Sharon Hartley - Her Cop Protector

She reached inside her jeans pocket, fingers tightening around her phone. She needed one good peek at a counterfeit band for confirmation. She’d take photos, enlarge them and she’d have her proof.

The door clanged behind her, signaling the entry of another customer. Her heart tripped into a faster pace again, but maybe this arrival would provide a distraction from her own activities.

The clerk murmured a greeting, and the newcomer, a male, grunted a reply as June leaned closer and peered at the leg of a magnificent scarlet macaw who glared back at her with haughty disdain. The bird stepped away with a short cackle.

“Hold still, my beauty,” June whispered, focusing on the leg band, looking for the telltale signs of the fake markers, a bruised leg and missing scales—yes, there. Definitely bogus. She nodded to herself. But she already knew that.

With another sideways look at the clerk, she raised her phone, positioning her body to hide her actions. The second customer—a man—stepped next to her. She ignored him and raised the camera. You’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, buddy. Sorry.

The customer said something during her first click, but he whispered his words and she couldn’t stop gathering evidence to ask him to repeat himself. She kept clicking, gathering images of as many captives as possible.

“Hey” came a rough shout from behind her. “What the hell you think you’re doing?”

June ignored the clerk. Beside her the new guy spoke again—the inflection sounding like a question—but his words were lost in the resumed squawking of agitated birds roused by the hostility of the clerk hurrying toward her.

“Damn it, lady. Stop taking photographs.”

June didn’t stop until a rough hand closed around her upper left arm and squeezed hard.

“Hey,” she said, trying to pull away. “That hurts.”

“It’s gonna hurt a lot more if you don’t hand over that camera.”

She glared at him—but went still when she met his dark eyes. Fear flared in her belly as the man tightened his grip. This was precisely what Agent Gillis had warned her about. She shouldn’t have come alone when Jared got sick and canceled.

She slid the phone into her pocket. “Let go of me or I’ll file an assault charge.”

“I don’t think so, lady. You just give me your phone.”

“Or what?”

“Or else you’ll be very sorry. These are my birds, and I don’t want you taking photographs.”

So he was the owner. Bad luck, but explained his vigilance. June again tried to wrench out of his grasp, but he only squeezed harder. She swallowed, the pain in her arm now making it difficult to concentrate. She pushed away the stirrings of panic. Would this man really hurt her?

Hell, yes. The jerk’s greed caused the murder of hundreds of smuggled birds.

“I’ll scream,” she said.

“And who do you think will care?”

Before she could answer, a brilliant red bird swooped over her head. She ducked instinctively, as did the shop owner.

“What the—” the owner shouted, finally, blessedly, releasing his grip.

The macaw flapped madly, but clipped wings made it impossible for him to go far.

Rubbing her arm, June turned in time to watch the new customer fling open the last cage and urge its prisoners to flee.

“What are you doing?” the owner shouted.

As if in answer, birds streamed out of confinement. Triumphant screeches resonated through the shop as feathered creatures in hues of green, blue, red and yellow attempted flight, but most only hopped awkwardly around shelves and the filthy floor of the shop.

The front door clanged again, and June focused on the back of the liberator as he rushed outside. A flight-worthy yellow-headed parrot zoomed for the opening. Oh, no. Fearing he’d be crushed by the closing door, she held her breath. But vivid green wings flapped through safely and disappeared into a patch of blue sky, no doubt headed for the closest tree.

“Shit,” the owner moaned.

With a sigh, June withdrew her phone again and called the police.

* * *

DETECTIVE DEAN HAMMER heaved himself out of his police cruiser into heavy tropical air. Shaking his head, he eyeballed the peeling paint of the mom-and-pop pet shop in the seedy business section of North Miami Beach—a long eight miles from South Beach. He’d been busted not only off his beat, but off his regular gig. His lieutenant’s cute idea of punishment. Yeah, real cute.

“Hey, Hawk,” his temporary partner—a fresh-faced rookie whose training was also part of his exile—asked across the roof of the vehicle, “when was the last time you responded to a disturbance at a pet shop?”

“Yeah, well, that would be never, Sanchez.”

Sanchez grinned. “Do you think the pets inside are rioting?”

“Funny. If you learn one thing while working with me, Sanchez, you need to be ready for anything on a call.”

Sanchez nodded and glanced toward the shop’s facade. “Yeah, I know, I know.”

You just think you know, rookie. Dean patted the Kevlar vest under his shirt and moved toward the entrance. “Things can go south in a heartbeat.”

“And you must be prepared,” Sanchez mimicked. “I bet you won’t need your Remington M24 here, though.”

“God, I hope not,” Dean said as he jerked open the door. A sniper gun at a pet shop? A giant cowbell clanged overhead as he entered.

“Jeez,” Sanchez breathed behind him over a cacophony of shrieking birds. “What the hell happened here?”

Good question, Dean thought, focusing on dozens of colorful parrots hopping and leaping in aborted flight attempts around the shop. No bodies. No citizens bleeding. No apparent robbery.

Damn if Sanchez hadn’t nailed it. The birds had staged a riot and broken out.

A man, presumably an employee, chased the animals with little success. As soon as he got close to a parrot, the bird squawked and deftly hopped away. He’d managed to capture a few, though, since cages in the rear of the shop housed parrots. Dean looked for and spotted a surveillance camera on the back wall.

“Be careful where you walk,” the man shouted. “Don’t step on any of them.”

“Uh, right,” Dean said, his attention zeroing in on the only other person in the shop, a tall, knockout blonde in her midtwenties who stood by the cash register yacking on a cell phone.

“And arrest her,” the bird chaser said. “She’s responsible for this.”

Arrest her? Dean’s mood lightened. He’d like to interrogate this one, her sophisticated beauty reminding him of the Russian models who frequented Ocean Drive.

“You the owner?” Dean asked the man.

After a pause where he seemed to consider his answer, he said, “Yes. David Glover.”

“Did she release the birds?” Sanchez yelled over the bird noise.

“I did not,” the woman replied. She lowered her phone and gave the owner a look that would freeze lava.

“But your partner did,” the owner shouted.

“I don’t have a partner,” she said.

“Yeah, right. Like you never saw the guy before.”

“Never. And you’re the one who should be arrested.”

“For what?”

The blonde turned to Dean. “I called the authorities.”

“You bitch,” Glover said. “Only because I was too busy with—”

“Hold on, hold on,” Dean interjected, the squawking of both human and bird now giving him a major headache. “Sanchez, help this guy round up the birds while I interview this nice lady.”

The blonde nodded and dropped her phone into a large purse slung over her shoulder, its strap pressing between very nice breasts.

Sanchez grinned. “Good thing you warned me to be ready for anything.”