Her Cop Protector. Sharon Hartley

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.

      She exuded an aura of elegant old-money class and easy primal sex at the same time. Like a high-priced pro trolling these festivities on the hunt for a wealthy john. Was Ms. Latham living a double life? If so, she’d definitely come to the right club for that activity. The Turf Club’s membership fees were the most expensive in the county. Both those fees and this woman were way out of his price range.

      He didn’t care about the club, but the thought of June being a pro initiated a spurt of anger.

      She gave him a quick nod.

      His gaze rose to her hair and a feather jutting out behind her head. He frowned. The dead woman sported a similar headband. In fact, June’s dress appeared identical to the one worn by the vic. Even their hair was arranged in the same style.

      What the hell was going on here?

      Maybe he had fallen into a rabbit hole.

      * * *

      THE SIGHT OF Detective Hammer moving into the Turf Club Grand Ballroom and taking control of the chaotic situation mysteriously reassured June.

       This man knows what he’s doing. He’ll figure out what the hell just happened. Why it happened.

      As he directed his team, movements crisp and purposeful, she felt herself emerge from a block of ice that had frozen her since she watched Sandy collapse to the floor.

      “Oh, my God,” Paul said for the hundredth time.

      June realized her hand rested on Paul’s shoulder and gave a comforting squeeze, her gaze remaining on Hammer as he examined the body with his ever-present partner beside him.

       Sandy’s body. Beautiful, happy, perfect Sandy is gone.

      Paul folded his arms on the table and placed his head on top. “Sandy. My God. Sandy. This can’t be real.”

      She agreed with Paul. This couldn’t be real.

      Hammer rose, asked a question and turned to focus on Paul. Then Hammer’s