Her Cop Protector

by Sharon Hartley

  “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?”

  “Yeah. Your parents had some very loyal workers who took the criminal charges and the fire hard. I thought some might stay in touch.”

  “I haven’t talked to any of them since the funeral, but Uncle Mike spirited me away.” June shrugged, wishing Agent Gillis hadn’t brought up her parents. “Truthfully I try not to think about my life before the fire.”

  Gillis’s eyes widened. “Oh, but, June, you—”

  The phone jangled. Elaine, the receptionist, wouldn’t be in until later. “I’ve got to get back to work,” June said. “Are you going to check out the birds on North Beach?”

  “The shop opens at ten a.m., and I’ll be waiting.”

  “Thanks,” June said, reaching for the phone. But she suspected the parrots were long gone by now; who knew where and under what conditions? If Detective Hammer had agreed to take them into custody for safekeeping, she wouldn’t have to worry about where they disappeared to. But no, the man couldn’t be bothered to even check out her photographic evidence.

  As the image of the detective eased into her brain, she shook her head, knowing it wouldn’t soon leave. His dark good looks crept into her thoughts way more than they should, especially considering how uncooperative he’d been with her investigation. Yes, the man was gorgeous in that bad-boy sort of way and in fabulous physical shape—to be honest, the sexiest man she’d seen in a long time—but she didn’t get what she found so compelling about him, even if he had helped with the bird roundup.

  But Gillis was right about one thing. She needed to be more careful. When she got caught gathering evidence, it only made circumstances more difficult for already stressed birds.

  She looked at the bruise on her left arm, remembering how much it had hurt when Glover grabbed her and squeezed. She rotated her shoulder and felt a dull ache. No real harm done. Still, even if she wouldn’t admit it to anyone but herself, she had been frightened.

  From now on she’d only go on a raid when she had backup available.

  CHAPTER THREE

  DEAN STEPPED ONTO the roof of the Night’s Inn and examined his surroundings, looking for signs of a sniper. A strong onshore breeze swirled around him, and the afternoon sun beat down on his shoulders. Heat shimmered off patches of black tar beneath his feet. He could see and hear the crashing waves of the Atlantic Ocean to his east. The high-rises of downtown Miami were visible far to the northwest.

  He walked to the south edge of the structure. Below him, the vic’s balcony jutted from the Sea Wave in plain view. The body had been removed—already on its way to the morgue—but dark blood stained the concrete floor. Yellow crime-scene tape flapped in the gusty wind in front of the hotel.

  Beside him, a huge olive-green air-conditioning compressor provided good cover. He nodded. Perfect place to hide.

  All the shooter had to do was hunker down beside the compressor and wait for the target to step onto the balcony. D
ean examined loose gravel next to the machinery and, yeah, a disturbed area indicated someone had moved around up here. No clear shoeprints to make a mold.

  How long had the perp waited for his victim? All night? No, the shooter had probably positioned himself just before daybreak, but time in the hide could stretch out forever.

  Dean closed one eye and held up his thumb as if taking aim. He sucked salty, humid air into his lungs. Wait for it, he told himself and let out half his breath, finding the most stable part of the cycle. No tremors. The best time to take the shot.

  No doubt that was what the murderer had done. Dean felt that certainty shimmering in the steamy air around him. But why? He needed to find out who this vagrant was, what he’d done that would make someone kill him.

  Dean searched the roof, but found no evidence that would help him identify the sniper. Whoever he was, he—or she—was damn good. They’d left nothing behind to give them away. But that was what he’d expected. Someone skilled enough to make that shot would also be careful. Very careful. And cautious.

  Satisfied with his examination of the roof, Dean descended stairs reeking of stale urine. Likely vagrants figured out a way to sleep here on rainy nights.

  On the slow elevator ride back to the Night’s Inn lobby, he decided to send Forensics to the roof to process the area, although he doubted they’d find any trace of whoever had shot Rocky—a name as likely to be fake as John Smith.

  Damn, just who was this Rocky? Why did someone want him dead?

  Motivation, he thought. I need to find the motivation and then I’ll know why, and that can lead me to the who.

  He hoped the desk clerk had the surveillance video ready. They’d caught a break there, as the owner kept his lobby video a week because of a string of recent burglaries in the area. Dean hoped for a good image of John Smith and anyone else entering the Sea Wave in the past twenty-four hours. Although a shot of the perp was unlikely. His emerging profile of the shooter didn’t indicate the man was stupid.