“Let me hear your assessment of that interview,” Dean asked when they’d accelerated onto I-95, headed back south.
Sanchez remained quiet a moment. Dean liked that. Showed the kid had a brain and wasn’t afraid to use it.
“Harkness was nervous, edgy,” Sanchez began, his eyes focused on the road. “He knew he’d royally screwed up by letting Kublin escape, but it’s not his fault the sheriff buried the report.”
Dean nodded. Good start.
“I sensed the doctor was telling us the truth. He’s convinced Kublin wouldn’t hurt anyone. I examined the credentials hanging in his office, and the doc is well qualified, someone who should be able to tell when a patient he’s been treating for years is about to go postal.”
“So, what does that mean?”
“Kublin isn’t our shooter. It fits with what we saw on the surveillance video at the hotel on North Beach. If this loony tunes patient believed someone wanted to off him, he could have invited the homeless guy up for a shield, a decoy.”
“What about the hit at the Turf Club?”
“We have no proof Kublin was even there. The shooter could have been after June Latham, tying up loose ends knowing Kublin was on the lam and maybe looking for him at the party since June was there. The shooter made another mistake.”
“Two mistakes,” Dean muttered. “Unlikely for someone as skilled as our sniper.”
Sanchez nodded. “I thought about that. But if any of this is right on, then the shooter has been living with this shit for ten years. Guilt can eat at you, create errors.”
“Did you learn that in your sensitivity training?”
“Nah,” Sanchez said, “Psychology 101.”
“Good job, Sanchez,” Dean said. This rookie just might make a good cop.
“Then you agree?” Sanchez asked, shooting Dean a glance.
“I’ve been trying to talk myself out of it, but the theory the Lathams were framed and murdered just won’t go away.”
“Does June know you feel that way?” Sanchez asked, his tone hesitant for the first time.
“Let’s leave June out of this,” Dean said. Damn, had Sanchez picked up on his attraction to their witness? He’d have to be more careful. If his lieutenant learned he’d started something with June, he’d be slammed back to patrol.
Sanchez shrugged.
“So, assuming any of this is true,” Dean continued, “which means an innocent man has been in prison for ten years, who is our shooter? Who would want June and Kublin dead?”
Sanchez drummed fingers on the steering wheel for several long seconds. “Whoever set the fire that killed two people.”
“What does that say about the case against the Lathams?”
“That they were being framed by the real smuggler.”
Dean rubbed his eyes. Damn. He hated to think law enforcement had screwed up a murder case this badly.
A woman began warbling “We’ve Only Just Begun” from the area of Sanchez’s hip. By now, Dean recognized the ringtone for the rookie’s new wife. She always called at least once during his shift, but they’d only been married three months.
“That’s Tina,” Sanchez said.
“I know. Can you drive and talk at the same time?”
Sanchez threw him a look. Dean grinned and pretended to read his notes so his partner wouldn’t think he was listening to his marital conversation.
Must be nice, though, to have someone care about you so much that she couldn’t stand not to hear your voice for ten hours. He knew June wouldn’t call him unless there was an emergency. She wasn’t the clingy type. He told himself he liked that.
He stared at his notes as he realized the path his thoughts had traveled. He was comparing June to Sanchez’s wife. Wife. As in married, hooked up for life. He wasn’t the type for that one-woman-for-all-time shit. His job was too dangerous. He didn’t want to make any woman a widow or a single mom struggling to raise kids like his own mother.
But he conjured an image of the way June had looked this morning when he left her: warm, soft, sexy. He shifted in his seat. Be damn nice to wake up to that every morning.
He’d avoided thinking about last night by yacking with Sanchez for most of the trip, but now he couldn’t get June out of his head. Last night changed everything. He’d known it would. He’d tried like hell to resist her. Even before they’d made love, she’d created a need to protect far beyond any normal police duty. He couldn’t stay away from her. Now he didn’t want to stay away from her.
What was she doing right now? She’d damn well better have taken the bus to and from work.
If this new theory was correct, then her friend Sandy had died in her place. With June’s overdeveloped sense of responsibility, she’d torture herself if he confirmed that. He didn’t want to start keeping secrets, but he couldn’t tell her about his current thinking—at least not until certain. He needed to control the situation. No telling how she’d react to the idea the parents she thought she hated might be innocent. Better to keep her in the dark.
“So, what’s our next step, Hawk?” Sanchez asked, hooking the cell phone back onto his belt. “We’ve got the country club vic’s husband coming in for a second interview tomorrow at nine thirty a.m.”
Dean forced his thoughts back to the case. First things first. He needed to solve the murders. He’d worry about June constantly until he did.
“I want to reach out to the lead investigator in the old case against the Lathams,” Dean said, “and see what shakes loose.”
* * *
DEEP IN THE heart of the Redlands, fifty miles south of Miami, June leaned against the trunk of a gumbo-limbo tree. Overhead, the thick canopy of a rockland hammock didn’t permit much light, but she raised field glasses to focus on the wire trap suspended from a live oak tree fifty feet across a small clearing. She identified a male painted bunting frantically flitting around inside, struggling to escape. No other bird that size had a red breast and blue head. Their striking beauty was what made them desirable to the scum who trapped them.
She itched to release the tiny, frightened creature, but waited, hoping the poacher would show. They needed to catch him in the act. This clearing, situated deep in the hammock, was well-known to birders wanting to sight a bunting.
Beside her, Jared slapped his palm against a cheek.
“Shhh,” she hissed. “Put on some more repellant.” It was near dusk, the time mosquitoes came out to feed on human blood.
“I’m already drowning in chemicals,” he whispered.
June lowered her binocs. They had been lurking behind trees for two hours. Agent Gillis was hidden out here somewhere, too, waiting on the poacher. He’d texted her when he arrived. She knew Gillis wasn’t happy with her, but they needed FWC to make an arrest because otherwise the poacher would be free to leave. And she felt safe knowing law enforcement was close by. Dean should be pleased by her caution.
She bit her lip. No, the man was so controlling he’d likely be furious even with Agent Gillis along for protection. Dean wanted her cowering inside her apartment. No way, Detective Hammer.
She just wouldn’t tell him about this field trip. No reason to worry him. Anyway, for sure the sniper couldn’t track her out here. Jared’s car had been hidden by the overhang at the Enclave when she jumped inside.
“Did you hear that?” Jared whispered.
“Yeah, someone’s coming,” June replied, raising her binocs again, startled to see a young dark-haired female emerge into the clearing off the trail she and Jared had hiked. The woman carried a transport cage, obviously intending to take any captured buntings with her.
Jared, also looking through binoculars, cursed softly. “That’s Louise Pembroke.”
“Oh, my God. You’re right,” June said. “Did you tell her about—”
&nbs
p; “Yes,” Louise shouted when she could see the trap, raising a fisted hand triumphantly into the air. “I got you, my beauty. Come to mama and make me rich.”
“Oh, no,” June murmured, watching Louise, an active member of Tropical Bird Society, even a frequent tagalong on her bird walks, approach the trap with the second cage.
Louise was their poacher? Stunned, June lowered her field glasses.
“That bitch,” Jared snarled. He leaped to his feet and ran into the clearing. “You stop right there, Louise.”
Louise whirled, her mouth open in horror. She dropped the cage.
“Jared, wait,” June shouted, running after him. What if Louise had a weapon? Poaching was seriously illegal shit. And seriously lucrative if you knew who wanted to possess wild birds. Where was Gillis?
“Benedict Arnold,” Jared yelled when he reached Louise. He picked up the dropped cage and threw it across the clearing. The cage shattered into three pieces when it hit the ground. “Judas. Brutus.”
Louise held up her arms and took a step back. “Calm down, Jared.”
Out of breath, June reached Jared’s side. “How could you, Louise? How could you?”
“Everyone freeze.” The booming voice came from the west side of the hammock.
June turned, and sighed in relief as Agent Gillis, carrying a large rifle, stepped into the clearing.
Then everyone began shouting at the same time. Red in the face, Jared gesticulated wildly. Louise sobbed. June demanded answers from Louise, a woman she considered, if not a friend, certainly a colleague in the war to save birds.
“Quiet,” Gillis yelled, finally imposing order on chaos.
Except for Louise’s sniffles, silence reigned in the clearing.
“Thank you,” Gillis said. After leaning his weapon against the oak, he took several photographs of the captured bunting and then opened the trap.
June felt herself relax as the colorful bird flew away, disappearing safely into the hammock. She sent a prayer after him. Be happy and free.
Gillis turned to June with narrowed eyes. “We’ve talked about this sort of activity, how dangerous it is.”
She looked away, not answering. What could she say? She’d made her choice, and she’d chosen on the side of the bunting.
Gillis shook his head. “I want the two of you to leave,” he said, nodding to June and Jared.
“Aren’t you going to arrest her?” Jared demanded. “She’s a traitor. A hypocrite.”
“I need the money,” Louise said and began to cry again. “I lost my job.”
“Your membership in Tropical Bird Society is hereby rescinded,” Jared announced. “I’m president,” he said to Gillis, as if in explanation.
Gillis sighed. “Fish and Wildlife will handle this from here. It’s nothing for a private citizen to be concerned with.”
“Come on, Jared,” June said, hooking her arm in his. “Let’s get out of here and let Agent Gillis do his job.”
“Snake,” Jared yelled at Louise, but let June lead him away.
A gnawing sense of betrayal ate at June as they hurried on the darkening path toward Jared’s car. How could Louise of all people trap a precious bunting? Jared was right. She was a traitor, taking advantage of information provided by their society to trap a bunting for her own profit.
Did you ever really know anyone? Did everyone, like her parents, have a secret heart that you couldn’t trust? Her thoughts wandered to Dean. Could she trust a man who wanted to control everyone and everything around him? Especially her?
“Want to grab some dinner?” Jared asked.
“Why not?” she answered. Dean wouldn’t be home from Melbourne until very late. She wouldn’t see him tonight. “We deserve to celebrate.”
But she needed to explain things to Jared, let him know that they were just friends and always would be. She hadn’t seen it before, but Dean’s comments had made her notice Jared harbored romantic feelings toward her. She needed to let him down easy. She liked Jared.
But what she felt for Dean had morphed into something quite...different. Something she wasn’t certain she could count on.
* * *
AT HIS DESK the next morning, Dean thumbed through the box on the Latham fire, searching for a report with the name of the lead investigator. He could almost recall it. Dan or Daniel? Ah, there it was. Betty Daniels. Was she still on the job? Where was his old directory? He shoved aside the box Agent Gillis had sent via courier.
“Hawk.”
“Yeah?” Dean looked up to find Sanchez standing by his desk.
“Paul Taylor is waiting in Interview Room Two,” Sanchez said.
“Excellent.” Betty Daniels could wait an hour. Taylor was no longer on his radar as a suspect—the case had moved in a new direction—but best practice meant he’d conduct this final interview and eliminate the husband once and for all.
“He’s drunk,” Sanchez said.
“What?”
“Mr. Taylor has been drinking. I can smell booze on his breath.”
“A bit early.” Dean glanced at his watch. Ten-fifteen. Taylor was forty-five minutes late for the interview and impaired. Interesting.
Sanchez shrugged. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”
“Let’s let him stew for ten minutes and see what happens,” Dean said.
He and Sanchez moved into the observation room to watch Taylor through the one-way mirror.
The vic’s husband had altered significantly since the country-club murder. He’d lost weight, and dark circles extended below puffy eyes. He wore a suit, but the jacket and pants needed pressing. White dress shirt featured a mysterious stain that looked like coffee. Loose tie. Dark hair needed a trim. The guy slouched in the chair as if he was too tired to sit up straight.
Was Taylor suffering from guilt or grief?
Beside him, Sanchez snickered when Taylor pulled a plastic flask from inside his jacket and took a healthy swallow.
“A little liquid courage,” Dean muttered. “Let’s go have a chat with our grieving husband.”
Taylor stared at Dean through dull eyes when he and Sanchez sat across the interview table. Yeah, the guy reeked of booze.
“How are you doing, Mr. Taylor?” Dean asked respectfully.
“Not so great,” Taylor said.
And not so drunk that his words were slurred, Dean noted.
Taylor’s gaze shifted from Dean to Sanchez and back. “Have you arrested my wife’s murderer?”
“Not yet, sir, but we have a number of new leads,” Dean said.
Taylor scratched his head, and Dean noted dirty fingernails. This guy was really in trouble. Was he even going to his office?
“I was hoping that’s why you asked me to come in again.”
“We just have a few more questions.”
Taylor nodded. “I know I’m a suspect. The husband always is.” His voice broke. “I still can’t believe she’s gone. Sandy has been my best friend since high school.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Taylor waved away the flimsy platitude. “I can’t help thinking it is my fault.”
“How is that, sir?”
“You likely already know this—” Taylor threw him a look “— but I’d been working a lot lately. Well, more than lately. Last couple of years. I neglected Sandy. So much that she thought I was cheating on her.”
“Was there another woman?”
“Never. I swear.”
Dean nodded. Their investigation hadn’t turned up any lovers for the husband.
Taylor hung his head. “I loved my wife. I thought I was building our future, but if I’d been a better husband, maybe we wouldn’t have been at that damn party and she’d still be alive.”
De
an chose his next words carefully. “Is there any chance that your wife could have gotten so tired of your neglect that she began seeing someone else?”
“What?” Taylor stiffened. “You mean Sandy take a lover?”
“We have to consider the possibility of a boyfriend killing her in a fit of jealous rage.”
“Oh, my God. Have you found evidence of a lover?” Taylor asked, his voice ragged with pain.
“No, sir. Rest assured we have not. And you didn’t have any suspicions?”
Taylor released a breath and relaxed slightly. “Not a one. No, my Sandy wouldn’t do that to me.” He hung his head again. “She loved me. I know she did. She was my best friend.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sure she was.”
Dean glanced at Sanchez and raised his eyebrows to see if he had any questions. The rookie shook his head. They agreed Taylor’s demeanor and actions were appropriate for his horrific loss.
“Your whole life can change in a heartbeat,” Taylor said wonderingly. “You always hear that stupid saying, but you don’t know how true it is until something really bad happens to you.”
“May I give you some advice, Mr. Taylor?”
Taylor looked up, meeting Dean’s gaze.
“You won’t find your way out of this tragedy in a bottle. Don’t dishonor your wife by becoming a drunk and destroying the rest of your life.”
Taylor gave a sad smile. “But that’s the problem, Detective. Without Sandy, I haven’t got a life.”
Dean stood. So did Sanchez, their chairs sliding across the concrete flooring. “It just seems that way right now. Good luck, sir,” Dean said, offering his hand.
Taylor stood, a little unsteadily, and shook Dean’s hand. “When can I have my wife’s body?” he asked, his voice breaking again. “I’d like to have a funeral.”
Dean nodded. A memorial service might provide this guy a little closure—if such a thing actually existed. “The ME should release the body soon. I’ll see what I can find out and let you know.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AFTER A DIFFICULT SEARCH, Dean found a good phone number for Betty Daniels late Thursday afternoon. Betty had been the first female African-American detective in their department, a much-respected and decorated officer. She’d retired to Stuart, Florida, seven years ago to raise grandkids, fish and live the good life.
Her Cop Protector Page 20
