Productive morning, June decided, even if no one spotted a La Sagra’s. They were about halfway through the walk. Maybe time to move to the mangroves, where they’d see herons and other water birds. That was the great thing about Matheson Hammock with its two distinct habitats.
“You’re deep in thought.” Dean materialized beside her, surprising her.
“Are you enjoying your first bird hunt without a gun?” she asked.
“What makes you think I don’t have a gun?”
She scanned his body. No way was a holster hidden anywhere. “Where? In your pack?”
“That wouldn’t be very convenient in an emergency,” he said.
“But I don’t see—”
“In my boot,” he said.
Her gaze traveled to his feet. Had to be a small gun. Definitely not a rifle.
“Why did you bring a weapon?” she demanded.
“Because I’m a sworn law-enforcement officer.”
“Well, I hope you’re not planning to blast any birds out of the sky today.”
His eyebrows drew together. “What are you talking about?”
She bit her lip, wanting to throw his bird-murdering tendencies in that too-handsome face, but embarrassed to admit she’d scoured the internet for information about him. Would he wonder why? Her outrage won.
“I looked you up on Google last night. Guess what I discovered?”
“That I’ve never been married?”
“No, that you—” She halted her tirade as his words sank in. “You’ve never been married?”
“Wouldn’t want to make any woman a widow. So, what startling thing did you learn about me?”
She shook her head. Once again the man had thrown her off balance. How could he possibly know she’d tried to determine his marital status? “Forget it.”
“Maybe I don’t want to forget it. Whatever it was sure ruffled your feathers.” He grinned, obviously amused by his bird reference.
“Ha-ha,” she said, not finding him funny.
“Hey. I seem to remember you inviting me on this little jaunt. Did I misunderstand?”
She sighed. “No. I thought you would enjoy yourself. That was before I knew you preferred to hunt birds with that high-powered rifle you’re so damn good with.”
* * *
“AH,” DEAN SAID, noting June’s face had flushed a delightful pink with her angry words, making her even more attractive. “Got it now.”
She’d been prickly all morning. He’d known something bothered her, and should have realized what. He’d considered telling her about his bird hunting as a preemptive strike, but decided against that plan, hoping she wouldn’t find out. No such luck.
“Yeah, ‘ah,’” she muttered.
He nodded. “And that bothers you.”
“Of course it bothers me.”
“Then you understand why I never mentioned my hobby in our previous conversations.”
“Yeah, I’d be ashamed of it, too.”
“I’m not ashamed of shooting turkeys. I only hunt when and where it’s legal. And there’s thousands of them, so many they need to be thinned out.”
Folding her arms across her chest, June stared at her boots and didn’t reply. But he could tell that logic made sense to her. She just wasn’t willing to admit it. Not yet anyway. For some reason her opinion of him had become important.
“Hey,” he said softly. “I promise not to shoot any of your warblers.”
She looked up. “They’re not mine. They belong to the world.”
Cheryl and Jim raced away from the group over to their position. “There’s a real cuckoo bird in that tree,” Cheryl said excitedly, pointing back with her right arm. Dean followed the direction and noted Jared staring at them.
“Come see,” Cheryl said.
“A cuckoo bird? Really?” Dean asked, giving Cheryl a smile. Cute kid. Her brother, too, although their timing wasn’t so great right now. He wanted to finish this discussion with June.
“Are there cuckoos here?” he asked June.
“Yes,” she said, also smiling at the kids. “Mangrove cuckoos.”
“Well, you better show me, then,” Dean said to Cheryl.
The kids scampered off, and he followed them, deciding to let June mull over what he’d told her. She was sensible, right?
Hell, maybe not when it came to birds. Best to leave her alone for a while. The knowledge that he killed birds, probably the worst thing imaginable to her, was out there now, and they had to deal with it. Could she get over it?
He felt a grin form. He’d gotten women to forgive him for far worse things.
When he realized the path his thoughts took, he gave himself a mental kick. Before he worried about securing her forgiveness, he needed to learn what her involvement had been with two murders. After the hike, he intended to show her the group photo and see if it sparked any memories. Would she recognize John Smith?
He should keep a professional distance from June, but damn, she was addictive. Being around her always made him want to get to know her better. Much better.
And the truth was, although he hadn’t admitted it to her yet, so far he had enjoyed himself on this hike. He liked kids and found the experience of searching for tiny birds flitting from branch to branch much like a game. Ridiculous, really, how excited the birders got, but he found himself swept up in the silly thrill of each new sighting.
But his neck ached from looking upward. And if you asked him, those damn tiny warblers all looked pretty much alike.
Beside him, little Cheryl behaved like a bird herself, hopping from foot to foot. She was obviously delighted to be the one to help him spot a bird for a change. Dean exchanged a smile with her bored father, who’d earlier confided he was divorced from the mother and on a weekly outing with the kids. Life was tough on relationships. Cops for sure knew all about that, and he came from a family of cops. His mother had been widowed when he was ten, leaving her to raise three kids alone. His younger siblings were both divorced.
Dean raised his binoculars to look for the cuckoo.
Then, never forgetting why he’d come, he refocused and slowly swung his lenses in an arc, searching the immediate area for the barrel of a rifle. He’d thought John Smith might show for this birding trip, which had been promoted heavily on the bird society’s Facebook page and website. Even if Smith didn’t plan to kill June, this would be a perfect occasion to hook up with her.
Dean’s analysis of the pet-shop video convinced him that Smith had wanted to talk to June. So why would he want to speak to a woman he supposedly didn’t even know? Was she lying about knowing Smith? What Smith wanted to say to her was the key to this case. Dean didn’t believe Smith was the shooter, but somebody else might be gunning for Smith, and that somebody might also be gunning for June.
He’d bet his badge that June was at the center of it all. He didn’t know how or why yet, but he intended to figure it out.
Dean suspected if Smith hadn’t shown by now, he likely wouldn’t. Still, the mysterious man had surprised him more than once, and Dean didn’t like surprises.
June led them into the mangroves, where the habitat altered into wetlands. Thick aerial roots emerged from brackish water on both sides of the trail. Startled by the appearance of humans, a great blue heron flapped its huge wings and flew away, the sight sending a couple from Nebraska into birder rapture.
As the group moved single file along the narrow path, he found himself directly behind Jared, the redheaded, lanky birder June called a local expert. In front of Jared, June hiked up ahead with long, easy steps. Dean scanned both sides of the trail, looking deep into the tangled branches for any signs of danger, but soon agreed with June that the mangrove wasn’t a good location for an ambush or a sniper. Why rough it when there were lots of
easier places to take her down?
Like walking along Brickell Avenue.
Jared swiveled his neck and shot Dean a glare. Dean met his gaze, and the man faced front again. What was that about? This wasn’t the first time Jared had given him the evil eye. Sanchez’s background check revealed nothing off about the guy, and Dean decided to dig a little deeper. Or maybe this so-called expert had feelings for June and noticed the tense chemistry between them.
Yeah, the woman was definitely addictive.
From the front of the line, the terrified shrieks of a little girl pierced the calm of the mangrove.
CHAPTER TEN
DEAN RACED TOWARD the child’s screams. He passed June, and by the time he rounded a sharp turn and got to Cheryl’s side, she’d stopped screeching. She stood in the center of the trail, hands on her cheeks, staring at the mangled carcass of a dead raccoon.
Her father and brother spoke to her soothingly, trying to comfort her. Dean met June’s gaze and shrugged.
“Cheryl was in the lead,” her father explained. “Jim and I were right behind her, but when we rounded this corner, we came upon a group of buzzards picking at the animal’s remains.”
As if embarrassed by all the attention, Cheryl buried her face in her father’s legs.
“Of course the birds flew away immediately,” the father continued, “but the noise and commotion startled her.”
Pretty grisly find for a little girl. Dean looked up and saw turkey vultures circling overhead, waiting for the humans to move on so they could return to their meal.
“Vultures are the garbage men of nature,” Jared proclaimed. “They actually perform an important task eating carrion.”
“What’s carrion?” Jim, Cheryl’s younger brother, asked. Cheryl glanced up for the answer.
“Dead animals,” the father said, with a quelling look at Jared.
“Yuck,” Cheryl said.
“It’s a natural part of life, sweetheart,” her father said to her.
“Well, that dead animal really stinks,” Jim said, wrinkling his nose.
Cheryl grinned at her brother. “That was cool how we scared the vultures away, wasn’t it?”
“Awesome,” Jim agreed.
Dean choked back a laugh. Only in a child’s life could death and tragedy turn to “cool” and “awesome” so quickly.
June reached for Cheryl’s hand. “Let’s go back the way we came and take another branch of the trail.”
Dean followed as the group retraced their steps. He doubted life had returned to normal that quickly for June after her own personal tragedy when her parents perished in an inferno.
* * *
JUNE WAS TIRED and hungry when the group returned to their cars just after 11:00 a.m. But it’d been a successful hike. By her count, they’d seen thirty-three species, although Jared insisted the number on his list was thirty-five. Whatever. Everyone had a good time, even little Cheryl, who got over her scare within minutes.
No one got lost or bitten by a snake. Dean didn’t shoot any birds.
Best of all, no one had tried to kill her. Definitely a good day.
June removed her pack and tossed it in the Cobra, then rotated her shoulders to release tension created by the weight. Her shirt felt damp and cool from perspiration trapped beneath the pack.
“Bye, June. Thanks so much,” said the couple from Nebraska.
“It was great. Will I see you next week at Barnes Park?” asked one of the regulars.
“Probably,” June responded. She wasn’t leading next week’s trek, but frequently went along for the birding.
Soon most everyone had driven away, and she glanced over to Dean’s vehicle, where he spoke on his cell phone looking serious. She knew he was waiting for her. He’d indicated they needed to have a conversation after the hike, and she suspected he had more questions. Maybe he wanted her to watch the video to see if it sparked a memory. She was pooped after the long hike, but why not? She could—
“Do you want to stop for a cup of coffee on the way home?” Jared asked, startling June out of her thoughts.
“Oh. Sorry, Jared, but I need to speak to Detective Hammer.”
Jared’s thick red eyebrows shot up. “Detective Hammer? That guy’s a cop?”
“Yes.”
“What’s a damn cop doing here?”
“I guess he’s looking for birds, just like everyone else,” June said, deciding not to tell Jared about her possible connection to two murders. For some reason he had a problem with Dean. That much had been obvious during the hike. And why was that? Did Jared have something to hide?
As Jared continued to glare at Dean, she took a long look at her colleague. Just how well did she know this man? Could he be involved in the— She stopped her racing thoughts with a shake of her head. What was wrong with her? She’d always known Jared to be a gentle soul. Dean’s warning had made her paranoid, and now she was even doubting her friends.
“Maybe next time,” she said to Jared, trying to take the sting out of her last statement, which hadn’t been overly collegial.
“Sure,” he said, refusing to meet her gaze. “Maybe next time. Okay. See ya, June.”
When the last of the birding group had driven away, Dean approached the Cobra.
“Tell me this isn’t your car,” he said, gazing at the bright red car with worshipful approval.
June sighed. Men and their expensive toys. “You know it’s not.”
“Your uncle’s?”
June nodded. “Want to drive it?”
A huge grin spread across the detective’s face, crinkling his deep blue eyes. “I thought you’d never ask.”
June expected Dean to respectfully motor the Cobra a mile or so down Old Cutler Road at a sedate pace, then circle back to his car. Instead he took full advantage of the powerful engine, expertly clutching and shifting through the gears like a seasoned NASCAR driver, roaring south toward some unknown destination.
She didn’t object. It would have been hard to voice a protest anyway, since he couldn’t hear her over the noisy engine. Besides, she enjoyed watching him concentrate as he listened to the workings of the motor and the transmission. He’d nod and smile as the car responded to the quick, athletic movements of his arms and legs.
Yep, she decided. This muscle car was definitely wasted on her.
After a long drive down a one-lane gravel road, on which he thankfully slowed his speed, Dean finally braked to a stop in front of a weather-beaten, one-story wooden cottage perched on the edge of Biscayne Bay. The parking lot contained mostly pickup trucks, and the side yards were filled with trailered boats of various sizes and conditions, as well as an assortment of rusted anchors, old marine equipment and crab traps. A wooden dock extended into the bay behind the house with another twenty or so boats tethered there.
He turned to her with an exhilarated grin. “That was fun, Ms. June. Thank you very much.”
She couldn’t help smiling back. “You’re welcome. Now, where the hell are we?”
“Are you hungry?”
“Starved.”
He nodded. “Me, too. Do you like fresh fish?”
Looking for signage, she glanced at the structure again. “You’re telling me this is a restaurant?”
“Ruth’s Fish Camp. The best-kept secret in South Florida. Bring your field glasses and let’s go inside.”
When they entered Ruth’s, June discovered the place wasn’t air-conditioned, but slowly rotating ceiling fans provided a pleasant breeze. Most of the ten or so tables were occupied by men and women with deep tans and sun-streaked hair, as if they spent most of their lives out on the water. Old nautical charts covered the walls.
Dean gestured her to a table in the corner where her view through the screening provided a panoram
a of a natural Biscayne Bay. A narrow sandy beach and dense mangroves full of herons and pelicans hugged the shoreline. She marveled at the sight, knowing this was how the entire bay had looked before development crowded out nature.
“Oh, look,” June said, raising her binoculars to focus on a large brown bird with a white breast sitting atop a wooden dock piling staring out to sea. “An osprey.”
“And with any luck, we might see a bald eagle.”
She lowered her lenses so she could see his face. “Are you serious? The only place I’ve seen an eagle in South Florida is deep inside Everglades National Park.”
He nodded. “That’s why I brought you here. They’re frequently spotted in this area.”
“Thank you,” she said meaningfully.
“You’re welcome.”
He caught her gaze and smiled. Warmed by his thoughtfulness, she couldn’t look away, deciding his eyes reminded her of an eastern bluebird.
“See, I’m not all bad,” he said in a soft voice.
“No one is,” she said. She raised her binocs again to scour the area for any sign of the elusive raptor.
“No guarantees, though,” he cautioned.
“Of course not.” Oh, but how she’d love to sight a bald eagle. As she inspected the sky and surrounding landscape, she wondered if Jared knew about this particular spot and if he had birded the area. Should she tell him about it? No, she decided. Not until she spotted a baldie herself.
Convinced none were within range, she placed her binocs on the table and retrieved a menu from its holder.
“What’s good?” she asked.
Dean shrugged. “I’ve never had anything bad, but the conch chowder is the best in Florida.”
Her hunger mounted as she read the menu. Everything sounded delicious, but she decided on the conch chowder, plus a grilled mahimahi sandwich with french fries and coleslaw.
“And a glass of pinot grigio,” she said to the waitress, whose name tag read “Ruth.”
Her Cop Protector Page 12
