Her Cop Protector

by Sharon Hartley

  She clicked on a link that read “2013 South Georgia Turkey Shoot” and waited for the website to load. A bright red title appeared: “This year’s winners!” A color photograph slowly materialized where a beaming Dean stood in the center of a group of mud-splattered, fatigue-clad hunters, all of whom held rifles crooked in one arm. With the other arm, each proudly displayed a carcass of a dead turkey.

  Horrified by the ghoulish image, June quickly clicked to the next page and found more macabre photos of men delighted with themselves over killing innocent animals for entertainment. She shook her head, saddened to know Dean participated in this sort of travesty. She knew this lifestyle existed of course. She just couldn’t understand it.

  The last page contained lists of past shoots and winners. Dean had been the winner for three years running. He was also national champion with some particular rifle at a distance that seemed very long indeed.

  June linked back to her search page and tried again. She found one more relevant hit, a photo of Dean in a dress military uniform, but maybe ten years younger. A gray-haired man in what looked like a high-ranking officer’s uniform presented Dean a trophy shaped like a rifle.

  Obviously he was an expert shot and likely learned his craft in the military. Good for him.

  June continued looking until she logged on to the last search result, where she found Dean L. Hammer again, a musician in Ohio she’d learned way too much about, and shut down her computer.

  She sat for a moment, mulling over what she’d learned about the detective. In the past, she’d tried to talk hunters out of their violent sport. She’d never had any luck and assumed she’d have none with Dean. Of course turkeys and ducks weren’t endangered like tropical birds. She knew that, but she just didn’t get how anyone could enjoy killing. Not unless you needed the meat to feed your family.

  Target practice, sure. Okay. Shooting was a skill, an ability you could train for and improve. Like swimming. The more you practiced, the better you got. Both were sports, though, useless as a life skill, since few people actually shot game in order to eat or swam fast to outrun a shark.

  So Dean himself was an actual predator. She should have known. She’d heard Dean’s partner refer to him as “Hawk.” She shivered. Hawk. That suited him better than Dean.

  Figured. A Cooper’s hawk was one of her favorite birds to spot while birding.

  And now her thoughts had circled to Saturday’s birding trip, which she had committed to lead months ago.

  Dean didn’t want her to go, but June was sure no sniper would tromp into the wetlands with what she’d learned was an expensive weapon, the barrel of which could easily be seen through the mangroves. Plus, at least twenty pairs of eyes would be focused on the surroundings, constantly searching for the slightest movement in hopes of spotting an unusual bird. No matter what Dean thought, Matheson Hammock wasn’t a good place to lie in wait to commit murder.

  She slumped back into the chair, her soaring sense of excitement having crashed into disappointment. She liked the way Detective Dean Hammer made her feel. Scary, yes, but God, so alive and a part of the world. Last time she’d felt this way was—when? Maybe at a swim meet ten years ago when she’d finished ahead of an All-City sprinter.

  Ten years? How sad was that?

  But he was way too dictatorial. She didn’t like a man who thought he could tell her what to do, and Dean seemed to think he could order her around like some sort of commanding officer. Truth be told, that bothered her a lot more than his hunting.

  She still didn’t know if he was married or single, but that didn’t matter now. She needed to resist her foolish attraction to Dean. Apparently she wasn’t into the bad-boy type after all.

  Too bad. Getting to know him better would have been the most fun she’d had in a very long time.

  Restless, she moved onto the ten-foot section of balcony Uncle Mike had insisted be reserved for humans and free of rehabbing birds. Leaning against the cool, concrete wall, she admired the coral-tinged clouds that towered over the eastern horizon, the vast Atlantic Ocean below reflecting their vibrant colors. Miami Beach, a thin slash of land where lights slowly blinked on, interrupted that mirror effect. Closer, a darkening Biscayne Bay again reflected the colorful sky.

  This was the view people expected when they visited the Enclave. She’d sensed Dean’s surprise when he looked instead into Laz’s aviary, and had almost brought him to see this spectacular panorama. She would have, except they’d have had to walk through her bedroom. She hadn’t wanted to do that.

  June swallowed. So maybe it wouldn’t be easy to forget about Dean. At least not until he found the murderer and stopped contacting her.

  The pull she felt to him was something other than just his looks. What? Something basic, elemental. Visceral. Whenever they shared the same room, his presence resonated deep inside her. He eased his way into her senses until he dominated her attention and thoughts.

  Maybe because she’d never had anyone so attentive, so focused on what she was saying. He teased her. She teased him back. Being with him was, well, fun, even though their conversations were deadly serious.

  She just liked being near him.

  She liked it even better when he touched her. She slid her palms down her arms, remembering when he hugged her close. He’d been sweet. He’d been warm. She’d longed to climb inside him and share that warmth.

  But he was too hot. She’d get burned. She’d been burned enough already.

  * * *

  WHEN DEAN ARRIVED at his desk the next morning, he found a stack of cardboard boxes. A quick look inside told him these were the case files on Carl and Eileen Latham he’d requested from archives.

  Looked as though he was going to spend his day revisiting June’s history. Which was fine with him. Driving home from June’s last night, he’d wondered if the murders in the present had their roots in the past. Maybe the evidence in these boxes would give him that link. Long shot, but he needed a break, was due for a break.

  Still standing, Dean organized folders into chronological piles, oldest information on top. One stack for the fire and one for the narcotics case. Damn, but this would be tedious. Definitely not his favorite part of police work, but necessary. And he was on his own this morning, since Sanchez and the other rookies were with the department shrink for some new sensitivity training, which the lieutenant had darkly suggested Dean might need himself.

  Sensitivity training? He didn’t have time for that shit. Dean snorted and moved into the break room to pour a cup of caffeine. He was plenty sensitive, and he had two murders to solve.

  Returning to his desk, he parked his ass in his chair and began sifting through the past, starting with the drug bust. The more he dug, the more he wondered about the case against the Lathams. Something didn’t add up. Was it possible June’s parents hadn’t been the actual smugglers?

  Just before lunch, Sanchez joined him. His rookie partner looked disgusted and a little dazed.

  “How’d it go?” Dean asked, handing him a thick stack of paper he’d already reviewed. Two sets of eyes were always better than one.

  “Bunch of crap,” Sanchez murmured as he collapsed into a chair at his own desk across from Dean.

  Dean grinned. “You’re not enlightened?”

  “I’m now aware of my prejudices. What’s this?” he asked.

  “The evidence on June Latham’s parents’ criminal case,” Dean said.

  “What am I looking for?”

  “Any connection to our two murders. Names, places, anything that doesn’t fit.”

  “Got it.” Sanchez opened the first file and began to read.

  Dean watched the young cop a moment. Sanchez didn’t utter a single complaint about boring desk work. This rookie just might turn out to be a good cop. Was he observant enough, though? Good time to find out.

&
nbsp; “Sanchez,” Dean barked.

  The rookie looked up.

  Dean slid a grainy photograph across their adjoining desks. “Take a look at that.”

  Without comment, Sanchez reached for the photo, eyeballed it, then flipped it over. “This was shot twenty years ago.” Sanchez turned the picture again and this time studied the image carefully. He chuckled softly. “Man, look at the women’s hair. And the clothes.”

  Dean knew what he saw. Fifteen or so men and women in two lines, one standing, one sitting, grinning at the camera, obviously thrilled by the day’s events. Balloons floated over a banner that read Grand Opening.

  “What was the grand opening for?” Sanchez asked.

  “Latham Import,” Dean said. “Do you recognize any of those faces?”

  Sanchez narrowed his eyes, still examining the photo. “Shit,” he murmured. He lifted his gaze to Dean. “I don’t know. He’s younger, but that could be John Smith, first row center.”

  “Bingo,” Dean said. “There’s our connection. John Smith worked for Latham Import.”

  “You know, that fits,” Sanchez said. “If Smith were a longtime employee of a family business, he’d know who June was. Especially since she was an only child.”

  Dean took a swallow of cold coffee. “But June wouldn’t necessarily know him.”

  “She was probably what—six years old at the time of this grand opening? She wouldn’t recognize a man she’d met occasionally twenty years later.”

  “If she’d ever even laid eyes on him. The trick now will be to determine his real name. I wonder where the old company records are kept or even if they’re still in existence.” Dean looked down at a photo of the charred remains of Latham Import’s warehouse. If the records had been inside that rubble, nothing was left.

  Something else to question June about.

  “So, why would John Smith try to contact June in the pet shop?” Sanchez asked.

  “What do you think?”

  Sanchez sat back in his chair, making it squeak. “Something to do with her parents. Has to be. Or the fire. Hey, maybe he’s the arsonist wanting to apologize.”

  “Yeah, about that fire.” Dean reached for a file. “More than potential evidence was destroyed. The warehouse contained a shipment of hundreds of tropical birds en route to a breeding preserve. They all died.”

  * * *

  SATURDAY MORNING AT six forty-five, June pulled Uncle Mike’s gas-guzzling Cobra into the parking lot at Matheson Hammock and found ten birders with binoculars draped around their necks waiting for her. The regulars recognized the car and waved or, grinning, placed hands over their ears.

  Relieved to see a good turnout, she shut down the engine and welcomed the quiet.

  “Damn, Junie,” Jared said when she exited the low-slung bucket seat. “We could hear you coming for ten minutes.”

  “Oh, you haven’t been here ten minutes,” she said, pleased to see tall, redheaded Jared Bennett, her staunchest supporter in the fight against the sale of captured birds. He’d also published two books on birding and was considered the preeminent local expert. She was always glad to have him along for consultation in case she got stumped.

  “Nice car,” a man in his forties said, a newbie, someone she’d never seen before. “Is it a replica?”

  “No, it’s the real deal,” she replied. “But it’s my uncle’s car. I just drive it for him every so often.”

  “Nice uncle.”

  Several of the waiting crowd gathered around the car to discuss its powerful engine. She sighed. The Cobra always gathered attention from any car nuts whenever she drove it, sometimes making her feel invisible.

  June took a deep breath, inhaling the pungent, salty fragrance of the mangroves—an odor not to everyone’s liking. But that ripe smell meant a healthy mangrove. Stretching her arms overhead, she looked up at the brightening blue sky. All around her birds were waking up, chirping, flitting from oak tree to oak tree in the hardwood section of the hammock. No rain in the weather forecast until this afternoon.

  How could anyone care about a hunk of metal when they were in the middle of such a gorgeous natural area?

  She dug her backpack out of the car, placed a sign-in sheet on a clipboard and handed it to the closest man, a regular whose name she couldn’t remember.

  “Please give me your name, address, phone number and an email,” she requested.

  She noted two preteens this morning, a brother and a sister, and promised herself to encourage them along the way. She liked it when parents brought children because if they spotted a cool species along the trail, that youngster could be turned into a lifelong bird lover. Tropical Bird Society garnered tons of new members on these free birding expeditions.

  “Do you think we’ll see any redstarts?” a middle-aged lady asked.

  “It might be too early,” June said. “But you never know.”

  “Radar was lit up last night,” Jared said.

  “Radar?” the woman asked.

  “Migrating birds show up on weather radar as ground clutter,” June said, “so we know there are birds in the area. Whether they’ll come down out of the sky to rest or eat is the question.”

  More birders arrived, and soon she had a group of twenty-one, an excellent number. She surveyed them, looking for bare skin that mosquitoes could feast on, pleased to see most wore lightweight, cotton clothing, some sort of hat and good hiking boots. June frowned at one young woman wearing shorts and a halter top.

  “If you have bug spray, use it,” she instructed. “I hope everyone has water to keep hydrated.” Soon the chemical odor of insect repellant hung in the air.

  “Let’s begin in the hardwood section today,” she said, turning in that direction just as a large white vehicle turned into the parking area. Deciding this was a latecomer, she waited for the occupant to join them—and froze.

  Dean unfolded his tall frame from the car. As he shouldered on his own backpack, his intense gaze remained fixed on her from beneath a University of Florida baseball cap. He’d dressed appropriately for the walk with no bare skin and sturdy boots.

  “Are you all right, Junie?” Jared asked beside her.

  “What?” She gave herself a mental shake, realizing she was staring at Dean and ignoring her birders.

  “Who is that?” Jared asked, following her gaze.

  How the hell do I answer that question? “Oh, just a detective who thinks I know more about two murders than I’m saying”?

  “His name is Dean Hammer,” she said.

  “Is this a new boyfriend?” he asked in what could only be a resentful tone.

  June shot Jared a glance. What’s that about? Have I missed something?

  But before she could set him straight, Dean arrived at her side. She looked up into his grinning face and wondered what he was thinking. Why could she never tell?

  “Good morning,” he said, as if of course she’d expected his appearance.

  “I thought this wasn’t your kind of bird hunt,” she said, trying to keep her voice neutral. His smile faded, a sign that she didn’t succeed.

  “Well, I thought the company might be pleasant,” he said.

  She thrust the sign-in sheet toward him. He raised his eyebrows, scribbled something and handed it back. She forced herself not to read what he wrote. Am I actually going to get an address or a home phone number?

  “Thanks,” she mumbled. While Dean introduced himself to the group, she tossed the clipboard into the Cobra and locked its doors, resisting the urge to read what he’d written.

  “Okay,” she announced loudly. “Let’s get started.”

  Keenly aware of Dean’s presence, she led the birders across Matheson Parkway into the oak grove. Speaking quietly and only occasionally, her group meandered through the trees, necks
craned upward, searching for any movement in the branches.

  “There,” someone said. “Two o’clock on that dead branch.”

  June caught a flash of red.

  “Cardinal,” she reported. No one got excited. Cardinals and blue jays were abundant locally. Beautiful, yes, and a thrill for first-timers. But avid birders could see them most anywhere, probably at their own backyard feeders.

  Today they were searching for visitors, migratory birds just passing through, dropping in for a bite on the way to their winter home in the tropics. Especially warblers, quick, colorful creatures, a real challenge because they never stayed in one place for very long.

  After about ten minutes, June heard a single, sharp “dit” overhead and announced, “Black-throated blue.”

  Jared’s binoculars were already focused on the warbler, and soon everyone in the group looked upward, searching for the elusive bird flitting in and out of branches.

  “You can tell what it is from the noise it makes?” Dean asked beside her.

  “After a while, you learn the calls,” June said, refusing to look at him. Looking at him got her into trouble. “But Jared is the real expert. He can mimic songs to attract a bird in the area.”

  They watched until everyone had seen the pretty little bird with a white breast, black throat and dark blue upperparts, then moved on, remaining in the oak grove section about an hour, seeing a nice variety of species.

  She noted that Dean often went ahead of everyone else or off to the side, constantly scanning the area with his binoculars. She didn’t think he was looking for birds, but so far he hadn’t behaved differently than anyone else. He struck up a friendship with Cheryl and Jim, the young brother and sister and, using his arm to point, helped them spot birds they couldn’t locate.

  Who’d have thought the sexy, bad-boy detective could be so patient when working with kids? Not her, that was for sure.

  While the rest of the group focused on a plump ovenbird on the ground about fifty feet ahead, June paused and took a long draw from her stainless-steel water bottle. Sweat trailed down the side of her face, and she pulled her cotton blouse away from her sticky chest.