Her Cop Protector. Sharon Hartley

      “You know what I mean. Rescue groups.”

      “Of course it’s possible, but—” June studied the photo again. When she looked up, Hammer watched her as if she were prey. “You think I’m lying, don’t you? You think I know this John Smith.”

      “And just yesterday you told me that you never lie,” he said in an intimate tone, one a date might use over a glass of wine.

      She sucked in a breath and glanced at the partner, who returned her gaze without changing his expression. Maybe my life is about to change again.

      “I have no reason to lie,” she said.

      “Ma’am, we’re just trying to understand the facts,” Hammer said, totally professional again.

      Is he trying to confuse me? “I understand, but—”

      “Don’t you see how we find it odd that this man would release the very birds you’re trying to rescue and you don’t know him?”

      “Yes, I admit it’s strange. I thought it was bizarre yesterday, but I swear that’s what happened. He did say something to me as I was taking photos, but I couldn’t make it out and thought he might be trying to stop me.”

      The detective made a note, a sour expression on his face.

      “Do you think I’m involved with this homeless man’s murder?”

      Hammer met her gaze and stared right through her as if trying to peer into her very soul. Unable to look away, June held her breath, wondering what he saw. Was he trying to decide if she were a murderess? Maybe that was why he’d been watching her so carefully. He didn’t know her and wondered if he were dealing with a stone-cold killer.

      Damn, she might not be perfect, but no one had ever suspected her of murder.

      A light rap on the door broke the moment. “Come in,” June said, relieved.

      Dr. Trujillo cracked the door and stuck in her head. “Can I interrupt for just one minute?”

      June jumped to her feet. “I’m sorry, Doctor. Do you need me?”

      The doctor stepped into her office. Both policemen stood.

      “Sit, sit,” she said. “Sarah Weksler canceled, and I just want to get my cell phone.” After throwing June a questioning glance, the doctor stepped out of the office with her purse. The policemen took their seats.

      “Hope we haven’t gotten you in trouble with your boss,” Hammer said.

      “Yeah, me, too,” June replied. “But you didn’t answer my question. Am I a suspect in this murder?”

      “No, ma’am,” Hammer said. “You’re what we call a person of interest.”

      “Because you think I might have information to help you solve the case?”

      “That’s what we were hoping.”

      “I’m sorry,” June said, “but I don’t know anything about your John Smith.”

      Rising, Detective Hammer reached for the photograph. Her gaze zeroed in on the holstered gun strapped to his right hip.

      “Thank you for your time, Ms. Latham.”

      “I wish I could be more help,” she said, coming to her feet, thankful the interrogation was over.

      Hammer handed her another business card, his warm finger lightly brushing hers in the transfer.

      “Please think about your encounter with John Smith and give me a call if you think of anything else.”

      “But I don’t—”

      “Anything at all, ma’am. Our forensics team is analyzing the surveillance this photo came from. Would you agree to come into the station and watch the full video to see if that triggers any memory?”

      June bit her lip and looked away from Hammer’s piercing stare, thinking there must be more to his request than a simple viewing of a video. He had another reason to get her into the station. What is the difference between a person of interest and a suspect?

      “Sometimes the smallest thing can be the break we need to put a guilty party behind bars,” he prompted.

      June sighed. “Okay, sure. When?”

      “I’ll be in touch when the evidence is ready for viewing. Thank you, Ms. Latham.”

      Hammer’s partner nodded at her as they left Dr. Trujillo’s office. June followed them out, more unsettled than she liked by her disturbing conversation with the detective.

      What the hell was going on?

      Dr. Trujillo and Elaine waited for her behind the reception desk. When the police officers had exited, Elaine pounced.

      “Tell us everything.”

      June gave them a quick rundown of what had happened in the pet shop. “The police hoped I remembered something about the man who released the birds that could help them with their murder investigation.”

      “Oh, my goodness. You’re a suspect?” Elaine grinned, looking as if the idea pleased her enormously.

      “No. Or at least they say I’m not.”

      “What were you doing on Miami Beach?” Dr. Trujillo asked, her jaw set in disapproval. “Looking for smuggled birds?”

      “Jared got a tip,” June said simply. The less said the better.

      “Dios Mio, Junie. You know how I feel about you doing that. You could get hurt,” the doctor said.

      “Is the tall one married?” Elaine asked.

      “I have no idea,” June replied quickly. His relationship status had never occurred to her. Detective Hammer’s body language, hell, his whole persona, the way he openly checked her out, made her believe he was available. Available and looking. Looking very closely at her.

      But married men flirted and cheated all the time. Of course she knew that. And she certainly wasn’t interested in the domineering Detective Hammer.

      “Just my type,” Elaine said, fluffing her hair. “Serious hunk.”

      “I concur,” the doctor said. “But don’t you think he’s a bit young for you, Elaine?”

      Elaine shrugged. “Just saying.”

      “Well, let’s close up, ladies,” Dr. Trujillo suggested. “I think we’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

      “Heck, I wish handsome detectives would visit us every day,” Elaine said as she pulled her purse from under a counter. “Lots more fun than a bunch of sick cats.”

      As June locked drawers and cabinets, she did as Hammer asked and thought about her brief encounter with John Smith, trying to remember anything distinctive about him to aid the police. Something about the still photo niggled at the back of her brain, some flash of familiarity. What was it?

      She decided that feeling was most likely from seeing him in the pet shop two days ago. She didn’t know him.

      On her short walk home to the Enclave, she tried again. Trouble was, when she dredged up an image of John Smith, her thoughts immediately drifted to Detective Dean Hammer and his oh-so-penetrating gaze. Blue eyes and black hair. What a combination. She shook her head. The less she thought about Hammer, the better. She needed to put the whole incident out of her mind.

      She paused as she entered the lobby, wondering if she should pay a visit to Uncle Mike’s beloved Shelby Cobra. She’d drive it to the bird walk next Saturday, but that was a week away and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d started that damn car. She sighed. Better do that now.

      Steeling herself for a trip down to the dungeon, she waved at Magda behind the concierge