When the elevator opened into a small foyer with only two antique-looking doors, one discreetly marked Deliveries, he realized her unit comprised the entire floor. The entire top floor of the Enclave?
He needed to take a closer look at June’s financials. Dig a little deeper into what was driving her lifestyle, because whatever it was didn’t float on the surface.
The main door swung open before he could knock. He lowered his arm. Of course the efficient Magda had trumpeted his arrival.
“Hi,” June said with a welcoming smile.
“Ms. Latham.” Dean tried not to gape at her, but damn, the woman looked spectacular as always in a pale blue sleeveless shirt and khaki shorts. He eyed her long, tanned legs and wondered if those perfect thighs felt as firm as they looked. He’d never considered himself a leg man, but hers could instantly alter anyone’s preference.
Digging a little deeper into this woman was required? Man, oh, man, did he ever love his job.
“I think by now you should call me June,” she said.
“With pleasure, June,” Dean said. “I’m Dean.”
He noted her damp hair and wondered if she’d just gotten out of a shower. He swallowed the images that idea conjured up. He needed to get a grip.
“So, Dean,” she said, emphasizing his name and directing him toward a sofa in the center of the room. “You say you have more questions for me?”
“Yes. This shouldn’t take long.” He quickly assessed details inside the apartment as he followed her. Of course, he’d already learned plenty on the way in. The well-made, top-of-the line furnishings inside the unit only confirmed that hers was no ordinary condo, even for Brickell Avenue’s luxurious penthouses.
His gaze was drawn to a balcony that wrapped completely around the floor—or at least as much of it as he could see. But instead of a view out to Biscayne Bay, he found a tropical rain forest full of trees and shrubs.
Intrigued, he moved toward the area and was met by a guttural squawk.
“That’s Lazarus,” she said, joining him by sliding glass doors.
“I take it Lazarus is a parrot?”
She shrugged. “In the parrot family, but technically a scarlet macaw.”
He peered into the foliage. The afternoon light was fading, but he found a large, mostly red bird sitting on a leafy branch staring back at him with what had to be suspicion.
Well, right back at ya, buddy. Dean remembered a bird similar to this one from the pet shop.
“I’m surprised you keep a bird,” he said. “I thought you didn’t believe in that.”
“I don’t usually, but he’s undergoing rehab.”
“Rehab? Does he have a substance-abuse problem?”
“Very funny. He’s suffering from a broken heart,” she said.
Dean shot her a look. “A broken heart?”
June nodded. “Did you know parrots can live as long as humans?”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. That’s why adopting one is a commitment most people shouldn’t undertake. But Lazarus had a great life—well, at least for a captive bird. He lived with a wonderful caring owner for over twenty years, but the man had a heart attack and died. He lived alone, and no one came for three days. Lazarus was out of his cage and tried to protect his best friend’s body from the rescue workers.”
“Oh, man,” Dean murmured, imagining the scene, which had elements of humor, but somehow he didn’t feel like laughing.
“The beak of a scarlet macaw is a serious weapon, so there was quite the standoff. Of course Lazarus was finally captured, but unfortunately they broke his wing in the process.”
“And then you stepped in?”
“My rescue group did. Dr. Trujillo treated him, and I’m nursing him back to health. His injuries are almost healed, but he still misses his old owner and doesn’t trust anyone. I’m trying to win him over, but...”
She shrugged and trailed off, smiling at Lazarus with such affection Dean wondered how the bird could resist her. He noted June had a perfectly shaped mouth made for far more than just smiles.
“You’ve made him a beautiful home,” he said, still watching her. “Will you keep him?”
“No,” she said, with what sounded like regret. “But there’s always another rescue to take his place. Sometimes I have two or three at a time. People buy birds and quickly learn they aren’t the easiest animal to take care of. They’re loud and extremely messy.”
As if to prove her point, Lazarus shrieked, flapped huge, colorful wings and turned his back on them.
Dean laughed, deciding they’d just been dissed. No question this macaw was an interesting creature.
“So, does he speak human?” he asked.
“Lazarus comprehends a lot of English. Maybe about thirty words, but it’s hard to get him to interact with me. Some researchers insist parrots are as intelligent as apes, which makes the way we treat them even sadder.”
“What will happen to him?”
“He’ll go to a sanctuary in North Florida and live out his life with others of his species.”
“Doesn’t sound too bad,” Dean said, turning from the balcony to check out the rest of the unit. He admired June’s rescue work, even if she went to extremes with it. Eying a closed door, he decided that likely led to a bedroom and wondered if the bird’s area extended around the entire apartment.
“It’ll be great for him,” she said, still staring at the parrot. “But I’ll miss him. Laz is the first rescue I’ve been tempted to keep. He’s been so sad. It feels like a betrayal to send him away from his new home after all he’s been through.”
Her voice was so soft and wistful Dean intuited she related the bird’s circumstances to her own when she’d lost her parents and been sent to live with an uncle in New York City. She probably just felt it on a gut level, not even consciously aware she made that connection.
“Shall we sit?” he asked.
“Oh. Sure.” She smiled at him, looking a little sheepish. “Forgive me. I get carried away sometimes.”
“No. Really?” he asked, pretending he hadn’t noticed.
Her grin widened. “I guess you already know I’m a bit militant about birds.”
“Well, you do seem quite fond of them.” He was, too, actually. Just in a different fashion. But perhaps he’d better not mention that his most frequent interaction with birds was shooting turkey on hunting trips. Something told him she wouldn’t appreciate that particular type of bird-watching activity.
“I’m assuming your visit is in reference to my friend’s murder,” she said, hesitantly sitting on the edge of a handsome leather sofa, one long enough for him to recline on. “You’re here in an official capacity?”
Dean joined her and removed the notebook from his jacket pocket. “Of course.”
“Are you always on duty this late?”
“A detective is almost always on duty.” He inwardly groaned at how stiff that sounded.
“So, where’s your partner?”
“He’s off. He’s a rookie, not a detective.”
“Why do you have a rookie partner?”
“Pairing seasoned officers with newbies is part of a new training protocol instituted by the department.” Or more accurately, a lesson instituted by a certain lieutenant to remind one particular detective there was good reason to follow the rules.
“You don’t sound too happy about that new system.”
“Actually, Sanchez is a good man. I don’t mind training him.” Dean relaxed back into the leather, surprised by his admission. But it was true. He’d discovered he enjoyed showing his rookie the tricks he’d learned over the years. Might save the guy some hard lessons.
“Sometimes we learn what we’re supposed to be doing in the strangest ways,” she murmured.
Dean wanted to explore that comment. The faraway look in her brilliant blue eyes told him she’d been taught a lesson in a painful way. He suspected it had something to do with her parents.
But they’d drifted way off subject. He needed to guide the conversation away from him and back to his case.
“Tell me,” he said, “does this apartment really take up the entire top floor?”
“No. Only the east-facing half. There’s a separate elevator for the other side.”
“Nice,” he said. “The rent must be pretty high,” he said, leaving an opening big enough for a flock of macaws to fly through.
She nodded. “No kidding.”
When she offered nothing else, Dean caught her gaze and cocked his head. Time for the direct route. “So, June.”
She arched her eyebrows, waiting for him to continue.
“I know how much you make each month. How do you pay for this private palace?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
JUNE GRINNED AT DEAN. Of course she’d known full well what he’d been getting at. Most first-time visitors assumed she either sold cocaine or was kept by a sugar daddy. Interesting how the detective tried the polite method first, but then just came right out and asked how the hell she managed to live in the Enclave rather than wondering about it.
“Fortunately I don’t pay rent,” she said. “This is my uncle’s winter home. I sort of, well, house-sit permanently.”
Dean checked his notes. “Your uncle is one Michael Westbrook Latham?”
“Right. He lives in Manhattan.”
“The man who became your guardian after your parents’ death?”
She eyed him warily, but he gave nothing away. “You know about my parents?”
“Considering your connection to two murders, you had to know we’d check you out.”
She nodded. She had known that, had expected it. She wasn’t proud of what her parents had done, but it had nothing to do with her. She had nothing to hide.
“So I guess I’m still a person of interest,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am. You’re a person of great interest.”
June caught a change in his tone and with a thrill decided he was flirting with her. Is it safe to flirt with a cop? Appropriate when being interviewed?
“In two murders now,” he continued.
“But not a suspect, I hope?”
“Not yet.”
“Is that a warning?”
Dean managed an offended expression, but she knew it was an act. The man liked to play with her. Well, guess what, Detective Hammer? She could play, too.
“Should I have an attorney present for this conversation?” she asked.
He flipped shut his notebook, his eyes now dark and serious, his mouth set in a grim line. He hadn’t liked that question. “You have an absolute right to counsel. Do you want me to leave?”
“No,” she said, surprised at his laser-quick switch back to cop professionalism. “I’ll answer your questions.”
“If you’d rather come into my station tomorrow with a lawyer, we can do that. I thought you’d prefer to do it this way, but if I’m wrong—”
“You were right,” she insisted. “Thank you. This is fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes,” June said. “I don’t have any secrets.” Obviously Dean had a lot more experience at this game than she. Or maybe this wasn’t really a game. Maybe she just wanted it to be one because the guy sitting next to her was so unbelievably hot that, despite a week crammed with unusual events, including the murder of an old friend, Detective Dean Hammer had occupied most of her thoughts.
“Okay, then.” He nodded and opened his notebook again. When he focused his attention back on her, he said, “Please understand our investigation is still ongoing.”
June rolled her eyes. “That’s exactly what a police spokesperson always says on TV. Please just be honest with me.”
A slow smile spread across his face, softening his eyes. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll try. Have you thought any more about how you know John Smith?”
June sighed. “We’re back to that again? I’ve told you I don’t know that man. Never saw him before in my life.”
“Well, see, here’s the problem. He knows you. The video reveals John Smith tried to speak to you as you snapped your evidence. He called you by name inside the pet shop. Twice.”
June stared at Dean. “That man knew my name?”
“Yes.”
Uneasy, June thought back to that scary moment and shook her head. “Well, I didn’t hear him. I was too nervous about what I was doing, I guess.”
“Not only that, he got furious when the shop owner grabbed you. He definitely knows who you are.”
“How could he know me?” she wondered aloud. “Did he follow me there?”
“That’s precisely what I’d like to figure out,” Dean said, meeting her gaze with a direct stare.
“I’m telling you the truth,” she said, immediately realizing that was what all suspects told the police.
“Are you still willing to come to the station to look at the surveillance video?”
“Of course.”
“Good. That could shake loose a memory.”
As Dean consulted his notes, June placed a hand on her stomach, where dread flared to life. Maybe he didn’t believe her. He sure looked grim. Oh, God, how had this happened? How had her activities to save birds dragged her into a police murder investigation?
“Have you given any thought to who you might have pissed off?” Dean asked. “Or who might be holding a grudge?”
“So you’re still stuck on the idea that I was the target instead of Sandy?”
He shook his head. “I’m not stuck on any theory. I am here to gather information, and that’s the truth.”
June studied his face. Was he telling her the whole truth about this visit? She noted he was fresh-shaven at 6:00 p.m. Why? For her? Not likely. Maybe he had a date after this interview. He smelled faintly of a nice cologne, as though he was just out of a shower.
“I can’t think of anyone who would want to kill me,” she said finally. “And I have thought about that unlikely scenario.”
“Fair enough.” He consulted his notes. “The night of the murder, you indicated there might be trouble with your friend’s marriage. Can you explain that comment?”
“I knew you were going to ask me about that. I said I wasn’t sure, and I don’t want to say anything to implicate Paul.”
“Because you don’t believe he had anything to do with his wife’s murder?” Dean asked.
“That’s right.”
The detective waited for her to say more. Really not wanting to tell him Sandy’s last confidence to her, June looked away from him. But she couldn’t lie. This man would sniff out a lie before it left her mouth. And what if she was wrong about Paul? What if there had been more to Sandy’s insecurity than Paul working too hard?
“One of the reasons we were dressed in those outlandish costumes was that Sandy wanted to rekindle the romance in her marriage. She wanted to remind her husband why he’d proposed.”
Dean didn’t answer immediately. “I don’t mean to be insensitive in light of your loss, but I have to tell you, those dresses would definitely achieve that particular goal.”
“Was that a compliment, Detective Hammer?”
He met her gaze and lifted his lips into an incredibly sexy smile. “Just a professional observation.”
June swallowed. Now he had to be flirting.
“So,” Dean continued, “her husband’s attention was fading?”
“Paul worked a lot of hours.”
“But why would you wear the same costume as your friend?” Dean raised his eyebrows. “In my way of thinking, a thre
esome isn’t the best way to restart a marriage.”
June felt heat rush into her cheeks, now suspecting he deliberately wanted her off balance. Probably an old cop trick to manipulate persons of interest into admissions they didn’t want to make. “Don’t be crude. We used to dress alike in high school. Silly little girl stuff, like a secret society.”
“At—” He flipped through a few pages of notes, not the least chastened by her comment. “Pinecrest Preparatory Academy?”
“Right.”
“Where the waiting list is long and the tuition expensive.”
June nodded. “And the education top-notch.”
“So, why didn’t you finish there? You graduated from a different high school.”
She tensed. Damn, he really had dug into her background. “Why would my educational history be part of your murder investigation?”
Dean leaned forward, his expression serious again. “I’m digging for a link, a connection between you and two dead bodies. No cop believes in coincidence, and we believe you’re at the center of two murders.”
“I don’t see how.”
Dean sat back, eyes narrowed, watching her. “For starters, the same gun killed both victims.”
“Oh, my God,” she said, the information slamming into her, shocking her as if she’d dived into an unheated pool on a cold day. She shook her head, denying the facts. “You’re sure?” she asked, knowing the question sounded foolish. Of course he was sure. He had forensics and ballistics and whatever else cops used to convict criminals.
Dean said, “Yes. I’m very sure.”
“That makes no sense. What connection could there be between Sandy and a homeless man?”
He continued to stare at her. “You.”
“Me?” June rose. “I see.” But she didn’t understand any of this. Realizing she was on her feet, she walked toward the aviary, needing to hide her horrified reaction.
“That’s why I’m asking these questions,” he said. “I’m sorry if it feels intrusive.”
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