Her Cop Protector Read online

  One hot Miami mystery

  Homicide detective Dean Hammer has two dead bodies on his hands and just one connection: a pretty activist named June Latham. She swears her only concern is rescuing the tropical birds she loves, but something isn’t adding up. As Dean begins to unravel the mystery of June’s troubled family, he realizes she’s in danger.

  But that’s not all. Dean’s hotter for June than even the sweltering Miami weather can explain. Now if only she would put aside their differences and let him protect her... Otherwise she’ll be next in the sniper’s scope.

  “I looked you up last night.

  Guess what I discovered?”

  “That I’ve never been married?”

  “No, that you—” June paused as his words sunk in. “You’ve never been married?”

  “Wouldn’t want to make any woman a widow. So, what startling thing did you learn about me?”

  She shook her head. Once again Dean had thrown her off balance. How could he possibly know she’d tried to determine his marital status? “Forget it.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to forget it. Whatever it was sure ruffled your feathers.” He grinned, obviously amused by his bird reference.

  “Ha-ha,” she said, not finding him funny.

  “Hey. I seem to remember you inviting me on this little jaunt. Did I misunderstand?”

  She sighed. “No. I thought you would enjoy yourself. That was before I knew you preferred to hunt birds with that high-powered rifle you’re so damned good with.”

  “Ah,” Dean said, noting June’s face had flushed a delightful pink in her anger, making her even more attractive. “Got it now.”

  Dear Reader,

  I’ve loved birds since I was a little girl. When my mother couldn’t find me, she knew my nose was either buried in a book or I was watching birds at my feeder. Maybe it’s the wonder of flight, maybe it’s their showy colors (in the bird world, males are usually the most colorful), or perhaps it’s their lively songs. Whatever it is, I’m still a birder and lead bird walks on Sunday mornings during the spring and fall migration seasons in Miami.

  Bird numbers are declining all over the world because of habitat loss and other stresses. However, there are strategies anyone can employ to help, backyard feeders being one. Why not participate in citizen science and help with the Christmas bird count? Check out a free bird walk in your area. You might find a hobby that will fascinate you for the rest of your life.

  Her Cop Protector is a story I loved writing since it features birds, a hot cop and a mystery. Subtropical South Florida provided a steamy setting for a sexy romance. I hope you’ll enjoy reading June and Dean’s story as much as I loved telling it!

  I love to hear from readers. Email me at [email protected].

  Stay present!

  Namaste,

  Sharon

  SHARON

  HARTLEY

  Her Cop Protector

  Sharon Hartley writes contemporary romances that revolve around cops and the fascinating but dangerous people who inhabit their world. After creating plots where the bad guys try to harm the good ones, she calms herself by teaching yoga, cultivating orchids and hiking in the natural world. An avid birder, during migration season Sharon leads weekend bird walks in South Florida. Please visit her website at sharonshartley.com.

  Books by Sharon Hartley

  HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

  To Trust a Cop

  The South Beach Search

  This book is dedicated to all the beautiful birds stolen from their homes who don’t survive the journey.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  EXCERPT

  CHAPTER ONE

  WHEN JUNE ENTERED the air-conditioned chill of the North Beach Pet Shop, dozens of colorful birds came to life with raucous squawks. Well, no wonder. She glanced up at the bell rigged to clang whenever the front door opened. An early warning system.

  To her left, a tall man in his forties behind the counter nodded at her. Colorful tattoos curled around both of his biceps. Piercings in both ears and his left nostril. “Let me know if I can help you,” he said.

  “Just looking,” June said, in her best attempt at portraying a bored browser. She’d gotten good at that.

  He returned to reading a magazine. Was this guy the owner or an employee? That would make a huge difference in his reaction in the next few minutes.

  She sniffed the air to detect any foul odors. Mostly old cedar chips from the bottom of cages. Not too bad. At least this shop kept the smuggled birds in fairly decent conditions.

  June snuck a glance to the rear wall, where the birds continued their noisy protest in floor-to-ceiling cages. A majority of monks. Some yellow-headed amazons and a few macaws. Exactly what the informant had reported. Birds flapped obviously clipped wings in futile attempts at liftoff. A few made it off perches and slammed into the wire barrier blocking their escape with a disappointed shriek.

  June bit her bottom lip and looked away. After the initial rush of sympathy, familiar anger mushroomed inside her chest, making her heart rate ramp up. No good, June. Remain calm if you want to help. Inhaling deeply, she lifted a container of dog shampoo from the display next to her and pretended to study the ingredients.

  Remember, these birds are the survivors, she reminded herself, allowing the breathing technique time to work. Triple or quadruple this number didn’t survive the journey.

  She strolled toward the right side of the store, where an assortment of puppies romped or dozed in five-by-five wire cages stacked one on top of the other. A honey-colored cocker spaniel eyed her hopefully as she approached. When he reared up on his hind legs, she reached through the wire and stroked his soft head. This immediately gained the attention of a feisty Jack Russell terrier who pounced over to nudge the spaniel out of the way.

  Too bad she couldn’t save these furry sweeties. Their lives were equally sad, but disgustingly legal, products of puppy mills all over the country. She tested the air again. Definitely less pleasant on this side of the shop, but lingering disinfectant made the smell tolerable.

  She glanced back at the clerk. He kept his head down and remained focused on his reading, so she continued toward her target: the birds. She needed evidence. Even from a distance of six feet she could see that their legs were banded, supposed proof of being bred in captivity. But she knew better. The barbarians now created counterfeit bands to thwart the Fish and Wildlife Commission’s attempts to curb smuggling.

  As if counterfeit bands could make this group of wild birds appear tame.

  Of course, FWC didn’t approve of her unorthodox methods. Even less of her trips to South America with the Tropical Bird Society to stop poachers at the source. Bird smuggling was hardly a high priority to the US government. They were much more worrie
d about drugs. FWC didn’t have enough manpower or budget to stop thousands of birds from being murdered each year.

  She reached inside her jeans pocket, fingers tightening around her phone. She needed one good peek at a counterfeit band for confirmation. She’d take photos, enlarge them and she’d have her proof.

  The door clanged behind her, signaling the entry of another customer. Her heart tripped into a faster pace again, but maybe this arrival would provide a distraction from her own activities.

  The clerk murmured a greeting, and the newcomer, a male, grunted a reply as June leaned closer and peered at the leg of a magnificent scarlet macaw who glared back at her with haughty disdain. The bird stepped away with a short cackle.

  “Hold still, my beauty,” June whispered, focusing on the leg band, looking for the telltale signs of the fake markers, a bruised leg and missing scales—yes, there. Definitely bogus. She nodded to herself. But she already knew that.

  With another sideways look at the clerk, she raised her phone, positioning her body to hide her actions. The second customer—a man—stepped next to her. She ignored him and raised the camera. You’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, buddy. Sorry.

  The customer said something during her first click, but he whispered his words and she couldn’t stop gathering evidence to ask him to repeat himself. She kept clicking, gathering images of as many captives as possible.

  “Hey” came a rough shout from behind her. “What the hell you think you’re doing?”

  June ignored the clerk. Beside her the new guy spoke again—the inflection sounding like a question—but his words were lost in the resumed squawking of agitated birds roused by the hostility of the clerk hurrying toward her.

  “Damn it, lady. Stop taking photographs.”

  June didn’t stop until a rough hand closed around her upper left arm and squeezed hard.

  “Hey,” she said, trying to pull away. “That hurts.”

  “It’s gonna hurt a lot more if you don’t hand over that camera.”

  She glared at him—but went still when she met his dark eyes. Fear flared in her belly as the man tightened his grip. This was precisely what Agent Gillis had warned her about. She shouldn’t have come alone when Jared got sick and canceled.

  She slid the phone into her pocket. “Let go of me or I’ll file an assault charge.”

  “I don’t think so, lady. You just give me your phone.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or else you’ll be very sorry. These are my birds, and I don’t want you taking photographs.”

  So he was the owner. Bad luck, but explained his vigilance. June again tried to wrench out of his grasp, but he only squeezed harder. She swallowed, the pain in her arm now making it difficult to concentrate. She pushed away the stirrings of panic. Would this man really hurt her?

  Hell, yes. The jerk’s greed caused the murder of hundreds of smuggled birds.

  “I’ll scream,” she said.

  “And who do you think will care?”

  Before she could answer, a brilliant red bird swooped over her head. She ducked instinctively, as did the shop owner.

  “What the—” the owner shouted, finally, blessedly, releasing his grip.

  The macaw flapped madly, but clipped wings made it impossible for him to go far.

  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.”