Her Cop Protector

by Sharon Hartley

  So what the hell was wrong with him?

  June Latham.

  He rose, took a couple of bills from his wallet and dropped them on the bar. “Sorry,” he said to Noelle, with a shake of his head. “I’ve got to go.”

  * * *

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON June stared into her closet, looking for the right dress to wear to Sandy’s funeral. She owned only one black dress, the one she’d worn to her parents’ funeral.

  Every time she bought something in black, thinking this time she could manage it—even those short, sexy cocktail numbers that looked great with her fair coloring—she ended up giving or throwing the damn thing away.

  She hated wearing black, and she hated the idea of putting on that depressing outfit even more. She knew what would happen. She’d be flung back to the most miserable day of her life. But she’d always kept what she considered her funeral uniform.

  Reaching to the very back of the closet, she searched for and found a hanger with the long black shapeless shift and pulled it out. Nothing else would work. Of course she had to wear black. With a sigh, she untied her robe and stepped into the ankle-length linen dress, which would also be miserably hot in the sticky September humidity. Oh, well. She couldn’t get much more depressed than she was already.

  Dean hadn’t called. She hadn’t called him, either.

  He’d sent her a text that he would pick her up for the viewing at five thirty—fifteen minutes from now. She didn’t know whether she was relieved or angry at his presumptive belief that she still wanted to go anywhere with him. But she couldn’t decide about anything anymore. Not even what to wear to a memorial service when, hell, there was really only one choice.

  June dropped her purse over her arm and picked up a sweater. Funeral homes were always freezing. She locked the door, set the alarm and stepped into the elevator.

  She’d taken the bus home from work, half expecting Dean to show up at the bus stop outside the clinic. He hadn’t. At least he’d sent the text. And yes, she was glad he’d sent the text.

  She wouldn’t apologize to him, though. He thought she was being unreasonable, but she was tired of being kept in the dark about her parents’ case. Why hadn’t she been more proactive over the years? She should have believed in her mom and dad, demanded the authorities seek the truth about the fire, continue to investigate and learn who had been the real smuggler.

  But no, spoiled little brat that she was, she’d felt too sorry for herself, for all that she’d lost. Imagine. Having to attend public school. Such a tragedy. Boohoo.

  With a wave at Magda, June waited inside the air-conditioned lobby, safely out of view of any mad snipers. At exactly five thirty she spotted Dean’s white police Crown Victoria arrive at the guard gate. As the car slowly approached on the long driveway, she realized he wasn’t driving. Sanchez, his trainee, was at the wheel. Dean sat in the passenger seat.

  She stepped outside into a blanket of heat and humidity and decided Sanchez’s presence was a blessing. She didn’t have a damn thing to say to Dean. Not until he shared the entire police investigation with her, and she knew that wasn’t likely to happen any time soon. Dean wanted to handle her like another piece of evidence and keep her away from his case. The man was stubborn and fixated on obeying departmental rules.

  Well, she could be stubborn, too.

  Looking impossibly handsome, if grim, in a black jacket and slacks, Dean stepped out of the vehicle and opened the back door for her. His gaze swept her appearance. She shivered slightly under his scrutiny, feeling, as always, that he noticed everything about her. Too bad she looked like a lump of coal.

  “June,” he said politely, nodding at her.

  “Dean,” she responded just as formally and climbed into the backseat with as much grace as possible.

  “Good evening, Ms. Latham,” Sanchez said. “In case you don’t remember me, I’m Ruben Sanchez.”

  “Of course I remember you, Officer Sanchez.” June noted Sanchez wasn’t in uniform. Considering the nature of today’s mission, that concession was of course considerate. How awkward, even distracting it would have been for Paul to have armed, uniformed police officers swarming what should be a dignified, spiritual farewell to his beloved wife.

  Dean returned to the front seat and slammed the door. “Go,” he ordered Sanchez, who accelerated away from the overhang.

  “Thank you for the ride,” June said. “I appreciate it.”

  “No problem, ma’am,” Sanchez replied.

  Dean punched a button on his cell phone and began barking orders about surveillance at the funeral home.

  “Where’s Acevedo?” Dean demanded. “Yeah. Okay. No. I want someone on the ground with high-powered binocs in that location. Right. What about Baker? Is he in position? Good. Okay.”

  June listened to every word, trying to process and understand what the police were planning. Sounded as if an army would be in attendance. Apparently Dean had positioned law-enforcement personnel somewhere high on every building in the vicinity in case a sniper lurked to take a shot.

  Dean terminated call after call only to immediately initiate another. “Give me your status,” he demanded each time, seeming mostly pleased by what he heard. Sanchez remained silent, and June knew he also listened to the one-sided communication. At least she didn’t have to make meaningless conversation on the ride. She marveled at what a carefully coordinated police operation Sandy’s funeral had become.

  Sanchez made the turn into Plymouth Funeral Home as Dean told someone, “Until nine at least. The service is scheduled for seven and there’ll be lingerers. No. I hope to have our target out of there by eight.”

  Target. June sucked in a huge breath, suddenly queasy. This whole complicated tactical surveillance business was to protect her.

  She was the shooter’s target.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “GET AS CLOSE to the building as you can,” Dean instructed Sanchez as they approached the mortuary’s entrance. “I don’t want her in the open for more than a second.”

  “Got it,” Sanchez replied.

  Dean turned to look at June for the first time since they left the Enclave. Damn, but she was pale. Maybe it was just the color of the dress. No, she looked terrified. Well, good. Yeah, he could comfort her, reassure her that she’d be perfectly fine, but he didn’t want to. He wasn’t in the mood for hand-holding. June needed to take her situation a hell of a lot more seriously. For sure she needed to get over the idea that she could help the police investigate.

  And he needed to keep his distance from her before she screwed his concentration totally.

  “You okay?” he asked, his voice gruffer than he intended.

  She moistened her lips and nodded.

  “When Sanchez comes to a stop, I’m going to open your door. Get out quickly. I want you to stay in front of me and haul butt into that building. There’ll be an officer holding the door open. It’ll be no more than four steps. Can you do that?”

  “Yes,” she said. “What about you? If the sniper takes a shot—”

  “I have on protective gear,” Dean said. “Don’t worry about me. Are you with me on this, June?”

  She nodded. “I guess I didn’t realize it would be so scary.”

  “I know,” Dean said meaningfully. He faced front again, wanting to say a hell of a lot more to her, but knowing now wasn’t the time. Not on the day she was saying goodbye to one of her oldest friends. And whoever had murdered that beautiful young woman was trying like hell to stick June in a casket, too.

  Not on his watch.

  Sanchez maneuvered the Interceptor within four feet of the door, crushing a hibiscus hedge in the process. No doubt the department would receive a huge bill for collateral damage.

  “Good job,” Dean said to the rookie. “Meet me after you park.”
>
  Inside, an officer pulled the door open and gave a curt nod.

  Dean turned back to June. “You ready?”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice firm, chin high. “I’m ready.”

  Dean smiled at her for the first time, pleased she’d gotten control of her nerves.

  With Dean shielding her body with his, they dashed four steps to the entrance, and then June was safely inside, where she disappeared into a group of friends. He lingered a moment, listening, making certain she would be okay.

  “June, thank goodness you’re here.”

  “It’s a closed casket. Can you believe it?”

  “Paul is a wreck.”

  Everyone was in tears or sniffling. Tissue and hugs all around. June was in the bosom of her old cronies. She’d be fine. Needing to hook up with Sanchez, he took a step just as she turned back to him and gave him a shaky smile. A peace offering? Not good enough.

  Thanks, she mouthed.

  Dean nodded and went in search of Sanchez, dismissing June from his thoughts. She was secure, and he had a job to do.

  Would the sniper be here looking for an opportunity to take a shot? Dean figured the chances were fifty-fifty at best. This shooter was good, but had already made two mistakes. He had to know the police would be all over this somber gathering. Or did he? Maybe he was arrogant enough to believe law enforcement hadn’t figured out who his real target was.

  Stepping out the back door of the mortuary, Dean raised his binoculars and scanned the roof of every building in the area for any sign of a human or the tip of a rifle. It would help if he could figure out why the shooter wanted June dead. Damn, but he needed the motivation. Did June know something? Or did the shooter believe she did? In his gut, Dean believed it all went back to the fire. She’d been a teenager at that time. What could she possibly know or remember?

  And what about Al Kublin? He had to know June would attend her friend’s funeral. All officers had a recent photograph of the escaped whack job and were looking for the guy. Showing up here tonight would be a hell of a risky maneuver on Kublin’s part, since he was also a target. But the man was dying, running out of time. Maybe he’d take the chance. Maybe show up in disguise. That was what Dean hoped for, anyway.

  And he’d be waiting. He had a lot of questions for Mr. Kublin.

  * * *

  AT SEVEN O’CLOCK, June took a seat in the second row of the chapel, directly behind the seats reserved for Paul and Sandy’s parents, between Carole and Donna. Sad, haunting organ music floated through the room, barely audible over the hushed whispers of the mourners. If the number of people at a funeral was indicative of how loved the deceased was, Sandy had been adored.

  June took a deep breath and inhaled the fragrance of the floral arrangements that surrounded the polished wooden coffin, which was blanketed by a huge spray of perfect red roses. Sandy had loved red roses. June looked for the bouquet she had sent, but couldn’t find her crimson blooms among so many.

  She fisted her hands, fingernails digging into her palms, and noted her hands were numb. Truthfully, she was numb everywhere, even her brain. The temperature in this room felt like a meat locker. A chill traced her spine, and she realized that was precisely what this room was today. She glanced at the coffin again, noticing brass trim, hating that Sandy was inside.

  The music stopped, and the voices quieted. Paul entered the chapel, followed by Sandy’s parents. They seated themselves in the front row. Carole reached forward and squeezed Paul’s shoulder. He didn’t react.

  A minister in a black suit approached the front of the room and began to speak about love and loss.

  June’s thoughts wandered. She didn’t want to listen to clichés and platitudes about how Sandy was in a better place and how there was a reason for everything. Maybe that was true—she hoped it was—but how could there be a reason for Sandy to die the way she did?

  June bit her bottom lip. If Dean was right, she was meant to be the body in that casket. Nobody else knew that, of course. But she did, and the idea ate at her like acid.

  All she wanted was to get this ordeal over with.

  She supposed Dean would coordinate her exit as painstakingly as he’d arranged her arrival. Nothing but cool, polite distance between them now, but she accepted that was the way it had to be. Their affair would go down as something brief and explosive. Incredibly pleasurable and exciting as it developed, and miserably depressing at the end. This funeral was a fitting goodbye to more than Sandy.

  She’d known better, had understood from the first tingle of awareness that getting involved with Dean was a mistake. He was a control freak, a womanizer and even killed birds. She’d seen all the warning signs of disaster but couldn’t stop herself. She just let it happen.

  Let it happen? She’d encouraged the passion that flared between them, had welcomed that heat and intensity. Dean made her feel alive, made her care about something besides birds for the first time in a long while.

  The tone of the minister’s voice changed, and June realized he’d asked everyone to bow their heads and pray. June closed her eyes.

  She’d even thought she was falling in love with Dean, that something real and special was blossoming between them. Foolish, foolish Junie. Oh, no doubt he’d continue to protect her. That was his job. But something had changed because of her demands. She tried to take a tiny bit of control, so he’d keep his distance from now on.

  When the mourners all murmured “Amen” in unison, June opened her eyes. The minister invited anyone who wanted to speak to come forward. Sandy’s father rose and choked out words about his lovely daughter gone too soon. Paul lowered his head, his shoulders shaking. He was on the verge of breaking down. She prayed Paul wouldn’t attempt to deliver a eulogy to his wife. He’d never get through it.

  About half of those in attendance had been invited back to Sandy’s home for a final catered farewell. June had intended to go. She’d been looking forward to reminiscing about Sandy with old friends, remembering the good times. She needed to talk to Paul, give him a big hug and a pep talk. She better than anyone understood all of the old gang needed to rally around him to help him through this difficult time.

  But she now realized her attendance was a lousy idea. It’d be difficult for Dean to protect her, awkward for Paul to have cops lurking everywhere on his property. Her friends would wonder what the hell was going on. She couldn’t bear for them to know Sandy’s death had been a tragic mistake.

  No, she’d just go home. That would be easier on everyone.

  What would she do tonight instead? Sit by herself in the dark?

  Once before her life had been totaled by death in a cruel, swift fashion, and she’d been isolated. And now, because of Dean’s overbearing caution, it was happening all over again.

  * * *

  A LITTLE AFTER 9:00 P.M., Dean sat at his desk and stared at the paperwork before him. He had reports to complete, explaining the necessity for such tight security at Plymouth Mortuary. He could justify the manpower and expense. He wasn’t worried about that. But damn, all that effort and neither Kublin nor the shooter had shown. Was he sorry? Hell, yes. Not that he’d wanted the somber and strangely beautiful memorial disrupted by violence. He just needed something to pop, and he’d settle for anything at this point. He desperately needed a break in the case. Betty Daniels still hadn’t called him back, and he’d left two more messages.

  He and Sanchez had delivered June safely back to the Enclave by eight thirty. She’d remained silent during the ride, but she’d just been through a heartbreaking experience. No one liked funerals—or no sane person anyway. And this one had been wrenching for June because she felt guilty about her friend’s death.

  He’d thought she’d go to Taylor’s for the wake—or whatever you called the little cocktail party scheduled after the funeral.

  “No,�
�� she’d said softly. “It’s better if I just go home.” The only thing she’d said on the entire trip.

  So he’d taken her home and hadn’t walked her up. The building was secure, and he’d have been tempted, even with Sanchez waiting in the car. That was why he kept the rookie by his side constantly, so he couldn’t get sucked off track by June.

  Although now Sanchez was at home with his new bride while Dean had to wade through the monotony of time-and-use reports.

  He’d rather be with June. He ached to touch her, to make love to her. To make her feel better. He glanced at the cell phone on his desk. Should he call her? No. He needed to keep his distance.

  Needing a moment before beginning the tedious paperwork, Dean pushed back in his chair and propped his feet on the desk. He’d sent Officer Baker in a marked car to monitor the gathering at Taylor’s home, but he doubted Kublin or the shooter would show there. That gesture was more of a courtesy than anything, intended to reassure Taylor. Baker would stay in the background, probably wouldn’t get out of the vehicle. It’d be a hot, boring, miserable couple of hours for the officer.

  Dean pulled a bottle of water out of his bottom drawer and took a couple of swallows. It’d already been a long day for him, too. And for June.

  So what did June know that the shooter-cum-arsonist wanted her dead for? Maybe he should call in a hypnotist. Leads could develop while a witness was under. Would his lieutenant authorize it? Would June agree?

  He knew she was hurting, that she hadn’t gone to the wake because she thought her presence and all the cops would be a disruption. And she was most likely correct about that. What was she doing? Yeah, he should call, make sure she wasn’t beating herself up too badly.

  Before he could talk himself out of it, he punched in her number. June answered with a soft, hopeful “Hello.”

  “It’s me,” he said.

  “Hi.”

  Thinking she sounded weird, wondering if she was glad he’d called, he said, “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”