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Rubbing her arm, June turned in time to watch the new customer fling open the last cage and urge its prisoners to flee.
“What are you doing?” the owner shouted.
As if in answer, birds streamed out of confinement. Triumphant screeches resonated through the shop as feathered creatures in hues of green, blue, red and yellow attempted flight, but most only hopped awkwardly around shelves and the filthy floor of the shop.
The front door clanged again, and June focused on the back of the liberator as he rushed outside. A flight-worthy yellow-headed parrot zoomed for the opening. Oh, no. Fearing he’d be crushed by the closing door, she held her breath. But vivid green wings flapped through safely and disappeared into a patch of blue sky, no doubt headed for the closest tree.
“Shit,” the owner moaned.
With a sigh, June withdrew her phone again and called the police.
* * *
DETECTIVE DEAN HAMMER heaved himself out of his police cruiser into heavy tropical air. Shaking his head, he eyeballed the peeling paint of the mom-and-pop pet shop in the seedy business section of North Miami Beach—a long eight miles from South Beach. He’d been busted not only off his beat, but off his regular gig. His lieutenant’s cute idea of punishment. Yeah, real cute.
“Hey, Hawk,” his temporary partner—a fresh-faced rookie whose training was also part of his exile—asked across the roof of the vehicle, “when was the last time you responded to a disturbance at a pet shop?”
“Yeah, well, that would be never, Sanchez.”
Sanchez grinned. “Do you think the pets inside are rioting?”
“Funny. If you learn one thing while working with me, Sanchez, you need to be ready for anything on a call.”
Sanchez nodded and glanced toward the shop’s facade. “Yeah, I know, I know.”
You just think you know, rookie. Dean patted the Kevlar vest under his shirt and moved toward the entrance. “Things can go south in a heartbeat.”
“And you must be prepared,” Sanchez mimicked. “I bet you won’t need your Remington M24 here, though.”
“God, I hope not,” Dean said as he jerked open the door. A sniper gun at a pet shop? A giant cowbell clanged overhead as he entered.
“Jeez,” Sanchez breathed behind him over a cacophony of shrieking birds. “What the hell happened here?”
Good question, Dean thought, focusing on dozens of colorful parrots hopping and leaping in aborted flight attempts around the shop. No bodies. No citizens bleeding. No apparent robbery.
Damn if Sanchez hadn’t nailed it. The birds had staged a riot and broken out.
A man, presumably an employee, chased the animals with little success. As soon as he got close to a parrot, the bird squawked and deftly hopped away. He’d managed to capture a few, though, since cages in the rear of the shop housed parrots. Dean looked for and spotted a surveillance camera on the back wall.
“Be careful where you walk,” the man shouted. “Don’t step on any of them.”
“Uh, right,” Dean said, his attention zeroing in on the only other person in the shop, a tall, knockout blonde in her midtwenties who stood by the cash register yacking on a cell phone.
“And arrest her,” the bird chaser said. “She’s responsible for this.”
Arrest her? Dean’s mood lightened. He’d like to interrogate this one, her sophisticated beauty reminding him of the Russian models who frequented Ocean Drive.
“You the owner?” Dean asked the man.
After a pause where he seemed to consider his answer, he said, “Yes. David Glover.”
“Did she release the birds?” Sanchez yelled over the bird noise.
“I did not,” the woman replied. She lowered her phone and gave the owner a look that would freeze lava.
“But your partner did,” the owner shouted.
“I don’t have a partner,” she said.
“Yeah, right. Like you never saw the guy before.”
“Never. And you’re the one who should be arrested.”
“For what?”
The blonde turned to Dean. “I called the authorities.”
“You bitch,” Glover said. “Only because I was too busy with—”
“Hold on, hold on,” Dean interjected, the squawking of both human and bird now giving him a major headache. “Sanchez, help this guy round up the birds while I interview this nice lady.”
The blonde nodded and dropped her phone into a large purse slung over her shoulder, its strap pressing between very nice breasts.
Sanchez grinned. “Good thing you warned me to be ready for anything.”
“You’re a real comedian, Sanchez.” Dean pointed a finger at the owner. “We’ll talk after you get your merchandise under control.”
The blonde smiled. “Let me know how that turns out,” she said to the owner.
Dean suppressed a laugh and interrupted the owner’s heated response. She had a point. The shopkeeper wasn’t dealing well with his escapees.
“You got an office in the back I can use?” he asked.
Dean noted Glover’s second hesitation. Apparently the man had secrets to protect. “I won’t look at a thing,” Dean said, holding up his arms.
“Yeah, go ahead,” Glover said and resumed chasing his birds, sidestepping around a growing accumulation of bird droppings.
The blonde smiled again, obviously finding the owner’s frustrated lunges for his elusive birds hilarious. Glad to escape the noise, Dean ushered the woman toward the back. He liked the way she moved—her legs seemed to glide over the floor and she held herself with perfect graceful posture.
Inside the tiny dump of an office, he motioned for her to sit in a chair facing a messy desk. He also sat and removed his interview notebook.
“Why aren’t you in uniform?” she asked.
“Because I’m a detective.”
Her eyes widened. “They sent a detective?”
Dean nodded. “Bird riots demand the full attention of the Miami Beach Police Department.”
“Ha-ha.”
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
“June Latham.”
“Address?”
After he got the basics, he said, “So, why don’t you tell me what happened here this morning, Ms. Latham?”
“This pet shop markets illegally captured wild birds.”
Dean glanced up from his notes. “How do you know?”
“Their leg bands are counterfeit.” She shifted her weight to one hip and crossed a slim, shapely leg. “I came here to gather proof for Fish and Wildlife.”
Dean rubbed his chin, thinking. “So you liberated these illegal birds so they could fly free again.”
“Of course not. Releasing them without a safe harbor plan could harm them.” She bit her bottom lip and looked down. “Actually, I should go help that clod before he harms one. He has no idea how to handle birds.”
“And you do?”
“Yes.” She leaned forward. “Can you arrest him?”
“Like he said, for what?”
“For selling illegal—”
“I think you know I can’t do that.”
She sat back and crossed her arms. “An arrest would teach him a lesson.”
“Not my job.” Although, considering his forced time with rookie Sanchez, maybe lessons were his job. “So, who released the birds? That’s the crime I’m investigating.”
“I don’t know who he was. Some customer in the shop. I never saw him before.”
“Give me a description.”
She shrugged. “I barely looked at him. Maybe fifty or sixty, bald. Taller than me, maybe six feet. Really thin.”
“Not bad for barely looking at him,” Dean said. “So, what happened?”
“When that jerk grabbed my arm— Hey, that’s a crime.” She sat up straighter. “Assault.”
“Do you want to file charges?”
She leaned back, glancing toward the outer room. “Let me think about that.”
“Go on. The owner grabbed you...”
June Latham rubbed her arm with long, graceful fingers. Dean followed her movements, noting with disgust a red mark where someone had taken a stranglehold on her body. No question the area would bruise. He also noted well-toned biceps and triceps and wondered where she worked out.
“He wanted my phone. He wouldn’t let go of me. We argued. Suddenly a macaw flew over my head. When I turned, I saw this customer opening all the cages and urging the birds to escape.”
“So you maintain you had nothing to do with releasing the birds.”
She raised her chin. “I never lie.”
“Good to know,” he said, closing his notepad, believing she told the truth today. But everybody lied on occasion. “You’re free to go.” Review of the video surveillance would reveal if there had even been a crime.
She didn’t move. “You’re not going to do anything about the smuggled birds, are you?”
“I wish I could.” See, now, there was a lie. Although he’d love to score points with this tall, blonde goddess, he was a homicide cop, not a bird savior.
“Do you know that wildlife smuggling is the third largest illegal trade in the world economy? Only drugs and weapons are bigger.”
Actually, no, he didn’t know that little factoid. But of course she didn’t lie. “So take your proof to Fish and Wildlife.”
“You know the birds will be gone by the time they act.”
“I can’t help that.”
“You could impound the birds as evidence.”
Dean assessed the woman before him. So here he had a true bleeding-heart activist. A rare breed these days, thank God, because they were nothing but a giant pain in the ass. “When I talk to Mr. Glover, will he admit the birds are illegal?”
“No.”
“Then it’s your word against his.”
“But remember I have proof,” she said, holding up her phone. “And I repeat, you could take the birds into protective custody pending investigation.”
A bunch of shrieking, pooping birds in the Miami Beach Police Station? Yeah, that’d get him out of his lieutenant’s shit can.
Dean handed her his card. You never knew. Maybe she’d call. “Let me talk to the owner. I’ll document your allegations in my report, but that’s the best I can do.”
“That’s the best you can do?” Disdain laced her words. “Really?”
Dean stood. Not likely she’d be calling. “You’re free to go, Ms. Latham.”
“But the birds aren’t.” With a final frosty glare, she moved toward the door.
* * *
JUNE DESCENDED FROM the rear exit of a county bus at her stop on Brickell Avenue. The monstrous vehicle belched poison out its exhaust pipe, changed gears with a low rumble and lurched north toward downtown Miami.
She removed her cotton sweater, thankful for the hot August sun to thaw out her supercooled skin. Bus drivers in Miami always kept their AC at arctic levels, since hot air blasted their faces at each stop. Her shoulder muscles relaxed as she breathed the salty fragrance from nearby Biscayne Bay. Dwarfed by scores of surrounding condo towers, she walked the landscaped path toward the Enclave’s entrance. At least she was home.
What a disastrous morning. And she’d accomplished nothing.
