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
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.
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