Her Cop Protector

CHAPTER TWO

DEAN RUBBED EYES strained from watching grainy surveillance video and leaned back in his chair. He’d played the bird-shop security video four times since returning to the station. It backed up June Latham’s version of events.

She and the mystery man hadn’t entered the premises together. He’d released the birds while the owner confronted June. She never spoke to the guy before he rabbited out of the store.

Dean lifted his mug from the table and swigged cold coffee. Why the hell did the guy open those cages? Maybe he got religion from the sight of Ms. Latham and decided to help her cause. Dean snorted. That was as likely a reason as any. Who knew why citizens did anything anymore?

And why did he give a fig about June and her smuggled birds? He’d told his rookie the review was good training. Yeah, right.

“I don’t see a crime to investigate,” Sanchez said beside him.

“Not by the woman,” Dean said.

“Glover won’t be happy.”

Dean nodded, remembering the shop owner’s sputtering outrage when June walked free. Hell, even if he tracked down this bird liberator, what would be the charge? A misdemeanor—malicious mischief or some such nonsense. Hardly worth the police’s time. “He’ll get over it.”

“Do you think Glover’s birds are illegal?”

“Who knows?” Dean shrugged. What he really meant was Who cares? “Not our jurisdiction. But I told the woman I’d send my report to Fish and Wildlife.”

A grinning Detective Lloyd Miller entered the viewing room with a steaming mug and glanced at the scene frozen on the monitor. Dean knew what Miller saw. Escaped parrots covering the floor and shelves of the North Beach Pet Shop.

“Whoa, Hawk. So the rumor is true. You got yourself a serious situation here. Birds on the lam, huh?”

“Haven’t you got somewhere else to be, Miller?”

“And here I come with a sincere effort to help your new case,” Miller said with an injured air. “My seven-year-old daughter has a little green parakeet named Birdie Bird. I’m offering her expert assistance with this bird caper.”

Sanchez snickered.

Dean gave Miller the finger. He should be used to the mocking. The entire station had been riding him since the lieutenant busted him back to patrol. Didn’t matter what case he caught, his fellow officers loved to remind him how low he had sunk.

Miller sat down and raised his mug toward the viewing screen. “I say blast those felonious birds from the air with your rifle. Tough shot, I know, but you’re just the man for the job.”

“Are you really as good a shot as they say?” Sanchez asked.

“Oh, he’s good,” Miller replied. “State champion. And very quick on the trigger, right, Hawk?”

Dean squeezed his mug, staring at his trigger finger. Best not to react. The less he said in response to this schoolhouse shit, the quicker the shit would end.

“It’s why we call him Hawk,” Miller added.

“I’ve never taken a shot that wasn’t righteous,” Dean told Sanchez.

“Not even the Wilcox kid?” Sanchez asked.

Dean leveled a look at the rookie. Damn rumors. “The Wilcox ‘kid’ was eighteen going on thirty-five with a rap sheet three miles long. He threatened his two young hostages with a semiautomatic.”

“And you took him down?”

“Something like that,” Dean said, shoved paperwork on the bird-shop case into a file. He’d been right to take that shot. He didn’t regret a damn thing he’d done that day—only Lieutenant Marshall’s decision to punish him for acting before the captain’s go-ahead. But his lieutenant hadn’t been on scene. Marshall didn’t see what Dean saw through his scope.

Had he been too quick? No frigging way. The way he saw it, only the bad guy died that day. He should have gotten a commendation, not reassignment.

Lieutenant Marshall entered the viewing room carrying a slip of paper. Dean sat up, glad he hadn’t made his thoughts verbal.

“Your lucky day, Hammer.” Marshall handed Dean the assignment sheet. “We got a body in the Sea Wave Hotel on Ocean Terrace, and I got nobody else to send. Take Sanchez. And don’t shoot anyone.”

* * *

DEAN TURNED ONTO Ocean Terrace and drove past a boarded-up art deco hotel on North Beach. If you asked him—and of course no one ever would—he considered its design as good as anything on South Beach. Not for the first time, he wondered why the beautiful people flocked to Ocean Drive seven miles south but avoided Ocean Terrace. Same beach, same architecture. But a homeless population wandered here instead of gorgeous European models.

A sleek twenty-five-story high-rise towered over the smaller historic gems, its shadow momentarily blocking the relentless August sun. Someone had tried to turn the neighborhood before the great economic bust. It’d happen eventually. Someday this area would become a gold mine for a brilliant developer with good timing.

But right now the only thing open was a half-assed surf shop instead of a celebrity-owned gourmet restaurant.

Across the street, Dean noted a large woman, hair covered with a bright yellow turban, sitting on a wheeled walker facing the dunes. Huge tortoiseshell sunglasses hid most of her face. Her head swiveled as she followed the police cruiser.

He also spotted a cart decorated with wooden and beaded jewelry on the wide sidewalk close to the dunes. Where was the owner? He or she would have to be found and interviewed.

“There it is,” Sanchez said, pointing to a three-story structure with faded pink and aqua paint. The roof featured a stair-step roofline, leading to a spire at the apex. Neon signage announced they’d arrived at the Sea Wave Hotel.

“I see it,” Dean said. Maybe five or six onlookers stood behind the crime-scene tape that blocked entrance to the hotel’s lobby. Filthy clothing, backpacks and a couple of shopping carts told Dean these were street people.

He continued his assessment as he braked to a stop in front of the Sea Wave. Not many people around. Pitiful few tourists—but of course South Florida was in the middle of the mean season.

The heat enveloped him like a wet sponge when he exited the air-conditioned cruiser. Not even 11:00 a.m. and already sweltering. He smelled the ocean—and damn if he couldn’t actually hear the crash of waves. You didn’t get that on Ocean Drive.

“Jeez, it’s hot,” Sanchez said.

“That’s why we live here, genius,” Dean said, still evaluating the scene. The subject hotel sat in the shadow of two larger properties, the one to the right part of a well-known hotel chain and better maintained.

Dean stared at the dirty glass block and one oversize porthole window in the hotel’s facade. A series of streamlined balconies wrapped around the sides of the structure. Satisfied he understood the setting, he stepped onto the hotel’s wide, covered porch, where he was met by a young male uniformed officer whose badge read Robert Kinney. Dean had seen him around but didn’t know him.

“You first on the scene?” Dean asked.

“Right,” Kinney said with a nod.

“What have we got?”

“Body on a balcony on the second floor. Gunshot wound to the head.”

“Who called it in?”

“Multiple 911 calls. A single shot was heard at 7:18 a.m.”

Damn early in the day for a murder. “Any witnesses?”

“No.”

“What else?”

The officer checked his notes. “The vic is one John Smith from Tulsa, Oklahoma.”

“John Smith? You’re kidding me, right?”

Kinney shrugged. “The room is registered to John Smith. Room twenty-two.”

“Okay. My partner and I will check the scene. You and other officers begin interviewing bystanders and determine if anybody saw anything.”

Dean entered the lobby and scanned its contents. Along the south wall, a sparse breakfast buffet on a long table. Straight ahead, stairs covered with filthy carpet led to a hall and rooms. To the right of the stairs was the front desk, where the only other occupant, a thirtysomething heavyset clerk, leaned against the counter, watching him. The way the guy rubbed his dark beard told Dean the clerk was plenty rattled. A surveillance camera hung over the desk.

Dean nodded at the clerk and proceeded up the stairs, followed by Sanchez. The carpet, which Dean noted was full of sand, covered the same cracked pink terrazzo as the lobby.

The door to unit twenty-two stood open. Dean looked through the room onto the balcony, where the medical examiner, Dr. Owen Fishman, a good man he’d worked with before, looked to be finishing up with the body. Dean nodded to himself and he pulled on latex gloves and cloth booties over his shoes. Excellent. He’d have control of the scene soon. The forensics team was still maybe ten minutes out.

“Inventory the room,” he told Sanchez. “And begin making sketches. We go in and out the same way each time we access the scene.”

The smell slammed into Dean when he crossed the seedy motel room toward the balcony. The smell was always the first thing. That coppery smell of old blood—lots of blood—and spilled guts.

God help him. He’d missed it.

He was back. He had a murder to investigate. Maybe his lieutenant had been right to bench him for a while to make him remember how much he loved his job. Maybe he’d needed that reminder to follow the rules.

Dean moved onto the balcony, where the ME completed his initial exam.

“Got a time of death?” Dean asked.

“Good morning, Hawk,” Dr. Fishman said with a grin. “So you’re back?”

“Depends on how quickly I can close this case.” Dean snapped a series of photos of the body with his phone.

“Well, we’ve got a mystery here.”

“Let me hear it.”

“I’m putting time of death approximately seven thirty. GSW to the head. I’d say the shooter was on the roof of the Night’s Inn next door.” Fishman motioned with his head.

Dean looked across a narrow alleyway to the Night’s Inn. “You’re saying a sniper took the vic out?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

But why? Dean wondered, taking a good look at the man’s face for the first time. This John Smith appeared to have lived on the streets for some time. Shabby clothes, no jewelry, dirty hair, unkempt.

So how did this down-and-out vic wind up on the balcony of a hotel, which although clearly not the Ritz, easily cost a hundred bucks a night? Definitely a mystery, Dean thought, feeling more jazzed every minute.

“The vic’s obviously a vagrant,” Fishman said, agreeing with Dean’s thought process. “No ID.”

“He pissed somebody off somewhere,” Dean said.

The doctor rose. “Will I see you at the autopsy?”

“You got it.”

Fishman grabbed his medical kit. “So, who would go to the trouble to set up a difficult shot on this guy?”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

“Hawk,” Sanchez yelled.

Dean looked over and saw the forensics team had arrived and were suiting up to process the scene. He snapped a series of photos of the room, then exited to give the new arrivals space, careful to travel the same way he’d entered to avoid any more contamination than necessary.

“Come with me, Sanchez,” he said to his rookie. “We’re going to talk to the desk clerk.”

The clerk remained where Dean had last seen him, leaning against the desk counter watching the police activity. He straightened when Dean and Sanchez approached, a guarded expression on his bearded face.

“I’m Detective Dean Hammer, and this is Officer Ruben Sanchez.” Dean stuck out his hand for the clerk to shake it.

“Walt Ballard,” the clerk said, rubbing his hand on his jeans before shaking Dean’s.

“Were you on duty when the shot was fired?” Dean asked. He withdrew his spiral pad to make notes.

“Yeah. I start work at six a.m.”

“What can you tell me?”

“I’d just started a new pot of coffee for the breakfast buffet when I heard this pop. I knew right away it was a gunshot.”

“You familiar with guns?” Dean asked.

“Not really, but—well, it was a strange, scary sound. Not normal, you know. Nothing I heard around here before.”

“What happened next?”

Ballard shrugged. “Couple of screams from upstairs. Another guest came down, a guy, and told me there’d been a shooting. I called 911.”

“Did you go up?”

Ballard shook his head. “No, sir. I went nowhere near that room. I didn’t want to get shot.”

Dean believed him. “What can you tell me about this John Smith?”

“He checked in yesterday at noon. Polite enough, but secretive, like. Nervous, you know what I mean? Looking around constantly.”

“You ever see him around here before?”

“Never.”

“Did he have ID?”

Ballard hesitated. “He paid cash.”

Dean gave the clerk a hard look. “You don’t require ID?”

“If a prospective guest has cash, we let him stay. This time of year it’s tough for the owner to break even.”

“Did he have luggage?”

“One small airline carry-on type with wheels. Black.”

Dean nodded. That was what he’d seen in the room. “Did he have a vehicle? Ask about parking?”

“No.”

“Did you see anyone suspicious that morning?”

“No one but our regulars wanting a handout when I shut down the buffet.”

Dean stared at Ballard, looking for obvious tells that the man was hiding something. “Didn’t you think it odd that a vagrant had cash to pay for the room?”

“What do you mean?” Ballard looked confused. “John Smith might not be his real name, but he wasn’t any vagrant. Believe me, I know the type. There’s plenty in this neighborhood.”

Dean withdrew his phone and brought up a photo of the body. He shoved the phone in Ballard’s face. “That John Smith, the guy you checked into room twenty-two?”

Ballard’s eyes widened. He looked as though he’d hurl.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “Oh, man. Oh, shit.”

“That’s not John Smith?”

“No, sir, that’s not John Smith. That’s Rocky. He’s homeless, a regular, hangs around here all the time. Sweetest guy ever. I let him sweep up and eat leftovers from the buffet when I shut it down.”

* * *

“SO, WHAT SEEMS to be the problem with Killer today?” June asked Mrs. Callahan, the elderly owner of the tiny Yorkshire terrier shivering uncontrollably on the examination table. June stroked her hand across the dog’s soft head, and he raised pleading, liquid eyes to her face.

Killer really didn’t want to be here. But then most dogs hated a trip to the veterinarian, knowing precisely where they were the second they entered the door and certain they were in for some cruel torture—like an injection via a long, sharp needle.

“I just don’t know what to do,” Mrs. Callahan answered. “He won’t stop trying to eat his rear end.”

“It’s okay, sweetie,” June murmured to the dog. “I won’t hurt you.” She ran a gentle hand across the dog’s bluish-gray fur to comfort him, then backstroked to look for problems and found an angry, inflamed area.

“We’ve got a hot spot back here,” June said. “Have you checked for fleas?”

“My Killer does not have fleas,” Mrs. Callahan stated, peering over her thick glasses.

“Are you treating him with preventative medicine?” The dog twitched beneath June’s hand, then licked her fingers.

“Oh, I don’t believe in chemicals.”

“I see,” June said. “But he’s got fleas. Lots of them. That’s why he’s scratching.”

Mrs. Callahan’s face flushed. “Are you sure?”

“I’m afraid so.” June parted Killer’s fur to expose pink skin, and two or three of the hateful biting beasties scurried for cover.

Mrs. Callahan’s mouth popped open. “Oh, no. Poor Killer. I—I swear I looked and didn’t see any.”

The woman looked so distressed and embarrassed, June smiled at her. Both Mom and patient needed comforting today. And Mom might need new glasses.

“Dr. Trujillo will be in shortly, but don’t worry. She’ll give Killer something to make him more comfortable.”

“Thank you, Junie.”

“You’re welcome. Just be patient. The doctor is running a little behind this morning.”

June stepped out of Killer’s examination room just as Dr. Marisol Trujillo arrived. Her boss, the owner of Brickell Animal Hospital, wore her customary starched white lab coat over casual slacks, her smiling face framed by short hair that had turned a shade of soft gray at age fifty. Dr. Trujillo held a cafecito from Café Lulu in her right hand. June closed the examining room door, thinking that tiny foam cup contained enough caffeine to power a jet.

“Sorry I’m late, June,” the doctor said in her lilting Hispanic accent. “Dios Mio, you know what traffic can be on US One.”

“Actually, no.” June stepped behind the hospital’s counter and grinned at her boss. “Remember I walk to work.”

“Don’t rub it in. I know all about your light carbon footprint.” The doctor took a sip of coffee and left bright red lipstick on the rim of the white cup. “Any emergencies?”

“No, we’re good. Only Mrs. Callahan with Killer in room one.”

The doctor sighed and moved toward her office at the rear of the hospital. “What is it this time?”

“Fleas.”

Dr. Trujillo didn’t pause. “Of course it is. I’ll be right in.”

“Killer is shaking so hard I think the fleas might jump off to save themselves from whiplash.”

The doctor laughed and entered her office as the front door to the animal hospital opened. Knowing it couldn’t be Elaine, Dr. Trujillo’s receptionist, June glanced over to find Agent Donald Gillis, her contact with the Fish and Wildlife Commission, an old and dear friend of her parents’, stepping into the waiting room.

Had he already been to North Beach Pet Shop? Had he rescued the birds? She’d emailed him her photos almost immediately, but realized it was much too early for him to have visited North Beach and returned. Plus, that didn’t look like a pleased expression on his handsome, dignified face.

“Agent Gillis,” June said.

Gillis nodded. “June.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Although she had a sneaking suspicion.

“Well, let’s see. Something about escaped birds taking over a pet shop on North Beach?”

June sighed and sat down in a swivel chair. She’d kept such worrisome details out of her email and hadn’t expected Gillis to hear about yesterday’s disaster so quickly.

“Who ratted me out?” Had Dean Hammer actually contacted Fish and Wildlife? The idea improved her opinion of the guy, but there was no way Gillis could have seen any report this fast.

“Your buddy Jared posted the photos on Tropical Bird Society’s Facebook page.”

“Oh, great,” June muttered. Jared was a Facebook junkie. “I didn’t know you were a friend of our society.”

“How else am I going to follow your dangerous activities?”

“I didn’t do anything dangerous.”

“Jared’s post said you went alone.”

Oops. June looked down to the desk. Damn Jared and his Facebook fetish. “He got sick. But it was broad daylight in a public place. I was fine.” She met Gillis’s eyes again, resisting the urge to rub the sore, bruised area on her left arm.

“We’ve talked about this, June. Confronting smugglers is a terrible idea.”

“This guy wasn’t the smuggler, just a greedy consumer of cheap, illegal birds.”

“Please let my agency take care of it. It’s our job.”

“But you’re too damn slow,” June said. “And you know it. You should be on Miami Beach right now confiscating those poor birds instead of lecturing me.”

“You could get hurt, June.”

“I’m careful. I promise. Don’t worry about me.”

A small smile softened Gillis’s face. “I promised your parents I’d look out for you.”

June stiffened. “So you’ve told me.”

“They were worried about what would happen to you if they went to prison.”

“Uncle Mike took care of me.”

“June. Your parents loved you very much.”

“Yeah? Seems to me they loved their money more.”

“I’m sorry you think that way.”

She raised her chin. “Come on. Weren’t you disappointed by what they did?”

Gillis looked away, so June knew she’d touched a nerve. He was trying to use guilt over her parents to make her cease her commando raids, when he had to have been hurt, embarrassed even, by their criminal activity.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” he said.

“But some mistakes can’t be undone.”

Gillis remained quiet for a moment, and she wondered if he’d become lost in memories of good times. Gillis’s deceased wife and her parents had been best friends. The couples frequently traveled and socialized together.

“Do any of their old employees ever contact you?” he asked in a wistful tone.

“You mean employees of Latham Imports?”