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“Let me hear it.”
“I’m putting time of death approximately seven thirty. GSW to the head. I’d say the shooter was on the roof of the Night’s Inn next door.” Fishman motioned with his head.
Dean looked across a narrow alleyway to the Night’s Inn. “You’re saying a sniper took the vic out?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
But why? Dean wondered, taking a good look at the man’s face for the first time. This John Smith appeared to have lived on the streets for some time. Shabby clothes, no jewelry, dirty hair, unkempt.
So how did this down-and-out vic wind up on the balcony of a hotel, which although clearly not the Ritz, easily cost a hundred bucks a night? Definitely a mystery, Dean thought, feeling more jazzed every minute.
“The vic’s obviously a vagrant,” Fishman said, agreeing with Dean’s thought process. “No ID.”
“He pissed somebody off somewhere,” Dean said.
The doctor rose. “Will I see you at the autopsy?”
“You got it.”
Fishman grabbed his medical kit. “So, who would go to the trouble to set up a difficult shot on this guy?”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“Hawk,” Sanchez yelled.
Dean looked over and saw the forensics team had arrived and were suiting up to process the scene. He snapped a series of photos of the room, then exited to give the new arrivals space, careful to travel the same way he’d entered to avoid any more contamination than necessary.
“Come with me, Sanchez,” he said to his rookie. “We’re going to talk to the desk clerk.”
The clerk remained where Dean had last seen him, leaning against the desk counter watching the police activity. He straightened when Dean and Sanchez approached, a guarded expression on his bearded face.
“I’m Detective Dean Hammer, and this is Officer Ruben Sanchez.” Dean stuck out his hand for the clerk to shake it.
“Walt Ballard,” the clerk said, rubbing his hand on his jeans before shaking Dean’s.
“Were you on duty when the shot was fired?” Dean asked. He withdrew his spiral pad to make notes.
“Yeah. I start work at six a.m.”
“What can you tell me?”
“I’d just started a new pot of coffee for the breakfast buffet when I heard this pop. I knew right away it was a gunshot.”
“You familiar with guns?” Dean asked.
“Not really, but—well, it was a strange, scary sound. Not normal, you know. Nothing I heard around here before.”
“What happened next?”
Ballard shrugged. “Couple of screams from upstairs. Another guest came down, a guy, and told me there’d been a shooting. I called 911.”
“Did you go up?”
Ballard shook his head. “No, sir. I went nowhere near that room. I didn’t want to get shot.”
Dean believed him. “What can you tell me about this John Smith?”
“He checked in yesterday at noon. Polite enough, but secretive, like. Nervous, you know what I mean? Looking around constantly.”
“You ever see him around here before?”
“Never.”
“Did he have ID?”
Ballard hesitated. “He paid cash.”
Dean gave the clerk a hard look. “You don’t require ID?”
“If a prospective guest has cash, we let him stay. This time of year it’s tough for the owner to break even.”
“Did he have luggage?”
“One small airline carry-on type with wheels. Black.”
Dean nodded. That was what he’d seen in the room. “Did he have a vehicle? Ask about parking?”
“No.”
“Did you see anyone suspicious that morning?”
“No one but our regulars wanting a handout when I shut down the buffet.”
Dean stared at Ballard, looking for obvious tells that the man was hiding something. “Didn’t you think it odd that a vagrant had cash to pay for the room?”
“What do you mean?” Ballard looked confused. “John Smith might not be his real name, but he wasn’t any vagrant. Believe me, I know the type. There’s plenty in this neighborhood.”
Dean withdrew his phone and brought up a photo of the body. He shoved the phone in Ballard’s face. “That John Smith, the guy you checked into room twenty-two?”
Ballard’s eyes widened. He looked as though he’d hurl.
“Jesus,” he breathed. “Oh, man. Oh, shit.”
“That’s not John Smith?”
“No, sir, that’s not John Smith. That’s Rocky. He’s homeless, a regular, hangs around here all the time. Sweetest guy ever. I let him sweep up and eat leftovers from the buffet when I shut it down.”
* * *
“SO, WHAT SEEMS to be the problem with Killer today?” June asked Mrs. Callahan, the elderly owner of the tiny Yorkshire terrier shivering uncontrollably on the examination table. June stroked her hand across the dog’s soft head, and he raised pleading, liquid eyes to her face.
Killer really didn’t want to be here. But then most dogs hated a trip to the veterinarian, knowing precisely where they were the second they entered the door and certain they were in for some cruel torture—like an injection via a long, sharp needle.
“I just don’t know what to do,” Mrs. Callahan answered. “He won’t stop trying to eat his rear end.”
“It’s okay, sweetie,” June murmured to the dog. “I won’t hurt you.” She ran a gentle hand across the dog’s bluish-gray fur to comfort him, then backstroked to look for problems and found an angry, inflamed area.
“We’ve got a hot spot back here,” June said. “Have you checked for fleas?”
“My Killer does not have fleas,” Mrs. Callahan stated, peering over her thick glasses.
“Are you treating him with preventative medicine?” The dog twitched beneath June’s hand, then licked her fingers.
“Oh, I don’t believe in chemicals.”
“I see,” June said. “But he’s got fleas. Lots of them. That’s why he’s scratching.”
Mrs. Callahan’s face flushed. “Are you sure?”
“I’m afraid so.” June parted Killer’s fur to expose pink skin, and two or three of the hateful biting beasties scurried for cover.
Mrs. Callahan’s mouth popped open. “Oh, no. Poor Killer. I—I swear I looked and didn’t see any.”
The woman looked so distressed and embarrassed, June smiled at her. Both Mom and patient needed comforting today. And Mom might need new glasses.
“Dr. Trujillo will be in shortly, but don’t worry. She’ll give Killer something to make him more comfortable.”
“Thank you, Junie.”
“You’re welcome. Just be patient. The doctor is running a little behind this morning.”
June stepped out of Killer’s examination room just as Dr. Marisol Trujillo arrived. Her boss, the owner of Brickell Animal Hospital, wore her customary starched white lab coat over casual slacks, her smiling face framed by short hair that had turned a shade of soft gray at age fifty. Dr. Trujillo held a cafecito from Café Lulu in her right hand. June closed the examining room door, thinking that tiny foam cup contained enough caffeine to power a jet.
“Sorry I’m late, June,” the doctor said in her lilting Hispanic accent. “Dios Mio, you know what traffic can be on US One.”
“Actually, no.” June stepped behind the hospital’s counter and grinned at her boss. “Remember I walk to work.”
“Don’t rub it in. I know all about your light carbon footprint.” The doctor took a sip of coffee and left bright red lipstick on the rim of the white cup. “Any emergencies?”
“No, we’re good. Only Mrs. Callahan with Killer in room one.”
The doctor sighed and moved toward her office at the rear of the hospital. “What is it this time?”
“Fleas.”
Dr. Trujillo didn’t pause. “Of course it is. I’ll be right in.”
“Killer is shaking so hard I think the fleas might jump off to save themselves from whiplash.”
The doctor laughed and entered her office as the front door to the animal hospital opened. Knowing it couldn’t be Elaine, Dr. Trujillo’s receptionist, June glanced over to find Agent Donald Gillis, her contact with the Fish and Wildlife Commission, an old and dear friend of her parents’, stepping into the waiting room.
Had he already been to North Beach Pet Shop? Had he rescued the birds? She’d emailed him her photos almost immediately, but realized it was much too early for him to have visited North Beach and returned. Plus, that didn’t look like a pleased expression on his handsome, dignified face.
“Agent Gillis,” June said.
Gillis nodded. “June.”
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Although she had a sneaking suspicion.
“Well, let’s see. Something about escaped birds taking over a pet shop on North Beach?”
June sighed and sat down in a swivel chair. She’d kept such worrisome details out of her email and hadn’t expected Gillis to hear about yesterday’s disaster so quickly.
“Who ratted me out?” Had Dean Hammer actually contacted Fish and Wildlife? The idea improved her opinion of the guy, but there was no way Gillis could have seen any report this fast.
“Your buddy Jared posted the photos on Tropical Bird Society’s Facebook page.”
“Oh, great,” June muttered. Jared was a Facebook junkie. “I didn’t know you were a friend of our society.”
“How else am I going to follow your dangerous activities?”
“I didn’t do anything dangerous.”
“Jared’s post said you went alone.”
Oops. June looked down to the desk. Damn Jared and his Facebook fetish. “He got sick. But it was broad daylight in a public place. I was fine.” She met Gillis’s eyes again, resisting the urge to rub the sore, bruised area on her left arm.
“We’ve talked about this, June. Confronting smugglers is a terrible idea.”
“This guy wasn’t the smuggler, just a greedy consumer of cheap, illegal birds.”
“Please let my agency take care of it. It’s our job.”
“But you’re too damn slow,” June said. “And you know it. You should be on Miami Beach right now confiscating those poor birds instead of lecturing me.”
“You could get hurt, June.”
“I’m careful. I promise. Don’t worry about me.”
A small smile softened Gillis’s face. “I promised your parents I’d look out for you.”
June stiffened. “So you’ve told me.”
“They were worried about what would happen to you if they went to prison.”
“Uncle Mike took care of me.”
“June. Your parents loved you very much.”
