Читать книгу Her Cop Protector - Sharon Hartley - Страница 11

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. Dean 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.

Sanchez met him on the terrazzo porch of the Sea Wave. “Anything?” he asked.

“Nada,” Dean said. “Roof area was clean. Have you finished with the possible witnesses?”

Sanchez nodded. “Nobody saw anything suspicious.”

“Talk to them again. Find out if anyone sleeps in the stairwell leading to the roof next door.”

“You’re thinking they could have seen someone heading up?”

“You never know. I’m going to check out the surveillance. Find me when you’re done.”

Dean entered the lobby. He spotted Ballard in an office behind the front desk and moved in that direction.

Ballard looked up from working with antiquated video equipment. “I’m not quite ready, Detective.”

“What’s the problem?”

“It’s slow. I’m still looping back the twenty-four hours you wanted.”

“How long?”

“Give me ten more minutes.”

Dean nodded, but frustration gnawed at him. Time was ticking. The first forty-eight hours were critical. He glanced outside to the ferocious glare of the tropical August sun and spotted the woman with the yellow turban by the dunes still perched on her walker. She was facing the hotels now, looking away from the beach, probably watching the police activity.

Time for a little chat.

She watched him approach, but her expression didn’t change. When he got near, he could see his reflection in her huge sunglasses and suspected she had corrective lenses behind the dark ones. He noted a blue cooler in a wire shelf at the bottom of the walker.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said.

“You a cop?” she asked.

“Good guess,” he said and displayed his badge.

“Thought so. Someone got murdered, didn’t they?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Been out here since daybreak. Heard the shot, then saw the body come out. Don’t have to be a rocket scientist.”

“You heard the shot?”

“Sure did.” The woman pulled a tall can of beer from her cooler and took a long drink. Condensation rolled down onto her hands. She put the beer back in its nest of ice. “Was wondering when someone’d come talk to me.”

Dean wondered how much she’d had to drink, hoping she hadn’t started with beer at seven thirty. “Could you tell where the shot came from?”

She pointed toward the roof of the Night’s Inn. “I seen the tip of the rifle right there.”

Dean felt a smile form. He’d been right to talk to this woman. “Did you see the shooter?”

“Sure did.”

Finally. Dean withdrew his notepad. “Male?”

“Male, but couldn’t see his face, so don’t ask me to make no sketch. He had a hat pulled down low. Couldn’t even see the color of his hair.”

“Age?”

“Couldn’t tell. But he was tall and quick, like. Skedaddled out of there within a minute. Knew what he was doing.” The woman nodded. “Just like in the movies.”

Dean hoped her report wasn’t a figment of the woman’s imagination, a result of too many Hollywood movies and too many swigs of beer. “Why didn’t you report seeing the gun?”

“Yeah, right.” She shrugged. “No one believes an old lady.”

“What’s your name, ma’am?” He talked to his witness a few more minutes, but got no further useful information. She lived in a local apartment, so he could contact her later, if necessary.

Across the street, he spotted Sanchez reinterviewing the street peeps on the porch of the Sea Wave. Sweat ran down Dean’s back, and he envied his partner’s shade. With a sigh, Dean moved toward the woman with the beads, but a quick interview told him she’d set up her cart around 9:30 a.m. and hadn’t even been in the area when the shooting went down. Dean shut his notebook and walked back to the hotel.

Ballard had the surveillance video ready to view in the small office, so Dean sat at the desk preparing himself for more eye strain. Jeez. What luck to have two cases in two days with video to sift through. But that was modern police work. Everything had gone digital and high-tech.

“Any way to speed this up?” he asked the clerk as the video rolled.

“The red button.”

“Thanks. Say, you got any coffee left?” A shot of caffeine was just what he needed for the task ahead.

When Ballard returned with lukewarm brew, Dean murmured his thanks and continued reviewing the video. Most of it was a static view that captured the front desk and entrance to the guest room area. When a figure entered the frame, Dean slowed the stream to real time to try to make an ID, look for anything suspicious. He wanted to find when Rocky had gone through that doorway to his death, see who the man had talked to.

He’d been watching for over thirty minutes when Sanchez joined him. Dean paused the surveillance. “Anything?”

“Nobody saw a thing.”

Maybe they did and maybe they didn’t.

Street people didn’t give up information without some cash motivation, which this case didn’t yet warrant. And when they did reveal details, frequently the intel was fiction, brought into existence via a painful past and too much booze. The homeless were seldom reliable witnesses, but you couldn’t discount their version of events immediately.

Dean nodded and rolled his chair to give the rookie more room to watch.

A quick blip on the left of the frame caught his attention. A man had entered and moved out of view toward the buffet table. Dean backed up and slowed the video down. All he could see was half a shoulder, but something about the man looked familiar.

He stayed out of the frame for two minutes, but then reentered and stood by the entrance to the hallway in full view of the camera.

Dean sat up straighter. Holy shit.

“Hey,” Sanchez said in an excited voice. “That’s the guy from the pet shop, the bozo that released the birds. He’s even wearing the same ugly shirt.”

Dean made a note of the time. Three thirty yesterday afternoon, three hours after the pet-shop incident.

As he watched, Rocky, the dead vic, sidled up to the bird liberator. The two spoke for several minutes. Rocky rubbed his abdominal area as if saying he was hungry. Seemed friendly enough, but Dean made a mental note to get a lip reader to watch the conversation. He needed a translation.

“Ballard,” Dean yelled toward the front desk, pausing the video. “Come in here.”

The clerk entered the office, eyebrows raised.

Dean indicated the monitor. “Who is this guy talking to Rocky?”

Ballard focused on the frozen image. “That’s John Smith.”

“The guy who rented the room?” Sanchez asked.

Ballard nodded.

“You’re sure?” Dean asked, a shot of adrenaline charging him up far better than any caffeine. The first break in a case was often the most important.

“No question,” Ballard said.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Dean said. What were the odds?

There had to be a connection between the delightful June Latham and John Smith. He needed to find what it was. Maybe Smith was another bird nut. Ms. Latham said she didn’t know him, but Dean now wondered about that.

He needed to have another conversation with her.

Dean checked the time. Just after three. He was almost done here. Should be no problem making it to the animal hospital where she worked before they closed at five.

* * *

JUNE STROKED HER palm across the velvety soft fur of a tiny black-and-white kitten in the cardboard box on a stainless-steel examining room table. The kitten arched his spine into her hand, obviously enjoying the attention. Three littermates, two more black-and-whites and one orange tabby, were extending their paws up the sides of the cardboard in a pitiful attempt at escape. They weren’t quite strong enough yet, but the undersize feral mama watched her babies nervously from inside a cage next to the box.

“That’s Oreo,” Felicia Mayer said, the client who’d brought the litter in.

“They’re adorable,” June said. “Where did you find them?”

“Believe it or not, Mama chose my backyard to give birth in.”

June glanced back to the mother, who now paced the cage, searching for her own escape. “Mama’s no dummy. She knows where food is available.”

Felicia, a dedicated cat lover, had founded Feline Rescue, an organization that trapped feral cats, had them spayed and then found safe homes. She used her ample powers of persuasion on Dr. Trujillo and other vets in the area to provide services at a reduced rate. June herself had donated more cash than she could afford to Felicia’s cause.

Felicia smiled and stroked the tabby, the runt of the litter. “The kits seem pretty healthy, but I wanted Dr. Trujillo to check them out.”

June estimated the kits to be four to six weeks old. Ready to be weaned. Oreo licked her finger with a rough tongue.

“You’re already attached to them, aren’t you?” June asked.

Felicia lifted the tabby and rubbed its fur across her cheek. Mama cat whined, a mournful sound. “Yes,” she said. “I couldn’t help it. They’re so cute and helpless.”

“Are you going to keep all five?”

Felicia shrugged and shot a glance to the mother. “Probably. Unless I find really good homes.”

“How many cats do you have now, Felicia?”

Felicia replaced the kit in the enclosure. “I feed about twenty, but they’re all spayed.”

June smiled at the thin, dark-haired woman who’d made it her mission to save every stray cat in South Florida. Considering her own work with birds, who was she to say a thing about Felicia’s obsession with felines? “You’re a good person.”

Felicia sighed. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just nuts.”

June heard the front door chime, indicating an arriving patient. “Let me go see who that is. Just wait here. The doctor is finishing up with another patient and will be in to check the kits shortly.”

“Thanks, June.”

“Shall I have Elaine make an appointment to have Mama spayed?”

Felicia nodded. “This will be her first and last litter.”

June gave Oreo’s fur another stroke and hurried to greet the new arrival, which according to the schedule should be Jessie, a goofy yellow Lab due for his annual checkup and the last appointment of the day.

But she heard a male voice say hello, and Jessie was always brought in by Sarah Weksler, a recent divorcee.

“May I help you?” Elaine asked in her most professional voice, usually reserved for men, preferably widowers she hoped would invite her to dinner.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m Detective Dean Hammer and this is my partner, Ruben Sanchez. We need to speak with June Latham, please.”

Elaine asked, “What’s this about?” as June rounded the corner.

Hammer saw her and nodded slightly. “Police business,” he said to Elaine, his gaze on June.

“What’s going on?” June asked before Hammer could say anything else. Elaine was sixty years old, had worked for Dr. Trujillo since she opened her practice and never heard a rumor she didn’t feel the need to spread. So now Dr. Trujillo would know two policemen had come to see her. Of course Dr. Trujillo would want to know why. She was on good terms with her boss, but the less said about her commando activities, the better.

“Ms. Latham,” Hammer said. His dark eyes swept her body as she reached Elaine’s side. “I’m hoping you remember we met yesterday at the bird riot on North Beach.”

“Bird riot?” Elaine asked. “What bird riot?”

“There was no riot,” June said, with what she hoped was a squelching glare at the detective. “Is this about the smuggled birds?” she asked when a burst of hope that Hammer had come because he’d arrested Glover slammed into her thoughts.

“Not exactly,” Hammer said.

“Do you need my photographic proof of the counterfeit bands?”

“No, ma’am. I wonder if there’s somewhere we could have a private conversation?”

“Private,” Elaine murmured under her breath, making her voice loud enough to ensure that everyone heard. “Oh, my.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean said, turning the full force of his gaze on the receptionist. “I hope that’s okay with you.”

Elaine colored and looked away with a giggle.

Oh, please. June resisted the urge to roll her eyes at Elaine’s reaction to Dean Hammer. Yeah, the guy was great eye candy, but way too sure of himself. She noted his partner followed the conversation with avid interest. As yesterday, the detective wore street clothes, a casual shirt, khaki pants and a tie, while the partner wore a Miami Beach Police Department uniform. Each of them had a holstered gun on his hip.

“I’m working,” she said.

“But we only have one more patient,” Elaine offered in a sweet tone. “I can show Ms. Weksler and Jessie into an examining room when they arrive.”

Hammer gave Elaine a sharp salute. “Thank you, ma’am. The Miami Beach Police Department appreciates your cooperation.”

“Anytime,” Elaine said, girlishly fluffing her gray cloud of hair.

June hesitated, actually curious as hell to learn what this unexpected visit concerned if not the birds. But the way Hammer looked at her made her feel as if she were naked underneath her pink scrubs. “What if Dr. Trujillo needs me?”

“I’ll come get you,” Elaine offered.

June mentally shrugged away her irritation with the receptionist, who couldn’t help who she was. Likely nobody found it easy to say no to the detective’s overpowering presence. He had some innate ability to control everything around him.

“Let’s go into examining room two,” June said.

“You should use the doctor’s office,” Elaine suggested. “It’ll be much more comfortable.”

“But if—”

“June, you know she won’t mind,” Elaine said, interrupting June’s objection.

“Of course. This way,” June said, motioning with a sweep of her arm toward Dr. Trujillo’s suite. Well, why not? This is a private conversation.

Once she was seated behind the doctor’s mahogany desk, she realized she rather liked having some much-needed space between her and Detective Hammer. At least she hadn’t been imagining his looks. He was just as vital and imposing as yesterday. Sitting behind the huge block of wood covered with stacks of paper made her feel more in control. She’d have to stand in an examining room.

She folded her hands in her lap and leaned back in the swivel chair while Hammer closed the door and took a seat beside his partner.

“This must be important for you to track me down out of your jurisdiction,” she said.

“We’re investigating a murder,” Hammer said.

“A murder?” June swallowed hard and leaned forward. A murder?

“Yes. Of a human being,” Hammer clarified. He raised his gaze from the blank sheet of paper on his open notepad to meet hers. “Not a parrot.”