Her Cop Protector. Sharon Hartley

wanted my phone. He wouldn’t let go of me. We argued. Suddenly a macaw flew over my head. When I turned, I saw this customer opening all the cages and urging the birds to escape.”

      “So you maintain you had nothing to do with releasing the birds.”

      She raised her chin. “I never lie.”

      “Good to know,” he said, closing his notepad, believing she told the truth today. But everybody lied on occasion. “You’re free to go.” Review of the video surveillance would reveal if there had even been a crime.

      She didn’t move. “You’re not going to do anything about the smuggled birds, are you?”

      “I wish I could.” See, now, there was a lie. Although he’d love to score points with this tall, blonde goddess, he was a homicide cop, not a bird savior.

      “Do you know that wildlife smuggling is the third largest illegal trade in the world economy? Only drugs and weapons are bigger.”

      Actually, no, he didn’t know that little factoid. But of course she didn’t lie. “So take your proof to Fish and Wildlife.”

      “You know the birds will be gone by the time they act.”

      “I can’t help that.”

      “You could impound the birds as evidence.”

      Dean assessed the woman before him. So here he had a true bleeding-heart activist. A rare breed these days, thank God, because they were nothing but a giant pain in the ass. “When I talk to Mr. Glover, will he admit the birds are illegal?”

      “No.”

      “Then it’s your word against his.”

      “But remember I have proof,” she said, holding up her phone. “And I repeat, you could take the birds into protective custody pending investigation.”

      A bunch of shrieking, pooping birds in the Miami Beach Police Station? Yeah, that’d get him out of his lieutenant’s shit can.

      Dean handed her his card. You never knew. Maybe she’d call. “Let me talk to the owner. I’ll document your allegations in my report, but that’s the best I can do.”

      “That’s the best you can do?” Disdain laced her words. “Really?”

      Dean stood. Not likely she’d be calling. “You’re free to go, Ms. Latham.”

      “But the birds aren’t.” With a final frosty glare, she moved toward the door.

      * * *

      JUNE DESCENDED FROM the rear exit of a county bus at her stop on Brickell Avenue. The monstrous vehicle belched poison out its exhaust pipe, changed gears with a low rumble and lurched north toward downtown Miami.

      She removed her cotton sweater, thankful for the hot August sun to thaw out her supercooled skin. Bus drivers in Miami always kept their AC at arctic levels, since hot air blasted their faces at each stop. Her shoulder muscles relaxed as she breathed the salty fragrance from nearby Biscayne Bay. Dwarfed by scores of surrounding condo towers, she walked the landscaped path toward the Enclave’s entrance. At least she was home.

      What a disastrous morning. And she’d accomplished nothing.

      Actually, she’d succeeded in something: stressing out an already traumatized group of birds.

      She rubbed her arm, which still ached where that horrible man had squeezed. And the gorgeous raven-haired cop, Detective Hammer, had seemed more interested in ogling her than doing his job. Picturing his handsome face with its I’ve-seen-it-all-before expression, she wanted to dismiss him from her thoughts but couldn’t. There had been something about him, something darkly vital that warned her as surely as the noisy bell at the pet shop.

      Of course she’d email her photos to Agent Gillis, but by the time Fish and Wildlife noticed, the birds could be shipped to California.

      Would Glover harm them? She hated to think he’d dispose of living creatures to avoid a fine. But why wouldn’t he? He obviously didn’t care that intelligent animals had been wrenched from their jungle homes, shipped under dreadful conditions a thousand miles away and then cooped up inside a tiny prison. And to think she’d even helped round up the darlings and placed them back in jail so Glover couldn’t break a wing, the whole time acutely aware of the detective’s intense blue eyes scrutinizing her movements. Hammer had even helped her corner one African gray parrot.

      So she’d only made matters worse for the birds. Maybe she should listen to Agent Gillis and stop her commando raids to gather proof. Unless...well, maybe Glover wouldn’t be so quick to deal with poachers next time one approached him. That was something, wasn’t it?

      Something, not much. But no, she couldn’t stop. She had to try.

      The condo’s automatic doors whooshed open, and she entered the chilly elegance of the Enclave’s lobby.

      “Why such a sad face, Junie?”

      Jerked from her tumbling thoughts, she nodded to Magda, the condo’s dark-haired, eagle-eyed concierge seated in her usual spot behind the sleek oak counter.

      “My goodness,” Magda continued in her lilting accent, “you look like the condo association made you get rid of Lazarus.”

      Alarm shot down June’s spine. Nothing happened in this thirty-story building that Magda didn’t know about first. “Has there been another meeting? What have you heard?”

      Magda held up long, manicured fingers. “I was kidding.”

      June blew out a breath. Not funny, but Magda couldn’t know how worried she was about that rumor. Among others. “Good.”

      Magda leaned forward, resting on her forearms. “So, what’s wrong, sweetie?”

      “Just a rotten morning,” June said. The less said about her investigative activities, the better.

      “Were your buses late again?” Magda persisted.

      “Actually, the system stayed on schedule today.”

      Magda shook her head. “I don’t know how you manage to get around Miami on a bus.”

      “You just have to make that commitment,” June said and then added with a grin, “and allow enough time.”

      “I need my car. Will your uncle be at the Labor Day party this year?”

      “He hasn’t decided.” June removed her key from her purse and stepped to the bank of mailboxes on the wall left of Magda’s position. “The weather’s been great in New York, so he’s not sure he wants to come when it’s so humid here.”

      “So, when was the last time you drove the Cobra?”

      June paused in removing mail from her slot. When had she last driven Uncle Mike’s antique gas-guzzler? She’d promised to fire it up at least once a week. She grabbed mail and stuffed it inside her bag. “Thanks for the reminder. Guess I’m going down to the dungeon later.”

      Magda’s face wreathed in a maternal smile. “I know you hate the parking levels.”

      “What would I do without you, Maggie Mae?”

      Magda blushed, looking pleased. “Oh, you do fine, Junie.”

      “The jury is still out on that. Will I see you at the pool later?”

      “Of course,” Magda replied, buzzing June through the security door to the elevators.

      Stepping inside a waiting car, June punched PH and swiped her fob to allow the elevator to ascend to the thirtieth floor. She closed her eyes as she was gently swept upward—like the wings of a bird flying up to her private aerie in the sky.

      No, she reminded herself, opening her eyes. Her uncle’s aerie. A temporary refuge. She must never forget this luxury didn’t belong to her. Not anymore. Not for a long time.