“Everyone makes mistakes,” he said.
“But some mistakes can’t be undone.”
Gillis remained quiet for a moment, and she wondered if he’d become lost in memories of good times. Gillis’s deceased wife and her parents had been best friends. The couples frequently traveled and socialized together.
“Do any of their old employees ever contact you?” he asked in a wistful tone.
“You mean employees of Latham Imports?”
“Yeah. Your parents had some very loyal workers who took the criminal charges and the fire hard. I thought some might stay in touch.”
“I haven’t talked to any of them since the funeral, but Uncle Mike spirited me away.” June shrugged, wishing Agent Gillis hadn’t brought up her parents. “Truthfully I try not to think about my life before the fire.”
Gillis’s eyes widened. “Oh, but, June, you—”
The phone jangled. Elaine, the receptionist, wouldn’t be in until later. “I’ve got to get back to work,” June said. “Are you going to check out the birds on North Beach?”
“The shop opens at ten a.m., and I’ll be waiting.”
“Thanks,” June said, reaching for the phone. But she suspected the parrots were long gone by now; who knew where and under what conditions? If Detective Hammer had agreed to take them into custody for safekeeping, she wouldn’t have to worry about where they disappeared to. But no, the man couldn’t be bothered to even check out her photographic evidence.
As the image of the detective eased into her brain, she shook her head, knowing it wouldn’t soon leave. His dark good looks crept into her thoughts way more than they should, especially considering how uncooperative he’d been with her investigation. Yes, the man was gorgeous in that bad-boy sort of way and in fabulous physical shape—to be honest, the sexiest man she’d seen in a long time—but she didn’t get what she found so compelling about him, even if he had helped with the bird roundup.
But Gillis was right about one thing. She needed to be more careful. When she got caught gathering evidence, it only made circumstances more difficult for already stressed birds.
She looked at the bruise on her left arm, remembering how much it had hurt when Glover grabbed her and squeezed. She rotated her shoulder and felt a dull ache. No real harm done. Still, even if she wouldn’t admit it to anyone but herself, she had been frightened.
From now on she’d only go on a raid when she had backup available.
DEAN STEPPED ONTO the roof of the Night’s Inn and examined his surroundings, looking for signs of a sniper. A strong onshore breeze swirled around him, and the afternoon sun beat down on his shoulders. Heat shimmered off patches of black tar beneath his feet. He could see and hear the crashing waves of the Atlantic Ocean to his east. The high-rises of downtown Miami were visible far to the northwest.
He walked to the south edge of the structure. Below him, the vic’s balcony jutted from the Sea Wave in plain view. The body had been removed—already on its way to the morgue—but dark blood stained the concrete floor. Yellow crime-scene tape flapped in the gusty wind in front of the hotel.
Beside him, a huge olive-green air-conditioning compressor provided good cover. He nodded. Perfect place to hide.
All the shooter had to do was hunker down beside the compressor and wait for the target to step onto the balcony. Dean examined loose gravel next to the machinery and, yeah, a disturbed area indicated someone had moved around up here. No clear shoeprints to make a mold.
How long had the perp waited for his victim? All night? No, the shooter had probably positioned himself just before daybreak, but time in the hide could stretch out forever.
Dean closed one eye and held up his thumb as if taking aim. He sucked salty, humid air into his lungs. Wait for it, he told himself and let out half his breath, finding the most stable part of the cycle. No tremors. The best time to take the shot.
No doubt that was what the murderer had done. Dean felt that certainty shimmering in the steamy air around him. But why? He needed to find out who this vagrant was, what he’d done that would make someone kill him.
Dean searched the roof, but found no evidence that would help him identify the sniper. Whoever he was, he—or she—was damn good. They’d left nothing behind to give them away. But that was what he’d expected. Someone skilled enough to make that shot would also be careful. Very careful. And cautious.
Satisfied with his examination of the roof, Dean descended stairs reeking of stale urine. Likely vagrants figured out a way to sleep here on rainy nights.
On the slow elevator ride back to the Night’s Inn lobby, he decided to send Forensics to the roof to process the area, although he doubted they’d find any trace of whoever had shot Rocky—a name as likely to be fake as John Smith.
Damn, just who was this Rocky? Why did someone want him dead?
Motivation, he thought. I need to find the motivation and then I’ll know why, and that can lead me to the who.
He hoped the desk clerk had the surveillance video ready. They’d caught a break there, as the owner kept his lobby video a week because of a string of recent burglaries in the area. Dean hoped for a good image of John Smith and anyone else entering the Sea Wave in the past twenty-four hours. Although a shot of the perp was unlikely. His emerging profile of the shooter didn’t indicate the man was stupid.
Sanchez met him on the terrazzo porch of the Sea Wave. “Anything?” he asked.
“Nada,” Dean said. “Roof area was clean. Have you finished with the possible witnesses?”
Sanchez nodded. “Nobody saw anything suspicious.”
“Talk to them again. Find out if anyone sleeps in the stairwell leading to the roof next door.”
“You’re thinking they could have seen someone heading up?”
“You never know. I’m going to check out the surveillance. Find me when you’re done.”
Dean entered the lobby. He spotted Ballard in an office behind the front desk and moved in that direction.
Ballard looked up from working with antiquated video equipment. “I’m not quite ready, Detective.”
“What’s the problem?”
“It’s slow. I’m still looping back the twenty-four hours you wanted.”
“How long?”
“Give me ten more minutes.”
Dean nodded, but frustration gnawed at him. Time was ticking. The first forty-eight hours were critical. He glanced outside to the ferocious glare of the tropical August sun and spotted the woman with the yellow turban by the dunes still perched on her walker. She was facing the hotels now, looking away from the beach, probably watching the police activity.
Time for a little chat.
She watched him approach, but her expression didn’t change. When he got near, he could see his reflection in her huge sunglasses and suspected she had corrective lenses behind the dark ones. He noted a blue cooler in a wire shelf at the bottom of the walker.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said.
“You a cop?” she asked.
“Good guess,” he said and displayed his badge.
“Thought so. Someone got murdered, didn’t they?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Been out here since daybreak.