Her Cop Protector
Autorzy
Sharon Hartley
Lektury
18,2K
RozdziaĆy
23
One hot Miami mystery Homicide detective Dean Hammer has two dead bodies on his hands and just one connection: a pretty activist named June Latham. She swears her only concern is rescuing the tropical birds she loves, but something isn't adding up. As Dean begins to unravel the mystery of June's troubled family, he realizes she's in danger. But that's not all. Dean's hotter for June than even the sweltering Miami weather can explain. Now if only she would put aside their differences and let him protect her... Otherwise she'll be next in the sniper's scope.
Chapter One
WHEN JUNE ENTERED the air-conditioned chill of the North Beach Pet Shop, dozens of colorful birds came to life with raucous squawks. Well, no wonder. She glanced up at the bell rigged to clang whenever the front door opened. An early warning system.
To her left, a tall man in his forties behind the counter nodded at her. Colorful tattoos curled around both of his biceps. Piercings in both ears and his left nostril. âLet me know if I can help you,â he said.
âJust looking,â June said, in her best attempt at portraying a bored browser. Sheâd gotten good at that.
He returned to reading a magazine. Was this guy the owner or an employee? That would make a huge difference in his reaction in the next few minutes.
She sniffed the air to detect any foul odors. Mostly old cedar chips from the bottom of cages. Not too bad. At least this shop kept the smuggled birds in fairly decent conditions.
June snuck a glance to the rear wall, where the birds continued their noisy protest in floor-to-ceiling cages. A majority of monks. Some yellow-headed amazons and a few macaws. Exactly what the informant had reported. Birds flapped obviously clipped wings in futile attempts at liftoff. A few made it off perches and slammed into the wire barrier blocking their escape with a disappointed shriek.
June bit her bottom lip and looked away. After the initial rush of sympathy, familiar anger mushroomed inside her chest, making her heart rate ramp up. No good, June. Remain calm if you want to help. Inhaling deeply, she lifted a container of dog shampoo from the display next to her and pretended to study the ingredients.
Remember, these birds are the survivors, she reminded herself, allowing the breathing technique time to work. Triple or quadruple this number didnât survive the journey.
She strolled toward the right side of the store, where an assortment of puppies romped or dozed in five-by-five wire cages stacked one on top of the other. A honey-colored cocker spaniel eyed her hopefully as she approached. When he reared up on his hind legs, she reached through the wire and stroked his soft head. This immediately gained the attention of a feisty Jack Russell terrier who pounced over to nudge the spaniel out of the way.
Too bad she couldnât save these furry sweeties. Their lives were equally sad, but disgustingly legal, products of puppy mills all over the country. She tested the air again. Definitely less pleasant on this side of the shop, but lingering disinfectant made the smell tolerable.
She glanced back at the clerk. He kept his head down and remained focused on his reading, so she continued toward her target: the birds. She needed evidence. Even from a distance of six feet she could see that their legs were banded, supposed proof of being bred in captivity. But she knew better. The barbarians now created counterfeit bands to thwart the Fish and Wildlife Commissionâs attempts to curb smuggling.
As if counterfeit bands could make this group of wild birds appear tame.
Of course, FWC didnât approve of her unorthodox methods. Even less of her trips to South America with the Tropical Bird Society to stop poachers at the source. Bird smuggling was hardly a high priority to the US government. They were much more worried about drugs. FWC didnât have enough manpower or budget to stop thousands of birds from being murdered each year.
She reached inside her jeans pocket, fingers tightening around her phone. She needed one good peek at a counterfeit band for confirmation. Sheâd take photos, enlarge them and sheâd have her proof.
The door clanged behind her, signaling the entry of another customer. Her heart tripped into a faster pace again, but maybe this arrival would provide a distraction from her own activities.
The clerk murmured a greeting, and the newcomer, a male, grunted a reply as June leaned closer and peered at the leg of a magnificent scarlet macaw who glared back at her with haughty disdain. The bird stepped away with a short cackle.
âHold still, my beauty,â June whispered, focusing on the leg band, looking for the telltale signs of the fake markers, a bruised leg and missing scalesâyes, there. Definitely bogus. She nodded to herself. But she already knew that.
With another sideways look at the clerk, she raised her phone, positioning her body to hide her actions. The second customerâa manâstepped next to her. She ignored him and raised the camera. Youâre in the wrong place at the wrong time, buddy. Sorry.
The customer said something during her first click, but he whispered his words and she couldnât stop gathering evidence to ask him to repeat himself. She kept clicking, gathering images of as many captives as possible.
âHeyâ came a rough shout from behind her. âWhat the hell you think youâre doing?â
June ignored the clerk. Beside her the new guy spoke againâthe inflection sounding like a questionâbut his words were lost in the resumed squawking of agitated birds roused by the hostility of the clerk hurrying toward her.
âDamn it, lady. Stop taking photographs.â
June didnât stop until a rough hand closed around her upper left arm and squeezed hard.
âHey,â she said, trying to pull away. âThat hurts.â
âItâs gonna hurt a lot more if you donât hand over that camera.â
She glared at himâbut went still when she met his dark eyes. Fear flared in her belly as the man tightened his grip. This was precisely what Agent Gillis had warned her about. She shouldnât have come alone when Jared got sick and canceled.
She slid the phone into her pocket. âLet go of me or Iâll file an assault charge.â
âI donât think so, lady. You just give me your phone.â
âOr what?â
âOr else youâll be very sorry. These are my birds, and I donât want you taking photographs.â
So he was the owner. Bad luck, but explained his vigilance. June again tried to wrench out of his grasp, but he only squeezed harder. She swallowed, the pain in her arm now making it difficult to concentrate. She pushed away the stirrings of panic. Would this man really hurt her?
Hell, yes. The jerkâs greed caused the murder of hundreds of smuggled birds.
âIâll scream,â she said.
âAnd who do you think will care?â
Before she could answer, a brilliant red bird swooped over her head. She ducked instinctively, as did the shop owner.
âWhat theââ the owner shouted, finally, blessedly, releasing his grip.
The macaw flapped madly, but clipped wings made it impossible for him to go far.
Rubbing her arm, June turned in time to watch the new customer fling open the last cage and urge its prisoners to flee.
âWhat are you doing?â the owner shouted.
As if in answer, birds streamed out of confinement. Triumphant screeches resonated through the shop as feathered creatures in hues of green, blue, red and yellow attempted flight, but most only hopped awkwardly around shelves and the filthy floor of the shop.
The front door clanged again, and June focused on the back of the liberator as he rushed outside. A flight-worthy yellow-headed parrot zoomed for the opening. Oh, no. Fearing heâd be crushed by the closing door, she held her breath. But vivid green wings flapped through safely and disappeared into a patch of blue sky, no doubt headed for the closest tree.
âShit,â the owner moaned.
With a sigh, June withdrew her phone again and called the police.
* * *
DETECTIVE DEAN HAMMER heaved himself out of his police cruiser into heavy tropical air. Shaking his head, he eyeballed the peeling paint of the mom-and-pop pet shop in the seedy business section of North Miami Beachâa long eight miles from South Beach. Heâd been busted not only off his beat, but off his regular gig. His lieutenantâs cute idea of punishment. Yeah, real cute.
âHey, Hawk,â his temporary partnerâa fresh-faced rookie whose training was also part of his exileâasked across the roof of the vehicle, âwhen was the last time you responded to a disturbance at a pet shop?â
âYeah, well, that would be never, Sanchez.â
Sanchez grinned. âDo you think the pets inside are rioting?â
âFunny. If you learn one thing while working with me, Sanchez, you need to be ready for anything on a call.â
Sanchez nodded and glanced toward the shopâs facade. âYeah, I know, I know.â
You just think you know, rookie. Dean patted the Kevlar vest under his shirt and moved toward the entrance. âThings can go south in a heartbeat.â
âAnd you must be prepared,â Sanchez mimicked. âI bet you wonât need your Remington M24 here, though.â
âGod, I hope not,â Dean said as he jerked open the door. A sniper gun at a pet shop? A giant cowbell clanged overhead as he entered.
âJeez,â Sanchez breathed behind him over a cacophony of shrieking birds. âWhat the hell happened here?â
Good question, Dean thought, focusing on dozens of colorful parrots hopping and leaping in aborted flight attempts around the shop. No bodies. No citizens bleeding. No apparent robbery.
Damn if Sanchez hadnât nailed it. The birds had staged a riot and broken out.
A man, presumably an employee, chased the animals with little success. As soon as he got close to a parrot, the bird squawked and deftly hopped away. Heâd managed to capture a few, though, since cages in the rear of the shop housed parrots. Dean looked for and spotted a surveillance camera on the back wall.
âBe careful where you walk,â the man shouted. âDonât step on any of them.â
âUh, right,â Dean said, his attention zeroing in on the only other person in the shop, a tall, knockout blonde in her midtwenties who stood by the cash register yacking on a cell phone.
âAnd arrest her,â the bird chaser said. âSheâs responsible for this.â
Arrest her? Deanâs mood lightened. Heâd like to interrogate this one, her sophisticated beauty reminding him of the Russian models who frequented Ocean Drive.
âYou the owner?â Dean asked the man.
After a pause where he seemed to consider his answer, he said, âYes. David Glover.â
âDid she release the birds?â Sanchez yelled over the bird noise.
âI did not,â the woman replied. She lowered her phone and gave the owner a look that would freeze lava.
âBut your partner did,â the owner shouted.
âI donât have a partner,â she said.
âYeah, right. Like you never saw the guy before.â
âNever. And youâre the one who should be arrested.â
âFor what?â
The blonde turned to Dean. âI called the authorities.â
âYou bitch,â Glover said. âOnly because I was too busy withââ
âHold on, hold on,â Dean interjected, the squawking of both human and bird now giving him a major headache. âSanchez, help this guy round up the birds while I interview this nice lady.â
The blonde nodded and dropped her phone into a large purse slung over her shoulder, its strap pressing between very nice breasts.
Sanchez grinned. âGood thing you warned me to be ready for anything.â
âYouâre a real comedian, Sanchez.â Dean pointed a finger at the owner. âWeâll talk after you get your merchandise under control.â
The blonde smiled. âLet me know how that turns out,â she said to the owner.
Dean suppressed a laugh and interrupted the ownerâs heated response. She had a point. The shopkeeper wasnât dealing well with his escapees.
âYou got an office in the back I can use?â he asked.
Dean noted Gloverâs second hesitation. Apparently the man had secrets to protect. âI wonât look at a thing,â Dean said, holding up his arms.
âYeah, go ahead,â Glover said and resumed chasing his birds, sidestepping around a growing accumulation of bird droppings.
The blonde smiled again, obviously finding the ownerâs frustrated lunges for his elusive birds hilarious. Glad to escape the noise, Dean ushered the woman toward the back. He liked the way she movedâher legs seemed to glide over the floor and she held herself with perfect graceful posture.
Inside the tiny dump of an office, he motioned for her to sit in a chair facing a messy desk. He also sat and removed his interview notebook.
âWhy arenât you in uniform?â she asked.
âBecause Iâm a detective.â
Her eyes widened. âThey sent a detective?â
Dean nodded. âBird riots demand the full attention of the Miami Beach Police Department.â
âHa-ha.â
âWhatâs your name, maâam?â
âJune Latham.â
âAddress?â
After he got the basics, he said, âSo, why donât you tell me what happened here this morning, Ms. Latham?â
âThis pet shop markets illegally captured wild birds.â
Dean glanced up from his notes. âHow do you know?â
âTheir leg bands are counterfeit.â She shifted her weight to one hip and crossed a slim, shapely leg. âI came here to gather proof for Fish and Wildlife.â
Dean rubbed his chin, thinking. âSo you liberated these illegal birds so they could fly free again.â
âOf course not. Releasing them without a safe harbor plan could harm them.â She bit her bottom lip and looked down. âActually, I should go help that clod before he harms one. He has no idea how to handle birds.â
âAnd you do?â
âYes.â She leaned forward. âCan you arrest him?â
âLike he said, for what?â
âFor selling illegalââ
âI think you know I canât do that.â
She sat back and crossed her arms. âAn arrest would teach him a lesson.â
âNot my job.â Although, considering his forced time with rookie Sanchez, maybe lessons were his job. âSo, who released the birds? Thatâs the crime Iâm investigating.â
âI donât know who he was. Some customer in the shop. I never saw him before.â
âGive me a description.â
She shrugged. âI barely looked at him. Maybe fifty or sixty, bald. Taller than me, maybe six feet. Really thin.â
âNot bad for barely looking at him,â Dean said. âSo, what happened?â
âWhen that jerk grabbed my armâ Hey, thatâs a crime.â She sat up straighter. âAssault.â
âDo you want to file charges?â
She leaned back, glancing toward the outer room. âLet me think about that.â
âGo on. The owner grabbed you...â
June Latham rubbed her arm with long, graceful fingers. Dean followed her movements, noting with disgust a red mark where someone had taken a stranglehold on her body. No question the area would bruise. He also noted well-toned biceps and triceps and wondered where she worked out.
âHe wanted my phone. He wouldnât let go of me. We argued. Suddenly a macaw flew over my head. When I turned, I saw this customer opening all the cages and urging the birds to escape.â
âSo you maintain you had nothing to do with releasing the birds.â
She raised her chin. âI never lie.â
âGood to know,â he said, closing his notepad, believing she told the truth today. But everybody lied on occasion. âYouâre free to go.â Review of the video surveillance would reveal if there had even been a crime.
She didnât move. âYouâre not going to do anything about the smuggled birds, are you?â
âI wish I could.â See, now, there was a lie. Although heâd love to score points with this tall, blonde goddess, he was a homicide cop, not a bird savior.
âDo you know that wildlife smuggling is the third largest illegal trade in the world economy? Only drugs and weapons are bigger.â
Actually, no, he didnât know that little factoid. But of course she didnât lie. âSo take your proof to Fish and Wildlife.â
âYou know the birds will be gone by the time they act.â
âI canât help that.â
âYou could impound the birds as evidence.â
Dean assessed the woman before him. So here he had a true bleeding-heart activist. A rare breed these days, thank God, because they were nothing but a giant pain in the ass. âWhen I talk to Mr. Glover, will he admit the birds are illegal?â
âNo.â
âThen itâs your word against his.â
âBut remember I have proof,â she said, holding up her phone. âAnd I repeat, you could take the birds into protective custody pending investigation.â
A bunch of shrieking, pooping birds in the Miami Beach Police Station? Yeah, thatâd get him out of his lieutenantâs shit can.
Dean handed her his card. You never knew. Maybe sheâd call. âLet me talk to the owner. Iâll document your allegations in my report, but thatâs the best I can do.â
âThatâs the best you can do?â Disdain laced her words. âReally?â
Dean stood. Not likely sheâd be calling. âYouâre free to go, Ms. Latham.â
âBut the birds arenât.â With a final frosty glare, she moved toward the door.
* * *
JUNE DESCENDED FROM the rear exit of a county bus at her stop on Brickell Avenue. The monstrous vehicle belched poison out its exhaust pipe, changed gears with a low rumble and lurched north toward downtown Miami.
She removed her cotton sweater, thankful for the hot August sun to thaw out her supercooled skin. Bus drivers in Miami always kept their AC at arctic levels, since hot air blasted their faces at each stop. Her shoulder muscles relaxed as she breathed the salty fragrance from nearby Biscayne Bay. Dwarfed by scores of surrounding condo towers, she walked the landscaped path toward the Enclaveâs entrance. At least she was home.
What a disastrous morning. And sheâd accomplished nothing.
Actually, sheâd succeeded in something: stressing out an already traumatized group of birds.
She rubbed her arm, which still ached where that horrible man had squeezed. And the gorgeous raven-haired cop, Detective Hammer, had seemed more interested in ogling her than doing his job. Picturing his handsome face with its Iâve-seen-it-all-before expression, she wanted to dismiss him from her thoughts but couldnât. There had been something about him, something darkly vital that warned her as surely as the noisy bell at the pet shop.
Of course sheâd email her photos to Agent Gillis, but by the time Fish and Wildlife noticed, the birds could be shipped to California.
Would Glover harm them? She hated to think heâd dispose of living creatures to avoid a fine. But why wouldnât he? He obviously didnât care that intelligent animals had been wrenched from their jungle homes, shipped under dreadful conditions a thousand miles away and then cooped up inside a tiny prison. And to think sheâd even helped round up the darlings and placed them back in jail so Glover couldnât break a wing, the whole time acutely aware of the detectiveâs intense blue eyes scrutinizing her movements. Hammer had even helped her corner one African gray parrot.
So sheâd only made matters worse for the birds. Maybe she should listen to Agent Gillis and stop her commando raids to gather proof. Unless...well, maybe Glover wouldnât be so quick to deal with poachers next time one approached him. That was something, wasnât it?
Something, not much. But no, she couldnât stop. She had to try.
The condoâs automatic doors whooshed open, and she entered the chilly elegance of the Enclaveâs lobby.
âWhy such a sad face, Junie?â
Jerked from her tumbling thoughts, she nodded to Magda, the condoâs dark-haired, eagle-eyed concierge seated in her usual spot behind the sleek oak counter.
âMy goodness,â Magda continued in her lilting accent, âyou look like the condo association made you get rid of Lazarus.â
Alarm shot down Juneâs spine. Nothing happened in this thirty-story building that Magda didnât know about first. âHas there been another meeting? What have you heard?â
Magda held up long, manicured fingers. âI was kidding.â
June blew out a breath. Not funny, but Magda couldnât know how worried she was about that rumor. Among others. âGood.â
Magda leaned forward, resting on her forearms. âSo, whatâs wrong, sweetie?â
âJust a rotten morning,â June said. The less said about her investigative activities, the better.
âWere your buses late again?â Magda persisted.
âActually, the system stayed on schedule today.â
Magda shook her head. âI donât know how you manage to get around Miami on a bus.â
âYou just have to make that commitment,â June said and then added with a grin, âand allow enough time.â
âI need my car. Will your uncle be at the Labor Day party this year?â
âHe hasnât decided.â June removed her key from her purse and stepped to the bank of mailboxes on the wall left of Magdaâs position. âThe weatherâs been great in New York, so heâs not sure he wants to come when itâs so humid here.â
âSo, when was the last time you drove the Cobra?â
June paused in removing mail from her slot. When had she last driven Uncle Mikeâs antique gas-guzzler? Sheâd promised to fire it up at least once a week. She grabbed mail and stuffed it inside her bag. âThanks for the reminder. Guess Iâm going down to the dungeon later.â
Magdaâs face wreathed in a maternal smile. âI know you hate the parking levels.â
âWhat would I do without you, Maggie Mae?â
Magda blushed, looking pleased. âOh, you do fine, Junie.â
âThe jury is still out on that. Will I see you at the pool later?â
âOf course,â Magda replied, buzzing June through the security door to the elevators.
Stepping inside a waiting car, June punched PH and swiped her fob to allow the elevator to ascend to the thirtieth floor. She closed her eyes as she was gently swept upwardâlike the wings of a bird flying up to her private aerie in the sky.
No, she reminded herself, opening her eyes. Her uncleâs aerie. A temporary refuge. She must never forget this luxury didnât belong to her. Not anymore. Not for a long time.
And really nothing had ever been hers. Greed had been her parentsâ downfall. Had she once been like them? She couldnât remember.
What did it matter anyway? Nothing she remembered from her idyllic childhood had been real.
