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“Hello, my lovely,” she said.
Her answer was a loud guttural squawk.
“I’m glad to see you, too,” she said. She slid open the glass door, stepping into the humid, oxygen-rich atmosphere of the aviary. Definitely warmer without the air-conditioning, but shaded and entirely pleasant. Probably very similar to the jungle in Peru where this macaw had been captured.
Lazarus flapped his huge wings and righted himself, but didn’t take flight. He could have, though. She’d turned most of the balcony, which wrapped around the top floor of the thirty-story Enclave, into an aviary for the birds she rescued. She’d enclosed the space with parrot-proof screening and crammed it with trees, water features and interesting toys for her patients to amuse themselves. Lazarus was the only bird in residence right now, which was rare. She usually nursed at least two injured birds back to health at any given time. He’d be rehabbed enough to go to a permanent sanctuary somewhere soon, and while that thought should make her happy, instead it depressed her.
She was getting too attached. That happened when she cared for a bird too long. But she never kept a patient no matter how much she loved it, believing birds should always fly free when they were physically able.
While Lazarus squawked his encouragement, she changed the plastic floor protection and gave him a new supply of black oil sunflower seeds. She cleaned the huge aviary every day, not only for the health of the birds but to avoid complaints from the condo association wing nuts. There were some who didn’t appreciate her rehab clinic.
When done, she stepped close to stroke the macaw’s soft feathers. “Good boy,” she murmured when he didn’t back away. Only recently had he allowed her to touch him. Lazarus was definitely getting better. She knew she couldn’t save every bird, but this one at least should have a happy life from now on.
If Detective Hammer had agreed to confiscate the birds from the pet shop, she could have saved them, too. She flashed to his murder investigation and the photo of the dead man, something she couldn’t stop doing since the interview in Dr. Trujillo’s office yesterday.
Person of interest, indeed.
Lazarus made a chortling sound and ducked his head into her hand, wanting more, which pleased June.
“I know, Laz, I know. I need to stop thinking about that mean ol’ detective.”
The phone rang, and she stepped back inside to answer, sliding the door shut behind her with a last look at the preening macaw.
“Girl, whatever you’re doing tomorrow night, cancel,” a familiar female voice said after her hello.
June collapsed onto her sofa, settling in for a chat with her best friend from high school, Sandy Taylor. It’d been a while. “Why? What’s going on?”
“A party at the Turf Club. And not just any party, the annual Labor Day costume gala.”
“The Turf Club? You know I’m not a member anymore.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’ll come as my guest. Donna is in town from Atlanta visiting her mom, so I’m rounding up the old gang for a mini reunion.”
“Seriously?”
“Donna and Carole are both on board. You have to come.”
“Well, I really don’t have to,” June said, not sure she wanted to and scrambling for an excuse. A reunion with her wealthy Pinecrest Prep friends could be fun—or it could be disastrous. A painful reminder of what she had lost.
“Yes, you do. Remember the outfits we wore Halloween our senior year?”
“How could I forget? We almost got suspended by Dean Holly when we entered the gym.”
“That’s the exact look I want all of us to rock tomorrow night.”
“High-class hookers at the stuffy Turf Club? No way.”
Sandy laughed, a carefree sound from a beautiful young woman with absolutely no problems. Funny how their lives had taken such different directions. They’d once been so close they pretended to be sisters.
“I can’t wait to shake the place up,” Sandy said. “You know it’s just what that boring group needs.”
June remained silent. No, she didn’t really know. She hadn’t stepped on the property since her parents were arrested.
“Come on, Junie. It’ll be fun. Say you’ll join us.”
“What does your prim and proper husband say about this plan?”
“Paul will love the idea. He’s always said he decided to marry me that very Halloween night.”
“We did look good.”
“We’ll look even better now that we’re not awkward teenagers.”
“You were never awkward, Sandy.”
“That’s true. But I fill out the dress better now.”
And there was the excuse June needed. “Sorry, but I didn’t keep that costume.”
“Of course not. I’m sending you one identical to mine.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“Oh, stop it with the false pride,” Sandy said. “I want us to be twins just like in the old days.”
“Sandy, really, I—”
“I need you to do this for me, Junie,” Sandy said, an edge creeping into her voice.
“What’s wrong?”
After a pause, Sandy said, “My perfect marriage is falling apart.”
June sucked in a breath. So much for her envy of Sandy’s glamorous life. “Oh, God, Sandy. I’m sorry. What—”
“It’s not hopeless, but I need to spice things up with Paul, remind him why he fell in love with me.”
“You don’t need me to do that,” June said softly.
“Yes, I do. Please, Junie. I know this will work.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not on the phone. Maybe Saturday night. Please, please come. It won’t be the same without you.”
June remained silent. She had nothing special planned that night, but wasn’t sure a costume ball at a swank club that was once her parents’ favorite haunt was the most ideal way to spend her free time.
“We’re all going in a limo,” Sandy added, as if that final detail would clinch the deal. “We’ll pick you up around eight.”
“Okay,” June said, not wanting to think how much tomorrow night would cost her friend. “Why not.”
“Don’t sound so glum. We’re going to have a blast.”
After receiving a few more details about the evening, including some gossip about their friends, June stepped back into the aviary. Lazarus gave a halfhearted squawk, but ignored her and kept eating as she sat in her own favorite perch, a sturdy cloth macramé chair suspended from the ceiling. From here she could either watch her patients or look out over the clear waters of Biscayne Bay and beyond Miami Beach to the Atlantic Ocean, a stunning vista that normally calmed her.
Unfortunately the view didn’t have its usual effect. She took deep breaths and tried to wrench herself out of a long-gone past. But too much had happened. Too much was swirling around in her brain, too easily distracting her.
Why in the world had she agreed to accompany Sandy to the Turf Club? She’d avoided the place for ten years. Would anyone be around tomorrow night who remembered her parents? Probably not. She really ought to get over herself.
Lazarus tested his wings with a few quick flaps, flew the short distance to grab a hold of the chain holding up the swing and gazed down. June looked up as he waddled down the chain closer to her.
A bubble of excitement replaced her foreboding. Was Lazarus going to willingly approach her? She reached for a towel and placed it over her shoulder, holding her breath to see what he’d do next.
He cocked his head, squawked and flew back to his favorite branch.
She sighed. Almost. Laz was definitely making progress.
She pushed her foot against the balcony wall, forcing the chair into a gentle sway, her thoughts drifting back to her conversation with Sandy. If she could get through tomorrow night at the club, maybe that would be a step toward recovery for her, too.
One thing for sure. At least she wasn’t obsessing about Detective Hammer and his murder investigation anymore.
* * *
DEAN STUDIED THE images of colorful tropical birds on the computer screen before him. He’d punched June Latham’s name into a search engine, and one of the first hits was the Facebook page of the Tropical Bird Society, one of her do-gooder groups.
Rescue groups, he corrected himself. She’d objected to his use of do-gooder.
The page listed pet shops and vendors the group suspected of selling birds captured from the wild, so he created a fake profile, claiming to be vehemently opposed to this practice, and asked to join the group. After acceptance, he posted a few times criticizing smugglers, receiving a lot of “likes.” Before long, he received a private message with future dates of planned visits. John Smith could easily have tracked June to the North Beach location by doing the same thing.
TBS, the acronym most members used on postings, also had a standard web page where Dean found a schedule of their numerous activities, such as weekly outings to search for rare birds or to clean up various sites around the county. They seemed more of an environmental group than just a protector of birds. If he hit a dead end with this search, he’d get a roster of members to investigate.
So this was one way John Smith could have found June. He also could have tracked her cell-phone signal. The real question was why. Smith had clearly known her name before he released the birds. So why had he followed her?
More important, was there any connection to his dead body on North Beach?
The autopsy hadn’t been much help. Forensics confirmed what he’d seen at the scene. Rocky had been in average health. The cause of death was one gunshot wound to the head. The ME found no obvious evidence that the vic had been gay, so John Smith’s invite up to his room didn’t appear to have sexual overtones. From the surveillance, the invite appeared to be a spur-of-the moment decision, so what had been behind it?
Something just didn’t add up.
Dean scrolled through his list of search-engine hits, searching for more information about June, but didn’t find anything pertinent. The woman definitely flew beneath the radar. Was that deliberate? Did she have something to hide? The name Latham kept popping up, though, Latham Imports, in connection with a fire and arson investigation from ten years ago.
Curious as to why the search engine kept linking June to the fire, Dean opened an old article from the Miami Herald entitled A Cautionary Tale About Greed, and read about a married couple, Carl and Eileen Latham. The Lathams operated a successful importing business, but the FBI, working in a joint task force with Fish and Wildlife, found cocaine in one of their shipments from Peru. The Lathams were wealthy and politically connected, and their photograph frequently appeared on the society page for having paid big bucks to attend this or that benefit, so the scandal created a huge sensation. Out on a bond, they of course insisted they were innocent and had no knowledge of the drugs hidden in their merchandise.
Friends rallied around them and their attorney promised a vigorous defense, but before the trial could begin, a suspicious fire destroyed the Latham Import Warehouse on the Miami River. The fire effectively ended the prosecution as the couple perished in the inferno.
Dean sat back, considering. This case was before his time as a detective, but he vaguely remembered hearing about it. Everyone wondered if the Lathams had set fire to their property to destroy evidence, but misjudged and caused their own death. Seemed too stupid to be true to him.
And why was Fish and Wildlife involved? He made a note to check that out, kept reading and found what he wanted at the end of the article.
“According to friends, the Lathams’ only child, June Marie Latham, a junior at Pinecrest Preparatory Academy, will live with her father’s brother, Michael Westbrook Latham, an investment banker in New York City.”
So there was the connection to June. She’d been seventeen when her parents died and had gone to live with an uncle. Sad story, but Dean didn’t see how the information helped his investigation. He needed to keep digging.
“Sanchez,” he called.
“Yeah?” His rookie partner looked up from his own internet search for information on Rocky, their vic.
“Go to the Tropical Bird Society Facebook page. Research the profile of any friend or member who has posted to their site. I need to know who they are.”
“You think maybe we’ll find our John Smith?”
Dean shrugged. “Probably not, but we have to check it out.”
“You got it,” Sanchez said, his fingers moving over his keyboard.
Dean entered the name Michael Westbrook Latham into the department’s search engine. If June’s parents were dirty, maybe her uncle was, too.
* * *
JUNE EXTENDED AN arm to the uniformed chauffeur, took a deep breath and exited the limousine into a warm summer night. Beneath the impressive portico of the Turf Club, lights and music blazed. She could hear the chatter of animated voices from inside the clubhouse.
“We’re here,” Carole squealed behind her in the stretch limo.
Less nervous than she expected, June stepped beside Sandy, the first of her friends out of the stretch, who looked regal in a light pink beaded sheath. June wore an identical dress, only hers was a very pale blue, and it molded to her body perfectly, revealing every curve. The hem was short, with a sexy slit up one side. The neckline plunged lower than she was used to, but she had to admit the effect was flattering. They each wore a matching headband across their foreheads with a feather plume jauntily waving in the back.
The costumes were expertly made and likely cost Sandy a fortune. Despite her misgivings, June loved the way she looked. She even enjoyed the subtle clicking sound the rows of dangling beads made as she moved.
But maybe that was because of the delicious dry, chilled champagne she and her three friends had enjoyed on the drive to the club. Truly their party had already started.
“I don’t see Paul,” Sandy murmured. “He said he’d meet us.”
“He’ll be here,” June said, unsure where that confidence came from. She met Sandy for lunch once or twice a year, but hadn’t spoken to Paul since her parents’ funeral.
Dark-haired Donna scooted across the backseat and emerged in her bright red saloon-girl costume, an outfit with ruffles and a stiff petticoat. Carole came last in an emerald dress with a low-cut bodice.
“Well, don’t we look fabulous?” Donna said with a smile.
“You know, we really do,” June agreed, checking out her friends.
“Ready, girls?” Carole asked.
The four friends hooked arms and entered the grand ballroom together. To June it seemed as if everyone in the room turned to stare at her, but she knew that couldn’t be true and was just her nerves kicking in.
“There you are.” Paul Taylor approached, his eyes wide in what June hoped was appreciation of his wife’s appearance. He gave her a quick hug, one without any real intimacy. His dark hair had begun to recede, so maybe an early midlife crisis was the problem with his marriage.
“Did you girls have a nice reunion?” he asked.
“We haven’t been girls for a long time,” Carole said.
