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“Still prickly after all these years, huh, Carole?” Paul asked.
Carole shrugged. On the limo ride over, Sandy had revealed her suspicions about her husband’s infidelity, which had infuriated Carole.
“It’s been great to catch up,” Donna interjected, always the peacemaker. “Thanks for sending the limo.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Why aren’t you in costume?” June asked, since Paul wore an ordinary business suit. An expensive one, expertly tailored, but one he’d wear to the office.
“I’m here as an attorney,” he said in a defensive tone.
“Oh, how interesting,” Carole said. “You are an attorney.”
“Come on, Sandy. I need you to meet someone.” Paul whisked Sandy away with a nod at the other three. Her feather bounced gaily as she hurried to keep up.
“What a jerk,” Carole muttered.
“Don’t make it any worse for her,” June said.
Carole sighed. “It’s just he— Oh, look. There’s Laura Harris.” Carole hurried in that direction.
“I need a drink,” Donna said. “Let’s find the bar.”
“June Latham. What a pleasant surprise.”
June let Donna go on ahead and turned to the speaker, a woman in her fifties dressed in a police officer’s uniform, vaguely recognizing her as a member of her parents’ large circle of friends.
“I’m sorry,” June said. “Please remind me—”
“Sylvia Baker,” the woman prompted, grabbing her hand and shaking vigorously. “I don’t expect you to remember. It’s been a long time.”
June nodded, having no clue how long it’d actually been.
“How are you?” Sylvia asked. “Where have you been?”
“I’m good,” June said.
“Look, Chuck,” Sylvia said, grabbing a passing man dressed as the devil. “It’s June Latham.”
June found herself swept up into the festive melee, and despite her misgivings, the old guard seemed genuinely happy to see her. She didn’t specifically remember anyone from her parents’ generation, but they sure knew her.
“Oh, but you’ve turned into a lovely young lady.”
“Your mother would be so proud.”
“You have your father’s smile.”
Then a cloud would pass across faces as old friends recalled the scandal and hastily changed the subject. Everyone mostly tiptoed around the subject of her parents, and she didn’t hear one snarky remark.
“But you just disappeared. Everyone thought you’d moved to Manhattan to live with your uncle,” said a white-haired lady in costume as a cowgirl.
June heard variations of the same comment at least a dozen times. Ten years ago it was what she’d wanted everyone to think. Only Sandy, Carole and Donna knew she’d remained in Florida.
“Uncle Mike let me stay in Miami and finish my senior year.”
“So you did graduate from Pinecrest Prep?” The lady’s eyebrows dipped together in confusion. “I thought that—”
“Uncle Mike insisted I transfer to a public school. It was a compromise.”
“Oh, I see.”
But June could tell she didn’t see at all. How did anyone explain the raw emotions of a seventeen-year-old whose life had just been kicked out from underneath her? Hell, she didn’t understand it herself. All she knew was she had been terrified of New York City, which Mike insisted would be a fresh start. She’d imagined a freezing-cold city with giant buildings and no trees, which sounded like torture to a teenager who grew up in Miami diving into a swimming pool every day.
And, despite her humiliation, she’d needed the comfort of her friends.
But that was all behind her. Time to start avoiding the older generation.
“Excuse me,” she said and stepped toward the bar.
Okay. She’d passed the hurdle of facing her parents’ cronies, which hadn’t turned out nearly as disastrous as she’d imagined. Good job, June. You’ve satisfied their curiosity. Let the gossip begin.
Now I deserve some fun.
She’d noticed plenty of guests her own age. New people to meet who knew nothing about her past. Who didn’t care a flaming golf ball about her unsavory history. Even some good-looking men, a bonus she hadn’t expected.
She knew the costume made her look damn good, which boosted her confidence, and she ought to take advantage of that elusive feeling.
With champagne in hand, she looked for Sandy, wanting to make sure Paul hadn’t upset her. June found her friend in a group that included her husband across the room. Sandy stood with her back to the floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows that during the day revealed a beautifully maintained golf course. Tonight all that was visible was a subtly lit landscaped patio.
Husband and wife appeared to be getting along. June raised her champagne to her old friend. Sandy nodded and lifted a glass in return.
“It’s uncanny how much you two look alike.”
“My friend has a secret wish to be a twin,” June said, extending her arm to a very nice-looking dude in a pirate costume. Not as hunky as Detective Hammer, but nice. “I’m June.”
“Hi, June,” he said, shaking her hand with a smile. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“Sorry. Do I know you?”
“Steve Hill. We were on the swim team together at Pinecrest.”
“Oh, of course.” She took a sip of champagne, recalling a gawky teenager who looked nothing like this tall man with sun-lightened brown hair.
“Do you still swim?” Steve asked. “I remember you were a freestyle specialist.”
“Oh, I’ll take a few laps in the pool where I live. How about you?”
“I swim competitively in a master’s program.”
“Good for you.” That would explain his still-toned body.
“I remember you and Sandy used to dress alike in high school.” Steve inclined his head in Sandy’s direction.
“I know it’s silly,” June said, glancing back to where Sandy stood. “We’re both only children and decided to be each other’s sister.”
The plate glass behind Sandy shattered at the same time as a loud pop reverberated through the room. Screams replaced lively chatter.
A red stain bloomed across the bodice of June’s friend’s exquisite pink dress.
In horrifying slow motion, Sandy, her face contorted in a grimace of surprise, fell facedown.
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_5ce82e32-4dc0-5c3a-addb-2fac83256801)
DEAN ARRIVED AT the Turf Club crime scene within thirty minutes of the first 911 call. He’d been in the station still working the North Beach murder with Sanchez, so he caught the case. His good luck.
Definitely a banner week for murders in the city of Miami Beach.
A uniformed patrolman working off duty met them at the front door.
“What have you got?” Dean demanded.
“One woman down,” the cop reported. “ME is on the way.”
Dean nodded, entered a huge, hushed ballroom ahead of Sanchez and thought he’d fallen down the rabbit hole. Helium-inflated balloons trailing festive streamers clung to the ceiling. Hundreds of guests dressed in outlandish getups stared at him. A pirate with an eye patch, a masked cancan girl, a helmeted astronaut.
Murder at a costume party. Just great.
Easy way for a murderer to hide.
“You got the shooter?” Dean asked as he moved through a parting kaleidoscope of colors and anxious faces. He didn’t like to form theories before learning the facts, but wondered if someone pulled a pistol everyone thought was a prop.
“No one had eyes on the shooter.”
“Not even one witness?” Sanchez asked.
“Not close range, then,” Dean said.
“No,” the patrolman said, shaking his head. “Sniper. From somewhere out on the golf course.”
Dean halted his forward motion. “Sniper?”
“Yeah. One shot, one down. Looks like a hit to me.”
Another sniper. And what were the odds?
Dean spotted the body, covered by what looked like a tablecloth, and moved toward it. “Anybody disturb the scene?”
“The husband rolled the body before I could get there, but it was obvious she was gone. One of the guests, a physician, confirmed she was dead. Then I made sure everyone stayed clear. Didn’t let anybody leave, either, although a few might have snuck out.”
“Good. We need to interview everyone here. Is there a manager?”
A man stepped forward. “I’m the manager.”
“I’ll need to see your surveillance video.” Dean pulled on gloves and knelt beside the victim. He removed the bloodstained sheet and froze.
The dead-eyed face staring up at him was June Latham’s.
He relaxed when he realized it wasn’t her. But the description would be the same. White female, blonde, approximately twenty-six, hundred and twenty pounds, goddamn beautiful.
The dead woman lay on her back, but had hit the deck facedown. The husband had rolled her, but death was likely instantaneous. She wore a sparkly party dress now saturated with blood. Matching headband with a feather.
Beautiful young woman out for a good time and now dead way too young.
The vic had definitely been killed by a sniper. Dean glanced to the shattered window and shards of glass covering the plushly carpeted floor.
Couldn’t be sure without forensics, but his gut told him it was the same weapon as North Beach. Yeah, what are the odds?
A tickle of excitement niggled the back of his brain. Somehow this case was connected to the North Beach hit. He needed to find that connection.
He snapped photos of the body but needed to wait for the crime-scene unit to process the scene. He’d gotten here fast. The primary detective didn’t often arrive first, but the specialists should be here soon. He needed to locate the sniper hole on the golf course so Forensics could process that, as well. He glanced outside to a dimly lit concrete patio with attractive landscaping. Could he get lights on the area behind that patio? He wanted to check it out ASAP.
Dean recovered the body and rose. “No one goes out on that golf course until I give the okay,” he said to the manager. “You’re shut down until further notice.”
“I understand.”
“Do we have ID on the vic?” Dean asked.
“Sandra Taylor,” the off-duty man reported. “Her husband is sitting right there, Paul Taylor.”
Dean zeroed in on a white male in his late twenties or early thirties slumped at the closest table surrounded by friends. A bloody napkin lay on the table where he’d apparently cleaned his hands. His white shirt also contained blood spatter. The man stared at a glass full of ice and an amber liquid, then picked up the drink and took a long swallow. More blood stained his cuff. His hand shook.
He had that numb I-can’t-believe-this-shit look about him. He’d turned his chair away from his wife’s body.
The husband was always the first suspect, and this one appeared properly shocked. Interesting that he wore a business suit instead of a costume. Did he come straight from work? Important meeting on a Saturday? With who? Or maybe he didn’t really want to be here?
“Where was the husband when the hit went down?”
“Standing right next to the victim.”
“Got it,” Dean said. But he could have hired someone.
Dean focused on the support group surrounding the husband to look for reactions and realized a woman was staring back at him. His breath caught.
June Latham. June Latham with her hand resting on the husband’s shoulder.
And damn if she wasn’t any man’s wet dream come to life. A pale dress clung to her curves, hugging and dipping in all the right places to make a man hungry. Made him hungry. Did other things to lower parts of his anatomy.
He couldn’t tear his gaze away from her.
