Her Cop Protector

“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

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.