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“Yeah? Seems to me they loved their money more.”
“I’m sorry you think that way.”
She raised her chin. “Come on. Weren’t you disappointed by what they did?”
Gillis looked away, so June knew she’d touched a nerve. He was trying to use guilt over her parents to make her cease her commando raids, when he had to have been hurt, embarrassed even, by their criminal activity.
“Everyone makes mistakes,” he said.
“But some mistakes can’t be undone.”
Gillis remained quiet for a moment, and she wondered if he’d become lost in memories of good times. Gillis’s deceased wife and her parents had been best friends. The couples frequently traveled and socialized together.
“Do any of their old employees ever contact you?” he asked in a wistful tone.
“You mean employees of Latham Imports?”
“Yeah. Your parents had some very loyal workers who took the criminal charges and the fire hard. I thought some might stay in touch.”
“I haven’t talked to any of them since the funeral, but Uncle Mike spirited me away.” June shrugged, wishing Agent Gillis hadn’t brought up her parents. “Truthfully I try not to think about my life before the fire.”
Gillis’s eyes widened. “Oh, but, June, you—”
The phone jangled. Elaine, the receptionist, wouldn’t be in until later. “I’ve got to get back to work,” June said. “Are you going to check out the birds on North Beach?”
“The shop opens at ten a.m., and I’ll be waiting.”
“Thanks,” June said, reaching for the phone. But she suspected the parrots were long gone by now; who knew where and under what conditions? If Detective Hammer had agreed to take them into custody for safekeeping, she wouldn’t have to worry about where they disappeared to. But no, the man couldn’t be bothered to even check out her photographic evidence.
As the image of the detective eased into her brain, she shook her head, knowing it wouldn’t soon leave. His dark good looks crept into her thoughts way more than they should, especially considering how uncooperative he’d been with her investigation. Yes, the man was gorgeous in that bad-boy sort of way and in fabulous physical shape—to be honest, the sexiest man she’d seen in a long time—but she didn’t get what she found so compelling about him, even if he had helped with the bird roundup.
But Gillis was right about one thing. She needed to be more careful. When she got caught gathering evidence, it only made circumstances more difficult for already stressed birds.
She looked at the bruise on her left arm, remembering how much it had hurt when Glover grabbed her and squeezed. She rotated her shoulder and felt a dull ache. No real harm done. Still, even if she wouldn’t admit it to anyone but herself, she had been frightened.
From now on she’d only go on a raid when she had backup available.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_6b8e09dc-b415-5497-a9f2-f3f8610a14d5)
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?”
