Her Cop Protector
Dean sat back, considering. This case was before his time as a detective, but he vaguely remembered hearing about it. Everyone wondered if the Lathams had set fire to their property to destroy evidence, but misjudged and caused their own death. Seemed too stupid to be true to him.
And why was Fish and Wildlife involved? He made a note to check that out, kept reading and found what he wanted at the end of the article.
“According to friends, the Lathams’ only child, June Marie Latham, a junior at Pinecrest Preparatory Academy, will live with her father’s brother, Michael Westbrook Latham, an investment banker in New York City.”
So there was the connection to June. She’d been seventeen when her parents died and had gone to live with an uncle. Sad story, but Dean didn’t see how the information helped his investigation. He needed to keep digging.
“Sanchez,” he called.
“Yeah?” His rookie partner looked up from his own internet search for information on Rocky, their vic.
“Go to the Tropical Bird Society Facebook page. Research the profile of any friend or member who has posted to their site. I need to know who they are.”
“You think maybe we’ll find our John Smith?”
Dean shrugged. “Probably not, but we have to check it out.”
“You got it,” Sanchez said, his fingers moving over his keyboard.
Dean entered the name Michael Westbrook Latham into the department’s search engine. If June’s parents were dirty, maybe her uncle was, too.
* * *
JUNE EXTENDED AN arm to the uniformed chauffeur, took a deep breath and exited the limousine into a warm summer night. Beneath the impressive portico of the Turf Club, lights and music blazed. She could hear the chatter of animated voices from inside the clubhouse.
“We’re here,” Carole squealed behind her in the stretch limo.
Less nervous than she expected, June stepped beside Sandy, the first of her friends out of the stretch, who looked regal in a light pink beaded sheath. June wore an identical dress, only hers was a very pale blue, and it molded to her body perfectly, revealing every curve. The hem was short, with a sexy slit up one side. The neckline plunged lower than she was used to, but she had to admit the effect was flattering. They each wore a matching headband across their foreheads with a feather plume jauntily waving in the back.
The costumes were expertly made and likely cost Sandy a fortune. Despite her misgivings, June loved the way she looked. She even enjoyed the subtle clicking sound the rows of dangling beads made as she moved.
But maybe that was because of the delicious dry, chilled champagne she and her three friends had enjoyed on the drive to the club. Truly their party had already started.
“I don’t see Paul,” Sandy murmured. “He said he’d meet us.”
“He’ll be here,” June said, unsure where that confidence came from. She met Sandy for lunch once or twice a year, but hadn’t spoken to Paul since her parents’ funeral.
Dark-haired Donna scooted across the backseat and emerged in her bright red saloon-girl costume, an outfit with ruffles and a stiff petticoat. Carole came last in an emerald dress with a low-cut bodice.
“Well, don’t we look fabulous?” Donna said with a smile.
“You know, we really do,” June agreed, checking out her friends.
“Ready, girls?” Carole asked.
The four friends hooked arms and entered the grand ballroom together. To June it seemed as if everyone in the room turned to stare at her, but she knew that couldn’t be true and was just her nerves kicking in.
“There you are.” Paul Taylor approached, his eyes wide in what June hoped was appreciation of his wife’s appearance. He gave her a quick hug, one without any real intimacy. His dark hair had begun to recede, so maybe an early midlife crisis was the problem with his marriage.
“Did you girls have a nice reunion?” he asked.
“We haven’t been girls for a long time,” Carole said.
“Still prickly after all these years, huh, Carole?” Paul asked.
Carole shrugged. On the limo ride over, Sandy had revealed her suspicions about her husband’s infidelity, which had infuriated Carole.
“It’s been great to catch up,” Donna interjected, always the peacemaker. “Thanks for sending the limo.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Why aren’t you in costume?” June asked, since Paul wore an ordinary business suit. An expensive one, expertly tailored, but one he’d wear to the office.
“I’m here as an attorney,” he said in a defensive tone.
“Oh, how interesting,” Carole said. “You are an attorney.”
“Come on, Sandy. I need you to meet someone.” Paul whisked Sandy away with a nod at the other three. Her feather bounced gaily as she hurried to keep up.
“What a jerk,” Carole muttered.
“Don’t make it any worse for her,” June said.
Carole sighed. “It’s just he— Oh, look. There’s Laura Harris.” Carole hurried in that direction.
“I need a drink,” Donna said. “Let’s find the bar.”
“June Latham. What a pleasant surprise.”
June let Donna go on ahead and turned to the speaker, a woman in her fifties dressed in a police officer’s uniform, vaguely recognizing her as a member of her parents’ large circle of friends.
“I’m sorry,” June said. “Please remind me—”
“Sylvia Baker,” the woman prompted, grabbing her hand and shaking vigorously. “I don’t expect you to remember. It’s been a long time.”
June nodded, having no clue how long it’d actually been.
“How are you?” Sylvia asked. “Where have you been?”
“I’m good,” June said.
“Look, Chuck,” Sylvia said, grabbing a passing man dressed as the devil. “It’s June Latham.”
June found herself swept up into the festive melee, and despite her misgivings, the old guard seemed genuinely happy to see her. She didn’t specifically remember anyone from her parents’ generation, but they sure knew her.
“Oh, but you’ve turned into a lovely young lady.”
“Your mother would be so proud.”
“You have your father’s smile.”
Then a cloud would pass across faces as old friends recalled the scandal and hastily changed the subject. Everyone mostly tiptoed around the subject of her parents, and she didn’t hear one snarky remark.
“But you just disappeared. Everyone thought you’d moved to Manhattan to live with your uncle,” said a white-haired lady in costume as a cowgirl.
June heard variations of the same comment at least a dozen times. Ten years ago it was what she’d wanted everyone to think. Only Sandy, Carole and Donna knew she’d remained in Florida.
“Uncle Mike let me stay in Miami and finish my senior year.”
“So you did graduate from Pinecrest Prep?” The lady’s eyebrows dipped together in confusion. “I thought that—”
“Uncle Mike insisted I transfer to a public school. It was a compromise.”
“Oh, I see.”
But June could tell she didn’t see at all. How did anyone explain the raw emotions of a seventeen-year-old whose life had just been kicked out from underneath her? Hell, she didn’t understand it herself. All she knew was she had been terrified of New York City, which Mike insisted would be a fresh start. She’d imagined a freezing-cold city with giant buildings and no trees, which sounded like torture to a teenager who grew up in Miami diving into a swimming pool every day.
And, despite her humiliation, she’d needed the comfort of her friends.
But that was all behind her. Time to start avoiding the older generation.
“Excuse me,” she said and stepped toward the bar.
Okay. She’d passed the hurdle of facing her parents’ cronies, which hadn’t turned out nearly as disastrous as she’d imagined. Good job, June. You’ve satisfied their curiosity. Let the gossip begin.
Now I deserve some fun.
She’d noticed plenty of guests her own age. New people to meet who knew nothing about her past. Who didn’t care a flaming golf ball about her unsavory history. Even some good-looking men, a bonus she hadn’t expected.
She knew the costume made her look damn good, which boosted her confidence, and she ought to take advantage of that elusive feeling.
With champagne in hand, she looked for Sandy, wanting to make sure Paul hadn’t upset her. June found her friend in a group that included her husband across the room. Sandy stood with her back to the floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows that during the day revealed a beautifully maintained golf course. Tonight all that was visible was a subtly lit landscaped patio.
Husband and wife appeared to be getting along. June raised her champagne to her old friend. Sandy nodded and lifted a glass in return.
“It’s uncanny how much you two look alike.”
“My friend has a secret wish to be a twin,” June said, extending her arm to a very nice-looking dude in a pirate costume. Not as hunky as Detective Hammer, but nice. “I’m June.”
“Hi, June,” he said, shaking her hand with a smile. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“Sorry. Do I know you?”
“Steve Hill. We were on the swim team together at Pinecrest.”
“Oh, of course.” She took a sip of champagne, recalling a gawky teenager who looked nothing like this tall man with sun-lightened brown hair.
“Do you still swim?” Steve asked. “I remember you were a freestyle specialist.”
“Oh, I’ll take a few laps in the pool where I live. How about you?”
“I swim competitively in a master’s program.”
“Good for you.” That would explain his still-toned body.
“I remember you and Sandy used to dress alike in high school.” Steve inclined his head in Sandy’s direction.
“I know it’s silly,” June said, glancing back to where Sandy stood. “We’re both only children and decided to be each other’s sister.”
The plate glass behind Sandy shattered at the same time as a loud pop reverberated through the room. Screams replaced lively chatter.
A red stain bloomed across the bodice of June’s friend’s exquisite pink dress.
In horrifying slow motion, Sandy, her face contorted in a grimace of surprise, fell facedown.
CHAPTER SIX
DEAN ARRIVED AT the Turf Club crime scene within thirty minutes of the first 911 call. He’d been in the station still working the North Beach murder with Sanchez, so he caught the case. His good luck.
Definitely a banner week for murders in the city of Miami Beach.
A uniformed patrolman working off duty met them at the front door.
“What have you got?” Dean demanded.
“One woman down,” the cop reported. “ME is on the way.”
Dean nodded, entered a huge, hushed ballroom ahead of Sanchez and thought he’d fallen down the rabbit hole. Helium-inflated balloons trailing festive streamers clung to the ceiling. Hundreds of guests dressed in outlandish getups stared at him. A pirate with an eye patch, a masked cancan girl, a helmeted astronaut.
Murder at a costume party. Just great.
Easy way for a murderer to hide.
“You got the shooter?” Dean asked as he moved through a parting kaleidoscope of colors and anxious faces. He didn’t like to form theories before learning the facts, but wondered if someone pulled a pistol everyone thought was a prop.
“No one had eyes on the shooter.”
“Not even one witness?” Sanchez asked.
“Not close range, then,” Dean said.
“No,” the patrolman said, shaking his head. “Sniper. From somewhere out on the golf course.”
Dean halted his forward motion. “Sniper?”
“Yeah. One shot, one down. Looks like a hit to me.”
Another sniper. And what were the odds?
Dean spotted the body, covered by what looked like a tablecloth, and moved toward it. “Anybody disturb the scene?”
“The husband rolled the body before I could get there, but it was obvious she was gone. One of the guests, a physician, confirmed she was dead. Then I made sure everyone stayed clear. Didn’t let anybody leave, either, although a few might have snuck out.”
“Good. We need to interview everyone here. Is there a manager?”
A man stepped forward. “I’m the manager.”
“I’ll need to see your surveillance video.” Dean pulled on gloves and knelt beside the victim. He removed the bloodstained sheet and froze.
The dead-eyed face staring up at him was June Latham’s.
He relaxed when he realized it wasn’t her. But the description would be the same. White female, blonde, approximately twenty-six, hundred and twenty pounds, goddamn beautiful.
The dead woman lay on her back, but had hit the deck facedown. The husband had rolled her, but death was likely instantaneous. She wore a sparkly party dress now saturated with blood. Matching headband with a feather.
Beautiful young woman out for a good time and now dead way too young.
The vic had definitely been killed by a sniper. Dean glanced to the shattered window and shards of glass covering the plushly carpeted floor.
Couldn’t be sure without forensics, but his gut told him it was the same weapon as North Beach. Yeah, what are the odds?
A tickle of excitement niggled the back of his brain. Somehow this case was connected to the North Beach hit. He needed to find that connection.
He snapped photos of the body but needed to wait for the crime-scene unit to process the scene. He’d gotten here fast. The primary detective didn’t often arrive first, but the specialists should be here soon. He needed to locate the sniper hole on the golf course so Forensics could process that, as well. He glanced outside to a dimly lit concrete patio with attractive landscaping. Could he get lights on the area behind that patio? He wanted to check it out ASAP.
Dean recovered the body and rose. “No one goes out on that golf course until I give the okay,” he said to the manager. “You’re shut down until further notice.”
“I understand.”
“Do we have ID on the vic?” Dean asked.
“Sandra Taylor,” the off-duty man reported. “Her husband is sitting right there, Paul Taylor.”
Dean zeroed in on a white male in his late twenties or early thirties slumped at the closest table surrounded by friends. A bloody napkin lay on the table where he’d apparently cleaned his hands. His white shirt also contained blood spatter. The man stared at a glass full of ice and an amber liquid, then picked up the drink and took a long swallow. More blood stained his cuff. His hand shook.
He had that numb I-can’t-believe-this-shit look about him. He’d turned his chair away from his wife’s body.
The husband was always the first suspect, and this one appeared properly shocked. Interesting that he wore a business suit instead of a costume. Did he come straight from work? Important meeting on a Saturday? With who? Or maybe he didn’t really want to be here?
“Where was the husband when the hit went down?”
“Standing right next to the victim.”
“Got it,” Dean said. But he could have hired someone.
Dean focused on the support group surrounding the husband to look for reactions and realized a woman was staring back at him. His breath caught.
June Latham. June Latham with her hand resting on the husband’s shoulder.
And damn if she wasn’t any man’s wet dream come to life. A pale dress clung to her curves, hugging and dipping in all the right places to make a man hungry. Made him hungry. Did other things to lower parts of his anatomy.
He couldn’t tear his gaze away from her.
She exuded an aura of elegant old-money class and easy primal sex at the same time. Like a high-priced pro trolling these festivities on the hunt for a wealthy john. Was Ms. Latham living a double life? If so, she’d definitely come to the right club for that activity. The Turf Club’s membership fees were the most expensive in the county. Both those fees and this woman were way out of his price range.
He didn’t care about the club, but the thought of June being a pro initiated a spurt of anger.
She gave him a quick nod.
His gaze rose to her hair and a feather jutting out behind her head. He frowned. The dead woman sported a similar headband. In fact, June’s dress appeared identical to the one worn by the vic. Even their hair was arranged in the same style.
What the hell was going on here?
Maybe he had fallen into a rabbit hole.
* * *
THE SIGHT OF Detective Hammer moving into the Turf Club Grand Ballroom and taking control of the chaotic situation mysteriously reassured June.
This man knows what he’s doing. He’ll figure out what the hell just happened. Why it happened.
As he directed his team, movements crisp and purposeful, she felt herself emerge from a block of ice that had frozen her since she watched Sandy collapse to the floor.
“Oh, my God,” Paul said for the hundredth time.
June realized her hand rested on Paul’s shoulder and gave a comforting squeeze, her gaze remaining on Hammer as he examined the body with his ever-present partner beside him.
Sandy’s body. Beautiful, happy, perfect Sandy is gone.
Paul folded his arms on the table and placed his head on top. “Sandy. My God. Sandy. This can’t be real.”
She agreed with Paul. This couldn’t be real.
Hammer rose, asked a question and turned to focus on Paul. Then Hammer’s gaze caught hers, and everything else in the room receded. No question he recognized her, but of course he would. A look of speculation entered his eyes as he openly checked out her costume.
Speculation and hunger.
She shivered, but gave him a slight nod of recognition.
He spoke to the two uniformed cops with him. They nodded.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Hammer made his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. She hadn’t realized how quiet the room had become until he spoke.
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience. Please be patient, but you’ll need to wait here until interviewed by an investigator. More officers are on their way to speed up that process.”
Then he turned back to her and motioned with his head slightly. She took that as a sign that he wanted to speak to her. With an apologetic murmur she knew didn’t register with Paul, she moved toward the detective. The murmur of voices resumed in the room.
“Ms. Latham,” he said in a professional, neutral voice that belied the feral expression in his eyes.
She nodded and swallowed, needing to moisten a dry mouth.
He frowned. “Are you okay?”
“Could I sit down?” she asked. She’d been standing next to Paul since Sandy...since the shooting. June closed her eyes against the memory of Sandy’s shocked expression.
“Of course.” Hammer pulled out a chair. “I’d like to ask a few questions.”
“Thanks.” June sat, positioning herself so she couldn’t see the cloth-covered body.
She suspected her friend had been dead before she hit the carpet. And then Paul had totally lost it. And not just Paul. The entire room had filled with terrified screams. She’d gone to Sandy—to Paul, to pull him away from his wife, the sound of crunching glass beneath her feet ugly and loud.
It seemed foolish now, but she realized she’d remained next to Paul in an effort to somehow protect him, shield him from the evil that had entered this ballroom. Donna and Carole had done the same.
“Did you know the victim?” Hammer asked.
“Yes. She is—was—one of my best friends.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.
June wondered how many times he’d uttered those exact words in his career. “Thanks. We came to the party together tonight.”
Detective Hammer pulled out his notebook. “She didn’t come with her husband?”
“No.”
Hammer scribbled a note. Wait. Had she just incriminated Paul?
“We were having sort of a girls’ night out with two other friends,” June explained.
Hammer looked up. “Why? Any trouble in the marriage?”
June opened her mouth to deny that idea, but hesitated. The knot in her stomach tightened as she processed where Hammer was going with that question. Paul was a suspect.
“Maybe,” she admitted. “I’m not sure.”
Hammer jotted another note.
“But Paul had nothing to do with the shooting,” she said. “They’ve been in love since high school.”
“You went to high school with the victim and her husband?”
“For a while, yes. Believe me, Paul would never hurt Sandy.” As she said the words, June wondered if they were true. Never kill her, no. What a ridiculous notion that Paul would pay someone to shoot Sandy. How best to convince the detective of that fact?
But Sandy’s feelings had been hurt by her husband’s recent distance. Indeed, that had been the point of their sexy costumes.
“I’m sure you’re right,” Hammer said smoothly. “Can you tell me what you saw tonight?”
“It was so fast,” June murmured and related the surreal nightmare of how the window exploded, her friend collapsed and the room went crazy.
“Anything else?” he asked when she’d finished. He’d listened without interrupting, his face a complete blank.
“That’s all I can think of.”
“Did Ms. Taylor have any enemies?”
“Everyone loved Sandy.”
He nodded, but the thought flashing through his brain was almost audible. Apparently not everyone.
“Did she work?”
“No.”
“Kids?”
“No.” June closed her eyes, worried Sandy sounded like a spoiled slacker. But she had wanted kids. She and Paul were waiting a few more years to start their family. “She volunteered a lot of hours at the Lowe Art Museum.”
“It’s good there’s no kids,” Hammer said softly. “Murder is hardest on children.”
June opened her eyes at the sympathy in his voice.
“I guess so,” she murmured.
“So you and the victim were close?”
Again June hesitated. The truth was she and Sandy had drifted apart since she left Pinecrest. Had she lied when she told Hammer Sandy had been one of her best friends? Months often went by without them speaking.
And now I’ll never speak to Sandy again. Never hear her soft laugh. Oh, Sandy. I’m so sorry. So, so sorry. How did we let that happen?
She took a deep breath, wishing she could cry. Sandy’s death was certainly a good reason for tears, but she hadn’t cried since the fire. Not even at her parents’ funeral.
“In high school we used to pretend we were sisters,” June told Hammer, looking down at the table. “We even dressed alike sometimes.”
“You’re dressed alike tonight.”
His tone had changed, and June glanced up. Hammer was staring at her feather again. Self-conscious, she removed the headband and placed it on the table.
“I know it’s silly,” she murmured. “Sandy had the costumes made.”
“Anything else you can tell me? Can you think of any reason someone would want to murder your friend?”
June remained silent for a moment. What did she really know about Sandy’s life lately? God, but that thought made her sad.
“To be honest,” she said, “we weren’t as close as we once were. I might not be the best person to ask.”
“Is there any reason why someone would want to kill you?”
A jolt went through June at Hammer’s question. “Me? Why would you ask that?”
“You seem to be a lightning rod for trouble,” Hammer said.
“That’s ridiculous. You don’t even know me.”
“I’ve been assigned three new cases in the last forty-eight hours. You have a connection to all of them.”
She opened her mouth to reply, then shut it without speaking. He had a point.
“You and the victim here look a lot alike. You even had the same feather sticking out of your hair.”
June’s gaze fell to the headband on the table. Horror washed over her as she reasoned out Hammer’s implication. “You think someone was gunning for me and shot Sandy by mistake because we were dressed alike?”
“So I really want an answer to my question,” Hammer said, his blue gaze boring into hers. “Is there any reason someone would want to kill you?”