Her Cop Protector. Sharon Hartley

“The vic is one John Smith from Tulsa, Oklahoma.”

      “John Smith? You’re kidding me, right?”

      Kinney shrugged. “The room is registered to John Smith. Room twenty-two.”

      “Okay. My partner and I will check the scene. You and other officers begin interviewing bystanders and determine if anybody saw anything.”

      Dean entered the lobby and scanned its contents. Along the south wall, a sparse breakfast buffet on a long table. Straight ahead, stairs covered with filthy carpet led to a hall and rooms. To the right of the stairs was the front desk, where the only other occupant, a thirtysomething heavyset clerk, leaned against the counter, watching him. The way the guy rubbed his dark beard told Dean the clerk was plenty rattled. A surveillance camera hung over the desk.

      Dean nodded at the clerk and proceeded up the stairs, followed by Sanchez. The carpet, which Dean noted was full of sand, covered the same cracked pink terrazzo as the lobby.

      The door to unit twenty-two stood open. Dean looked through the room onto the balcony, where the medical examiner, Dr. Owen Fishman, a good man he’d worked with before, looked to be finishing up with the body. Dean nodded to himself and he pulled on latex gloves and cloth booties over his shoes. Excellent. He’d have control of the scene soon. The forensics team was still maybe ten minutes out.

      “Inventory the room,” he told Sanchez. “And begin making sketches. We go in and out the same way each time we access the scene.”

      The smell slammed into Dean when he crossed the seedy motel room toward the balcony. The smell was always the first thing. That coppery smell of old blood—lots of blood—and spilled guts.

      God help him. He’d missed it.

      He was back. He had a murder to investigate. Maybe his lieutenant had been right to bench him for a while to make him remember how much he loved his job. Maybe he’d needed that reminder to follow the rules.

      Dean moved onto the balcony, where the ME completed his initial exam.

      “Got a time of death?” Dean asked.

      “Good morning, Hawk,” Dr. Fishman said with a grin. “So you’re back?”

      “Depends on how quickly I can close this case.” Dean snapped a series of photos of the body with his phone.

      “Well, we’ve got a mystery here.”

      “Let me hear it.”

      “I’m putting time of death approximately seven thirty. GSW to the head. I’d say the shooter was on the roof of the Night’s Inn next door.” Fishman motioned with his head.

      Dean looked across a narrow alleyway to the Night’s Inn. “You’re saying a sniper took the vic out?”

      “That’s what I’m saying.”

      But why? Dean wondered, taking a good look at the man’s face for the first time. This John Smith appeared to have lived on the streets for some time. Shabby clothes, no jewelry, dirty hair, unkempt.

      So how did this down-and-out vic wind up on the balcony of a hotel, which although clearly not the Ritz, easily cost a hundred bucks a night? Definitely a mystery, Dean thought, feeling more jazzed every minute.

      “The vic’s obviously a vagrant,” Fishman said, agreeing with Dean’s thought process. “No ID.”

      “He pissed somebody off somewhere,” Dean said.

      The doctor rose. “Will I see you at the autopsy?”

      “You got it.”

      Fishman grabbed his medical kit. “So, who would go to the trouble to set up a difficult shot on this guy?”

      “That’s what I’m here for.”

      “Hawk,” Sanchez yelled.

      Dean looked over and saw the forensics team had arrived and were suiting up to process the scene. He snapped a series of photos of the room, then exited to give the new arrivals space, careful to travel the same way he’d entered to avoid any more contamination than necessary.

      “Come with me, Sanchez,” he said to his rookie. “We’re going to talk to the desk clerk.”

      The clerk remained where Dean had last seen him, leaning against the desk counter watching the police activity. He straightened when Dean and Sanchez approached, a guarded expression on his bearded face.

      “I’m Detective Dean Hammer, and this is Officer Ruben Sanchez.” Dean stuck out his hand for the clerk to shake it.

      “Walt Ballard,” the clerk said, rubbing his hand on his jeans before shaking Dean’s.

      “Were you on duty when the shot was fired?” Dean asked. He withdrew his spiral pad to make notes.

      “Yeah. I start work at six a.m.”

      “What can you tell me?”

      “I’d just started a new pot of coffee for the breakfast buffet when I heard this pop. I knew right away it was a gunshot.”

      “You familiar with guns?” Dean asked.

      “Not really, but—well, it was a strange, scary sound. Not normal, you know. Nothing I heard around here before.”

      “What happened next?”

      Ballard shrugged. “Couple of screams from upstairs. Another guest came down, a guy, and told me there’d been a shooting. I called 911.”

      “Did you go up?”

      Ballard shook his head. “No, sir. I went nowhere near that room. I didn’t want to get shot.”

      Dean believed him. “What can you tell me about this John Smith?”

      “He checked in yesterday at noon. Polite enough, but secretive, like. Nervous, you know what I mean? Looking around constantly.”

      “You ever see him around here before?”

      “Never.”

      “Did he have ID?”

      Ballard hesitated. “He paid cash.”

      Dean gave the clerk a hard look. “You don’t require ID?”

      “If a prospective guest has cash, we let him stay. This time of year it’s tough for the owner to break even.”

      “Did he have luggage?”

      “One small airline carry-on type with wheels. Black.”

      Dean nodded. That was what he’d seen in the room. “Did he have a vehicle? Ask about parking?”

      “No.”

      “Did you see anyone suspicious that morning?”

      “No one but our regulars wanting a handout when I shut down the buffet.”

      Dean stared at Ballard, looking for obvious tells that the man was hiding something. “Didn’t you think it odd that a vagrant had cash to pay for the room?”

      “What do you mean?” Ballard looked confused. “John Smith might not be his real name, but he wasn’t any vagrant. Believe me, I know the type. There’s plenty in this neighborhood.”

      Dean withdrew his phone and brought up a photo of the body. He shoved the phone in Ballard’s face. “That John Smith, the guy you checked into room twenty-two?”

      Ballard’s eyes widened. He looked as though he’d hurl.

      “Jesus,” he breathed. “Oh, man. Oh, shit.”

      “That’s not John Smith?”

      “No, sir, that’s not John Smith. That’s Rocky. He’s homeless, a regular, hangs around here all the time. Sweetest guy ever. I let him sweep up and eat leftovers from the buffet when I shut it