Her Cop Protector

by Sharon Hartley

  She stood and moved restlessly to the sliding doors, staring at the view again without seeing it. “You probably go to a lot of funerals,” she said over her shoulder.

  “They’re a good place to look for suspects.”

  “That makes sense, I guess, in some convoluted way. Is Paul still a suspect?”

  When Dean didn’t answer, June turned back to him. His back was against her headboard, his muscled chest bare. Sheets covered the lower part of his anatomy. Suddenly, even with all the unsettling thoughts and memories swirling around inside her head, she wanted him again. She wanted to drop her robe, crawl under those cool sheets and press her naked flesh against his strong, warm body.

  While making love with Dean, she was able to forget that anyone had been murdered. Or that someone was gunning for her.

  She moved back to the bed. “If you could hear Paul, you’d know it’s not an act. He’s completely torn up over Sandy’s death.”

  “I interviewed Mr. Taylor this morning,” Dean said. “I know he’s in bad shape. I was going to ask you to reach out to him.”

  “So then he isn’t a suspect?”

  “No.” After a pause, Dean said, “The case has actually taken a new trajectory.”

  “Really? So you learned something useful in Melbourne?”

  “We learned quite a bit in Melbourne.”

  Realizing they hadn’t yet discussed his trip, she asked, “What? Tell me.”

  “Kublin is dying and his shrink doesn’t believe he would ever shoot anyone.”

  She sat beside him again. “Dying? The man who killed my parents is dying?”

  “Some kind of quick-acting cancer. He’s pretty much a goner.”

  “That makes no sense. Why the hell would someone on death’s door bust out of a hospital?”

  * * *

  DEAN REACHED FOR the wine again, remembering how he’d felt when June had kept a secret from him.

  But this was different. Completely different. She didn’t need to know his new theory that her parents were innocent until he’d confirmed it. The idea would rock her carefully created world, tear down that protective shell of hating her parents, leaving her raw and even more vulnerable. She’d beat herself up for doubting them.

  Then, if the theory proved wrong, she’d be devastated all over again. He didn’t want to hurt her like that. He took a long drink of expensive wine without tasting a thing and set the glass aside.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” she demanded.

  “The psychiatrist confirmed that Kublin still believes your parents were innocent.”

  “Yeah, right. No doubt he swears he didn’t set the fire, either.”

  “Kublin knows he doesn’t have long to live. According to the shrink, he’s looking for you because he doesn’t want the truth to die with him.”

  “What truth?”

  “That your parents were framed.”

  “That’s old news,” she scoffed. “What’s your new—what did you call it? Trajectory? What’s different?”

  Dean met her questioning gaze and made his decision. Maybe it was the wrong one, but he was going to be honest with her. Shit. When had he ever been completely honest with a woman before? Never.

  But he couldn’t lie to June. He couldn’t hide the truth or his feelings anymore. Not if they had any chance of a future. A future? What future?

  Damn, no question this woman had made him lose his mind.

  He reached forward and clasped both of her hands. “Listen to me carefully. I don’t want you to overreact.”

  Eyes wide, June withdrew her hands from his and hugged herself. “You’re scaring me, Dean.”

  He hesitated, but plunged ahead. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to, but I once promised to be honest with you, and I need you to be honest with me.”

  She nodded. “Go ahead. What’s happened?”

  “Nothing has necessarily happened. But what’s changed is the investigation has led me to believe your parents were possibly framed.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  JUNE STARED AT Dean for several long moments as she absorbed his words. She shook her head, denying what he’d said. His theory didn’t make sense. Of course her parents were guilty.

  “After their deaths, there was no trial, so the state’s evidence against them was never tested,” Dean said.

  He paused, watching her with a wary expression. June continued to stare at him, unable to respond.

  “That theory has been on my radar for a long time, but no law-enforcement officer wants to second-guess their colleagues, so I resisted the idea,” he continued. “Now I’m going to follow up that possibility until I disprove it. Or prove it.”

  “Why?” she asked, her voice as hoarse as if she hadn’t spoken since the fire. “Why do you think my parents were framed?”

  Dean methodically went through the sequence of events, what he’d learned so far, some details about the arson, his growing doubts about her parents’ drug case. He was waiting to hear back from the primary investigator, a respected but now retired officer. The evidence against her mom and dad had been, in his opinion, weak.

  “Weak?” she said. “The evidence against my parents was weak? I was told the case was airtight.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Everyone. The TV stations practically implied there wasn’t any need for a trial.” She remembered how the nightly news reported the fire that killed her parents, calling it suspicious. “Even the Miami Herald said the evidence was overwhelming.”

  “Strange, but remember I’m looking at an old case file ten years later. Some reports could be missing. A decade is a long time.”

  “Does it appear that anything is missing?”

  “Not really. I’ve got the interviews, the logs, daily reports. I just need to confirm a few things with Betty Daniels, the primary.”

  “What makes you think she’ll remember something ten years later that isn’t in the reports?”

  “There’s a cryptic note from Daniels that I don’t understand, some sort of personal shorthand that I need her to explain. It could be nothing.”

  “So, what about the arson?”

  Dean sighed. “Maybe whoever was using your parents’ business to smuggle set the fire to destroy any evidence.”

  “So under your new theory my parents were murdered.”

  “The operative word is theory.”

  “You said you’d been thinking about this so-called theory for a long time. How long?”

  He shrugged. “A while.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I need to confirm everything with Daniels.”

  “You should have told me.”

  “This reaction is exactly what I was worried about, why I didn’t.”

  “I want to see the records.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t let you do that, June.”

  “Why not?”

  “Those records are not open to the public.”

  “I’m not the public. I’m the—the victim in all this.”

  “Let me track all this evidence down, unravel what happened ten years ago. That’s my job, and I’m good at it.”

  She leaped to her feet and moved to the sliding doors again, looking out into a vast dark void, seeing nothing. She placed her palms against her cheeks and realized her fingers were ice-cold. “Oh, my God. What if my parents were innocent after all?”

  Dean rose and moved beside her.

  “I need to know,” she said. “I want to see the entire case file.”

  “Be reasonable, June. Even if I could let you see the files, what would you do with the information?”

  “I could help you.”

  He wrapped his arms around her. “How co
uld you help?”

  “I don’t know.” She pushed him away. Why had she just accepted what everyone had told her before? Because she’d been a child. A frightened young girl terrified of a world without her parents.

  She faced him again. “I might see something. More eyes on anything is always better,” she said. “Like when looking for birds. And doesn’t your rookie help you look at files?”

  “He’s a sworn police officer. And you wouldn’t know what you were reading. You wouldn’t understand the police procedures, the codes, acronyms.”

  She raised her chin. “You could explain it to me.”

  “No, June. I don’t have time for that.”

  “That’s bull. You have plenty of time for this.” She flung her hand toward the rumpled bed.

  His jaw set into a firm line. “You’re right. The truth is I don’t want you anywhere near this case. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I’ve been careful. I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to do.”

  “Not everything.” He moved toward the bed, grabbed his slacks from the floor and stepped into them. “Look at you. You’re a mess. I shouldn’t have told you. I knew better.”

  “I wanted to know every detail. I need to see those files.”

  He pulled up his zipper. “You need to let me handle this.”

  “They were my parents. I have a right to know what the evidence was against them.”

  “No, you don’t.” He shook his head. “That information would only torture you. There are photos in the file that you should never see.”

  “Damn it, Dean. Stop trying to control me.”

  “I need to control the flow of this case.” He jerked on his shirt and moved farther away from her.

  “Look,” she said after a deep breath. “I get why you want me to take the bus and why you were upset about my trip to the Redlands, but this is different. There’s no reason I can’t see your evidence. You’re just being a bully.”

  “It’s for your own good whether you believe it or not.”

  “Where are you going?” she demanded.

  “Home.”

  “We’re not finished.”

  He paused at the bedroom door and glared at her with dangerous eyes. “Yes, we are. This conversation is pointless.”

  “I can get a court order.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “My uncle knows people.” She flung her words at him. “He’s influential.”

  “I’ll have the case solved long before you’re even in front of a judge. Where you will most certainly lose.” He stepped out of the door.

  “You can’t control me,” she yelled after him.

  He stepped back into the bedroom and pointed a finger at her. “Set the alarm. And take the bus to work.”

  “Quit telling me what to do. I’m not your sister.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “You know exactly what I mean.” She raised her chin. “You try to manage everyone.”

  “Yeah? Well, it’s for damn good reasons.”

  And then he was gone. When she heard the front door slam, she ran to it and threw it back open in time to see the elevator close and begin its descent with a quiet hum. She was too late to get in one last word. Damn him.

  How dare he drop that bombshell about her parents and then walk away? He made love to her and then left as if she were just so much police business for him to organize? By the way, Ms. Person of Interest, don’t forget to set the alarm.

  She reentered her apartment, locked the door and armed the security system, her thoughts swirling with sickening regret.

  She moved into the aviary, where Lazarus eyed her suspiciously until she sat in the cloth chair, head in her hands, barely noticing the gentle sway.

  What if her parents had truly been innocent all those years ago?

  They had sworn to her the charges were false. She remembered their earnest faces at the family conference as they begged her to believe them. And of course she did. At first. But then came the fire, their deaths and all the nasty news stories afterward. The sidelong glances in the halls at school from fellow students, even her friends. The whispers, the giggles. The pity from her teachers, extensions on the work she couldn’t concentrate on enough to complete. She’d been glad when Uncle Mike whisked her away to New York for a few months.

  So she came to accept the awful fact that her mom and dad had lied to her. She was a big girl, old enough to understand that her parents weren’t perfect. Nobody was.

  But she couldn’t forgive the lie. That was what she hadn’t been able to forget, what she’d resented for ten years. They should have been honest with her. They should have told her the truth.

  And if Dean was right, they had. What kind of a daughter, a person, was she? She hadn’t loved her parents enough to trust them.

  What had really happened ten years ago? She needed to know.

  * * *

  AN HOUR LATER, Dean slid onto a bar stool at the outdoor Akroner Bar, the deep throb of a bass from the house band resonating from the padded seat into his bones. He took a deep breath, inhaling the salty breeze off the nearby Atlantic Ocean, mingled with the smell of spilled beer. Nestled between the bar and the surf, Ocean Drive was a parking lot full of barely moving vehicles, their drivers cruising, looking for someone to hook up with or some kind of trouble.

  A young male bartender approached. Good-looking guy, if a little effeminate. Dean remembered he was trying to catch gigs as a male model.

  “Hey, Dean. Been a while.”

  “Yeah.” What was this guy’s damn name? Dean focused on a name tag.

  “Been working hard or hardly working?” Roy asked, having to raise his voice over the music from inside.

  “You know me, Roy.”

  The barkeep grinned. “Good man. Want the usual?”

  “Fine,” Dean said.

  When Roy moved away, Dean swiveled to look out over the swarms of people crowding the outdoor lounge and spilling onto the sidewalk. It was early, before 10:00 p.m., and the summer season even, yet South Beach was jammed with tourists. The outdoor tables at restaurants lining Ocean Drive—at least the ones he could see—were mostly full. The Chamber of Commerce should be very happy. Whatever. At least someone was.

  He let his gaze roam over the groups of females in the vicinity, sizing up what was available. His habit was to look for two women engaged in conversation but casually evaluating the male pool themselves. That was where he had the most luck. A larger group was harder to break into and likely more interested in a ladies’ night out.

  That was why he’d come here, right? To see if he could hook up? That was what he always did when a woman gave him grief. He knew just the cure to get June out of his head.

  “Here you go, buddy.” Roy returned with a shot of Jack Black and a large draft beer.

  “Thanks,” Dean said and quickly downed the shot. Roy moved away, and Dean picked up the beer, swiveling back to the crowd. He needed to return to his old habits. He’d made a mistake with June. Broken his rules even getting involved with her. And then he was effing stupid enough to be honest with her—and what did that get him? An argument about how to do his job. Rules were made for a reason. Because they worked.

  His life flowed smoothly when he focused on his cases and followed his normal dating pattern, keeping himself free of commitments. What the hell had he been thinking falling into bed with June? And why couldn’t he get her out of his mind? He was surrounded by women. Some of them more beautiful than her.

  “Hey.” A brunette in her late twenties with a killer smile moved between him and the old dude at the bar stool next to him. She allowed her gaze to travel his body and then back to his face.

  “Hey,” Dean said, checking h
er out just as openly. Her body was as good as her smile.

  “You look lonely,” she said.

  “Do I?”

  She nodded, motioned for Roy and focused on him again. “I’m Noelle.”

  “Hi, Noelle. I’m Dean.”

  “Are you on vacation, Dean?”

  Before he could answer, Roy arrived. Noelle ordered a frozen margarita with salt. Definitely a tourist. Dean nodded at Roy, an indication he should put Noelle’s drink on his tab.

  “Where are you from?” Dean asked.

  “Indiana. You?”

  “Right here.”

  “You’re a local?”

  “Born and raised.” Damn, and now he was talking in clichés. Did he always do that when on the hunt? Surely he could be a little wittier. Either he was out of practice or—or what? Shit.

  “What do you do, Dean?” Noelle asked.

  He grinned, an easy answer popping into his head about the things that he could “do.” And do well. Instead he said, “I’m a cop.”

  Her eyes widened. Her grin broadened. So she liked the idea of a little danger. Some women did. He’d known plenty of police groupies. He waited for the next question, knowing what it would be.

  “Do you have a gun?” she asked, her eyes shifting to his waist, then his legs.

  He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “It’s required,” he said. Her smile grew even larger.

  Roy returned with her drink, and Noelle reached for her purse.

  “I got that,” Dean said, touching her arm.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Good-looking and a gentleman. I’m liking Miami a lot.” She took a quick sip and rolled her eyes in obvious pleasure. “Delicious.”

  Dean held up his mug and clinked against her ’rita. “To a good time,” he said.

  She laughed, took another sip and then openly met his gaze. “So, Dean,” she said in a silky voice, “what do you say we move to a table where we can, you know, talk a little easier?”

  Dean took a long swallow of his beer. Noelle was one fine-looking woman. She was available and more than willing to get to know him better. She was exactly what he’d come here to find. Things were proceeding precisely as they should, as they always did. This was why a guy like him loved South Beach.