Her Cop Protector

by Sharon Hartley

  “People frequently return to old habits,” June said. “My uncle didn’t know Kublin well, but said he loved his sailboat, loved living on the water. That nautical connection is all I’ve got to work with.”

  “Sounds like you’re itching to do something to clear your parents,” Brad stated. “Even if your search leads nowhere, you want to do something.”

  “Exactly,” June murmured. Why couldn’t Dean understand that need?

  Tony shook his head. “You realize the chance of finding him today is practically nonexistent, right?”

  “Yes,” June said. “But at least I’m trying.”

  “Well, you can relax, Ms. Latham,” Tony said. “We definitely were not followed. I’m expecting this expedition to go off without a problem.”

  “How much farther to Key Largo?” she asked.

  “Twenty minutes,” Brad said.

  “Better check in with Lola,” Tony said to Brad.

  While Brad made a call to their office, June settled into the seat and closed her eyes. Unfolding the long narrative for her guards with all its many twists and turns had exhausted her but somehow organized her thoughts and put her convoluted problems into perspective. The telling had been good for her.

  She saw even more clearly that she should have believed in her parents. Yeah, she’d been young, frightened and insecure after the fire, but they had deserved her trust. Maybe Tony was right and this trip was a giant waste of time, but she owed it to them to make the attempt, and she was glad she’d come no matter what Dean thought.

  And so her thoughts had circled back to Dean. What was he doing this morning? Probably something about the case. She missed talking to him, telling him what was going on in her life, hearing about his. He’d become like a touchstone that kept her grounded. Thinking of him first thing when she woke up each morning made her look forward to the day. She hated that she’d never again experience that flicker of anticipation.

  What would Dean say about this trip? She smiled to herself, hearing him go ballistic in her head. But come on. She was well protected. He couldn’t be angry with her about security.

  Oh, hell, yes, he could. He’d find something to pick on about her bodyguards. He had this compulsion to run everything, likely a result of the void created by his father’s early death. But why is he so worried about my safety? Has he developed feelings for me—or am I just the latest in a long string of persons of interest he plays with on his cases?

  She sighed, pushing away that idea. No, she believed Dean when he said he didn’t get involved with women connected to his work, but he’d admitted there’d been plenty of failed romances in his past. Even his sister had made comments.

  How many women had there been? She doubted if any others went through life pulling a load of guilt behind them while demanding access to police files. Of course he’d stormed out last night.

  So that behavior answered her question. He didn’t really care about her. He wanted to keep distance between them, always maintaining control over the relationship. Like a big bully, he didn’t like it when she tried to take any power. How could she be with a man like that?

  Still, Dean had been kind to her, understood her complicated feelings about her parents when no one else did. Remembering their delicious lovemaking, picturing his gorgeous body as he lavished attention on hers, she felt herself grow moist. God, but Dean was a fabulous lover. He’d made her feel things she’d never known were possible.

  Why was she beating herself up over Dean anyway? It wasn’t as though she was in love with the guy.

  June opened her eyes and stared at the passing landscape. Sun glinted off the calm water, creating a glare even through the tinted windows, and she accepted that she was again lying to herself. Even though they were all wrong for each other, even while conjuring every excuse in the world not to, she had fallen in love with Detective Dean Hammer anyway.

  Now, wasn’t that just about the stupidest thing anyone had ever done?

  * * *

  INSIDE ONE OF the interview rooms at the station, Dean used the table to spread out the contents of all the case files, both the smuggling case and the arson. He and Sanchez were looking for trial transcripts. Bound transcripts were usually easy to spot.

  “You were right,” Sanchez said. “They’re not in here. Why not?”

  “Court proceedings aren’t transcribed unless one of the parties files an appeal,” Dean said. “Maybe Kublin didn’t file an appeal.”

  “Seems like he would have,” Sanchez said.

  “Agreed, but transcripts aren’t cheap, so the department doesn’t get a copy unless there’s a good reason.” Dean stared at the mess before him, thinking. Who could he call on a Saturday that could access that information? He couldn’t wait until Monday. He sighed and unsnapped his phone. No choice but to call Sheila Marks, an assistant state attorney he’d dated. Things hadn’t ended too badly with her. Would she do him this favor? “Let me make a call.”

  He reached Sheila at home. After some banter—definitely some flirting—she agreed to see if she could locate the transcript and call him back. Of course he now owed her a drink during which he had to explain why he wanted the witness list on a ten-year-old case.

  “Any luck?” Sanchez asked when Dean terminated the call.

  “Maybe. Sheila remembers the arson because it happened when she’d just started her career. Turns out a few years ago, old transcripts and case files were all scanned into a database and the paper copies destroyed.”

  Sanchez glanced at the heaps of paper on the table. “Damn. That’s what we ought to do.”

  “All it takes is money,” Dean said. “My friend is going to try to find what we need, but I’m not holding my breath.”

  “Your friend?” Sanchez grinned. “Sounded like more than a friend.”

  “She’s married now,” Dean said. “Let’s go at this a different way.”

  He rummaged through the paper trail and found the expense reports on the smuggling case covering the relevant time periods. He handed Sanchez half the stack. “Look for a request for reimbursement for a trip to Peru. That should give us the name.”

  Sanchez nodded and began leafing through the logs. Dean did the same, but doubted he’d find what he was looking for, finding it highly unlikely his hyperfrugal department would fund expensive airfare to South America. Still, he had to be thorough.

  When he’d gone through every record twice, he looked up. “Anything?” he asked Sanchez.

  “Nothing.”

  “Shit,” Dean muttered. “So no one from our department made a trip to Peru.”

  “Then who was the witness?”

  The name slammed into Dean like a shotgun blast. He cursed harshly, his thoughts spinning. Damn, it couldn’t be. But as the pieces tumbled together in his head, it fit. It even made convoluted sense. Why hadn’t he seen it before?

  Lieutenant Marshall approached holding a slip of paper, his reading glasses perched low on his nose. The grim set of his jaw told Dean his lieutenant was more than a little pissed.

  Dean held up both hands in mock surrender. “The time and use reports will be on your desk by five.”

  “No, they won’t,” Marshall said, his voice hard. “We’ve got another body. Another sniper kill.”

  Sanchez issued a long, shrill whistle. The sound sliced clean through to Dean’s gut. Another sniper victim. Shit. Where is June?

  “Indian Creek,” Marshall added. “Inside one of those derelict houseboats around Fiftieth and Collins.”

  Dean came to his feet. This vic couldn’t be June. Not a pet shop within ten miles.

  “Male or female?” he demanded.

  “Unknown,” Marshall replied. “Get out there, Hammer. I need answers.”

  * * *

  JUNE WAITED IN the limo with Tony wh
ile Brad went inside the office of the Windjammer Marina with Kublin’s photo. She’d asked to go with him, but Tony couldn’t position the vehicle close enough to the entrance for them to consider it safe even if she wore the Kevlar jacket.

  So Tony repositioned the limo beside an outbuilding that provided cover from any rifle scope. Her guards didn’t want her exposed or in the open for any time at all, even though they remained certain no one had followed them.

  Itching to do something, she stared out the tinted windows at hundreds of boats, some with masts, some huge motor yachts, peacefully floating in Florida Bay. The docks seemed a long way away, maybe because the film on the window acted like a filter, muting the image of the scene before her.

  Was this how she’d lived since the fire, with a protective barrier between her and the rest of the world? Even now, when actually trying to be proactive, she was being shielded by trained bodyguards and a bulletproof limo.

  According to Dean, she’d been feeling so guilty over her parents’ crimes that she’d been hiding from life. Was he right that the reason she saved birds was to make up for the ones killed in the fire? Now that she was over her initial knee-jerk reaction—hell, no one wanted to be told they’d been afraid to fully live—she saw the truth in his words. Not wanting anyone to know her secrets, afraid of being judged, she hadn’t allowed herself to become close to anyone in a long time. Not until Dean.

  How could a man she’d known for mere weeks know her better than she knew herself?

  She shifted in the seat. All this damn time riding in a limo with nothing to do but think was making her screwier than she already was.

  “Are you okay?” Tony asked.

  He was watching her in the rearview mirror, his eyes still protected by dark lenses.

  “Just impatient,” she muttered.

  “Yes, ma’am. Investigative work is tedious and often boring. Not at all like television.”

  “Were you a cop before this job?” she asked.

  “Military police,” Tony answered.

  Before she could ask anything else, Tony accelerated the limo. She glanced toward the marina office and saw Brad emerge. Tony was moving to intercept him.

  “Has Kublin been here?” she demanded when Brad slid into the passenger seat. Tony motored back to their cover.

  “Yes.” Brad shook his head, as if in disbelief. “You were right, June. The dockmaster—” Brad looked at his notes “—Bruce Martin, recognized the photo right away.”

  “Seriously?” June said. Could she really have found Kublin? Oh, did she look forward to giving Dean the news! “Is Kublin here now?”

  “No, but he came a week or so ago—Martin wasn’t clear on the time frame—looking for a boat to rent on a weekly basis. Martin didn’t have anything for him, but made a few calls and directed him to other marinas in the area that allow live-aboards.”

  “Pretty accommodating dockmaster,” Tony said doubtfully.

  “Good business practice,” Brad said with a shrug. “And he felt sorry for Kublin. Apparently your guy didn’t look good. He’s emaciated, like he’s sick or something.”

  “He is sick,” June said. “He’s dying of pancreatic cancer.”

  “You left that little detail out of your story,” Tony said, exchanging a glance with Brad.

  “Does it matter?” she asked.

  “Desperate men do desperate things,” Tony said grimly. “Especially escapees from a nuthouse.”

  “This is making more sense,” Brad said. “So your guy is on his way out and on a mission to clear his name.”

  “Which makes him even more dangerous, if you ask me,” Tony said. “Nothing to lose.”

  “Although, according to the dockmaster, your guy didn’t act nuts at all. The fact that Kublin was such a nice guy made Martin want to help him.”

  “So, Ms. Latham, what now?” Brad asked. “I assume you want to check to see if he’s at any of these other marinas.”

  “Yes, please,” June said, her hopes shooting skyward. “Oh, my God. What if we actually find him?” She glanced from guard to guard. “Wouldn’t that be awesome?”

  Already working the keypad on a cell phone, Brad didn’t respond.

  “Don’t get too excited,” Tony said, but he cracked a tiny smile for the first time as he met her gaze. Maybe she was winning him over.

  “You got an address?” he asked Brad.

  “Holidaze Marina is our first stop. Take a left onto Overseas Highway.”

  June could hardly sit still on the drive. She found it even harder to wait in the car while Brad went inside the office to show the photo. But by the time they’d canvassed three other marinas, driving farther and farther south in the Keys, with Brad and Tony switching off who went in to ask the questions, her enthusiasm had dimmed.

  Outside the Bitter End Marina, June watched Tony trudge back to the limo. She knew by his grim expression that once again they’d struck out.

  “No luck,” she said, not asking a question, when Tony slid in the passenger seat.

  “Something,” Tony said. “Something strange.”

  Strange? “What?” June asked, scooting forward to hear Tony’s report.

  “Someone else was here last week asking about this same guy.”

  “Who?” Brad asked.

  “Law enforcement of some kind,” Tony said. “The dockmaster said the guy flashed a badge, but he didn’t bother to read it.”

  “Did the dockmaster recognize Kublin’s photo?” Brad asked.

  “No, and I tried to jog his memory with mentioning how emaciated Kublin looked now, but the man was certain he hadn’t seen anyone like that around his docks.”

  “So someone else is looking for Kublin,” June said. Could Dean have come down here and failed to mention it to her? No way. A trip to Key Largo took too much time, and she could pretty much account for what he’d been doing hour by hour lately. Except today.

  “It’s the shooter,” Tony said. “Looking for Kublin. He’s already covered the same ground we are.”

  “So the shooter is a cop?” Brad wondered.

  “Either that or has false credentials,” Tony said.

  “Or maybe someone’s trying to return Kublin to the mental hospital,” June suggested, hating the idea of a bad cop, but wondering if this was something else Dean had hidden from her.

  “What’s next?” Tony asked.

  Brad consulted his list. “The Salty Dog Saloon, a waterfront tavern where locals hang out and maintain an exchange for rentals.”

  Tony nodded. “The dockmaster here mentioned the Salty Dog to our inquiring badge, so it’s likely he’s already paid a visit.”

  “So wouldn’t it be safe for me to go in?” June asked, eager to at least stretch her legs. She hadn’t stepped out of the limo in hours. “You’re certain we weren’t followed from Miami and there’d be no reason for the sniper to come here again.”

  Brad and Tony exchanged another one of their meaningful glances. Tony shrugged, which she took as a grudging okay.

  “If you put on the vest,” Brad said.

  June reached for the protection but realized it had to go under her blouse or she’d look way too weird. She looked up as a dark privacy window slid into place, blocking the view of the backseat from the front.

  Fifteen minutes later, feeling like a stuffed sausage, June followed Brad into the dimly lit Salty Dog Saloon. With Tony walking so closely behind her, she decided she was a stuffed-sausage sandwich.

  “Wait here,” Tony ordered. She remained by the door while her bodyguards checked out the room, determining if the Salty Dog was safe for her.

  As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she counted ten or twelve patrons gathered around a weathered bar. Wooden panels covered the walls, making the room even darker. Old arcade
games, even an ancient pinball machine, hugged the perimeter. She heard the distinctive sound of a cue stick hitting a hard ball, and in a separate room spotted two billiard tables, a game in progress at one. The place was quiet for a local watering hole, but it was Saturday afternoon. The room would probably be jumping in a couple of hours.

  She looked for a ladies’ room. She wasn’t leaving here without using one.

  Her bodyguards returned and nodded an okay. The bartender approached when Brad sat at the bar. June went with him, but remained standing. It felt good to put weight on her feet again, to feel as if she were participating in the search. Tony stood by her side, surveying the room constantly.

  Brad showed his license and the photo to the barkeep, explained Kublin was sick and they were looking for him because he needed help. The bartender, a man in his fifties with a deeply lined face, his long blond hair secured in a ponytail, retrieved a small flashlight from under the bar to illuminate the photo. He squinted and nodded.

  “Yeah, he was here, looking for a boat to rent. I remember because a cop of some kind was here a day or so later looking for him, just like you guys.”

  June edged forward so she could better hear.

  “Did the guy in the photo hook up with anyone for a place to stay?” Brad asked.

  The barkeep shrugged. “Like I told the cop, I sent him to Marathon. I got a buddy down there with five or six houseboats he rents out and most always has a vacancy since they’re not in the best shape.”

  “Did he go down there?” June asked.

  Brad gave her a quelling look. One that said he was asking the questions. June resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

  “I got no idea, ma’am.”

  “Can you call him and find out?” Brad asked.

  The bartender squinted at a calendar of half-naked women suspended from a wall near the bar. “Nah. He’s delivering a boat down to the Caymans. I don’t expect him back for a few more days. If he doesn’t decide to chill in the islands.”

  “Could you give me the address of these houseboats?” Brad asked.