Her Cop Protector

by Sharon Hartley

  “I’m not a hooker,” she said. “You know where I work, for goodness’ sake.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t really think so. Definitely a costume.” The briefest of smiles transformed his face as their eyes met. “I’m glad.”

  A tiny thrill traced June’s spine despite tonight’s tragedy. How could she help it the way the detective looked at her? She wanted to ask him why he was glad, but remained silent. She knew why.

  “I don’t suppose your friend is a working girl, either?” Now Hammer was all business again.

  “No!”

  He looked away as a group of people carrying heavy duffel bags arrived. June decided it must be the crime-scene specialists. With a pang, she remembered Sandy had loved all those television dramas that revolved around forensics experts solving mysteries at a crime scene.

  And here they were at her own murder.

  Hammer flipped his notebook shut, a signal he needed to move on to other tasks. “I’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”

  “Thank you,” she said, wanting him to stay. Talking to him, even if it was about Sandy’s murder, kept her from thinking about the fact that her friend was really dead and what that meant.

  He stood, but looked down at her, his expression softening. “Do you need a ride home?”

  June glanced at the table where her friends still huddled. “No.”

  He placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch light and somehow comforting. “You sure?”

  “I should go back to Paul,” she said, grateful for the offer. Even such a small kindness felt good right now.

  “Okay.” He gave a slight squeeze and let his arm fall back to his side. “Don’t forget to think about who you’ve made angry. It could be something minor, even a while back.”

  She nodded but didn’t answer. Hammer moved away, striding toward the new arrivals.

  She was sorry to see him go. His presence reassured her, made her feel as though someone competent would solve this unfathomable puzzle. How could anyone want to kill Sandy?

  It wasn’t a puzzle; it was a mistake. Sandy’s murder had to be a mistake.

  But what mistake? Was Dean Hammer’s theory a good one? Was there someone out there who wanted her dead? If so, then who? Why?

  She hated the idea that Sandy could have died in her place.

  She thought hard, but decided that idea was wrong. The only feathers she ever ruffled were to protect birds. Otherwise, she kept her head down and stayed out of everybody’s way. She didn’t like being the focus of attention. She’d experienced way too much of that because of her parents.

  The obvious answer was Sandy and Paul had gotten into something bad that had nothing to do with her. She knew from firsthand experience the universe was a cruel place that could trap unsuspecting victims in its unrelenting vise. Tonight was likely another example of how much she and Sandy had drifted apart. In a way, their friendship had become another casualty of her parents’ criminal activity.

  Hopefully Detective Dean Hammer would figure it out.

  Feeling as if she’d aged eighty years, June rose and moved toward Paul. And where did this sudden confidence in the detective come from? A few days ago she’d considered him an arrogant macho man too lazy to help captured birds.

  She glanced down at the feather on the table, her thoughts circling back to Hammer’s theory of mistaken identity. She shivered.

  Is someone trying to kill me?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  AFTER EMPTYING A clip in the target, Dean stepped back, removed his ear protectors and changed the ammo in his Glock. He waited for the target to slide his way, the tangy odor of gunpowder swirling in the air around him. With the earpieces temporarily off, the shots of fellow shooters echoed loudly on the concrete walls.

  He did some of his best thinking after a session at the Miami-Dade Police Gun Range. Focusing on the bull’s-eye in the distance, squeezing off the rounds, accepting the blowback of the recoil and then checking the results were all so methodical. So clean. The routine and concentration sharpened his mind.

  He usually enjoyed the camaraderie with fellow police officers, too, often scheduling a practice session with his younger brother, a Dade County SWAT officer. But not today. Today he wanted to lose himself in the practice, hoping for a breakthrough afterward.

  On the long ride home, he often came up with a new theory in a case. A new angle to shake things up. He needed one because he’d run smack into a dead end on the recent sniper attacks.

  The Miami Herald was all over the shooting at the Turf Club, their many articles in the three days since Sandy Taylor’s murder hinting at Miami Beach Police incompetence. Of course it was a front-page story with bold, inch-high headlines. Beautiful Society Woman Murdered at Country Club by Mysterious Sniper.

  The shark journalists hadn’t made the connection to the homeless corpse on North Beach, but Dean knew it was just a matter of time.

  With the target again in place, Dean replaced his ear protectors, took his stance and emptied the clip, every shot hitting in the center ring. He nodded, pleased. A blare horn sounded, signaling the end of this session, and he decided to pack it in. He’d been shooting for over an hour, and his arm ached, although not unpleasantly, from the work.

  He slung his duffel over a shoulder and nodded at other law-enforcement officers as he exited. Most of these men and women knew him as the state champ, and he accepted their congratulations on good shooting.

  But the praise didn’t make him feel good today. It made him feel useless.

  Because, damn, he was missing something. He needed to find the link that tied June Latham to two murders.

  He chirped his vehicle open, tossed the duffel into the backseat and slid behind the wheel. There’d been no sign of John Smith, the mysterious bird liberator from the pet shop, on surveillance video at the Turf Club. That didn’t mean Smith wasn’t at the party. Almost any costume could have disguised his presence.

  Dean gunned the engine and began the drive home, his thoughts constantly sifting through the clues in his cases, searching for a link, a connection.

  Using the bullet trajectory, he’d found the sniper’s hiding place on the golf course within minutes. But other than a few partial shoe imprints that were unusable for evidence, Forensics came up empty there, too. Whoever the hell this sniper was, he was good. Likely had a military background. Because of that, Dean now thought of him as a man. Not that women weren’t good shots—he’d been bested by plenty in competitions—but he’d never heard of a woman trained for sniper duty in the Middle East.

  And his gut told him that was exactly where this shooter had come from. Shooting at a still target was one thing. Shooting at a live, moving human being was another.

  Especially a gorgeous blonde laughing it up at a gala party.

  He merged into the traffic flow on the Palmetto Expressway and set cruise control at the maximum speed.

  His investigation into the Taylors revealed squeaky-clean citizens with no hint that either was involved in anything illegal. They lived in a McMansion in an expensive zip code, the mortgage wasn’t underwater and both drove new German sedans. Hubby worked as an attorney and made a nice living defending insurance companies from the bogus claims of injured workers. He’d never even had a criminal client who might hold a grudge. No unusual transfers of money. They took a luxury cruise once a year. Attorney Taylor spent most of his time at his law office. Even slept there sometimes.

  As June had insisted, Sandy was a volunteer extraordinaire, devoting her free time—of which she had a lot—to good causes and expensive lunches. But of course someone had to spend the workaholic husband’s money.

  The husband had denied any trouble in the marriage. All the cops who’d witnessed the interview believed him. There’d be a second and likely third and fourth chat with attorn
ey Taylor, but first Dean wanted to probe into Ms. Latham’s hint about marital discord. She’d been too upset the night of the murder for him to explore what she’d meant by that “maybe.”

  Yeah, and now he’d circled back to the lovely June Latham. Every instinct he possessed screamed that she was at the center of the two murders. So, what about her was causing people to end up in the morgue? Her New York uncle had never been arrested. The only scent of criminal activity around her was a ten-year-old fire.

  She’d remained strangely disconnected from the murder of her friend, answering his questions without a single tear. She’d also scoffed at the idea of being the intended victim of the country-club hit, but that could be because of fear. June apparently didn’t like to display her emotions, so probably wouldn’t admit to being afraid.

  And he now suspected Rocky, the homeless vic on North Beach, had been a decoy. Why would John Smith need a decoy?

  Two people dead, and neither had been the original target. Lame. Really lame, especially for a shooter as talented as this one had to be. Could he have made two mistakes that bad?

  Dean shook his head. That was the only explanation he had right now. The only thing that made sense, even if there was nothing in June’s history to explain why someone wanted her dead.

  Nothing on paper anyway. But maybe she had a jealous boyfriend. June didn’t seem the type to tolerate a violent lover, but he’d learned anything could happen. Especially when a beautiful woman was involved.

  Hell, maybe Sandy Taylor had been enjoying a little something on the side that lawyer hubby didn’t know about. Made sense, considering the time he spent working. Dean decided to drop a few hints about wifely infidelity during the husband’s next interview. Once the initial shock of death faded, he might look for any signs his spouse had taken a lover.

  At his exit, Dean decelerated and left the expressway. He’d decided what to do next, but first he wanted to grab a shower.

  He needed to visit June Latham in her home.

  Any cop worth his badge could learn a lot about the good citizens based on where they lived. Were they neat? Messy? Were the rooms full of furniture or sparsely decorated? Bright colors? Closed drapes? Family photos on the walls?

  He was certain she’d have a pet of some sort. Probably not a bird, though.

  A good detective noticed details. Details supplied the pieces of a puzzle that made up a human being. When that human being was a person of interest in a case, solving the riddle became vital.

  And, man, was June Latham ever a person of his interest.

  Dean braked to a stop in the driveway of his duplex located in the Upper Eastside, an area full of old homes north of downtown Miami, and checked his watch. She should be home from work in about an hour, so the timing worked.

  Solving mysteries was what he had been born to do, and did he ever look forward to unraveling the enigma of Ms. Latham.

  In fact, he wanted to learn everything about her.

  * * *

  RELAXED IN HER swing inside Lazarus’s aerie, June stared at the macaw, silently urging him to fly to the towel draped over her shoulder. As inducement, she held out his favorite treat, a huge medjool date.

  But he squawked, turned his beak to preen brilliant feathers, haughtily ignoring her.

  June sighed and lowered her hand.

  She felt too good right now to nurse disappointment over a bird’s rejection. After a miserably hot, humid walk home from the animal hospital, she’d indulged in a swim in the condo’s huge pool, completing more laps than she had done in weeks, and the swim had refreshed and invigorated rather than exhausted her.

  Her still-damp hair and bathing suit kept her cool, even though the temperature hovered somewhere near the nineties. A gentle breeze from the aerie’s ventilation fan also helped, flowing gently against her skin, making her feel deliciously alive.

  She pressed a foot into the concrete floor, sent the swing into a gentle sway and curled her legs under her. She closed her eyes and tried not to think.

  Of course that was impossible.

  The pool area had been crowded with other residents this afternoon, but as usual few ventured into the water for more than a quick soaking. Huddled under shade, they all watched her, commenting afterward on how much energy she had. She was the youngest person on the pool deck by at least thirty years. Maybe forty. Not many people her age could afford to buy at the Enclave. Even Sandy had been envious.

  As intended, the swim washed her constant thoughts about Dean Hammer’s investigation into Sandy’s murder out of her mind. But then she’d exited the pool and all those sagging, pale, almost naked male bodies had made her wonder how Detective Hammer would look in a bathing suit. And now she was picturing how he would look completely naked.

  What the hell was wrong with her?

  She opened her eyes and stared at Lazarus. He shook himself, quit fluffing his feathers and eyed her questioningly.

  June proffered the date again and said, “Laz, no one at the pool looked anywhere near as good as my detective fully clothed.”

  The macaw emitted a harsh cackle, which June interpreted to mean Since when is he your detective?

  “Good point,” she said.

  She knew many residents of the Enclave wondered about her relationship with Uncle Mike, probably because he visited so seldom. Various committees were always trying to get rid of the aerie, but she wasn’t breaking any rules and kept it spotlessly clean. And since she was on the top level, no one could hear Laz’s squawks.

  Her phone rang, and June reached into a pocket to check the caller. Unavailable. Probably a robocall. She hesitated but decided to answer and request they not call back.

  “This is Detective Hammer, Ms. Latham.”

  June lowered both feet back to the floor to stop her sway.

  Before she could respond, he continued, “I’m in the area and wondered if I might come up. I have a few more questions.”

  “Right now?” She raised a hand to her wet hair. Questions? About Sandy’s murder no doubt. She stared at Lazarus, and he stared back.

  “Yes, ma’am. It won’t take long.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On Brickell, just about to turn into your driveway.”

  “Oh.” She started to ask how he knew her address, but realized that was ridiculous. She’d given him her address at the pet shop last week. Even if she hadn’t, the man was a cop and could learn everything about her. Probably already had done so.

  “Do you want to leave my name with security or should I use my badge to get in?” he asked.

  “I’ll call down with your name.” All she needed was a rumor about police visits circulating the building. The staff claimed to be circumspect, but they gossiped worse than the residents. It was the only way anyone could have learned about her aerie.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate your cooperation.”

  “See you in a few,” she said.

  She sat frozen for a second, her mind racing in a thousand directions.

  His voice gave away nothing. She couldn’t tell if he thought she was a murderer or had come to report the police had found a suspect in Sandy’s murder. She didn’t think they’d made an arrest. He could tell her that on the phone. Did he really think she was guilty of something worse than liberating a few smuggled birds?

  A few more questions? What about?

  Damn. Sexy Detective Hammer was coming to her home and she didn’t know what to do first.

  Call the guard gate, silly!

  June called the front gate and left Hammer’s name. Next she phoned the concierge desk and asked Magda to allow Detective Hammer access to her floor. Had he known how tight security was in this building?

  Obviously. That was why he’d called.

  “You win, Laz,” she
said stepping close to the macaw. She gave him the date, which he accepted gently, but with an air of triumph. She stroked his head once, then hurried inside to change out of her bathing suit.

  * * *

  AS DEAN DROVE into the impressive entrance of June’s building, he felt a vague sense that something was off-kilter. He’d known her address was in a high-rent district, but hadn’t realized she lived in the Enclave, considered by many to be the most exclusive building in Miami. Definitely the most expensive.

  Security was as excellent as advertised, the staff polite and well trained, requiring proof of identity for admittance. He presented his driver’s license rather than his badge, but the alert guard eyed his unmarked police vehicle with a knowing look.

  And he’d been forced to flash his police ID a minute later anyway, since the building had a mandatory valet policy. Police policy trumped condo policy every time, so he left his locked Crown Vic Interceptor at the curb beside an unhappy valet attendant on the phone with his supervisor.

  He didn’t know much about art or decorating—definitely not his area of expertise—but the tasteful elegance of the Enclave’s lobby made him slow his quick steps over a polished marble floor to admire contemporary leather seating that actually looked comfortable. The spectacular crystal chandelier dangling from the high wooden ceiling probably cost two years of his salary. A graceful vase full of colorful exotic flowers no doubt set the condo association back a week of his wages. Quite the “wow” factor for arriving guests.

  A gracious, uniformed brunette in her fifties, a concierge named Magda according to her badge, greeted him by name when he stated his purpose. She directed him to the correct elevator for the correct tower for Ms. Latham’s unit and pressed a hidden button to allow him access.

  As he ascended to the top floor, Dean decided even the carved wooden paneling of the elevator reeked of luxury. How the hell did June afford these swanky digs on a veterinarian’s assistant’s salary?

  Her financials revealed no more than a couple hundred bucks in the bank. She didn’t own any property, so he’d assumed she rented. She didn’t even own a damn car, which explained why no traffic tickets. The idea that she could be a pro flitted through his mind again.