LITMIR.BIZ

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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.”

      “You’re a real comedian, Sanchez.” Dean pointed a finger at the owner. “We’ll talk after you get your merchandise under control.”

      The blonde smiled. “Let me know how that turns out,” she said to the owner.

      Dean suppressed a laugh and interrupted the owner’s heated response. She had a point. The shopkeeper wasn’t dealing well with his escapees.

      “You got an office in the back I can use?” he asked.

      Dean noted Glover’s second hesitation. Apparently the man had secrets to protect. “I won’t look at a thing,” Dean said, holding up his arms.

      “Yeah, go ahead,” Glover said and resumed chasing his birds, sidestepping around a growing accumulation of bird droppings.

      The blonde smiled again, obviously finding the owner’s frustrated lunges for his elusive birds hilarious. Glad to escape the noise, Dean ushered the woman toward the back. He liked the way she moved—her legs seemed to glide over the floor and she held herself with perfect graceful posture.

      Inside the tiny dump of an office, he motioned for her to sit in a chair facing a messy desk. He also sat and removed his interview notebook.

      “Why aren’t you in uniform?” she asked.

      “Because I’m a detective.”

      Her eyes widened. “They sent a detective?”

      Dean nodded. “Bird riots demand the full attention of the Miami Beach Police Department.”

      “Ha-ha.”

      “What’s your name, ma’am?”

      “June Latham.”

      “Address?”

      After he got the basics, he said, “So, why don’t you tell me what happened here this morning, Ms. Latham?”

      “This pet shop markets illegally captured wild birds.”

      Dean glanced up from his notes. “How do you know?”

      “Their leg bands are counterfeit.” She shifted her weight to one hip and crossed a slim, shapely leg. “I came here to gather proof for Fish and Wildlife.”

      Dean rubbed his chin, thinking. “So you liberated these illegal birds so they could fly free again.”

      “Of course not. Releasing them without a safe harbor plan could harm them.” She bit her bottom lip and looked down. “Actually, I should go help that clod before he harms one. He has no idea how to handle birds.”

      “And you do?”

      “Yes.” She leaned forward. “Can you arrest him?”

      “Like he said, for what?”

      “For selling illegal—”

      “I think you know I can’t do that.”

      She sat back and crossed her arms. “An arrest would teach him a lesson.”

      “Not my job.” Although, considering his forced time with rookie Sanchez, maybe lessons were his job. “So, who released the birds? That’s the crime I’m investigating.”

      “I don’t know who he was. Some customer in the shop. I never saw him before.”

      “Give me a description.”

      She shrugged. “I barely looked at him. Maybe fifty or sixty, bald. Taller than me, maybe six feet. Really thin.”

      “Not bad for barely looking at him,” Dean said. “So, what happened?”

      “When that jerk grabbed my arm— Hey, that’s a crime.” She sat up straighter. “Assault.”

      “Do you want to file charges?”

      She leaned back, glancing toward the outer room. “Let me think about that.”

      “Go on. The owner grabbed you...”

      June Latham rubbed her

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