”
June heard the front door chime, indicating an arriving patient. “Let me go see who that is. Just wait here. The doctor is finishing up with another patient and will be in to check the kits shortly.”
“Thanks, June.”
“Shall I have Elaine make an appointment to have Mama spayed?”
Felicia nodded. “This will be her first and last litter.”
June gave Oreo’s fur another stroke and hurried to greet the new arrival, which according to the schedule should be Jessie, a goofy yellow Lab due for his annual checkup and the last appointment of the day.
But she heard a male voice say hello, and Jessie was always brought in by Sarah Weksler, a recent divorcee.
“May I help you?” Elaine asked in her most professional voice, usually reserved for men, preferably widowers she hoped would invite her to dinner.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Detective Dean Hammer and this is my partner, Ruben Sanchez. We need to speak with June Latham, please.”
Elaine asked, “What’s this about?” as June rounded the corner.
Hammer saw her and nodded slightly. “Police business,” he said to Elaine, his gaze on June.
“What’s going on?” June asked before Hammer could say anything else. Elaine was sixty years old, had worked for Dr. Trujillo since she opened her practice and never heard a rumor she didn’t feel the need to spread. So now Dr. Trujillo would know two policemen had come to see her. Of course Dr. Trujillo would want to know why. She was on good terms with her boss, but the less said about her commando activities, the better.
“Ms. Latham,” Hammer said. His dark eyes swept her body as she reached Elaine’s side. “I’m hoping you remember we met yesterday at the bird riot on North Beach.”
“Bird riot?” Elaine asked. “What bird riot?”
“There was no riot,” June said, with what she hoped was a squelching glare at the detective. “Is this about the smuggled birds?” she asked when a burst of hope that Hammer had come because he’d arrested Glover slammed into her thoughts.
“Not exactly,” Hammer said.
“Do you need my photographic proof of the counterfeit bands?”
“No, ma’am. I wonder if there’s somewhere we could have a private conversation?”
“Private,” Elaine murmured under her breath, making her voice loud enough to ensure that everyone heard. “Oh, my.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dean said, turning the full force of his gaze on the receptionist. “I hope that’s okay with you.”
Elaine colored and looked away with a giggle.
Oh, please. June resisted the urge to roll her eyes at Elaine’s reaction to Dean Hammer. Yeah, the guy was great eye candy, but way too sure of himself. She noted his partner followed the conversation with avid interest. As yesterday, the detective wore street clothes, a casual shirt, khaki pants and a tie, while the partner wore a Miami Beach Police Department uniform. Each of them had a holstered gun on his hip.
“I’m working,” she said.
“But we only have one more patient,” Elaine offered in a sweet tone. “I can show Ms. Weksler and Jessie into an examining room when they arrive.”
Hammer gave Elaine a sharp salute. “Thank you, ma’am. The Miami Beach Police Department appreciates your cooperation.”
“Anytime,” Elaine said, girlishly fluffing her gray cloud of hair.
June hesitated, actually curious as hell to learn what this unexpected visit concerned if not the birds. But the way Hammer looked at her made her feel as if she were naked underneath her pink scrubs. “What if Dr. Trujillo needs me?”
“I’ll come get you,” Elaine offered.
June mentally shrugged away her irritation with the receptionist, who couldn’t help who she was. Likely nobody found it easy to say no to the detective’s overpowering presence. He had some innate ability to control everything around him.
“Let’s go into examining room two,” June said.
“You should use the doctor’s office,” Elaine suggested. “It’ll be much more comfortable.”
“But if—”
“June, you know she won’t mind,” Elaine said, interrupting June’s objection.
“Of course. This way,” June said, motioning with a sweep of her arm toward Dr. Trujillo’s suite. Well, why not? This is a private conversation.
Once she was seated behind the doctor’s mahogany desk, she realized she rather liked having some much-needed space between her and Detective Hammer. At least she hadn’t been imagining his looks. He was just as vital and imposing as yesterday. Sitting behind the huge block of wood covered with stacks of paper made her feel more in control. She’d have to stand in an examining room.
She folded her hands in her lap and leaned back in the swivel chair while Hammer closed the door and took a seat beside his partner.
“This must be important for you to track me down out of your jurisdiction,” she said.
“We’re investigating a murder,” Hammer said.
“A murder?” June swallowed hard and leaned forward. A murder?
“Yes. Of a human being,” Hammer clarified. He raised his gaze from the blank sheet of paper on his open notepad to meet hers. “Not a parrot.”
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_a5009f31-798b-5343-89a6-8d16029289fd)
“NOT FUNNY,” JUNE SAID, meeting his direct stare. Why the lame stab at humor? Did he want to disarm her, put her at ease? Maybe distract her from the fact that two cops wanted to talk to her about someone’s death?
“Why do you think I have any information about a murder?” she asked.
“Because the victim was killed in this man’s hotel room.” Hammer placed an eight-by-ten black-and-white photo of two men on the desk before her. “The one on the right.”
June picked up the photograph and examined it. Two men were conversing, but what— “Oh, my God.”
“You recognize someone?”
“One of them is the man who released the birds in the pet shop.”
Hammer made a note. “You still say you never saw him before yesterday?”
“No. I swear. I don’t know him.”
“Please study the image carefully.”
Stunned by Hammer’s revelation, June scrutinized the photograph. The subjects didn’t seem to know they were being watched, so maybe the shot was taken by a telephoto lens. Either that or a security camera. Before yesterday, she’d never seen either man before in her life. Or had she? She studied the image again.
“Where was this taken?” she asked.
“The lobby of a hotel.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know who he is.”
“His name is John Smith.”
“That’s a common name.”
“And probably not real. What about the other man, the one on the left.”
“He looks like—I don’t know.” She glanced up at Hammer and then his partner. “Like maybe he’s a bit down on his luck.”
“You’re right. He was a street person.”
“Was? You mean—”
“He’s our victim.”
June swallowed a bad taste in her mouth. “When did this happen?”
“This morning. That shot was taken late yesterday afternoon.”
June looked back to the image, realizing the poor man had been murdered just hours after this photograph. How quickly life could change. She shook her head. But of course she already knew that.
“You’re sure you don’t know John Smith?”
“I’m sure.” She replaced the photograph on the desk. “Both men are strangers to me.”
“Too bad,” the partner said.
“Have you remembered anything else about John Smith from the pet shop that might help us?” Hammer asked.
“Like what?”
“A tattoo, some jewelry, maybe a limp?”
She shook her head. “I was totally focused on the birds. I all but ignored him.”
Hammer nodded. “Is it possible he’s in one of your do-gooder organizations?”
“Do-gooder?”
“You know what I mean. Rescue groups.”
“Of course it’s possible, but—” June studied the photo again. When she looked up, Hammer watched her as if she were prey. “You think I’m lying, don’t you? You think I know this John Smith.”
“And just yesterday you told me that you never lie,” he said in an intimate tone, one a date might use over a glass of wine.
She sucked in a breath and glanced at the partner, who returned her gaze without changing his expression. Maybe my life is about to change again.
“I have no reason to lie,” she said.
“Ma’am, we’re just trying to understand the facts,” Hammer said, totally professional again.
Is he trying to confuse me? “I understand, but—”
“Don’t you see how we find it odd that this man would release the very birds you’re trying to rescue and you don’t know him?”
“Yes, I admit it’s strange. I thought it was bizarre yesterday, but I swear that’s what happened. He did say something to me as I was taking photos, but I couldn’t make it out and thought he might be trying to stop me.”
The detective made a note, a sour expression on his face.
“Do you think I’m involved with this homeless man’s murder?”
Hammer met her gaze and stared right through her as if trying to peer into her very soul. Unable to look away, June held her breath, wondering what he saw. Was he trying to decide if she were a murderess? Maybe that was why he’d been watching her so carefully. He didn’t know her and wondered if he were dealing with a stone-cold killer.
Damn, she might not be perfect, but no one had ever suspected her of murder.
A light rap on the door broke the moment. “Come in,” June said, relieved.
Dr. Trujillo cracked the door and stuck in her head. “Can I interrupt for just one minute?”
June jumped to her feet. “I’m sorry, Doctor. Do you need me?”
The doctor stepped into her office. Both policemen stood.
“Sit, sit,” she said. “Sarah Weksler canceled, and I just want to get my cell phone.” After throwing June a questioning glance, the doctor stepped out of the office with her purse. The policemen took their seats.
“Hope we haven’t gotten you in trouble with your boss,” Hammer said.
“Yeah, me, too,” June replied. “But you didn’t answer my question. Am I a suspect in this murder?”
“No, ma’am,” Hammer said. “You’re what we call a person of interest.”
“Because you think I might have information to help you solve the case?”
“That’s what we were hoping.”
“I’m sorry,” June said, “but I don’t know anything about your John Smith.”
Rising, Detective Hammer reached for the photograph. Her gaze zeroed in on the holstered gun strapped to his right hip.
“Thank you for your time, Ms. Latham.”
“I wish I could be more help,” she said, coming to her feet, thankful the interrogation was over.
Hammer handed her another business card, his warm finger lightly brushing hers in the transfer.
“Please think about your encounter with John Smith and give me a call if you think of anything else.”
“But I don’t—”
“Anything at all, ma’am. Our forensics team is analyzing the surveillance this photo came from. Would you agree to come into the station and watch the full video to see if that triggers any memory?”
June bit her lip and looked away from Hammer’s piercing stare, thinking there must be more to his request than a simple viewing of a video. He had another reason to get her into the station. What is the difference between a person of interest and a suspect?
“Sometimes the smallest thing can be the break we need to put a guilty party behind bars,” he prompted.
June sighed. “Okay, sure. When?”
“I’ll be in touch when the evidence is ready for viewing. Thank you, Ms. Latham.”
Hammer’s partner nodded at her as they left Dr. Trujillo’s office. June followed them out, more unsettled than she liked by her disturbing conversation with the detective.
What the hell was going on?
Dr. Trujillo and Elaine waited for her behind the reception desk. When the police officers had exited, Elaine pounced.
“Tell us everything.”
June gave them a quick rundown of what had happened in the pet shop. “The police hoped I remembered something about the man who released the birds that could help them with their murder investigation.”
“Oh, my goodness. You’re a suspect?” Elaine grinned, looking as if the idea pleased her enormously.
“No. Or at least they say I’m not.”
“What were you doing on Miami Beach?” Dr. Trujillo asked, her jaw set in disapproval. “Looking for smuggled birds?”
“Jared got a tip,” June said simply. The less said the better.
“Dios Mio, Junie. You know how I feel about you doing that. You could get hurt,” the doctor said.
“Is the tall one married?” Elaine asked.
“I have no idea,” June replied quickly. His relationship status had never occurred to her. Detective Hammer’s body language, hell, his whole persona, the way he openly checked her out, made her believe he was available. Available and looking. Looking very closely at her.
But married men flirted and cheated all the time. Of course she knew that. And she certainly wasn’t interested in the domineering Detective Hammer.
“Just my type,” Elaine said, fluffing her hair. “Serious hunk.”
“I concur,” the doctor said. “But don’t you think he’s a bit young for you, Elaine?”
Elaine shrugged. “Just saying.”
“Well, let’s close up, ladies,” Dr. Trujillo suggested. “I think we’ve had enough excitement for one day.”
“Heck, I wish handsome detectives would visit us every day,” Elaine said as she pulled her purse from under a counter. “Lots more fun than a bunch of sick cats.”
As June locked drawers and cabinets, she did as Hammer asked and thought about her brief encounter with John Smith, trying to remember anything distinctive about him to aid the police. Something about the still photo niggled at the back of her brain, some flash of familiarity. What was it?
She decided that feeling was most likely from seeing him in the pet shop two days ago. She didn’t know him.
On her short walk home to the Enclave, she tried again. Trouble was, when she dredged up an image of John Smith, her thoughts immediately drifted to Detective Dean Hammer and his oh-so-penetrating gaze. Blue eyes and black hair. What a combination. She shook her head. The less she thought about Hammer, the better. She needed to put the whole incident out of her mind.
She paused as she entered the lobby, wondering if she should pay a visit to Uncle Mike’s beloved Shelby Cobra. She’d drive it to the bird walk next Saturday, but that was a week away and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d started that damn car. She sighed. Better do that now.
Steeling herself for a trip down to the dungeon, she waved at Magda behind the concierge desk and entered the stairwell. Unfortunately, because the Cobra was seldom driven, its assigned parking spot was on the lowest level. June trudged down three flights, her uneasiness growing with each step.
When she pushed open the heavy door to Tier C, she felt as if she’d entered a tomb. Dim overhead fluorescents gave every parked vehicle a looming, menacing aspect. The stale air reeked of petroleum products. Her quick steps echoed off thick concrete walls, an eerie sound. A suffocating sense of claustrophobia pressed her toward the oil-stained floor.
This was how parrots felt when locked up in a cage. Birds were wired to fly free, just as humans were made to see the sky and breathe fresh air.
She spotted the Cobra, its bright red paint covered as always by a green tarp, and hurried toward it, pulling her keys from her purse. She removed the tarp from the driver’s side and inserted the key. Uncle Mike refused to alter his precious Cobra in any way, so no battery-powered clicker opened this antique beauty.
At a loud boom behind her, June whirled, fisting her hands until nails dug into her palms. Who— What was that?
But no one was there. She was alone. June unclenched her fingers. Probably something falling in the garbage chute. Damn, but the subterranean levels always made her jumpy.
She slid into the Cobra’s driver’s seat and ignited its powerful engine, which roared to life on the first try. Feeling her tension ease, she checked the fuel level. Over half-full. Good. No need to drive this—what did Mike call his baby? Oh, right. A muscle car. And not just any muscle car. For some reason this was a very special one, designed by some big-wheel car legend.
To her it was just another gas guzzler.
And when it came to muscles, the well-toned biceps on Dean Hammer’s arms were much more to her liking, even if the man had done nothing but make her life miserable.
* * *
AT HEADQUARTERS THE next morning, Dean rewatched the video of the pet-shop riot in one of the viewing rooms. Sanchez sat beside him, also focused on the monitor.
Once again June Latham’s recitation of the events matched what was revealed on the screen. Totally engrossed in snapping photos of the caged birds, she never fully looked at John Smith when he approached her.
“Do you believe her?” Sanchez asked.
“Yeah, I do. I don’t think she knows John Smith, but I think he knows her. Look at this.” Hammer backed up the video to where Smith approached June. “See? He says something to her right there.”
“You’re right.” Sanchez leaned forward, but shook his head. “Can’t make it out.”
The surveillance continued to roll. When June didn’t react to Smith’s words, Smith either repeated them or said something new. The department’s lip reader was currently viewing the Sea Wave lobby video in an adjoining room. He’d have him take a look at this one, too.
Glover moved into the frame. Dean made a derisive sound when the jerk grabbed June’s arm.
“Glover is a real prince, isn’t he?” Sanchez said.
“Watch Smith.” Smith stepped toward the confrontation, appearing ready to intervene to help June. His face contorted into fury. He fisted and opened his hands repeatedly, even lifted his right arm as if to take a swing at Glover.
Now, that was interesting. Why would Smith react so strongly to Glover’s treatment of a woman he supposedly didn’t know?
“Wow,” Sanchez said. “I didn’t notice that before.”
Dean hadn’t, either, and that oversight pissed him off. He’d been too focused on the argument between June and Glover. Two days ago he hadn’t cared about John Smith’s reaction. Shit. Two weeks on patrol, and the inactivity had caused him to lose his edge. To stay sharp, he needed to focus. To follow procedure.
Because he had a murder to solve, and right here was a clue. No question about it. He just had to figure out what the hell it meant. Just who was this mystery man Smith? What was his connection to June Latham? There had to be one.
Dean knew in his gut that Smith’s appearance in the pet shop was no coincidence. He’d likely followed June in because he wanted to talk to her. What about? Birds?
A hit-man-style murder on North Beach?
Sanchez snickered when the video morphed into slapstick as parrots escaped their cages. Dean could almost hear their victorious squawks as they flapped their way to freedom. He paused the video.
“You still going to have Ms. Latham come in and look at the hotel surveillance?” Sanchez asked.
“Definitely. I have a few more questions for her.”
“What about?”
“I’ll let you know when I figure that out.” A preliminary background check had revealed no wants, no warrants. She’d never been arrested, never even received a traffic ticket, which he found odd, although she had a current driver’s license. Apparently a real solid citizen. Maybe too solid.
Rebel Simpson, the department’s lip reader, entered the viewing room. “I’m done,” he said, “but you’re not going to like it.”
“Give it to me,” Dean said.
“It’s strange. The victim asked Smith if he had any spare change. Nothing startling there.” Rebel looked down at his notes. “At first Smith said, ‘Sorry, man. Can’t help you.’ Then Smith seemed to get an idea. He said, ‘I bet it’s miserable hot living on the streets this time of year.’ The vic agreed. Smith said, ‘How would you like to sleep in my room tonight?’
“Seriously?” Dean said. “So Smith is gay and was looking to hook up?”
“With a vagrant?” Sanchez asked.
“I don’t think so,” Rebel said. “The vic objects, says he doesn’t roll that way. Smith insists no funny stuff, he’s just a nice guy and there’ll be a free meal in it for the vic.”
“Yeah, right,” Sanchez muttered.
“Why? Does Smith indicate the reason he’s performing this great public service?” Dean asked.
“Smith says there’s two beds in an air-conditioned room. The vic is obviously hesitant, but when Smith mentions a fifth of vodka, that clinches the deal and they head into the hallway together.”
“For a nice romantic evening,” Sanchez muttered.
Rebel shrugged. “All I know is what they said to each other. Weird, huh?”
“Doesn’t make a damn bit of sense,” Hammer said.
“It does if Smith is gay,” Sanchez insisted.
“Did your interviews with the street people on North Beach indicate Rocky was gay?” Hammer asked.
“Nobody mentioned it,” Sanchez said, shaking his head. “And yeah, I think someone would’ve.”
“We may have to check that out,” Dean said. “Rebel, have you got time to take a look at another surveillance video?” He motioned to the frozen image on the monitor. “It’s short.”
“Sure.” Rebel positioned himself before the screen, and Dean backed up the pet-shop surveillance to where John Smith entered the frame.
“I want to know what this man said to this woman.”
After watching the scene three times, Rebel sat back with a frustrated sigh. “This one is tough,” he said. “The man is whispering, like he doesn’t want anyone else to overhear him.”
“You can tell that?” Sanchez asked.
“By the shape of his mouth,” Rebel said. “And notice how the woman didn’t react. She might not have caught what he said.”
Hammer nodded. Again that matched what June Latham had told them.
“The only thing I’m confident of,” Rebel continued, “is he says, ‘June.’ You know, like the month of the year. Sorry. I’m sure that doesn’t help you at all.”
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_707f9652-d789-58dd-be92-2c4295d18643)
THE NEXT EVENING, June pushed open the door to her condo, incredibly glad to be home. Maybe now she could stop obsessing about Detective Hammer and his murder investigation.
It’d been a hectic day, full of her worry about traumatized patients, their demanding parents, a dead body.
She loved her job, and still hoped for acceptance to the veterinary school at the University of Florida, but today she wondered about that goal. It always seemed so ironic that Dr. Trujillo’s mission was to help animals when most of her patients were terrified of her. June wasn’t sure she wanted animals she loved cowering in the corner when she entered a room.
Lazarus shrieked from the balcony aviary, reacting to her arrival. June hurried over to check on him and found him hanging upside down from his favorite branch by one claw, his brilliant scarlet plumage iridescent in the late-afternoon sun.
“Hello, my lovely,” she said.
Her answer was a loud guttural squawk.
“I’m glad to see you, too,” she said. She slid open the glass door, stepping into the humid, oxygen-rich atmosphere of the aviary. Definitely warmer without the air-conditioning, but shaded and entirely pleasant. Probably very similar to the jungle in Peru where this macaw had been captured.
Lazarus flapped his huge wings and righted himself, but didn’t take flight. He could have, though. She’d turned most of the balcony, which wrapped around the top floor of the thirty-story Enclave, into an aviary for the birds she rescued. She’d enclosed the space with parrot-proof screening and crammed it with trees, water features and interesting toys for her patients to amuse themselves. Lazarus was the only bird in residence right now, which was rare. She usually nursed at least two injured birds back to health at any given time. He’d be rehabbed enough to go to a permanent sanctuary somewhere soon, and while that thought should make her happy, instead it depressed her.
She was getting too attached. That happened when she cared for a bird too long. But she never kept a patient no matter how much she loved it, believing birds should always fly free when they were physically able.
While Lazarus squawked his encouragement, she changed the plastic floor protection and gave him a new supply of black oil sunflower seeds. She cleaned the huge aviary every day, not only for the health of the birds but to avoid complaints from the condo association wing nuts. There were some who didn’t appreciate her rehab clinic.
When done, she stepped close to stroke the macaw’s soft feathers. “Good boy,” she murmured when he didn’t back away. Only recently had he allowed her to touch him. Lazarus was definitely getting better. She knew she couldn’t save every bird, but this one at least should have a happy life from now on.
If Detective Hammer had agreed to confiscate the birds from the pet shop, she could have saved them, too. She flashed to his murder investigation and the photo of the dead man, something she couldn’t stop doing since the interview in Dr. Trujillo’s office yesterday.
Person of interest, indeed.
Lazarus made a chortling sound and ducked his head into her hand, wanting more, which pleased June.
“I know, Laz, I know. I need to stop thinking about that mean ol’ detective.”
The phone rang, and she stepped back inside to answer, sliding the door shut behind her with a last look at the preening macaw.
“Girl, whatever you’re doing tomorrow night, cancel,” a familiar female voice said after her hello.
June collapsed onto her sofa, settling in for a chat with her best friend from high school, Sandy Taylor. It’d been a while. “Why? What’s going on?”
“A party at the Turf Club. And not just any party, the annual Labor Day costume gala.”
“The Turf Club? You know I’m not a member anymore.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’ll come as my guest. Donna is in town from Atlanta visiting her mom, so I’m rounding up the old gang for a mini reunion.”
“Seriously?”
“Donna and Carole are both on board. You have to come.”
“Well, I really don’t have to,” June said, not sure she wanted to and scrambling for an excuse. A reunion with her wealthy Pinecrest Prep friends could be fun—or it could be disastrous. A painful reminder of what she had lost.
“Yes, you do. Remember the outfits we wore Halloween our senior year?”
“How could I forget? We almost got suspended by Dean Holly when we entered the gym.”
“That’s the exact look I want all of us to rock tomorrow night.”
“High-class hookers at the stuffy Turf Club? No way.”
Sandy laughed, a carefree sound from a beautiful young woman with absolutely no problems. Funny how their lives had taken such different directions. They’d once been so close they pretended to be sisters.
“I can’t wait to shake the place up,” Sandy said. “You know it’s just what that boring group needs.”
June remained silent. No, she didn’t really know. She hadn’t stepped on the property since her parents were arrested.
“Come on, Junie. It’ll be fun. Say you’ll join us.”
“What does your prim and proper husband say about this plan?”
“Paul will love the idea. He’s always said he decided to marry me that very Halloween night.”
“We did look good.”
“We’ll look even better now that we’re not awkward teenagers.”
“You were never awkward, Sandy.”
“That’s true. But I fill out the dress better now.”
And there was the excuse June needed. “Sorry, but I didn’t keep that costume.”
“Of course not. I’m sending you one identical to mine.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“Oh, stop it with the false pride,” Sandy said. “I want us to be twins just like in the old days.”
“Sandy, really, I—”
“I need you to do this for me, Junie,” Sandy said, an edge creeping into her voice.
“What’s wrong?”
After a pause, Sandy said, “My perfect marriage is falling apart.”
June sucked in a breath. So much for her envy of Sandy’s glamorous life. “Oh, God, Sandy. I’m sorry. What—”
“It’s not hopeless, but I need to spice things up with Paul, remind him why he fell in love with me.”
“You don’t need me to do that,” June said softly.
“Yes, I do. Please, Junie. I know this will work.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not on the phone. Maybe Saturday night. Please, please come. It won’t be the same without you.”
June remained silent. She had nothing special planned that night, but wasn’t sure a costume ball at a swank club that was once her parents’ favorite haunt was the most ideal way to spend her free time.
“We’re all going in a limo,” Sandy added, as if that final detail would clinch the deal. “We’ll pick you up around eight.”
“Okay,” June said, not wanting to think how much tomorrow night would cost her friend. “Why not.”
“Don’t sound so glum. We’re going to have a blast.”
After receiving a few more details about the evening, including some gossip about their friends, June stepped back into the aviary. Lazarus gave a halfhearted squawk, but ignored her and kept eating as she sat in her own favorite perch, a sturdy cloth macramé chair suspended from the ceiling. From here she could either watch her patients or look out over the clear waters of Biscayne Bay and beyond Miami Beach to the Atlantic Ocean, a stunning vista that normally calmed her.
Unfortunately the view didn’t have its usual effect. She took deep breaths and tried to wrench herself out of a long-gone past. But too much had happened. Too much was swirling around in her brain, too easily distracting her.
Why in the world had she agreed to accompany Sandy to the Turf Club? She’d avoided the place for ten years. Would anyone be around tomorrow night who remembered her parents? Probably not. She really ought to get over herself.
Lazarus tested his wings with a few quick flaps, flew the short distance to grab a hold of the chain holding up the swing and gazed down. June looked up as he waddled down the chain closer to her.
A bubble of excitement replaced her foreboding. Was Lazarus going to willingly approach her? She reached for a towel and placed it over her shoulder, holding her breath to see what he’d do next.
He cocked his head, squawked and flew back to his favorite branch.
She sighed. Almost. Laz was definitely making progress.
She pushed her foot against the balcony wall, forcing the chair into a gentle sway, her thoughts drifting back to her conversation with Sandy. If she could get through tomorrow night at the club, maybe that would be a step toward recovery for her, too.
One thing for sure. At least she wasn’t obsessing about Detective Hammer and his murder investigation anymore.
* * *
DEAN STUDIED THE images of colorful tropical birds on the computer screen before him. He’d punched June Latham’s name into a search engine, and one of the first hits was the Facebook page of the Tropical Bird Society, one of her do-gooder groups.
Rescue groups, he corrected himself. She’d objected to his use of do-gooder.
The page listed pet shops and vendors the group suspected of selling birds captured from the wild, so he created a fake profile, claiming to be vehemently opposed to this practice, and asked to join the group. After acceptance, he posted a few times criticizing smugglers, receiving a lot of “likes.” Before long, he received a private message with future dates of planned visits. John Smith could easily have tracked June to the North Beach location by doing the same thing.
TBS, the acronym most members used on postings, also had a standard web page where Dean found a schedule of their numerous activities, such as weekly outings to search for rare birds or to clean up various sites around the county. They seemed more of an environmental group than just a protector of birds. If he hit a dead end with this search, he’d get a roster of members to investigate.
So this was one way John Smith could have found June. He also could have tracked her cell-phone signal. The real question was why. Smith had clearly known her name before he released the birds. So why had he followed her?
More important, was there any connection to his dead body on North Beach?
The autopsy hadn’t been much help. Forensics confirmed what he’d seen at the scene. Rocky had been in average health. The cause of death was one gunshot wound to the head. The ME found no obvious evidence that the vic had been gay, so John Smith’s invite up to his room didn’t appear to have sexual overtones. From the surveillance, the invite appeared to be a spur-of-the moment decision, so what had been behind it?
Something just didn’t add up.
Dean scrolled through his list of search-engine hits, searching for more information about June, but didn’t find anything pertinent. The woman definitely flew beneath the radar. Was that deliberate? Did she have something to hide? The name Latham kept popping up, though, Latham Imports, in connection with a fire and arson investigation from ten years ago.
Curious as to why the search engine kept linking June to the fire, Dean opened an old article from the Miami Herald entitled A Cautionary Tale About Greed, and read about a married couple, Carl and Eileen Latham. The Lathams operated a successful importing business, but the FBI, working in a joint task force with Fish and Wildlife, found cocaine in one of their shipments from Peru. The Lathams were wealthy and politically connected, and their photograph frequently appeared on the society page for having paid big bucks to attend this or that benefit, so the scandal created a huge sensation. Out on a bond, they of course insisted they were innocent and had no knowledge of the drugs hidden in their merchandise.
Friends rallied around them and their attorney promised a vigorous defense, but before the trial could begin, a suspicious fire destroyed the Latham Import Warehouse on the Miami River. The fire effectively ended the prosecution as the couple perished in the inferno.
Dean sat back, considering. This case was before his time as a detective, but he vaguely remembered hearing about it. Everyone wondered if the Lathams had set fire to their property to destroy evidence, but misjudged and caused their own death. Seemed too stupid to be true to him.
And why was Fish and Wildlife involved? He made a note to check that out, kept reading and found what he wanted at the end of the article.
“According to friends, the Lathams’ only child, June Marie Latham, a junior at Pinecrest Preparatory Academy, will live with her father’s brother, Michael Westbrook Latham, an investment banker in New York City.”
So there was the connection to June. She’d been seventeen when her parents died and had gone to live with an uncle. Sad story, but Dean didn’t see how the information helped his investigation. He needed to keep digging.
“Sanchez,” he called.
“Yeah?” His rookie partner looked up from his own internet search for information on Rocky, their vic.
“Go to the Tropical Bird Society Facebook page. Research the profile of any friend or member who has posted to their site. I need to know who they are.”
“You think maybe we’ll find our John Smith?”
Dean shrugged. “Probably not, but we have to check it out.”
“You got it,” Sanchez said, his fingers moving over his keyboard.
Dean entered the name Michael Westbrook Latham into the department’s search engine. If June’s parents were dirty, maybe her uncle was, too.
* * *
JUNE EXTENDED AN arm to the uniformed chauffeur, took a deep breath and exited the limousine into a warm summer night. Beneath the impressive portico of the Turf Club, lights and music blazed. She could hear the chatter of animated voices from inside the clubhouse.
“We’re here,” Carole squealed behind her in the stretch limo.
Less nervous than she expected, June stepped beside Sandy, the first of her friends out of the stretch, who looked regal in a light pink beaded sheath. June wore an identical dress, only hers was a very pale blue, and it molded to her body perfectly, revealing every curve. The hem was short, with a sexy slit up one side. The neckline plunged lower than she was used to, but she had to admit the effect was flattering. They each wore a matching headband across their foreheads with a feather plume jauntily waving in the back.
The costumes were expertly made and likely cost Sandy a fortune. Despite her misgivings, June loved the way she looked. She even enjoyed the subtle clicking sound the rows of dangling beads made as she moved.
But maybe that was because of the delicious dry, chilled champagne she and her three friends had enjoyed on the drive to the club. Truly their party had already started.
“I don’t see Paul,” Sandy murmured. “He said he’d meet us.”
“He’ll be here,” June said, unsure where that confidence came from. She met Sandy for lunch once or twice a year, but hadn’t spoken to Paul since her parents’ funeral.
Dark-haired Donna scooted across the backseat and emerged in her bright red saloon-girl costume, an outfit with ruffles and a stiff petticoat. Carole came last in an emerald dress with a low-cut bodice.
“Well, don’t we look fabulous?” Donna said with a smile.
“You know, we really do,” June agreed, checking out her friends.
“Ready, girls?” Carole asked.
The four friends hooked arms and entered the grand ballroom together. To June it seemed as if everyone in the room turned to stare at her, but she knew that couldn’t be true and was just her nerves kicking in.
“There you are.” Paul Taylor approached, his eyes wide in what June hoped was appreciation of his wife’s appearance. He gave her a quick hug, one without any real intimacy. His dark hair had begun to recede, so maybe an early midlife crisis was the problem with his marriage.
“Did you girls have a nice reunion?” he asked.
“We haven’t been girls for a long time,” Carole said.
“Still prickly after all these years, huh, Carole?” Paul asked.
Carole shrugged. On the limo ride over, Sandy had revealed her suspicions about her husband’s infidelity, which had infuriated Carole.
“It’s been great to catch up,” Donna interjected, always the peacemaker. “Thanks for sending the limo.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Why aren’t you in costume?” June asked, since Paul wore an ordinary business suit. An expensive one, expertly tailored, but one he’d wear to the office.
“I’m here as an attorney,” he said in a defensive tone.
“Oh, how interesting,” Carole said. “You are an attorney.”
“Come on, Sandy. I need you to meet someone.” Paul whisked Sandy away with a nod at the other three. Her feather bounced gaily as she hurried to keep up.
“What a jerk,” Carole muttered.
“Don’t make it any worse for her,” June said.
Carole sighed. “It’s just he— Oh, look. There’s Laura Harris.” Carole hurried in that direction.
“I need a drink,” Donna said. “Let’s find the bar.”
“June Latham. What a pleasant surprise.”
June let Donna go on ahead and turned to the speaker, a woman in her fifties dressed in a police officer’s uniform, vaguely recognizing her as a member of her parents’ large circle of friends.
“I’m sorry,” June said. “Please remind me—”
“Sylvia Baker,” the woman prompted, grabbing her hand and shaking vigorously. “I don’t expect you to remember. It’s been a long time.”
June nodded, having no clue how long it’d actually been.
“How are you?” Sylvia asked. “Where have you been?”
“I’m good,” June said.
“Look, Chuck,” Sylvia said, grabbing a passing man dressed as the devil. “It’s June Latham.”
June found herself swept up into the festive melee, and despite her misgivings, the old guard seemed genuinely happy to see her. She didn’t specifically remember anyone from her parents’ generation, but they sure knew her.
“Oh, but you’ve turned into a lovely young lady.”
“Your mother would be so proud.”
“You have your father’s smile.”
Then a cloud would pass across faces as old friends recalled the scandal and hastily changed the subject. Everyone mostly tiptoed around the subject of her parents, and she didn’t hear one snarky remark.
“But you just disappeared. Everyone thought you’d moved to Manhattan to live with your uncle,” said a white-haired lady in costume as a cowgirl.
June heard variations of the same comment at least a dozen times. Ten years ago it was what she’d wanted everyone to think. Only Sandy, Carole and Donna knew she’d remained in Florida.
“Uncle Mike let me stay in Miami and finish my senior year.”
“So you did graduate from Pinecrest Prep?” The lady’s eyebrows dipped together in confusion. “I thought that—”
“Uncle Mike insisted I transfer to a public school. It was a compromise.”
“Oh, I see.”
But June could tell she didn’t see at all. How did anyone explain the raw emotions of a seventeen-year-old whose life had just been kicked out from underneath her? Hell, she didn’t understand it herself. All she knew was she had been terrified of New York City, which Mike insisted would be a fresh start. She’d imagined a freezing-cold city with giant buildings and no trees, which sounded like torture to a teenager who grew up in Miami diving into a swimming pool every day.
And, despite her humiliation, she’d needed the comfort of her friends.
But that was all behind her. Time to start avoiding the older generation.
“Excuse me,” she said and stepped toward the bar.
Okay. She’d passed the hurdle of facing her parents’ cronies, which hadn’t turned out nearly as disastrous as she’d imagined. Good job, June. You’ve satisfied their curiosity. Let the gossip begin.
Now I deserve some fun.
She’d noticed plenty of guests her own age. New people to meet who knew nothing about her past. Who didn’t care a flaming golf ball about her unsavory history. Even some good-looking men, a bonus she hadn’t expected.
She knew the costume made her look damn good, which boosted her confidence, and she ought to take advantage of that elusive feeling.
With champagne in hand, she looked for Sandy, wanting to make sure Paul hadn’t upset her. June found her friend in a group that included her husband across the room. Sandy stood with her back to the floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows that during the day revealed a beautifully maintained golf course. Tonight all that was visible was a subtly lit landscaped patio.
Husband and wife appeared to be getting along. June raised her champagne to her old friend. Sandy nodded and lifted a glass in return.
“It’s uncanny how much you two look alike.”
“My friend has a secret wish to be a twin,” June said, extending her arm to a very nice-looking dude in a pirate costume. Not as hunky as Detective Hammer, but nice. “I’m June.”
“Hi, June,” he said, shaking her hand with a smile. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“Sorry. Do I know you?”
“Steve Hill. We were on the swim team together at Pinecrest.”
“Oh, of course.” She took a sip of champagne, recalling a gawky teenager who looked nothing like this tall man with sun-lightened brown hair.
“Do you still swim?” Steve asked. “I remember you were a freestyle specialist.”
“Oh, I’ll take a few laps in the pool where I live. How about you?”
“I swim competitively in a master’s program.”
“Good for you.” That would explain his still-toned body.
“I remember you and Sandy used to dress alike in high school.” Steve inclined his head in Sandy’s direction.
“I know it’s silly,” June said, glancing back to where Sandy stood. “We’re both only children and decided to be each other’s sister.”
The plate glass behind Sandy shattered at the same time as a loud pop reverberated through the room. Screams replaced lively chatter.
A red stain bloomed across the bodice of June’s friend’s exquisite pink dress.
In horrifying slow motion, Sandy, her face contorted in a grimace of surprise, fell facedown.
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_5ce82e32-4dc0-5c3a-addb-2fac83256801)
DEAN ARRIVED AT the Turf Club crime scene within thirty minutes of the first 911 call. He’d been in the station still working the North Beach murder with Sanchez, so he caught the case. His good luck.
Definitely a banner week for murders in the city of Miami Beach.
A uniformed patrolman working off duty met them at the front door.
“What have you got?” Dean demanded.
“One woman down,” the cop reported. “ME is on the way.”
Dean nodded, entered a huge, hushed ballroom ahead of Sanchez and thought he’d fallen down the rabbit hole. Helium-inflated balloons trailing festive streamers clung to the ceiling. Hundreds of guests dressed in outlandish getups stared at him. A pirate with an eye patch, a masked cancan girl, a helmeted astronaut.
Murder at a costume party. Just great.
Easy way for a murderer to hide.
“You got the shooter?” Dean asked as he moved through a parting kaleidoscope of colors and anxious faces. He didn’t like to form theories before learning the facts, but wondered if someone pulled a pistol everyone thought was a prop.
“No one had eyes on the shooter.”
“Not even one witness?” Sanchez asked.
“Not close range, then,” Dean said.
“No,” the patrolman said, shaking his head. “Sniper. From somewhere out on the golf course.”
Dean halted his forward motion. “Sniper?”
“Yeah. One shot, one down. Looks like a hit to me.”
Another sniper. And what were the odds?
Dean spotted the body, covered by what looked like a tablecloth, and moved toward it. “Anybody disturb the scene?”
“The husband rolled the body before I could get there, but it was obvious she was gone. One of the guests, a physician, confirmed she was dead. Then I made sure everyone stayed clear. Didn’t let anybody leave, either, although a few might have snuck out.”
“Good. We need to interview everyone here. Is there a manager?”
A man stepped forward. “I’m the manager.”
“I’ll need to see your surveillance video.” Dean pulled on gloves and knelt beside the victim. He removed the bloodstained sheet and froze.
The dead-eyed face staring up at him was June Latham’s.
He relaxed when he realized it wasn’t her. But the description would be the same. White female, blonde, approximately twenty-six, hundred and twenty pounds, goddamn beautiful.
The dead woman lay on her back, but had hit the deck facedown. The husband had rolled her, but death was likely instantaneous. She wore a sparkly party dress now saturated with blood. Matching headband with a feather.
Beautiful young woman out for a good time and now dead way too young.
The vic had definitely been killed by a sniper. Dean glanced to the shattered window and shards of glass covering the plushly carpeted floor.
Couldn’t be sure without forensics, but his gut told him it was the same weapon as North Beach. Yeah, what are the odds?
A tickle of excitement niggled the back of his brain. Somehow this case was connected to the North Beach hit. He needed to find that connection.
He snapped photos of the body but needed to wait for the crime-scene unit to process the scene. He’d gotten here fast. The primary detective didn’t often arrive first, but the specialists should be here soon. He needed to locate the sniper hole on the golf course so Forensics could process that, as well. He glanced outside to a dimly lit concrete patio with attractive landscaping. Could he get lights on the area behind that patio? He wanted to check it out ASAP.
Dean recovered the body and rose. “No one goes out on that golf course until I give the okay,” he said to the manager. “You’re shut down until further notice.”
“I understand.”
“Do we have ID on the vic?” Dean asked.
“Sandra Taylor,” the off-duty man reported. “Her husband is sitting right there, Paul Taylor.”
Dean zeroed in on a white male in his late twenties or early thirties slumped at the closest table surrounded by friends. A bloody napkin lay on the table where he’d apparently cleaned his hands. His white shirt also contained blood spatter. The man stared at a glass full of ice and an amber liquid, then picked up the drink and took a long swallow. More blood stained his cuff. His hand shook.
He had that numb I-can’t-believe-this-shit look about him. He’d turned his chair away from his wife’s body.
The husband was always the first suspect, and this one appeared properly shocked. Interesting that he wore a business suit instead of a costume. Did he come straight from work? Important meeting on a Saturday? With who? Or maybe he didn’t really want to be here?
“Where was the husband when the hit went down?”
“Standing right next to the victim.”
“Got it,” Dean said. But he could have hired someone.
Dean focused on the support group surrounding the husband to look for reactions and realized a woman was staring back at him. His breath caught.
June Latham. June Latham with her hand resting on the husband’s shoulder.
And damn if she wasn’t any man’s wet dream come to life. A pale dress clung to her curves, hugging and dipping in all the right places to make a man hungry. Made him hungry. Did other things to lower parts of his anatomy.
He couldn’t tear his gaze away from her.
She exuded an aura of elegant old-money class and easy primal sex at the same time. Like a high-priced pro trolling these festivities on the hunt for a wealthy john. Was Ms. Latham living a double life? If so, she’d definitely come to the right club for that activity. The Turf Club’s membership fees were the most expensive in the county. Both those fees and this woman were way out of his price range.
He didn’t care about the club, but the thought of June being a pro initiated a spurt of anger.
She gave him a quick nod.
His gaze rose to her hair and a feather jutting out behind her head. He frowned. The dead woman sported a similar headband. In fact, June’s dress appeared identical to the one worn by the vic. Even their hair was arranged in the same style.
What the hell was going on here?
Maybe he had fallen into a rabbit hole.
* * *
THE SIGHT OF Detective Hammer moving into the Turf Club Grand Ballroom and taking control of the chaotic situation mysteriously reassured June.
This man knows what he’s doing. He’ll figure out what the hell just happened. Why it happened.
As he directed his team, movements crisp and purposeful, she felt herself emerge from a block of ice that had frozen her since she watched Sandy collapse to the floor.
“Oh, my God,” Paul said for the hundredth time.
June realized her hand rested on Paul’s shoulder and gave a comforting squeeze, her gaze remaining on Hammer as he examined the body with his ever-present partner beside him.
Sandy’s body. Beautiful, happy, perfect Sandy is gone.
Paul folded his arms on the table and placed his head on top. “Sandy. My God. Sandy. This can’t be real.”
She agreed with Paul. This couldn’t be real.
Hammer rose, asked a question and turned to focus on Paul. Then Hammer’s gaze caught hers, and everything else in the room receded. No question he recognized her, but of course he would. A look of speculation entered his eyes as he openly checked out her costume.
Speculation and hunger.
She shivered, but gave him a slight nod of recognition.
He spoke to the two uniformed cops with him. They nodded.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Hammer made his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. She hadn’t realized how quiet the room had become until he spoke.
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience. Please be patient, but you’ll need to wait here until interviewed by an investigator. More officers are on their way to speed up that process.”
Then he turned back to her and motioned with his head slightly. She took that as a sign that he wanted to speak to her. With an apologetic murmur she knew didn’t register with Paul, she moved toward the detective. The murmur of voices resumed in the room.
“Ms. Latham,” he said in a professional, neutral voice that belied the feral expression in his eyes.
She nodded and swallowed, needing to moisten a dry mouth.
He frowned. “Are you okay?”
“Could I sit down?” she asked. She’d been standing next to Paul since Sandy...since the shooting. June closed her eyes against the memory of Sandy’s shocked expression.
“Of course.” Hammer pulled out a chair. “I’d like to ask a few questions.”
“Thanks.” June sat, positioning herself so she couldn’t see the cloth-covered body.
She suspected her friend had been dead before she hit the carpet. And then Paul had totally lost it. And not just Paul. The entire room had filled with terrified screams. She’d gone to Sandy—to Paul, to pull him away from his wife, the sound of crunching glass beneath her feet ugly and loud.
It seemed foolish now, but she realized she’d remained next to Paul in an effort to somehow protect him, shield him from the evil that had entered this ballroom. Donna and Carole had done the same.
“Did you know the victim?” Hammer asked.
“Yes. She is—was—one of my best friends.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.
June wondered how many times he’d uttered those exact words in his career. “Thanks. We came to the party together tonight.”
Detective Hammer pulled out his notebook. “She didn’t come with her husband?”
“No.”
Hammer scribbled a note. Wait. Had she just incriminated Paul?
“We were having sort of a girls’ night out with two other friends,” June explained.
Hammer looked up. “Why? Any trouble in the marriage?”
June opened her mouth to deny that idea, but hesitated. The knot in her stomach tightened as she processed where Hammer was going with that question. Paul was a suspect.
“Maybe,” she admitted. “I’m not sure.”
Hammer jotted another note.
“But Paul had nothing to do with the shooting,” she said. “They’ve been in love since high school.”
“You went to high school with the victim and her husband?”
“For a while, yes. Believe me, Paul would never hurt Sandy.” As she said the words, June wondered if they were true. Never kill her, no. What a ridiculous notion that Paul would pay someone to shoot Sandy. How best to convince the detective of that fact?
But Sandy’s feelings had been hurt by her husband’s recent distance. Indeed, that had been the point of their sexy costumes.
“I’m sure you’re right,” Hammer said smoothly. “Can you tell me what you saw tonight?”
“It was so fast,” June murmured and related the surreal nightmare of how the window exploded, her friend collapsed and the room went crazy.
“Anything else?” he asked when she’d finished. He’d listened without interrupting, his face a complete blank.
“That’s all I can think of.”
“Did Ms. Taylor have any enemies?”
“Everyone loved Sandy.”
He nodded, but the thought flashing through his brain was almost audible. Apparently not everyone.
“Did she work?”
“No.”
“Kids?”
“No.” June closed her eyes, worried Sandy sounded like a spoiled slacker. But she had wanted kids. She and Paul were waiting a few more years to start their family. “She volunteered a lot of hours at the Lowe Art Museum.”
“It’s good there’s no kids,” Hammer said softly. “Murder is hardest on children.”
June opened her eyes at the sympathy in his voice.
“I guess so,” she murmured.
“So you and the victim were close?”
Again June hesitated. The truth was she and Sandy had drifted apart since she left Pinecrest. Had she lied when she told Hammer Sandy had been one of her best friends? Months often went by without them speaking.
And now I’ll never speak to Sandy again. Never hear her soft laugh. Oh, Sandy. I’m so sorry. So, so sorry. How did we let that happen?
She took a deep breath, wishing she could cry. Sandy’s death was certainly a good reason for tears, but she hadn’t cried since the fire. Not even at her parents’ funeral.
“In high school we used to pretend we were sisters,” June told Hammer, looking down at the table. “We even dressed alike sometimes.”
“You’re dressed alike tonight.”
His tone had changed, and June glanced up. Hammer was staring at her feather again. Self-conscious, she removed the headband and placed it on the table.
“I know it’s silly,” she murmured. “Sandy had the costumes made.”
“Anything else you can tell me? Can you think of any reason someone would want to murder your friend?”
June remained silent for a moment. What did she really know about Sandy’s life lately? God, but that thought made her sad.
“To be honest,” she said, “we weren’t as close as we once were. I might not be the best person to ask.”
“Is there any reason why someone would want to kill you?”
A jolt went through June at Hammer’s question. “Me? Why would you ask that?”
“You seem to be a lightning rod for trouble,” Hammer said.
“That’s ridiculous. You don’t even know me.”
“I’ve been assigned three new cases in the last forty-eight hours. You have a connection to all of them.”
She opened her mouth to reply, then shut it without speaking. He had a point.
“You and the victim here look a lot alike. You even had the same feather sticking out of your hair.”
June’s gaze fell to the headband on the table. Horror washed over her as she reasoned out Hammer’s implication. “You think someone was gunning for me and shot Sandy by mistake because we were dressed alike?”
“So I really want an answer to my question,” Hammer said, his blue gaze boring into hers. “Is there any reason someone would want to kill you?”
“That’s crazy,” June said.
“Maybe,” Hammer said. “But when I saw your friend’s face, for a second I thought it was you. Through a scope from a distance...” Hammer turned his head to look out over the dark golf course. “I don’t know. Could happen.”
June also turned to look. Just as she did, light flooded the area behind the clubhouse.
“Finally,” Hammer murmured, then turned back to her. “Did you see the man who released the birds here tonight?”
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Sharon Hartley
One hot Miami mystery Homicide detective Dean Hammer has two dead bodies on his hands and just one connection: a pretty activist named June Latham. She swears her only concern is rescuing the tropical birds she loves, but something isn't adding up. As Dean begins to unravel the mystery of June's troubled family, he realizes she's in danger.But that's not all. Dean's hotter for June than even the sweltering Miami weather can explain. Now if only she would put aside their differences and let him protect her… Otherwise she'll be next in the sniper's scope.
One hot Miami mystery
Homicide detective Dean Hammer has two dead bodies on his hands and just one connection: a pretty activist named June Latham. She swears her only concern is rescuing the tropical birds she loves, but something isn’t adding up. As Dean begins to unravel the mystery of June’s troubled family, he realizes she’s in danger.
But that’s not all. Dean’s hotter for June than even the sweltering Miami weather can explain. Now if only she would put aside their differences and let him protect her... Otherwise she’ll be next in the sniper’s scope.
“I looked you up last night.
Guess what I discovered?”
“That I’ve never been married?”
“No, that you—” June paused as his words sunk in. “You’ve never been married?”
“Wouldn’t want to make any woman a widow. So, what startling thing did you learn about me?”
She shook her head. Once again Dean had thrown her off balance. How could he possibly know she’d tried to determine his marital status? “Forget it.”
“Maybe I don’t want to forget it. Whatever it was sure ruffled your feathers.” He grinned, obviously amused by his bird reference.
“Ha-ha,” she said, not finding him funny.
“Hey. I seem to remember you inviting me on this little jaunt. Did I misunderstand?”
She sighed. “No. I thought you would enjoy yourself. That was before I knew you preferred to hunt birds with that high-powered rifle you’re so damned good with.”
“Ah,” Dean said, noting June’s face had flushed a delightful pink in her anger, making her even more attractive. “Got it now.”
Dear Reader (#ulink_3f03dc43-cb94-5a99-9067-6dd386c8d913),
I’ve loved birds since I was a little girl. When my mother couldn’t find me, she knew my nose was either buried in a book or I was watching birds at my feeder. Maybe it’s the wonder of flight, maybe it’s their showy colors (in the bird world, males are usually the most colorful), or perhaps it’s their lively songs. Whatever it is, I’m still a birder and lead bird walks on Sunday mornings during the spring and fall migration seasons in Miami.
Bird numbers are declining all over the world because of habitat loss and other stresses. However, there are strategies anyone can employ to help, backyard feeders being one. Why not participate in citizen science and help with the Christmas bird count? Check out a free bird walk in your area. You might find a hobby that will fascinate you for the rest of your life.
Her Cop Protector is a story I loved writing since it features birds, a hot cop and a mystery. Subtropical South Florida provided a steamy setting for a sexy romance. I hope you’ll enjoy reading June and Dean’s story as much as I loved telling it!
I love to hear from readers. Email me at sharonhartley01@bellsouth.net.
Stay present!
Namaste,
Sharon
Her Cop Protector
Sharon Hartley
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
SHARON HARTLEY writes contemporary romances that revolve around cops and the fascinating but dangerous people who inhabit their world. After creating plots where the bad guys try to harm the good ones, she calms herself by teaching yoga, cultivating orchids and hiking in the natural world. An avid birder, during migration season Sharon leads weekend bird walks in South Florida. Please visit her website at sharonshartley.com (http://www.sharonshartley.com).
This book is dedicated to all the beautiful birds stolen from their homes who don’t survive the journey.
Contents
Cover (#ud873906a-3345-5da0-a987-0764e6ae1b35)
Back Cover Text (#u960209d2-88c8-5f31-b00b-5280ee670c9d)
Introduction (#uf83bb8bd-1a37-5de6-9e59-0d2122a292ca)
Dear Reader (#uf6f0d4e0-3eb3-5ba0-9281-b2c8c038e2a2)
Title Page (#u1e366c6f-b0a6-5449-95dd-b17f9bcc564c)
About the Author (#udc7c9111-2107-5c04-bf04-ef91a37c48e0)
Dedication (#ua44f6d9c-29b7-5c49-a8c1-90d0a6edb320)
CHAPTER ONE (#ud85840c5-1c39-543a-933a-5f553d41e29a)
CHAPTER TWO (#ub1b36c00-4419-5933-b3d6-164bf1f91e1c)
CHAPTER THREE (#u7e619b1b-788d-5270-8c51-ce14c47efc41)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u55c5cce5-734e-5b81-9432-3445523af5f9)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u62e54b32-1819-508b-96bf-f9ad8160b181)
CHAPTER SIX (#uad48f29e-278e-56c9-b8df-ddfbf9540628)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_01405d90-aa01-57ff-8d5b-03bdc3ffea24)
WHEN JUNE ENTERED the air-conditioned chill of the North Beach Pet Shop, dozens of colorful birds came to life with raucous squawks. Well, no wonder. She glanced up at the bell rigged to clang whenever the front door opened. An early warning system.
To her left, a tall man in his forties behind the counter nodded at her. Colorful tattoos curled around both of his biceps. Piercings in both ears and his left nostril. “Let me know if I can help you,” he said.
“Just looking,” June said, in her best attempt at portraying a bored browser. She’d gotten good at that.
He returned to reading a magazine. Was this guy the owner or an employee? That would make a huge difference in his reaction in the next few minutes.
She sniffed the air to detect any foul odors. Mostly old cedar chips from the bottom of cages. Not too bad. At least this shop kept the smuggled birds in fairly decent conditions.
June snuck a glance to the rear wall, where the birds continued their noisy protest in floor-to-ceiling cages. A majority of monks. Some yellow-headed amazons and a few macaws. Exactly what the informant had reported. Birds flapped obviously clipped wings in futile attempts at liftoff. A few made it off perches and slammed into the wire barrier blocking their escape with a disappointed shriek.
June bit her bottom lip and looked away. After the initial rush of sympathy, familiar anger mushroomed inside her chest, making her heart rate ramp up. No good, June. Remain calm if you want to help. Inhaling deeply, she lifted a container of dog shampoo from the display next to her and pretended to study the ingredients.
Remember, these birds are the survivors, she reminded herself, allowing the breathing technique time to work. Triple or quadruple this number didn’t survive the journey.
She strolled toward the right side of the store, where an assortment of puppies romped or dozed in five-by-five wire cages stacked one on top of the other. A honey-colored cocker spaniel eyed her hopefully as she approached. When he reared up on his hind legs, she reached through the wire and stroked his soft head. This immediately gained the attention of a feisty Jack Russell terrier who pounced over to nudge the spaniel out of the way.
Too bad she couldn’t save these furry sweeties. Their lives were equally sad, but disgustingly legal, products of puppy mills all over the country. She tested the air again. Definitely less pleasant on this side of the shop, but lingering disinfectant made the smell tolerable.
She glanced back at the clerk. He kept his head down and remained focused on his reading, so she continued toward her target: the birds. She needed evidence. Even from a distance of six feet she could see that their legs were banded, supposed proof of being bred in captivity. But she knew better. The barbarians now created counterfeit bands to thwart the Fish and Wildlife Commission’s attempts to curb smuggling.
As if counterfeit bands could make this group of wild birds appear tame.
Of course, FWC didn’t approve of her unorthodox methods. Even less of her trips to South America with the Tropical Bird Society to stop poachers at the source. Bird smuggling was hardly a high priority to the US government. They were much more worried about drugs. FWC didn’t have enough manpower or budget to stop thousands of birds from being murdered each year.
She reached inside her jeans pocket, fingers tightening around her phone. She needed one good peek at a counterfeit band for confirmation. She’d take photos, enlarge them and she’d have her proof.
The door clanged behind her, signaling the entry of another customer. Her heart tripped into a faster pace again, but maybe this arrival would provide a distraction from her own activities.
The clerk murmured a greeting, and the newcomer, a male, grunted a reply as June leaned closer and peered at the leg of a magnificent scarlet macaw who glared back at her with haughty disdain. The bird stepped away with a short cackle.
“Hold still, my beauty,” June whispered, focusing on the leg band, looking for the telltale signs of the fake markers, a bruised leg and missing scales—yes, there. Definitely bogus. She nodded to herself. But she already knew that.
With another sideways look at the clerk, she raised her phone, positioning her body to hide her actions. The second customer—a man—stepped next to her. She ignored him and raised the camera. You’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, buddy. Sorry.
The customer said something during her first click, but he whispered his words and she couldn’t stop gathering evidence to ask him to repeat himself. She kept clicking, gathering images of as many captives as possible.
“Hey” came a rough shout from behind her. “What the hell you think you’re doing?”
June ignored the clerk. Beside her the new guy spoke again—the inflection sounding like a question—but his words were lost in the resumed squawking of agitated birds roused by the hostility of the clerk hurrying toward her.
“Damn it, lady. Stop taking photographs.”
June didn’t stop until a rough hand closed around her upper left arm and squeezed hard.
“Hey,” she said, trying to pull away. “That hurts.”
“It’s gonna hurt a lot more if you don’t hand over that camera.”
She glared at him—but went still when she met his dark eyes. Fear flared in her belly as the man tightened his grip. This was precisely what Agent Gillis had warned her about. She shouldn’t have come alone when Jared got sick and canceled.
She slid the phone into her pocket. “Let go of me or I’ll file an assault charge.”
“I don’t think so, lady. You just give me your phone.”
“Or what?”
“Or else you’ll be very sorry. These are my birds, and I don’t want you taking photographs.”
So he was the owner. Bad luck, but explained his vigilance. June again tried to wrench out of his grasp, but he only squeezed harder. She swallowed, the pain in her arm now making it difficult to concentrate. She pushed away the stirrings of panic. Would this man really hurt her?
Hell, yes. The jerk’s greed caused the murder of hundreds of smuggled birds.
“I’ll scream,” she said.
“And who do you think will care?”
Before she could answer, a brilliant red bird swooped over her head. She ducked instinctively, as did the shop owner.
“What the—” the owner shouted, finally, blessedly, releasing his grip.
The macaw flapped madly, but clipped wings made it impossible for him to go far.
Rubbing her arm, June turned in time to watch the new customer fling open the last cage and urge its prisoners to flee.
“What are you doing?” the owner shouted.
As if in answer, birds streamed out of confinement. Triumphant screeches resonated through the shop as feathered creatures in hues of green, blue, red and yellow attempted flight, but most only hopped awkwardly around shelves and the filthy floor of the shop.
The front door clanged again, and June focused on the back of the liberator as he rushed outside. A flight-worthy yellow-headed parrot zoomed for the opening. Oh, no. Fearing he’d be crushed by the closing door, she held her breath. But vivid green wings flapped through safely and disappeared into a patch of blue sky, no doubt headed for the closest tree.
“Shit,” the owner moaned.
With a sigh, June withdrew her phone again and called the police.
* * *
DETECTIVE DEAN HAMMER heaved himself out of his police cruiser into heavy tropical air. Shaking his head, he eyeballed the peeling paint of the mom-and-pop pet shop in the seedy business section of North Miami Beach—a long eight miles from South Beach. He’d been busted not only off his beat, but off his regular gig. His lieutenant’s cute idea of punishment. Yeah, real cute.
“Hey, Hawk,” his temporary partner—a fresh-faced rookie whose training was also part of his exile—asked across the roof of the vehicle, “when was the last time you responded to a disturbance at a pet shop?”
“Yeah, well, that would be never, Sanchez.”
Sanchez grinned. “Do you think the pets inside are rioting?”
“Funny. If you learn one thing while working with me, Sanchez, you need to be ready for anything on a call.”
Sanchez nodded and glanced toward the shop’s facade. “Yeah, I know, I know.”
You just think you know, rookie. Dean patted the Kevlar vest under his shirt and moved toward the entrance. “Things can go south in a heartbeat.”
“And you must be prepared,” Sanchez mimicked. “I bet you won’t need your Remington M24 here, though.”
“God, I hope not,” Dean said as he jerked open the door. A sniper gun at a pet shop? A giant cowbell clanged overhead as he entered.
“Jeez,” Sanchez breathed behind him over a cacophony of shrieking birds. “What the hell happened here?”
Good question, Dean thought, focusing on dozens of colorful parrots hopping and leaping in aborted flight attempts around the shop. No bodies. No citizens bleeding. No apparent robbery.
Damn if Sanchez hadn’t nailed it. The birds had staged a riot and broken out.
A man, presumably an employee, chased the animals with little success. As soon as he got close to a parrot, the bird squawked and deftly hopped away. He’d managed to capture a few, though, since cages in the rear of the shop housed parrots. Dean looked for and spotted a surveillance camera on the back wall.
“Be careful where you walk,” the man shouted. “Don’t step on any of them.”
“Uh, right,” Dean said, his attention zeroing in on the only other person in the shop, a tall, knockout blonde in her midtwenties who stood by the cash register yacking on a cell phone.
“And arrest her,” the bird chaser said. “She’s responsible for this.”
Arrest her? Dean’s mood lightened. He’d like to interrogate this one, her sophisticated beauty reminding him of the Russian models who frequented Ocean Drive.
“You the owner?” Dean asked the man.
After a pause where he seemed to consider his answer, he said, “Yes. David Glover.”
“Did she release the birds?” Sanchez yelled over the bird noise.
“I did not,” the woman replied. She lowered her phone and gave the owner a look that would freeze lava.
“But your partner did,” the owner shouted.
“I don’t have a partner,” she said.
“Yeah, right. Like you never saw the guy before.”
“Never. And you’re the one who should be arrested.”
“For what?”
The blonde turned to Dean. “I called the authorities.”
“You bitch,” Glover said. “Only because I was too busy with—”
“Hold on, hold on,” Dean interjected, the squawking of both human and bird now giving him a major headache. “Sanchez, help this guy round up the birds while I interview this nice lady.”
The blonde nodded and dropped her phone into a large purse slung over her shoulder, its strap pressing between very nice breasts.
Sanchez grinned. “Good thing you warned me to be ready for anything.”
“You’re a real comedian, Sanchez.” Dean pointed a finger at the owner. “We’ll talk after you get your merchandise under control.”
The blonde smiled. “Let me know how that turns out,” she said to the owner.
Dean suppressed a laugh and interrupted the owner’s heated response. She had a point. The shopkeeper wasn’t dealing well with his escapees.
“You got an office in the back I can use?” he asked.
Dean noted Glover’s second hesitation. Apparently the man had secrets to protect. “I won’t look at a thing,” Dean said, holding up his arms.
“Yeah, go ahead,” Glover said and resumed chasing his birds, sidestepping around a growing accumulation of bird droppings.
The blonde smiled again, obviously finding the owner’s frustrated lunges for his elusive birds hilarious. Glad to escape the noise, Dean ushered the woman toward the back. He liked the way she moved—her legs seemed to glide over the floor and she held herself with perfect graceful posture.
Inside the tiny dump of an office, he motioned for her to sit in a chair facing a messy desk. He also sat and removed his interview notebook.
“Why aren’t you in uniform?” she asked.
“Because I’m a detective.”
Her eyes widened. “They sent a detective?”
Dean nodded. “Bird riots demand the full attention of the Miami Beach Police Department.”
“Ha-ha.”
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
“June Latham.”
“Address?”
After he got the basics, he said, “So, why don’t you tell me what happened here this morning, Ms. Latham?”
“This pet shop markets illegally captured wild birds.”
Dean glanced up from his notes. “How do you know?”
“Their leg bands are counterfeit.” She shifted her weight to one hip and crossed a slim, shapely leg. “I came here to gather proof for Fish and Wildlife.”
Dean rubbed his chin, thinking. “So you liberated these illegal birds so they could fly free again.”
“Of course not. Releasing them without a safe harbor plan could harm them.” She bit her bottom lip and looked down. “Actually, I should go help that clod before he harms one. He has no idea how to handle birds.”
“And you do?”
“Yes.” She leaned forward. “Can you arrest him?”
“Like he said, for what?”
“For selling illegal—”
“I think you know I can’t do that.”
She sat back and crossed her arms. “An arrest would teach him a lesson.”
“Not my job.” Although, considering his forced time with rookie Sanchez, maybe lessons were his job. “So, who released the birds? That’s the crime I’m investigating.”
“I don’t know who he was. Some customer in the shop. I never saw him before.”
“Give me a description.”
She shrugged. “I barely looked at him. Maybe fifty or sixty, bald. Taller than me, maybe six feet. Really thin.”
“Not bad for barely looking at him,” Dean said. “So, what happened?”
“When that jerk grabbed my arm— Hey, that’s a crime.” She sat up straighter. “Assault.”
“Do you want to file charges?”
She leaned back, glancing toward the outer room. “Let me think about that.”
“Go on. The owner grabbed you...”
June Latham rubbed her arm with long, graceful fingers. Dean followed her movements, noting with disgust a red mark where someone had taken a stranglehold on her body. No question the area would bruise. He also noted well-toned biceps and triceps and wondered where she worked out.
“He wanted my phone. He wouldn’t let go of me. We argued. Suddenly a macaw flew over my head. When I turned, I saw this customer opening all the cages and urging the birds to escape.”
“So you maintain you had nothing to do with releasing the birds.”
She raised her chin. “I never lie.”
“Good to know,” he said, closing his notepad, believing she told the truth today. But everybody lied on occasion. “You’re free to go.” Review of the video surveillance would reveal if there had even been a crime.
She didn’t move. “You’re not going to do anything about the smuggled birds, are you?”
“I wish I could.” See, now, there was a lie. Although he’d love to score points with this tall, blonde goddess, he was a homicide cop, not a bird savior.
“Do you know that wildlife smuggling is the third largest illegal trade in the world economy? Only drugs and weapons are bigger.”
Actually, no, he didn’t know that little factoid. But of course she didn’t lie. “So take your proof to Fish and Wildlife.”
“You know the birds will be gone by the time they act.”
“I can’t help that.”
“You could impound the birds as evidence.”
Dean assessed the woman before him. So here he had a true bleeding-heart activist. A rare breed these days, thank God, because they were nothing but a giant pain in the ass. “When I talk to Mr. Glover, will he admit the birds are illegal?”
“No.”
“Then it’s your word against his.”
“But remember I have proof,” she said, holding up her phone. “And I repeat, you could take the birds into protective custody pending investigation.”
A bunch of shrieking, pooping birds in the Miami Beach Police Station? Yeah, that’d get him out of his lieutenant’s shit can.
Dean handed her his card. You never knew. Maybe she’d call. “Let me talk to the owner. I’ll document your allegations in my report, but that’s the best I can do.”
“That’s the best you can do?” Disdain laced her words. “Really?”
Dean stood. Not likely she’d be calling. “You’re free to go, Ms. Latham.”
“But the birds aren’t.” With a final frosty glare, she moved toward the door.
* * *
JUNE DESCENDED FROM the rear exit of a county bus at her stop on Brickell Avenue. The monstrous vehicle belched poison out its exhaust pipe, changed gears with a low rumble and lurched north toward downtown Miami.
She removed her cotton sweater, thankful for the hot August sun to thaw out her supercooled skin. Bus drivers in Miami always kept their AC at arctic levels, since hot air blasted their faces at each stop. Her shoulder muscles relaxed as she breathed the salty fragrance from nearby Biscayne Bay. Dwarfed by scores of surrounding condo towers, she walked the landscaped path toward the Enclave’s entrance. At least she was home.
What a disastrous morning. And she’d accomplished nothing.
Actually, she’d succeeded in something: stressing out an already traumatized group of birds.
She rubbed her arm, which still ached where that horrible man had squeezed. And the gorgeous raven-haired cop, Detective Hammer, had seemed more interested in ogling her than doing his job. Picturing his handsome face with its I’ve-seen-it-all-before expression, she wanted to dismiss him from her thoughts but couldn’t. There had been something about him, something darkly vital that warned her as surely as the noisy bell at the pet shop.
Of course she’d email her photos to Agent Gillis, but by the time Fish and Wildlife noticed, the birds could be shipped to California.
Would Glover harm them? She hated to think he’d dispose of living creatures to avoid a fine. But why wouldn’t he? He obviously didn’t care that intelligent animals had been wrenched from their jungle homes, shipped under dreadful conditions a thousand miles away and then cooped up inside a tiny prison. And to think she’d even helped round up the darlings and placed them back in jail so Glover couldn’t break a wing, the whole time acutely aware of the detective’s intense blue eyes scrutinizing her movements. Hammer had even helped her corner one African gray parrot.
So she’d only made matters worse for the birds. Maybe she should listen to Agent Gillis and stop her commando raids to gather proof. Unless...well, maybe Glover wouldn’t be so quick to deal with poachers next time one approached him. That was something, wasn’t it?
Something, not much. But no, she couldn’t stop. She had to try.
The condo’s automatic doors whooshed open, and she entered the chilly elegance of the Enclave’s lobby.
“Why such a sad face, Junie?”
Jerked from her tumbling thoughts, she nodded to Magda, the condo’s dark-haired, eagle-eyed concierge seated in her usual spot behind the sleek oak counter.
“My goodness,” Magda continued in her lilting accent, “you look like the condo association made you get rid of Lazarus.”
Alarm shot down June’s spine. Nothing happened in this thirty-story building that Magda didn’t know about first. “Has there been another meeting? What have you heard?”
Magda held up long, manicured fingers. “I was kidding.”
June blew out a breath. Not funny, but Magda couldn’t know how worried she was about that rumor. Among others. “Good.”
Magda leaned forward, resting on her forearms. “So, what’s wrong, sweetie?”
“Just a rotten morning,” June said. The less said about her investigative activities, the better.
“Were your buses late again?” Magda persisted.
“Actually, the system stayed on schedule today.”
Magda shook her head. “I don’t know how you manage to get around Miami on a bus.”
“You just have to make that commitment,” June said and then added with a grin, “and allow enough time.”
“I need my car. Will your uncle be at the Labor Day party this year?”
“He hasn’t decided.” June removed her key from her purse and stepped to the bank of mailboxes on the wall left of Magda’s position. “The weather’s been great in New York, so he’s not sure he wants to come when it’s so humid here.”
“So, when was the last time you drove the Cobra?”
June paused in removing mail from her slot. When had she last driven Uncle Mike’s antique gas-guzzler? She’d promised to fire it up at least once a week. She grabbed mail and stuffed it inside her bag. “Thanks for the reminder. Guess I’m going down to the dungeon later.”
Magda’s face wreathed in a maternal smile. “I know you hate the parking levels.”
“What would I do without you, Maggie Mae?”
Magda blushed, looking pleased. “Oh, you do fine, Junie.”
“The jury is still out on that. Will I see you at the pool later?”
“Of course,” Magda replied, buzzing June through the security door to the elevators.
Stepping inside a waiting car, June punched PH and swiped her fob to allow the elevator to ascend to the thirtieth floor. She closed her eyes as she was gently swept upward—like the wings of a bird flying up to her private aerie in the sky.
No, she reminded herself, opening her eyes. Her uncle’s aerie. A temporary refuge. She must never forget this luxury didn’t belong to her. Not anymore. Not for a long time.
And really nothing had ever been hers. Greed had been her parents’ downfall. Had she once been like them? She couldn’t remember.
What did it matter anyway? Nothing she remembered from her idyllic childhood had been real.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_59926acf-27ac-5505-bf2c-794631854ada)
DEAN RUBBED EYES strained from watching grainy surveillance video and leaned back in his chair. He’d played the bird-shop security video four times since returning to the station. It backed up June Latham’s version of events.
She and the mystery man hadn’t entered the premises together. He’d released the birds while the owner confronted June. She never spoke to the guy before he rabbited out of the store.
Dean lifted his mug from the table and swigged cold coffee. Why the hell did the guy open those cages? Maybe he got religion from the sight of Ms. Latham and decided to help her cause. Dean snorted. That was as likely a reason as any. Who knew why citizens did anything anymore?
And why did he give a fig about June and her smuggled birds? He’d told his rookie the review was good training. Yeah, right.
“I don’t see a crime to investigate,” Sanchez said beside him.
“Not by the woman,” Dean said.
“Glover won’t be happy.”
Dean nodded, remembering the shop owner’s sputtering outrage when June walked free. Hell, even if he tracked down this bird liberator, what would be the charge? A misdemeanor—malicious mischief or some such nonsense. Hardly worth the police’s time. “He’ll get over it.”
“Do you think Glover’s birds are illegal?”
“Who knows?” Dean shrugged. What he really meant was Who cares? “Not our jurisdiction. But I told the woman I’d send my report to Fish and Wildlife.”
A grinning Detective Lloyd Miller entered the viewing room with a steaming mug and glanced at the scene frozen on the monitor. Dean knew what Miller saw. Escaped parrots covering the floor and shelves of the North Beach Pet Shop.
“Whoa, Hawk. So the rumor is true. You got yourself a serious situation here. Birds on the lam, huh?”
“Haven’t you got somewhere else to be, Miller?”
“And here I come with a sincere effort to help your new case,” Miller said with an injured air. “My seven-year-old daughter has a little green parakeet named Birdie Bird. I’m offering her expert assistance with this bird caper.”
Sanchez snickered.
Dean gave Miller the finger. He should be used to the mocking. The entire station had been riding him since the lieutenant busted him back to patrol. Didn’t matter what case he caught, his fellow officers loved to remind him how low he had sunk.
Miller sat down and raised his mug toward the viewing screen. “I say blast those felonious birds from the air with your rifle. Tough shot, I know, but you’re just the man for the job.”
“Are you really as good a shot as they say?” Sanchez asked.
“Oh, he’s good,” Miller replied. “State champion. And very quick on the trigger, right, Hawk?”
Dean squeezed his mug, staring at his trigger finger. Best not to react. The less he said in response to this schoolhouse shit, the quicker the shit would end.
“It’s why we call him Hawk,” Miller added.
“I’ve never taken a shot that wasn’t righteous,” Dean told Sanchez.
“Not even the Wilcox kid?” Sanchez asked.
Dean leveled a look at the rookie. Damn rumors. “The Wilcox ‘kid’ was eighteen going on thirty-five with a rap sheet three miles long. He threatened his two young hostages with a semiautomatic.”
“And you took him down?”
“Something like that,” Dean said, shoved paperwork on the bird-shop case into a file. He’d been right to take that shot. He didn’t regret a damn thing he’d done that day—only Lieutenant Marshall’s decision to punish him for acting before the captain’s go-ahead. But his lieutenant hadn’t been on scene. Marshall didn’t see what Dean saw through his scope.
Had he been too quick? No frigging way. The way he saw it, only the bad guy died that day. He should have gotten a commendation, not reassignment.
Lieutenant Marshall entered the viewing room carrying a slip of paper. Dean sat up, glad he hadn’t made his thoughts verbal.
“Your lucky day, Hammer.” Marshall handed Dean the assignment sheet. “We got a body in the Sea Wave Hotel on Ocean Terrace, and I got nobody else to send. Take Sanchez. And don’t shoot anyone.”
* * *
DEAN TURNED ONTO Ocean Terrace and drove past a boarded-up art deco hotel on North Beach. If you asked him—and of course no one ever would—he considered its design as good as anything on South Beach. Not for the first time, he wondered why the beautiful people flocked to Ocean Drive seven miles south but avoided Ocean Terrace. Same beach, same architecture. But a homeless population wandered here instead of gorgeous European models.
A sleek twenty-five-story high-rise towered over the smaller historic gems, its shadow momentarily blocking the relentless August sun. Someone had tried to turn the neighborhood before the great economic bust. It’d happen eventually. Someday this area would become a gold mine for a brilliant developer with good timing.
But right now the only thing open was a half-assed surf shop instead of a celebrity-owned gourmet restaurant.
Across the street, Dean noted a large woman, hair covered with a bright yellow turban, sitting on a wheeled walker facing the dunes. Huge tortoiseshell sunglasses hid most of her face. Her head swiveled as she followed the police cruiser.
He also spotted a cart decorated with wooden and beaded jewelry on the wide sidewalk close to the dunes. Where was the owner? He or she would have to be found and interviewed.
“There it is,” Sanchez said, pointing to a three-story structure with faded pink and aqua paint. The roof featured a stair-step roofline, leading to a spire at the apex. Neon signage announced they’d arrived at the Sea Wave Hotel.
“I see it,” Dean said. Maybe five or six onlookers stood behind the crime-scene tape that blocked entrance to the hotel’s lobby. Filthy clothing, backpacks and a couple of shopping carts told Dean these were street people.
He continued his assessment as he braked to a stop in front of the Sea Wave. Not many people around. Pitiful few tourists—but of course South Florida was in the middle of the mean season.
The heat enveloped him like a wet sponge when he exited the air-conditioned cruiser. Not even 11:00 a.m. and already sweltering. He smelled the ocean—and damn if he couldn’t actually hear the crash of waves. You didn’t get that on Ocean Drive.
“Jeez, it’s hot,” Sanchez said.
“That’s why we live here, genius,” Dean said, still evaluating the scene. The subject hotel sat in the shadow of two larger properties, the one to the right part of a well-known hotel chain and better maintained.
Dean stared at the dirty glass block and one oversize porthole window in the hotel’s facade. A series of streamlined balconies wrapped around the sides of the structure. Satisfied he understood the setting, he stepped onto the hotel’s wide, covered porch, where he was met by a young male uniformed officer whose badge read Robert Kinney. Dean had seen him around but didn’t know him.
“You first on the scene?” Dean asked.
“Right,” Kinney said with a nod.
“What have we got?”
“Body on a balcony on the second floor. Gunshot wound to the head.”
“Who called it in?”
“Multiple 911 calls. A single shot was heard at 7:18 a.m.”
Damn early in the day for a murder. “Any witnesses?”
“No.”
“What else?”
The officer checked his notes. “The vic is one John Smith from Tulsa, Oklahoma.”
“John Smith? You’re kidding me, right?”
Kinney shrugged. “The room is registered to John Smith. Room twenty-two.”
“Okay. My partner and I will check the scene. You and other officers begin interviewing bystanders and determine if anybody saw anything.”
Dean entered the lobby and scanned its contents. Along the south wall, a sparse breakfast buffet on a long table. Straight ahead, stairs covered with filthy carpet led to a hall and rooms. To the right of the stairs was the front desk, where the only other occupant, a thirtysomething heavyset clerk, leaned against the counter, watching him. The way the guy rubbed his dark beard told Dean the clerk was plenty rattled. A surveillance camera hung over the desk.
Dean nodded at the clerk and proceeded up the stairs, followed by Sanchez. The carpet, which Dean noted was full of sand, covered the same cracked pink terrazzo as the lobby.
The door to unit twenty-two stood open. Dean looked through the room onto the balcony, where the medical examiner, Dr. Owen Fishman, a good man he’d worked with before, looked to be finishing up with the body. Dean nodded to himself and he pulled on latex gloves and cloth booties over his shoes. Excellent. He’d have control of the scene soon. The forensics team was still maybe ten minutes out.
“Inventory the room,” he told Sanchez. “And begin making sketches. We go in and out the same way each time we access the scene.”
The smell slammed into Dean when he crossed the seedy motel room toward the balcony. The smell was always the first thing. That coppery smell of old blood—lots of blood—and spilled guts.
God help him. He’d missed it.
He was back. He had a murder to investigate. Maybe his lieutenant had been right to bench him for a while to make him remember how much he loved his job. Maybe he’d needed that reminder to follow the rules.
Dean moved onto the balcony, where the ME completed his initial exam.
“Got a time of death?” Dean asked.
“Good morning, Hawk,” Dr. Fishman said with a grin. “So you’re back?”
“Depends on how quickly I can close this case.” Dean snapped a series of photos of the body with his phone.
“Well, we’ve got a mystery here.”
“Let me hear it.”
“I’m putting time of death approximately seven thirty. GSW to the head. I’d say the shooter was on the roof of the Night’s Inn next door.” Fishman motioned with his head.
Dean looked across a narrow alleyway to the Night’s Inn. “You’re saying a sniper took the vic out?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
But why? Dean wondered, taking a good look at the man’s face for the first time. This John Smith appeared to have lived on the streets for some time. Shabby clothes, no jewelry, dirty hair, unkempt.
So how did this down-and-out vic wind up on the balcony of a hotel, which although clearly not the Ritz, easily cost a hundred bucks a night? Definitely a mystery, Dean thought, feeling more jazzed every minute.
“The vic’s obviously a vagrant,” Fishman said, agreeing with Dean’s thought process. “No ID.”
“He pissed somebody off somewhere,” Dean said.
The doctor rose. “Will I see you at the autopsy?”
“You got it.”
Fishman grabbed his medical kit. “So, who would go to the trouble to set up a difficult shot on this guy?”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“Hawk,” Sanchez yelled.
Dean looked over and saw the forensics team had arrived and were suiting up to process the scene. He snapped a series of photos of the room, then exited to give the new arrivals space, careful to travel the same way he’d entered to avoid any more contamination than necessary.
“Come with me, Sanchez,” he said to his rookie. “We’re going to talk to the desk clerk.”
The clerk remained where Dean had last seen him, leaning against the desk counter watching the police activity. He straightened when Dean and Sanchez approached, a guarded expression on his bearded face.
“I’m Detective Dean Hammer, and this is Officer Ruben Sanchez.” Dean stuck out his hand for the clerk to shake it.
“Walt Ballard,” the clerk said, rubbing his hand on his jeans before shaking Dean’s.
“Were you on duty when the shot was fired?” Dean asked. He withdrew his spiral pad to make notes.
“Yeah. I start work at six a.m.”
“What can you tell me?”
“I’d just started a new pot of coffee for the breakfast buffet when I heard this pop. I knew right away it was a gunshot.”
“You familiar with guns?” Dean asked.
“Not really, but—well, it was a strange, scary sound. Not normal, you know. Nothing I heard around here before.”
“What happened next?”
Ballard shrugged. “Couple of screams from upstairs. Another guest came down, a guy, and told me there’d been a shooting. I called 911.”
“Did you go up?”
Ballard shook his head. “No, sir. I went nowhere near that room. I didn’t want to get shot.”
Dean believed him. “What can you tell me about this John Smith?”
“He checked in yesterday at noon. Polite enough, but secretive, like. Nervous, you know what I mean? Looking around constantly.”
“You ever see him around here before?”
“Never.”
“Did he have ID?”
Ballard hesitated. “He paid cash.”
Dean gave the clerk a hard look. “You don’t require ID?”
“If a prospective guest has cash, we let him stay. This time of year it’s tough for the owner to break even.”
“Did he have luggage?”
“One small airline carry-on type with wheels. Black.”
Dean nodded. That was what he’d seen in the room. “Did he have a vehicle? Ask about parking?”
“No.”
“Did you see anyone suspicious that morning?”
“No one but our regulars wanting a handout when I shut down the buffet.”
Dean stared at Ballard, looking for obvious tells that the man was hiding something. “Didn’t you think it odd that a vagrant had cash to pay for the room?”
“What do you mean?” Ballard looked confused. “John Smith might not be his real name, but he wasn’t any vagrant. Believe me, I know the type. There’s plenty in this neighborhood.”
Dean withdrew his phone and brought up a photo of the body. He shoved the phone in Ballard’s face. “That John Smith, the guy you checked into room twenty-two?”
Ballard’s eyes widened. He looked as though he’d hurl.
“Jesus,” he breathed. “Oh, man. Oh, shit.”
“That’s not John Smith?”
“No, sir, that’s not John Smith. That’s Rocky. He’s homeless, a regular, hangs around here all the time. Sweetest guy ever. I let him sweep up and eat leftovers from the buffet when I shut it down.”
* * *
“SO, WHAT SEEMS to be the problem with Killer today?” June asked Mrs. Callahan, the elderly owner of the tiny Yorkshire terrier shivering uncontrollably on the examination table. June stroked her hand across the dog’s soft head, and he raised pleading, liquid eyes to her face.
Killer really didn’t want to be here. But then most dogs hated a trip to the veterinarian, knowing precisely where they were the second they entered the door and certain they were in for some cruel torture—like an injection via a long, sharp needle.
“I just don’t know what to do,” Mrs. Callahan answered. “He won’t stop trying to eat his rear end.”
“It’s okay, sweetie,” June murmured to the dog. “I won’t hurt you.” She ran a gentle hand across the dog’s bluish-gray fur to comfort him, then backstroked to look for problems and found an angry, inflamed area.
“We’ve got a hot spot back here,” June said. “Have you checked for fleas?”
“My Killer does not have fleas,” Mrs. Callahan stated, peering over her thick glasses.
“Are you treating him with preventative medicine?” The dog twitched beneath June’s hand, then licked her fingers.
“Oh, I don’t believe in chemicals.”
“I see,” June said. “But he’s got fleas. Lots of them. That’s why he’s scratching.”
Mrs. Callahan’s face flushed. “Are you sure?”
“I’m afraid so.” June parted Killer’s fur to expose pink skin, and two or three of the hateful biting beasties scurried for cover.
Mrs. Callahan’s mouth popped open. “Oh, no. Poor Killer. I—I swear I looked and didn’t see any.”
The woman looked so distressed and embarrassed, June smiled at her. Both Mom and patient needed comforting today. And Mom might need new glasses.
“Dr. Trujillo will be in shortly, but don’t worry. She’ll give Killer something to make him more comfortable.”
“Thank you, Junie.”
“You’re welcome. Just be patient. The doctor is running a little behind this morning.”
June stepped out of Killer’s examination room just as Dr. Marisol Trujillo arrived. Her boss, the owner of Brickell Animal Hospital, wore her customary starched white lab coat over casual slacks, her smiling face framed by short hair that had turned a shade of soft gray at age fifty. Dr. Trujillo held a cafecito from Café Lulu in her right hand. June closed the examining room door, thinking that tiny foam cup contained enough caffeine to power a jet.
“Sorry I’m late, June,” the doctor said in her lilting Hispanic accent. “Dios Mio, you know what traffic can be on US One.”
“Actually, no.” June stepped behind the hospital’s counter and grinned at her boss. “Remember I walk to work.”
“Don’t rub it in. I know all about your light carbon footprint.” The doctor took a sip of coffee and left bright red lipstick on the rim of the white cup. “Any emergencies?”
“No, we’re good. Only Mrs. Callahan with Killer in room one.”
The doctor sighed and moved toward her office at the rear of the hospital. “What is it this time?”
“Fleas.”
Dr. Trujillo didn’t pause. “Of course it is. I’ll be right in.”
“Killer is shaking so hard I think the fleas might jump off to save themselves from whiplash.”
The doctor laughed and entered her office as the front door to the animal hospital opened. Knowing it couldn’t be Elaine, Dr. Trujillo’s receptionist, June glanced over to find Agent Donald Gillis, her contact with the Fish and Wildlife Commission, an old and dear friend of her parents’, stepping into the waiting room.
Had he already been to North Beach Pet Shop? Had he rescued the birds? She’d emailed him her photos almost immediately, but realized it was much too early for him to have visited North Beach and returned. Plus, that didn’t look like a pleased expression on his handsome, dignified face.
“Agent Gillis,” June said.
Gillis nodded. “June.”
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Although she had a sneaking suspicion.
“Well, let’s see. Something about escaped birds taking over a pet shop on North Beach?”
June sighed and sat down in a swivel chair. She’d kept such worrisome details out of her email and hadn’t expected Gillis to hear about yesterday’s disaster so quickly.
“Who ratted me out?” Had Dean Hammer actually contacted Fish and Wildlife? The idea improved her opinion of the guy, but there was no way Gillis could have seen any report this fast.
“Your buddy Jared posted the photos on Tropical Bird Society’s Facebook page.”
“Oh, great,” June muttered. Jared was a Facebook junkie. “I didn’t know you were a friend of our society.”
“How else am I going to follow your dangerous activities?”
“I didn’t do anything dangerous.”
“Jared’s post said you went alone.”
Oops. June looked down to the desk. Damn Jared and his Facebook fetish. “He got sick. But it was broad daylight in a public place. I was fine.” She met Gillis’s eyes again, resisting the urge to rub the sore, bruised area on her left arm.
“We’ve talked about this, June. Confronting smugglers is a terrible idea.”
“This guy wasn’t the smuggler, just a greedy consumer of cheap, illegal birds.”
“Please let my agency take care of it. It’s our job.”
“But you’re too damn slow,” June said. “And you know it. You should be on Miami Beach right now confiscating those poor birds instead of lecturing me.”
“You could get hurt, June.”
“I’m careful. I promise. Don’t worry about me.”
A small smile softened Gillis’s face. “I promised your parents I’d look out for you.”
June stiffened. “So you’ve told me.”
“They were worried about what would happen to you if they went to prison.”
“Uncle Mike took care of me.”
“June. Your parents loved you very much.”
“Yeah? Seems to me they loved their money more.”
“I’m sorry you think that way.”
She raised her chin. “Come on. Weren’t you disappointed by what they did?”
Gillis looked away, so June knew she’d touched a nerve. He was trying to use guilt over her parents to make her cease her commando raids, when he had to have been hurt, embarrassed even, by their criminal activity.
“Everyone makes mistakes,” he said.
“But some mistakes can’t be undone.”
Gillis remained quiet for a moment, and she wondered if he’d become lost in memories of good times. Gillis’s deceased wife and her parents had been best friends. The couples frequently traveled and socialized together.
“Do any of their old employees ever contact you?” he asked in a wistful tone.
“You mean employees of Latham Imports?”
“Yeah. Your parents had some very loyal workers who took the criminal charges and the fire hard. I thought some might stay in touch.”
“I haven’t talked to any of them since the funeral, but Uncle Mike spirited me away.” June shrugged, wishing Agent Gillis hadn’t brought up her parents. “Truthfully I try not to think about my life before the fire.”
Gillis’s eyes widened. “Oh, but, June, you—”
The phone jangled. Elaine, the receptionist, wouldn’t be in until later. “I’ve got to get back to work,” June said. “Are you going to check out the birds on North Beach?”
“The shop opens at ten a.m., and I’ll be waiting.”
“Thanks,” June said, reaching for the phone. But she suspected the parrots were long gone by now; who knew where and under what conditions? If Detective Hammer had agreed to take them into custody for safekeeping, she wouldn’t have to worry about where they disappeared to. But no, the man couldn’t be bothered to even check out her photographic evidence.
As the image of the detective eased into her brain, she shook her head, knowing it wouldn’t soon leave. His dark good looks crept into her thoughts way more than they should, especially considering how uncooperative he’d been with her investigation. Yes, the man was gorgeous in that bad-boy sort of way and in fabulous physical shape—to be honest, the sexiest man she’d seen in a long time—but she didn’t get what she found so compelling about him, even if he had helped with the bird roundup.
But Gillis was right about one thing. She needed to be more careful. When she got caught gathering evidence, it only made circumstances more difficult for already stressed birds.
She looked at the bruise on her left arm, remembering how much it had hurt when Glover grabbed her and squeezed. She rotated her shoulder and felt a dull ache. No real harm done. Still, even if she wouldn’t admit it to anyone but herself, she had been frightened.
From now on she’d only go on a raid when she had backup available.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_6b8e09dc-b415-5497-a9f2-f3f8610a14d5)
DEAN STEPPED ONTO the roof of the Night’s Inn and examined his surroundings, looking for signs of a sniper. A strong onshore breeze swirled around him, and the afternoon sun beat down on his shoulders. Heat shimmered off patches of black tar beneath his feet. He could see and hear the crashing waves of the Atlantic Ocean to his east. The high-rises of downtown Miami were visible far to the northwest.
He walked to the south edge of the structure. Below him, the vic’s balcony jutted from the Sea Wave in plain view. The body had been removed—already on its way to the morgue—but dark blood stained the concrete floor. Yellow crime-scene tape flapped in the gusty wind in front of the hotel.
Beside him, a huge olive-green air-conditioning compressor provided good cover. He nodded. Perfect place to hide.
All the shooter had to do was hunker down beside the compressor and wait for the target to step onto the balcony. Dean examined loose gravel next to the machinery and, yeah, a disturbed area indicated someone had moved around up here. No clear shoeprints to make a mold.
How long had the perp waited for his victim? All night? No, the shooter had probably positioned himself just before daybreak, but time in the hide could stretch out forever.
Dean closed one eye and held up his thumb as if taking aim. He sucked salty, humid air into his lungs. Wait for it, he told himself and let out half his breath, finding the most stable part of the cycle. No tremors. The best time to take the shot.
No doubt that was what the murderer had done. Dean felt that certainty shimmering in the steamy air around him. But why? He needed to find out who this vagrant was, what he’d done that would make someone kill him.
Dean searched the roof, but found no evidence that would help him identify the sniper. Whoever he was, he—or she—was damn good. They’d left nothing behind to give them away. But that was what he’d expected. Someone skilled enough to make that shot would also be careful. Very careful. And cautious.
Satisfied with his examination of the roof, Dean descended stairs reeking of stale urine. Likely vagrants figured out a way to sleep here on rainy nights.
On the slow elevator ride back to the Night’s Inn lobby, he decided to send Forensics to the roof to process the area, although he doubted they’d find any trace of whoever had shot Rocky—a name as likely to be fake as John Smith.
Damn, just who was this Rocky? Why did someone want him dead?
Motivation, he thought. I need to find the motivation and then I’ll know why, and that can lead me to the who.
He hoped the desk clerk had the surveillance video ready. They’d caught a break there, as the owner kept his lobby video a week because of a string of recent burglaries in the area. Dean hoped for a good image of John Smith and anyone else entering the Sea Wave in the past twenty-four hours. Although a shot of the perp was unlikely. His emerging profile of the shooter didn’t indicate the man was stupid.
Sanchez met him on the terrazzo porch of the Sea Wave. “Anything?” he asked.
“Nada,” Dean said. “Roof area was clean. Have you finished with the possible witnesses?”
Sanchez nodded. “Nobody saw anything suspicious.”
“Talk to them again. Find out if anyone sleeps in the stairwell leading to the roof next door.”
“You’re thinking they could have seen someone heading up?”
“You never know. I’m going to check out the surveillance. Find me when you’re done.”
Dean entered the lobby. He spotted Ballard in an office behind the front desk and moved in that direction.
Ballard looked up from working with antiquated video equipment. “I’m not quite ready, Detective.”
“What’s the problem?”
“It’s slow. I’m still looping back the twenty-four hours you wanted.”
“How long?”
“Give me ten more minutes.”
Dean nodded, but frustration gnawed at him. Time was ticking. The first forty-eight hours were critical. He glanced outside to the ferocious glare of the tropical August sun and spotted the woman with the yellow turban by the dunes still perched on her walker. She was facing the hotels now, looking away from the beach, probably watching the police activity.
Time for a little chat.
She watched him approach, but her expression didn’t change. When he got near, he could see his reflection in her huge sunglasses and suspected she had corrective lenses behind the dark ones. He noted a blue cooler in a wire shelf at the bottom of the walker.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said.
“You a cop?” she asked.
“Good guess,” he said and displayed his badge.
“Thought so. Someone got murdered, didn’t they?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Been out here since daybreak. Heard the shot, then saw the body come out. Don’t have to be a rocket scientist.”
“You heard the shot?”
“Sure did.” The woman pulled a tall can of beer from her cooler and took a long drink. Condensation rolled down onto her hands. She put the beer back in its nest of ice. “Was wondering when someone’d come talk to me.”
Dean wondered how much she’d had to drink, hoping she hadn’t started with beer at seven thirty. “Could you tell where the shot came from?”
She pointed toward the roof of the Night’s Inn. “I seen the tip of the rifle right there.”
Dean felt a smile form. He’d been right to talk to this woman. “Did you see the shooter?”
“Sure did.”
Finally. Dean withdrew his notepad. “Male?”
“Male, but couldn’t see his face, so don’t ask me to make no sketch. He had a hat pulled down low. Couldn’t even see the color of his hair.”
“Age?”
“Couldn’t tell. But he was tall and quick, like. Skedaddled out of there within a minute. Knew what he was doing.” The woman nodded. “Just like in the movies.”
Dean hoped her report wasn’t a figment of the woman’s imagination, a result of too many Hollywood movies and too many swigs of beer. “Why didn’t you report seeing the gun?”
“Yeah, right.” She shrugged. “No one believes an old lady.”
“What’s your name, ma’am?” He talked to his witness a few more minutes, but got no further useful information. She lived in a local apartment, so he could contact her later, if necessary.
Across the street, he spotted Sanchez reinterviewing the street peeps on the porch of the Sea Wave. Sweat ran down Dean’s back, and he envied his partner’s shade. With a sigh, Dean moved toward the woman with the beads, but a quick interview told him she’d set up her cart around 9:30 a.m. and hadn’t even been in the area when the shooting went down. Dean shut his notebook and walked back to the hotel.
Ballard had the surveillance video ready to view in the small office, so Dean sat at the desk preparing himself for more eye strain. Jeez. What luck to have two cases in two days with video to sift through. But that was modern police work. Everything had gone digital and high-tech.
“Any way to speed this up?” he asked the clerk as the video rolled.
“The red button.”
“Thanks. Say, you got any coffee left?” A shot of caffeine was just what he needed for the task ahead.
When Ballard returned with lukewarm brew, Dean murmured his thanks and continued reviewing the video. Most of it was a static view that captured the front desk and entrance to the guest room area. When a figure entered the frame, Dean slowed the stream to real time to try to make an ID, look for anything suspicious. He wanted to find when Rocky had gone through that doorway to his death, see who the man had talked to.
He’d been watching for over thirty minutes when Sanchez joined him. Dean paused the surveillance. “Anything?”
“Nobody saw a thing.”
Maybe they did and maybe they didn’t.
Street people didn’t give up information without some cash motivation, which this case didn’t yet warrant. And when they did reveal details, frequently the intel was fiction, brought into existence via a painful past and too much booze. The homeless were seldom reliable witnesses, but you couldn’t discount their version of events immediately.
Dean nodded and rolled his chair to give the rookie more room to watch.
A quick blip on the left of the frame caught his attention. A man had entered and moved out of view toward the buffet table. Dean backed up and slowed the video down. All he could see was half a shoulder, but something about the man looked familiar.
He stayed out of the frame for two minutes, but then reentered and stood by the entrance to the hallway in full view of the camera.
Dean sat up straighter. Holy shit.
“Hey,” Sanchez said in an excited voice. “That’s the guy from the pet shop, the bozo that released the birds. He’s even wearing the same ugly shirt.”
Dean made a note of the time. Three thirty yesterday afternoon, three hours after the pet-shop incident.
As he watched, Rocky, the dead vic, sidled up to the bird liberator. The two spoke for several minutes. Rocky rubbed his abdominal area as if saying he was hungry. Seemed friendly enough, but Dean made a mental note to get a lip reader to watch the conversation. He needed a translation.
“Ballard,” Dean yelled toward the front desk, pausing the video. “Come in here.”
The clerk entered the office, eyebrows raised.
Dean indicated the monitor. “Who is this guy talking to Rocky?”
Ballard focused on the frozen image. “That’s John Smith.”
“The guy who rented the room?” Sanchez asked.
Ballard nodded.
“You’re sure?” Dean asked, a shot of adrenaline charging him up far better than any caffeine. The first break in a case was often the most important.
“No question,” Ballard said.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Dean said. What were the odds?
There had to be a connection between the delightful June Latham and John Smith. He needed to find what it was. Maybe Smith was another bird nut. Ms. Latham said she didn’t know him, but Dean now wondered about that.
He needed to have another conversation with her.
Dean checked the time. Just after three. He was almost done here. Should be no problem making it to the animal hospital where she worked before they closed at five.
* * *
JUNE STROKED HER palm across the velvety soft fur of a tiny black-and-white kitten in the cardboard box on a stainless-steel examining room table. The kitten arched his spine into her hand, obviously enjoying the attention. Three littermates, two more black-and-whites and one orange tabby, were extending their paws up the sides of the cardboard in a pitiful attempt at escape. They weren’t quite strong enough yet, but the undersize feral mama watched her babies nervously from inside a cage next to the box.
“That’s Oreo,” Felicia Mayer said, the client who’d brought the litter in.
“They’re adorable,” June said. “Where did you find them?”
“Believe it or not, Mama chose my backyard to give birth in.”
June glanced back to the mother, who now paced the cage, searching for her own escape. “Mama’s no dummy. She knows where food is available.”
Felicia, a dedicated cat lover, had founded Feline Rescue, an organization that trapped feral cats, had them spayed and then found safe homes. She used her ample powers of persuasion on Dr. Trujillo and other vets in the area to provide services at a reduced rate. June herself had donated more cash than she could afford to Felicia’s cause.
Felicia smiled and stroked the tabby, the runt of the litter. “The kits seem pretty healthy, but I wanted Dr. Trujillo to check them out.”
June estimated the kits to be four to six weeks old. Ready to be weaned. Oreo licked her finger with a rough tongue.
“You’re already attached to them, aren’t you?” June asked.
Felicia lifted the tabby and rubbed its fur across her cheek. Mama cat whined, a mournful sound. “Yes,” she said. “I couldn’t help it. They’re so cute and helpless.”
“Are you going to keep all five?”
Felicia shrugged and shot a glance to the mother. “Probably. Unless I find really good homes.”
“How many cats do you have now, Felicia?”
Felicia replaced the kit in the enclosure. “I feed about twenty, but they’re all spayed.”
June smiled at the thin, dark-haired woman who’d made it her mission to save every stray cat in South Florida. Considering her own work with birds, who was she to say a thing about Felicia’s obsession with felines? “You’re a good person.”
Felicia sighed. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just nuts.”
June heard the front door chime, indicating an arriving patient. “Let me go see who that is. Just wait here. The doctor is finishing up with another patient and will be in to check the kits shortly.”
“Thanks, June.”
“Shall I have Elaine make an appointment to have Mama spayed?”
Felicia nodded. “This will be her first and last litter.”
June gave Oreo’s fur another stroke and hurried to greet the new arrival, which according to the schedule should be Jessie, a goofy yellow Lab due for his annual checkup and the last appointment of the day.
But she heard a male voice say hello, and Jessie was always brought in by Sarah Weksler, a recent divorcee.
“May I help you?” Elaine asked in her most professional voice, usually reserved for men, preferably widowers she hoped would invite her to dinner.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Detective Dean Hammer and this is my partner, Ruben Sanchez. We need to speak with June Latham, please.”
Elaine asked, “What’s this about?” as June rounded the corner.
Hammer saw her and nodded slightly. “Police business,” he said to Elaine, his gaze on June.
“What’s going on?” June asked before Hammer could say anything else. Elaine was sixty years old, had worked for Dr. Trujillo since she opened her practice and never heard a rumor she didn’t feel the need to spread. So now Dr. Trujillo would know two policemen had come to see her. Of course Dr. Trujillo would want to know why. She was on good terms with her boss, but the less said about her commando activities, the better.
“Ms. Latham,” Hammer said. His dark eyes swept her body as she reached Elaine’s side. “I’m hoping you remember we met yesterday at the bird riot on North Beach.”
“Bird riot?” Elaine asked. “What bird riot?”
“There was no riot,” June said, with what she hoped was a squelching glare at the detective. “Is this about the smuggled birds?” she asked when a burst of hope that Hammer had come because he’d arrested Glover slammed into her thoughts.
“Not exactly,” Hammer said.
“Do you need my photographic proof of the counterfeit bands?”
“No, ma’am. I wonder if there’s somewhere we could have a private conversation?”
“Private,” Elaine murmured under her breath, making her voice loud enough to ensure that everyone heard. “Oh, my.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dean said, turning the full force of his gaze on the receptionist. “I hope that’s okay with you.”
Elaine colored and looked away with a giggle.
Oh, please. June resisted the urge to roll her eyes at Elaine’s reaction to Dean Hammer. Yeah, the guy was great eye candy, but way too sure of himself. She noted his partner followed the conversation with avid interest. As yesterday, the detective wore street clothes, a casual shirt, khaki pants and a tie, while the partner wore a Miami Beach Police Department uniform. Each of them had a holstered gun on his hip.
“I’m working,” she said.
“But we only have one more patient,” Elaine offered in a sweet tone. “I can show Ms. Weksler and Jessie into an examining room when they arrive.”
Hammer gave Elaine a sharp salute. “Thank you, ma’am. The Miami Beach Police Department appreciates your cooperation.”
“Anytime,” Elaine said, girlishly fluffing her gray cloud of hair.
June hesitated, actually curious as hell to learn what this unexpected visit concerned if not the birds. But the way Hammer looked at her made her feel as if she were naked underneath her pink scrubs. “What if Dr. Trujillo needs me?”
“I’ll come get you,” Elaine offered.
June mentally shrugged away her irritation with the receptionist, who couldn’t help who she was. Likely nobody found it easy to say no to the detective’s overpowering presence. He had some innate ability to control everything around him.
“Let’s go into examining room two,” June said.
“You should use the doctor’s office,” Elaine suggested. “It’ll be much more comfortable.”
“But if—”
“June, you know she won’t mind,” Elaine said, interrupting June’s objection.
“Of course. This way,” June said, motioning with a sweep of her arm toward Dr. Trujillo’s suite. Well, why not? This is a private conversation.
Once she was seated behind the doctor’s mahogany desk, she realized she rather liked having some much-needed space between her and Detective Hammer. At least she hadn’t been imagining his looks. He was just as vital and imposing as yesterday. Sitting behind the huge block of wood covered with stacks of paper made her feel more in control. She’d have to stand in an examining room.
She folded her hands in her lap and leaned back in the swivel chair while Hammer closed the door and took a seat beside his partner.
“This must be important for you to track me down out of your jurisdiction,” she said.
“We’re investigating a murder,” Hammer said.
“A murder?” June swallowed hard and leaned forward. A murder?
“Yes. Of a human being,” Hammer clarified. He raised his gaze from the blank sheet of paper on his open notepad to meet hers. “Not a parrot.”
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_a5009f31-798b-5343-89a6-8d16029289fd)
“NOT FUNNY,” JUNE SAID, meeting his direct stare. Why the lame stab at humor? Did he want to disarm her, put her at ease? Maybe distract her from the fact that two cops wanted to talk to her about someone’s death?
“Why do you think I have any information about a murder?” she asked.
“Because the victim was killed in this man’s hotel room.” Hammer placed an eight-by-ten black-and-white photo of two men on the desk before her. “The one on the right.”
June picked up the photograph and examined it. Two men were conversing, but what— “Oh, my God.”
“You recognize someone?”
“One of them is the man who released the birds in the pet shop.”
Hammer made a note. “You still say you never saw him before yesterday?”
“No. I swear. I don’t know him.”
“Please study the image carefully.”
Stunned by Hammer’s revelation, June scrutinized the photograph. The subjects didn’t seem to know they were being watched, so maybe the shot was taken by a telephoto lens. Either that or a security camera. Before yesterday, she’d never seen either man before in her life. Or had she? She studied the image again.
“Where was this taken?” she asked.
“The lobby of a hotel.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know who he is.”
“His name is John Smith.”
“That’s a common name.”
“And probably not real. What about the other man, the one on the left.”
“He looks like—I don’t know.” She glanced up at Hammer and then his partner. “Like maybe he’s a bit down on his luck.”
“You’re right. He was a street person.”
“Was? You mean—”
“He’s our victim.”
June swallowed a bad taste in her mouth. “When did this happen?”
“This morning. That shot was taken late yesterday afternoon.”
June looked back to the image, realizing the poor man had been murdered just hours after this photograph. How quickly life could change. She shook her head. But of course she already knew that.
“You’re sure you don’t know John Smith?”
“I’m sure.” She replaced the photograph on the desk. “Both men are strangers to me.”
“Too bad,” the partner said.
“Have you remembered anything else about John Smith from the pet shop that might help us?” Hammer asked.
“Like what?”
“A tattoo, some jewelry, maybe a limp?”
She shook her head. “I was totally focused on the birds. I all but ignored him.”
Hammer nodded. “Is it possible he’s in one of your do-gooder organizations?”
“Do-gooder?”
“You know what I mean. Rescue groups.”
“Of course it’s possible, but—” June studied the photo again. When she looked up, Hammer watched her as if she were prey. “You think I’m lying, don’t you? You think I know this John Smith.”
“And just yesterday you told me that you never lie,” he said in an intimate tone, one a date might use over a glass of wine.
She sucked in a breath and glanced at the partner, who returned her gaze without changing his expression. Maybe my life is about to change again.
“I have no reason to lie,” she said.
“Ma’am, we’re just trying to understand the facts,” Hammer said, totally professional again.
Is he trying to confuse me? “I understand, but—”
“Don’t you see how we find it odd that this man would release the very birds you’re trying to rescue and you don’t know him?”
“Yes, I admit it’s strange. I thought it was bizarre yesterday, but I swear that’s what happened. He did say something to me as I was taking photos, but I couldn’t make it out and thought he might be trying to stop me.”
The detective made a note, a sour expression on his face.
“Do you think I’m involved with this homeless man’s murder?”
Hammer met her gaze and stared right through her as if trying to peer into her very soul. Unable to look away, June held her breath, wondering what he saw. Was he trying to decide if she were a murderess? Maybe that was why he’d been watching her so carefully. He didn’t know her and wondered if he were dealing with a stone-cold killer.
Damn, she might not be perfect, but no one had ever suspected her of murder.
A light rap on the door broke the moment. “Come in,” June said, relieved.
Dr. Trujillo cracked the door and stuck in her head. “Can I interrupt for just one minute?”
June jumped to her feet. “I’m sorry, Doctor. Do you need me?”
The doctor stepped into her office. Both policemen stood.
“Sit, sit,” she said. “Sarah Weksler canceled, and I just want to get my cell phone.” After throwing June a questioning glance, the doctor stepped out of the office with her purse. The policemen took their seats.
“Hope we haven’t gotten you in trouble with your boss,” Hammer said.
“Yeah, me, too,” June replied. “But you didn’t answer my question. Am I a suspect in this murder?”
“No, ma’am,” Hammer said. “You’re what we call a person of interest.”
“Because you think I might have information to help you solve the case?”
“That’s what we were hoping.”
“I’m sorry,” June said, “but I don’t know anything about your John Smith.”
Rising, Detective Hammer reached for the photograph. Her gaze zeroed in on the holstered gun strapped to his right hip.
“Thank you for your time, Ms. Latham.”
“I wish I could be more help,” she said, coming to her feet, thankful the interrogation was over.
Hammer handed her another business card, his warm finger lightly brushing hers in the transfer.
“Please think about your encounter with John Smith and give me a call if you think of anything else.”
“But I don’t—”
“Anything at all, ma’am. Our forensics team is analyzing the surveillance this photo came from. Would you agree to come into the station and watch the full video to see if that triggers any memory?”
June bit her lip and looked away from Hammer’s piercing stare, thinking there must be more to his request than a simple viewing of a video. He had another reason to get her into the station. What is the difference between a person of interest and a suspect?
“Sometimes the smallest thing can be the break we need to put a guilty party behind bars,” he prompted.
June sighed. “Okay, sure. When?”
“I’ll be in touch when the evidence is ready for viewing. Thank you, Ms. Latham.”
Hammer’s partner nodded at her as they left Dr. Trujillo’s office. June followed them out, more unsettled than she liked by her disturbing conversation with the detective.
What the hell was going on?
Dr. Trujillo and Elaine waited for her behind the reception desk. When the police officers had exited, Elaine pounced.
“Tell us everything.”
June gave them a quick rundown of what had happened in the pet shop. “The police hoped I remembered something about the man who released the birds that could help them with their murder investigation.”
“Oh, my goodness. You’re a suspect?” Elaine grinned, looking as if the idea pleased her enormously.
“No. Or at least they say I’m not.”
“What were you doing on Miami Beach?” Dr. Trujillo asked, her jaw set in disapproval. “Looking for smuggled birds?”
“Jared got a tip,” June said simply. The less said the better.
“Dios Mio, Junie. You know how I feel about you doing that. You could get hurt,” the doctor said.
“Is the tall one married?” Elaine asked.
“I have no idea,” June replied quickly. His relationship status had never occurred to her. Detective Hammer’s body language, hell, his whole persona, the way he openly checked her out, made her believe he was available. Available and looking. Looking very closely at her.
But married men flirted and cheated all the time. Of course she knew that. And she certainly wasn’t interested in the domineering Detective Hammer.
“Just my type,” Elaine said, fluffing her hair. “Serious hunk.”
“I concur,” the doctor said. “But don’t you think he’s a bit young for you, Elaine?”
Elaine shrugged. “Just saying.”
“Well, let’s close up, ladies,” Dr. Trujillo suggested. “I think we’ve had enough excitement for one day.”
“Heck, I wish handsome detectives would visit us every day,” Elaine said as she pulled her purse from under a counter. “Lots more fun than a bunch of sick cats.”
As June locked drawers and cabinets, she did as Hammer asked and thought about her brief encounter with John Smith, trying to remember anything distinctive about him to aid the police. Something about the still photo niggled at the back of her brain, some flash of familiarity. What was it?
She decided that feeling was most likely from seeing him in the pet shop two days ago. She didn’t know him.
On her short walk home to the Enclave, she tried again. Trouble was, when she dredged up an image of John Smith, her thoughts immediately drifted to Detective Dean Hammer and his oh-so-penetrating gaze. Blue eyes and black hair. What a combination. She shook her head. The less she thought about Hammer, the better. She needed to put the whole incident out of her mind.
She paused as she entered the lobby, wondering if she should pay a visit to Uncle Mike’s beloved Shelby Cobra. She’d drive it to the bird walk next Saturday, but that was a week away and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d started that damn car. She sighed. Better do that now.
Steeling herself for a trip down to the dungeon, she waved at Magda behind the concierge desk and entered the stairwell. Unfortunately, because the Cobra was seldom driven, its assigned parking spot was on the lowest level. June trudged down three flights, her uneasiness growing with each step.
When she pushed open the heavy door to Tier C, she felt as if she’d entered a tomb. Dim overhead fluorescents gave every parked vehicle a looming, menacing aspect. The stale air reeked of petroleum products. Her quick steps echoed off thick concrete walls, an eerie sound. A suffocating sense of claustrophobia pressed her toward the oil-stained floor.
This was how parrots felt when locked up in a cage. Birds were wired to fly free, just as humans were made to see the sky and breathe fresh air.
She spotted the Cobra, its bright red paint covered as always by a green tarp, and hurried toward it, pulling her keys from her purse. She removed the tarp from the driver’s side and inserted the key. Uncle Mike refused to alter his precious Cobra in any way, so no battery-powered clicker opened this antique beauty.
At a loud boom behind her, June whirled, fisting her hands until nails dug into her palms. Who— What was that?
But no one was there. She was alone. June unclenched her fingers. Probably something falling in the garbage chute. Damn, but the subterranean levels always made her jumpy.
She slid into the Cobra’s driver’s seat and ignited its powerful engine, which roared to life on the first try. Feeling her tension ease, she checked the fuel level. Over half-full. Good. No need to drive this—what did Mike call his baby? Oh, right. A muscle car. And not just any muscle car. For some reason this was a very special one, designed by some big-wheel car legend.
To her it was just another gas guzzler.
And when it came to muscles, the well-toned biceps on Dean Hammer’s arms were much more to her liking, even if the man had done nothing but make her life miserable.
* * *
AT HEADQUARTERS THE next morning, Dean rewatched the video of the pet-shop riot in one of the viewing rooms. Sanchez sat beside him, also focused on the monitor.
Once again June Latham’s recitation of the events matched what was revealed on the screen. Totally engrossed in snapping photos of the caged birds, she never fully looked at John Smith when he approached her.
“Do you believe her?” Sanchez asked.
“Yeah, I do. I don’t think she knows John Smith, but I think he knows her. Look at this.” Hammer backed up the video to where Smith approached June. “See? He says something to her right there.”
“You’re right.” Sanchez leaned forward, but shook his head. “Can’t make it out.”
The surveillance continued to roll. When June didn’t react to Smith’s words, Smith either repeated them or said something new. The department’s lip reader was currently viewing the Sea Wave lobby video in an adjoining room. He’d have him take a look at this one, too.
Glover moved into the frame. Dean made a derisive sound when the jerk grabbed June’s arm.
“Glover is a real prince, isn’t he?” Sanchez said.
“Watch Smith.” Smith stepped toward the confrontation, appearing ready to intervene to help June. His face contorted into fury. He fisted and opened his hands repeatedly, even lifted his right arm as if to take a swing at Glover.
Now, that was interesting. Why would Smith react so strongly to Glover’s treatment of a woman he supposedly didn’t know?
“Wow,” Sanchez said. “I didn’t notice that before.”
Dean hadn’t, either, and that oversight pissed him off. He’d been too focused on the argument between June and Glover. Two days ago he hadn’t cared about John Smith’s reaction. Shit. Two weeks on patrol, and the inactivity had caused him to lose his edge. To stay sharp, he needed to focus. To follow procedure.
Because he had a murder to solve, and right here was a clue. No question about it. He just had to figure out what the hell it meant. Just who was this mystery man Smith? What was his connection to June Latham? There had to be one.
Dean knew in his gut that Smith’s appearance in the pet shop was no coincidence. He’d likely followed June in because he wanted to talk to her. What about? Birds?
A hit-man-style murder on North Beach?
Sanchez snickered when the video morphed into slapstick as parrots escaped their cages. Dean could almost hear their victorious squawks as they flapped their way to freedom. He paused the video.
“You still going to have Ms. Latham come in and look at the hotel surveillance?” Sanchez asked.
“Definitely. I have a few more questions for her.”
“What about?”
“I’ll let you know when I figure that out.” A preliminary background check had revealed no wants, no warrants. She’d never been arrested, never even received a traffic ticket, which he found odd, although she had a current driver’s license. Apparently a real solid citizen. Maybe too solid.
Rebel Simpson, the department’s lip reader, entered the viewing room. “I’m done,” he said, “but you’re not going to like it.”
“Give it to me,” Dean said.
“It’s strange. The victim asked Smith if he had any spare change. Nothing startling there.” Rebel looked down at his notes. “At first Smith said, ‘Sorry, man. Can’t help you.’ Then Smith seemed to get an idea. He said, ‘I bet it’s miserable hot living on the streets this time of year.’ The vic agreed. Smith said, ‘How would you like to sleep in my room tonight?’
“Seriously?” Dean said. “So Smith is gay and was looking to hook up?”
“With a vagrant?” Sanchez asked.
“I don’t think so,” Rebel said. “The vic objects, says he doesn’t roll that way. Smith insists no funny stuff, he’s just a nice guy and there’ll be a free meal in it for the vic.”
“Yeah, right,” Sanchez muttered.
“Why? Does Smith indicate the reason he’s performing this great public service?” Dean asked.
“Smith says there’s two beds in an air-conditioned room. The vic is obviously hesitant, but when Smith mentions a fifth of vodka, that clinches the deal and they head into the hallway together.”
“For a nice romantic evening,” Sanchez muttered.
Rebel shrugged. “All I know is what they said to each other. Weird, huh?”
“Doesn’t make a damn bit of sense,” Hammer said.
“It does if Smith is gay,” Sanchez insisted.
“Did your interviews with the street people on North Beach indicate Rocky was gay?” Hammer asked.
“Nobody mentioned it,” Sanchez said, shaking his head. “And yeah, I think someone would’ve.”
“We may have to check that out,” Dean said. “Rebel, have you got time to take a look at another surveillance video?” He motioned to the frozen image on the monitor. “It’s short.”
“Sure.” Rebel positioned himself before the screen, and Dean backed up the pet-shop surveillance to where John Smith entered the frame.
“I want to know what this man said to this woman.”
After watching the scene three times, Rebel sat back with a frustrated sigh. “This one is tough,” he said. “The man is whispering, like he doesn’t want anyone else to overhear him.”
“You can tell that?” Sanchez asked.
“By the shape of his mouth,” Rebel said. “And notice how the woman didn’t react. She might not have caught what he said.”
Hammer nodded. Again that matched what June Latham had told them.
“The only thing I’m confident of,” Rebel continued, “is he says, ‘June.’ You know, like the month of the year. Sorry. I’m sure that doesn’t help you at all.”
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_707f9652-d789-58dd-be92-2c4295d18643)
THE NEXT EVENING, June pushed open the door to her condo, incredibly glad to be home. Maybe now she could stop obsessing about Detective Hammer and his murder investigation.
It’d been a hectic day, full of her worry about traumatized patients, their demanding parents, a dead body.
She loved her job, and still hoped for acceptance to the veterinary school at the University of Florida, but today she wondered about that goal. It always seemed so ironic that Dr. Trujillo’s mission was to help animals when most of her patients were terrified of her. June wasn’t sure she wanted animals she loved cowering in the corner when she entered a room.
Lazarus shrieked from the balcony aviary, reacting to her arrival. June hurried over to check on him and found him hanging upside down from his favorite branch by one claw, his brilliant scarlet plumage iridescent in the late-afternoon sun.
“Hello, my lovely,” she said.
Her answer was a loud guttural squawk.
“I’m glad to see you, too,” she said. She slid open the glass door, stepping into the humid, oxygen-rich atmosphere of the aviary. Definitely warmer without the air-conditioning, but shaded and entirely pleasant. Probably very similar to the jungle in Peru where this macaw had been captured.
Lazarus flapped his huge wings and righted himself, but didn’t take flight. He could have, though. She’d turned most of the balcony, which wrapped around the top floor of the thirty-story Enclave, into an aviary for the birds she rescued. She’d enclosed the space with parrot-proof screening and crammed it with trees, water features and interesting toys for her patients to amuse themselves. Lazarus was the only bird in residence right now, which was rare. She usually nursed at least two injured birds back to health at any given time. He’d be rehabbed enough to go to a permanent sanctuary somewhere soon, and while that thought should make her happy, instead it depressed her.
She was getting too attached. That happened when she cared for a bird too long. But she never kept a patient no matter how much she loved it, believing birds should always fly free when they were physically able.
While Lazarus squawked his encouragement, she changed the plastic floor protection and gave him a new supply of black oil sunflower seeds. She cleaned the huge aviary every day, not only for the health of the birds but to avoid complaints from the condo association wing nuts. There were some who didn’t appreciate her rehab clinic.
When done, she stepped close to stroke the macaw’s soft feathers. “Good boy,” she murmured when he didn’t back away. Only recently had he allowed her to touch him. Lazarus was definitely getting better. She knew she couldn’t save every bird, but this one at least should have a happy life from now on.
If Detective Hammer had agreed to confiscate the birds from the pet shop, she could have saved them, too. She flashed to his murder investigation and the photo of the dead man, something she couldn’t stop doing since the interview in Dr. Trujillo’s office yesterday.
Person of interest, indeed.
Lazarus made a chortling sound and ducked his head into her hand, wanting more, which pleased June.
“I know, Laz, I know. I need to stop thinking about that mean ol’ detective.”
The phone rang, and she stepped back inside to answer, sliding the door shut behind her with a last look at the preening macaw.
“Girl, whatever you’re doing tomorrow night, cancel,” a familiar female voice said after her hello.
June collapsed onto her sofa, settling in for a chat with her best friend from high school, Sandy Taylor. It’d been a while. “Why? What’s going on?”
“A party at the Turf Club. And not just any party, the annual Labor Day costume gala.”
“The Turf Club? You know I’m not a member anymore.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’ll come as my guest. Donna is in town from Atlanta visiting her mom, so I’m rounding up the old gang for a mini reunion.”
“Seriously?”
“Donna and Carole are both on board. You have to come.”
“Well, I really don’t have to,” June said, not sure she wanted to and scrambling for an excuse. A reunion with her wealthy Pinecrest Prep friends could be fun—or it could be disastrous. A painful reminder of what she had lost.
“Yes, you do. Remember the outfits we wore Halloween our senior year?”
“How could I forget? We almost got suspended by Dean Holly when we entered the gym.”
“That’s the exact look I want all of us to rock tomorrow night.”
“High-class hookers at the stuffy Turf Club? No way.”
Sandy laughed, a carefree sound from a beautiful young woman with absolutely no problems. Funny how their lives had taken such different directions. They’d once been so close they pretended to be sisters.
“I can’t wait to shake the place up,” Sandy said. “You know it’s just what that boring group needs.”
June remained silent. No, she didn’t really know. She hadn’t stepped on the property since her parents were arrested.
“Come on, Junie. It’ll be fun. Say you’ll join us.”
“What does your prim and proper husband say about this plan?”
“Paul will love the idea. He’s always said he decided to marry me that very Halloween night.”
“We did look good.”
“We’ll look even better now that we’re not awkward teenagers.”
“You were never awkward, Sandy.”
“That’s true. But I fill out the dress better now.”
And there was the excuse June needed. “Sorry, but I didn’t keep that costume.”
“Of course not. I’m sending you one identical to mine.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“Oh, stop it with the false pride,” Sandy said. “I want us to be twins just like in the old days.”
“Sandy, really, I—”
“I need you to do this for me, Junie,” Sandy said, an edge creeping into her voice.
“What’s wrong?”
After a pause, Sandy said, “My perfect marriage is falling apart.”
June sucked in a breath. So much for her envy of Sandy’s glamorous life. “Oh, God, Sandy. I’m sorry. What—”
“It’s not hopeless, but I need to spice things up with Paul, remind him why he fell in love with me.”
“You don’t need me to do that,” June said softly.
“Yes, I do. Please, Junie. I know this will work.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not on the phone. Maybe Saturday night. Please, please come. It won’t be the same without you.”
June remained silent. She had nothing special planned that night, but wasn’t sure a costume ball at a swank club that was once her parents’ favorite haunt was the most ideal way to spend her free time.
“We’re all going in a limo,” Sandy added, as if that final detail would clinch the deal. “We’ll pick you up around eight.”
“Okay,” June said, not wanting to think how much tomorrow night would cost her friend. “Why not.”
“Don’t sound so glum. We’re going to have a blast.”
After receiving a few more details about the evening, including some gossip about their friends, June stepped back into the aviary. Lazarus gave a halfhearted squawk, but ignored her and kept eating as she sat in her own favorite perch, a sturdy cloth macramé chair suspended from the ceiling. From here she could either watch her patients or look out over the clear waters of Biscayne Bay and beyond Miami Beach to the Atlantic Ocean, a stunning vista that normally calmed her.
Unfortunately the view didn’t have its usual effect. She took deep breaths and tried to wrench herself out of a long-gone past. But too much had happened. Too much was swirling around in her brain, too easily distracting her.
Why in the world had she agreed to accompany Sandy to the Turf Club? She’d avoided the place for ten years. Would anyone be around tomorrow night who remembered her parents? Probably not. She really ought to get over herself.
Lazarus tested his wings with a few quick flaps, flew the short distance to grab a hold of the chain holding up the swing and gazed down. June looked up as he waddled down the chain closer to her.
A bubble of excitement replaced her foreboding. Was Lazarus going to willingly approach her? She reached for a towel and placed it over her shoulder, holding her breath to see what he’d do next.
He cocked his head, squawked and flew back to his favorite branch.
She sighed. Almost. Laz was definitely making progress.
She pushed her foot against the balcony wall, forcing the chair into a gentle sway, her thoughts drifting back to her conversation with Sandy. If she could get through tomorrow night at the club, maybe that would be a step toward recovery for her, too.
One thing for sure. At least she wasn’t obsessing about Detective Hammer and his murder investigation anymore.
* * *
DEAN STUDIED THE images of colorful tropical birds on the computer screen before him. He’d punched June Latham’s name into a search engine, and one of the first hits was the Facebook page of the Tropical Bird Society, one of her do-gooder groups.
Rescue groups, he corrected himself. She’d objected to his use of do-gooder.
The page listed pet shops and vendors the group suspected of selling birds captured from the wild, so he created a fake profile, claiming to be vehemently opposed to this practice, and asked to join the group. After acceptance, he posted a few times criticizing smugglers, receiving a lot of “likes.” Before long, he received a private message with future dates of planned visits. John Smith could easily have tracked June to the North Beach location by doing the same thing.
TBS, the acronym most members used on postings, also had a standard web page where Dean found a schedule of their numerous activities, such as weekly outings to search for rare birds or to clean up various sites around the county. They seemed more of an environmental group than just a protector of birds. If he hit a dead end with this search, he’d get a roster of members to investigate.
So this was one way John Smith could have found June. He also could have tracked her cell-phone signal. The real question was why. Smith had clearly known her name before he released the birds. So why had he followed her?
More important, was there any connection to his dead body on North Beach?
The autopsy hadn’t been much help. Forensics confirmed what he’d seen at the scene. Rocky had been in average health. The cause of death was one gunshot wound to the head. The ME found no obvious evidence that the vic had been gay, so John Smith’s invite up to his room didn’t appear to have sexual overtones. From the surveillance, the invite appeared to be a spur-of-the moment decision, so what had been behind it?
Something just didn’t add up.
Dean scrolled through his list of search-engine hits, searching for more information about June, but didn’t find anything pertinent. The woman definitely flew beneath the radar. Was that deliberate? Did she have something to hide? The name Latham kept popping up, though, Latham Imports, in connection with a fire and arson investigation from ten years ago.
Curious as to why the search engine kept linking June to the fire, Dean opened an old article from the Miami Herald entitled A Cautionary Tale About Greed, and read about a married couple, Carl and Eileen Latham. The Lathams operated a successful importing business, but the FBI, working in a joint task force with Fish and Wildlife, found cocaine in one of their shipments from Peru. The Lathams were wealthy and politically connected, and their photograph frequently appeared on the society page for having paid big bucks to attend this or that benefit, so the scandal created a huge sensation. Out on a bond, they of course insisted they were innocent and had no knowledge of the drugs hidden in their merchandise.
Friends rallied around them and their attorney promised a vigorous defense, but before the trial could begin, a suspicious fire destroyed the Latham Import Warehouse on the Miami River. The fire effectively ended the prosecution as the couple perished in the inferno.
Dean sat back, considering. This case was before his time as a detective, but he vaguely remembered hearing about it. Everyone wondered if the Lathams had set fire to their property to destroy evidence, but misjudged and caused their own death. Seemed too stupid to be true to him.
And why was Fish and Wildlife involved? He made a note to check that out, kept reading and found what he wanted at the end of the article.
“According to friends, the Lathams’ only child, June Marie Latham, a junior at Pinecrest Preparatory Academy, will live with her father’s brother, Michael Westbrook Latham, an investment banker in New York City.”
So there was the connection to June. She’d been seventeen when her parents died and had gone to live with an uncle. Sad story, but Dean didn’t see how the information helped his investigation. He needed to keep digging.
“Sanchez,” he called.
“Yeah?” His rookie partner looked up from his own internet search for information on Rocky, their vic.
“Go to the Tropical Bird Society Facebook page. Research the profile of any friend or member who has posted to their site. I need to know who they are.”
“You think maybe we’ll find our John Smith?”
Dean shrugged. “Probably not, but we have to check it out.”
“You got it,” Sanchez said, his fingers moving over his keyboard.
Dean entered the name Michael Westbrook Latham into the department’s search engine. If June’s parents were dirty, maybe her uncle was, too.
* * *
JUNE EXTENDED AN arm to the uniformed chauffeur, took a deep breath and exited the limousine into a warm summer night. Beneath the impressive portico of the Turf Club, lights and music blazed. She could hear the chatter of animated voices from inside the clubhouse.
“We’re here,” Carole squealed behind her in the stretch limo.
Less nervous than she expected, June stepped beside Sandy, the first of her friends out of the stretch, who looked regal in a light pink beaded sheath. June wore an identical dress, only hers was a very pale blue, and it molded to her body perfectly, revealing every curve. The hem was short, with a sexy slit up one side. The neckline plunged lower than she was used to, but she had to admit the effect was flattering. They each wore a matching headband across their foreheads with a feather plume jauntily waving in the back.
The costumes were expertly made and likely cost Sandy a fortune. Despite her misgivings, June loved the way she looked. She even enjoyed the subtle clicking sound the rows of dangling beads made as she moved.
But maybe that was because of the delicious dry, chilled champagne she and her three friends had enjoyed on the drive to the club. Truly their party had already started.
“I don’t see Paul,” Sandy murmured. “He said he’d meet us.”
“He’ll be here,” June said, unsure where that confidence came from. She met Sandy for lunch once or twice a year, but hadn’t spoken to Paul since her parents’ funeral.
Dark-haired Donna scooted across the backseat and emerged in her bright red saloon-girl costume, an outfit with ruffles and a stiff petticoat. Carole came last in an emerald dress with a low-cut bodice.
“Well, don’t we look fabulous?” Donna said with a smile.
“You know, we really do,” June agreed, checking out her friends.
“Ready, girls?” Carole asked.
The four friends hooked arms and entered the grand ballroom together. To June it seemed as if everyone in the room turned to stare at her, but she knew that couldn’t be true and was just her nerves kicking in.
“There you are.” Paul Taylor approached, his eyes wide in what June hoped was appreciation of his wife’s appearance. He gave her a quick hug, one without any real intimacy. His dark hair had begun to recede, so maybe an early midlife crisis was the problem with his marriage.
“Did you girls have a nice reunion?” he asked.
“We haven’t been girls for a long time,” Carole said.
“Still prickly after all these years, huh, Carole?” Paul asked.
Carole shrugged. On the limo ride over, Sandy had revealed her suspicions about her husband’s infidelity, which had infuriated Carole.
“It’s been great to catch up,” Donna interjected, always the peacemaker. “Thanks for sending the limo.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Why aren’t you in costume?” June asked, since Paul wore an ordinary business suit. An expensive one, expertly tailored, but one he’d wear to the office.
“I’m here as an attorney,” he said in a defensive tone.
“Oh, how interesting,” Carole said. “You are an attorney.”
“Come on, Sandy. I need you to meet someone.” Paul whisked Sandy away with a nod at the other three. Her feather bounced gaily as she hurried to keep up.
“What a jerk,” Carole muttered.
“Don’t make it any worse for her,” June said.
Carole sighed. “It’s just he— Oh, look. There’s Laura Harris.” Carole hurried in that direction.
“I need a drink,” Donna said. “Let’s find the bar.”
“June Latham. What a pleasant surprise.”
June let Donna go on ahead and turned to the speaker, a woman in her fifties dressed in a police officer’s uniform, vaguely recognizing her as a member of her parents’ large circle of friends.
“I’m sorry,” June said. “Please remind me—”
“Sylvia Baker,” the woman prompted, grabbing her hand and shaking vigorously. “I don’t expect you to remember. It’s been a long time.”
June nodded, having no clue how long it’d actually been.
“How are you?” Sylvia asked. “Where have you been?”
“I’m good,” June said.
“Look, Chuck,” Sylvia said, grabbing a passing man dressed as the devil. “It’s June Latham.”
June found herself swept up into the festive melee, and despite her misgivings, the old guard seemed genuinely happy to see her. She didn’t specifically remember anyone from her parents’ generation, but they sure knew her.
“Oh, but you’ve turned into a lovely young lady.”
“Your mother would be so proud.”
“You have your father’s smile.”
Then a cloud would pass across faces as old friends recalled the scandal and hastily changed the subject. Everyone mostly tiptoed around the subject of her parents, and she didn’t hear one snarky remark.
“But you just disappeared. Everyone thought you’d moved to Manhattan to live with your uncle,” said a white-haired lady in costume as a cowgirl.
June heard variations of the same comment at least a dozen times. Ten years ago it was what she’d wanted everyone to think. Only Sandy, Carole and Donna knew she’d remained in Florida.
“Uncle Mike let me stay in Miami and finish my senior year.”
“So you did graduate from Pinecrest Prep?” The lady’s eyebrows dipped together in confusion. “I thought that—”
“Uncle Mike insisted I transfer to a public school. It was a compromise.”
“Oh, I see.”
But June could tell she didn’t see at all. How did anyone explain the raw emotions of a seventeen-year-old whose life had just been kicked out from underneath her? Hell, she didn’t understand it herself. All she knew was she had been terrified of New York City, which Mike insisted would be a fresh start. She’d imagined a freezing-cold city with giant buildings and no trees, which sounded like torture to a teenager who grew up in Miami diving into a swimming pool every day.
And, despite her humiliation, she’d needed the comfort of her friends.
But that was all behind her. Time to start avoiding the older generation.
“Excuse me,” she said and stepped toward the bar.
Okay. She’d passed the hurdle of facing her parents’ cronies, which hadn’t turned out nearly as disastrous as she’d imagined. Good job, June. You’ve satisfied their curiosity. Let the gossip begin.
Now I deserve some fun.
She’d noticed plenty of guests her own age. New people to meet who knew nothing about her past. Who didn’t care a flaming golf ball about her unsavory history. Even some good-looking men, a bonus she hadn’t expected.
She knew the costume made her look damn good, which boosted her confidence, and she ought to take advantage of that elusive feeling.
With champagne in hand, she looked for Sandy, wanting to make sure Paul hadn’t upset her. June found her friend in a group that included her husband across the room. Sandy stood with her back to the floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows that during the day revealed a beautifully maintained golf course. Tonight all that was visible was a subtly lit landscaped patio.
Husband and wife appeared to be getting along. June raised her champagne to her old friend. Sandy nodded and lifted a glass in return.
“It’s uncanny how much you two look alike.”
“My friend has a secret wish to be a twin,” June said, extending her arm to a very nice-looking dude in a pirate costume. Not as hunky as Detective Hammer, but nice. “I’m June.”
“Hi, June,” he said, shaking her hand with a smile. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“Sorry. Do I know you?”
“Steve Hill. We were on the swim team together at Pinecrest.”
“Oh, of course.” She took a sip of champagne, recalling a gawky teenager who looked nothing like this tall man with sun-lightened brown hair.
“Do you still swim?” Steve asked. “I remember you were a freestyle specialist.”
“Oh, I’ll take a few laps in the pool where I live. How about you?”
“I swim competitively in a master’s program.”
“Good for you.” That would explain his still-toned body.
“I remember you and Sandy used to dress alike in high school.” Steve inclined his head in Sandy’s direction.
“I know it’s silly,” June said, glancing back to where Sandy stood. “We’re both only children and decided to be each other’s sister.”
The plate glass behind Sandy shattered at the same time as a loud pop reverberated through the room. Screams replaced lively chatter.
A red stain bloomed across the bodice of June’s friend’s exquisite pink dress.
In horrifying slow motion, Sandy, her face contorted in a grimace of surprise, fell facedown.
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_5ce82e32-4dc0-5c3a-addb-2fac83256801)
DEAN ARRIVED AT the Turf Club crime scene within thirty minutes of the first 911 call. He’d been in the station still working the North Beach murder with Sanchez, so he caught the case. His good luck.
Definitely a banner week for murders in the city of Miami Beach.
A uniformed patrolman working off duty met them at the front door.
“What have you got?” Dean demanded.
“One woman down,” the cop reported. “ME is on the way.”
Dean nodded, entered a huge, hushed ballroom ahead of Sanchez and thought he’d fallen down the rabbit hole. Helium-inflated balloons trailing festive streamers clung to the ceiling. Hundreds of guests dressed in outlandish getups stared at him. A pirate with an eye patch, a masked cancan girl, a helmeted astronaut.
Murder at a costume party. Just great.
Easy way for a murderer to hide.
“You got the shooter?” Dean asked as he moved through a parting kaleidoscope of colors and anxious faces. He didn’t like to form theories before learning the facts, but wondered if someone pulled a pistol everyone thought was a prop.
“No one had eyes on the shooter.”
“Not even one witness?” Sanchez asked.
“Not close range, then,” Dean said.
“No,” the patrolman said, shaking his head. “Sniper. From somewhere out on the golf course.”
Dean halted his forward motion. “Sniper?”
“Yeah. One shot, one down. Looks like a hit to me.”
Another sniper. And what were the odds?
Dean spotted the body, covered by what looked like a tablecloth, and moved toward it. “Anybody disturb the scene?”
“The husband rolled the body before I could get there, but it was obvious she was gone. One of the guests, a physician, confirmed she was dead. Then I made sure everyone stayed clear. Didn’t let anybody leave, either, although a few might have snuck out.”
“Good. We need to interview everyone here. Is there a manager?”
A man stepped forward. “I’m the manager.”
“I’ll need to see your surveillance video.” Dean pulled on gloves and knelt beside the victim. He removed the bloodstained sheet and froze.
The dead-eyed face staring up at him was June Latham’s.
He relaxed when he realized it wasn’t her. But the description would be the same. White female, blonde, approximately twenty-six, hundred and twenty pounds, goddamn beautiful.
The dead woman lay on her back, but had hit the deck facedown. The husband had rolled her, but death was likely instantaneous. She wore a sparkly party dress now saturated with blood. Matching headband with a feather.
Beautiful young woman out for a good time and now dead way too young.
The vic had definitely been killed by a sniper. Dean glanced to the shattered window and shards of glass covering the plushly carpeted floor.
Couldn’t be sure without forensics, but his gut told him it was the same weapon as North Beach. Yeah, what are the odds?
A tickle of excitement niggled the back of his brain. Somehow this case was connected to the North Beach hit. He needed to find that connection.
He snapped photos of the body but needed to wait for the crime-scene unit to process the scene. He’d gotten here fast. The primary detective didn’t often arrive first, but the specialists should be here soon. He needed to locate the sniper hole on the golf course so Forensics could process that, as well. He glanced outside to a dimly lit concrete patio with attractive landscaping. Could he get lights on the area behind that patio? He wanted to check it out ASAP.
Dean recovered the body and rose. “No one goes out on that golf course until I give the okay,” he said to the manager. “You’re shut down until further notice.”
“I understand.”
“Do we have ID on the vic?” Dean asked.
“Sandra Taylor,” the off-duty man reported. “Her husband is sitting right there, Paul Taylor.”
Dean zeroed in on a white male in his late twenties or early thirties slumped at the closest table surrounded by friends. A bloody napkin lay on the table where he’d apparently cleaned his hands. His white shirt also contained blood spatter. The man stared at a glass full of ice and an amber liquid, then picked up the drink and took a long swallow. More blood stained his cuff. His hand shook.
He had that numb I-can’t-believe-this-shit look about him. He’d turned his chair away from his wife’s body.
The husband was always the first suspect, and this one appeared properly shocked. Interesting that he wore a business suit instead of a costume. Did he come straight from work? Important meeting on a Saturday? With who? Or maybe he didn’t really want to be here?
“Where was the husband when the hit went down?”
“Standing right next to the victim.”
“Got it,” Dean said. But he could have hired someone.
Dean focused on the support group surrounding the husband to look for reactions and realized a woman was staring back at him. His breath caught.
June Latham. June Latham with her hand resting on the husband’s shoulder.
And damn if she wasn’t any man’s wet dream come to life. A pale dress clung to her curves, hugging and dipping in all the right places to make a man hungry. Made him hungry. Did other things to lower parts of his anatomy.
He couldn’t tear his gaze away from her.
She exuded an aura of elegant old-money class and easy primal sex at the same time. Like a high-priced pro trolling these festivities on the hunt for a wealthy john. Was Ms. Latham living a double life? If so, she’d definitely come to the right club for that activity. The Turf Club’s membership fees were the most expensive in the county. Both those fees and this woman were way out of his price range.
He didn’t care about the club, but the thought of June being a pro initiated a spurt of anger.
She gave him a quick nod.
His gaze rose to her hair and a feather jutting out behind her head. He frowned. The dead woman sported a similar headband. In fact, June’s dress appeared identical to the one worn by the vic. Even their hair was arranged in the same style.
What the hell was going on here?
Maybe he had fallen into a rabbit hole.
* * *
THE SIGHT OF Detective Hammer moving into the Turf Club Grand Ballroom and taking control of the chaotic situation mysteriously reassured June.
This man knows what he’s doing. He’ll figure out what the hell just happened. Why it happened.
As he directed his team, movements crisp and purposeful, she felt herself emerge from a block of ice that had frozen her since she watched Sandy collapse to the floor.
“Oh, my God,” Paul said for the hundredth time.
June realized her hand rested on Paul’s shoulder and gave a comforting squeeze, her gaze remaining on Hammer as he examined the body with his ever-present partner beside him.
Sandy’s body. Beautiful, happy, perfect Sandy is gone.
Paul folded his arms on the table and placed his head on top. “Sandy. My God. Sandy. This can’t be real.”
She agreed with Paul. This couldn’t be real.
Hammer rose, asked a question and turned to focus on Paul. Then Hammer’s gaze caught hers, and everything else in the room receded. No question he recognized her, but of course he would. A look of speculation entered his eyes as he openly checked out her costume.
Speculation and hunger.
She shivered, but gave him a slight nod of recognition.
He spoke to the two uniformed cops with him. They nodded.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Hammer made his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. She hadn’t realized how quiet the room had become until he spoke.
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience. Please be patient, but you’ll need to wait here until interviewed by an investigator. More officers are on their way to speed up that process.”
Then he turned back to her and motioned with his head slightly. She took that as a sign that he wanted to speak to her. With an apologetic murmur she knew didn’t register with Paul, she moved toward the detective. The murmur of voices resumed in the room.
“Ms. Latham,” he said in a professional, neutral voice that belied the feral expression in his eyes.
She nodded and swallowed, needing to moisten a dry mouth.
He frowned. “Are you okay?”
“Could I sit down?” she asked. She’d been standing next to Paul since Sandy...since the shooting. June closed her eyes against the memory of Sandy’s shocked expression.
“Of course.” Hammer pulled out a chair. “I’d like to ask a few questions.”
“Thanks.” June sat, positioning herself so she couldn’t see the cloth-covered body.
She suspected her friend had been dead before she hit the carpet. And then Paul had totally lost it. And not just Paul. The entire room had filled with terrified screams. She’d gone to Sandy—to Paul, to pull him away from his wife, the sound of crunching glass beneath her feet ugly and loud.
It seemed foolish now, but she realized she’d remained next to Paul in an effort to somehow protect him, shield him from the evil that had entered this ballroom. Donna and Carole had done the same.
“Did you know the victim?” Hammer asked.
“Yes. She is—was—one of my best friends.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.
June wondered how many times he’d uttered those exact words in his career. “Thanks. We came to the party together tonight.”
Detective Hammer pulled out his notebook. “She didn’t come with her husband?”
“No.”
Hammer scribbled a note. Wait. Had she just incriminated Paul?
“We were having sort of a girls’ night out with two other friends,” June explained.
Hammer looked up. “Why? Any trouble in the marriage?”
June opened her mouth to deny that idea, but hesitated. The knot in her stomach tightened as she processed where Hammer was going with that question. Paul was a suspect.
“Maybe,” she admitted. “I’m not sure.”
Hammer jotted another note.
“But Paul had nothing to do with the shooting,” she said. “They’ve been in love since high school.”
“You went to high school with the victim and her husband?”
“For a while, yes. Believe me, Paul would never hurt Sandy.” As she said the words, June wondered if they were true. Never kill her, no. What a ridiculous notion that Paul would pay someone to shoot Sandy. How best to convince the detective of that fact?
But Sandy’s feelings had been hurt by her husband’s recent distance. Indeed, that had been the point of their sexy costumes.
“I’m sure you’re right,” Hammer said smoothly. “Can you tell me what you saw tonight?”
“It was so fast,” June murmured and related the surreal nightmare of how the window exploded, her friend collapsed and the room went crazy.
“Anything else?” he asked when she’d finished. He’d listened without interrupting, his face a complete blank.
“That’s all I can think of.”
“Did Ms. Taylor have any enemies?”
“Everyone loved Sandy.”
He nodded, but the thought flashing through his brain was almost audible. Apparently not everyone.
“Did she work?”
“No.”
“Kids?”
“No.” June closed her eyes, worried Sandy sounded like a spoiled slacker. But she had wanted kids. She and Paul were waiting a few more years to start their family. “She volunteered a lot of hours at the Lowe Art Museum.”
“It’s good there’s no kids,” Hammer said softly. “Murder is hardest on children.”
June opened her eyes at the sympathy in his voice.
“I guess so,” she murmured.
“So you and the victim were close?”
Again June hesitated. The truth was she and Sandy had drifted apart since she left Pinecrest. Had she lied when she told Hammer Sandy had been one of her best friends? Months often went by without them speaking.
And now I’ll never speak to Sandy again. Never hear her soft laugh. Oh, Sandy. I’m so sorry. So, so sorry. How did we let that happen?
She took a deep breath, wishing she could cry. Sandy’s death was certainly a good reason for tears, but she hadn’t cried since the fire. Not even at her parents’ funeral.
“In high school we used to pretend we were sisters,” June told Hammer, looking down at the table. “We even dressed alike sometimes.”
“You’re dressed alike tonight.”
His tone had changed, and June glanced up. Hammer was staring at her feather again. Self-conscious, she removed the headband and placed it on the table.
“I know it’s silly,” she murmured. “Sandy had the costumes made.”
“Anything else you can tell me? Can you think of any reason someone would want to murder your friend?”
June remained silent for a moment. What did she really know about Sandy’s life lately? God, but that thought made her sad.
“To be honest,” she said, “we weren’t as close as we once were. I might not be the best person to ask.”
“Is there any reason why someone would want to kill you?”
A jolt went through June at Hammer’s question. “Me? Why would you ask that?”
“You seem to be a lightning rod for trouble,” Hammer said.
“That’s ridiculous. You don’t even know me.”
“I’ve been assigned three new cases in the last forty-eight hours. You have a connection to all of them.”
She opened her mouth to reply, then shut it without speaking. He had a point.
“You and the victim here look a lot alike. You even had the same feather sticking out of your hair.”
June’s gaze fell to the headband on the table. Horror washed over her as she reasoned out Hammer’s implication. “You think someone was gunning for me and shot Sandy by mistake because we were dressed alike?”
“So I really want an answer to my question,” Hammer said, his blue gaze boring into hers. “Is there any reason someone would want to kill you?”
“That’s crazy,” June said.
“Maybe,” Hammer said. “But when I saw your friend’s face, for a second I thought it was you. Through a scope from a distance...” Hammer turned his head to look out over the dark golf course. “I don’t know. Could happen.”
June also turned to look. Just as she did, light flooded the area behind the clubhouse.
“Finally,” Hammer murmured, then turned back to her. “Did you see the man who released the birds here tonight?”
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Sharon Hartley
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: One hot Miami mystery Homicide detective Dean Hammer has two dead bodies on his hands and just one connection: a pretty activist named June Latham. She swears her only concern is rescuing the tropical birds she loves, but something isn′t adding up. As Dean begins to unravel the mystery of June′s troubled family, he realizes she′s in danger.But that′s not all. Dean′s hotter for June than even the sweltering Miami weather can explain. Now if only she would put aside their differences and let him protect her… Otherwise she′ll be next in the sniper′s scope.