Dead on Her Feet (An Antonia Blakeley Tango Mystery Book 1) (4 page)

Lauren deserved to know what had driven her ex-husband to the river in the first place. But the department wouldn’t authorize him to go to Argentina without evidence of a crime. Unless the tox exam came back with something or there was something concrete on the tape or in Rothenberg’s records he’d have to clear the case, leaving the poor woman with nothing to help her make sense of her grief.

Once the hows and the whats are known, as a policeman you were supposed to move on, leaving the whys to pile up until they finally buried you.

But the Marine in him could never let it go.

Morrow stood up. The rain was coming down hard now. Pretty soon they’d both be soaked.

“I’ll find out,” he promised.

Humiliation

CHRISTIAN COOKERLY LOOKED OUT
of his remaining good eye at the campus security officer and willed himself not to cry. His interrogator had been trying to get him to “own up to his offenses,” while they contacted his “responsible party.” Crap. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

They were holding him in the basement of the administration building which stank like some animal had died and been left to putrefy. They’d parked him at a metal table for over two hours in the most uncomfortable chair imaginable. The officer, some crosswalk-checking, parking ticket–giving punk in a pseudo cop uniform, was downing a Coke. The only thing they’d given him was a cup of water from the drinking fountain and a paper towel so he could put something cold on his face. Massively unfair.

He’d just wanted to be near her. She’d been at lunch in the cafeteria. Normally she was surrounded and he kept his distance but summer finals had just ended and some of the students had gone home. This time he’d sat just a few tables away, pretending to study, but really watching her. What would she do if she caught him looking at her? Maybe she’d smile. Say hello. The last thing he remembered was some neanderthal in a Yellow Jackets jersey yelling
what are you staring at, you little prick,
and a fist the size of a bowling ball coming straight at him.

When Ant finally blew in to the room like some human weather front, he tried to smile, but it hurt his jaw.

She marched over, took one look at him, and cocked her head. “Are you okay, honey?”

The campus security officer didn’t even give him a chance to answer. “Your nephew was involved in an altercation.”

Ant pressed her palm to his forehead like he was some kid with a fever. Embarrassing beyond belief. “Any vomiting? Dizziness?”

“Ms. Blakeley, I’m afraid your nephew’s been stalking one of our female students—”

 “Officer, I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.” Ant said it in the sugary way that meant she was getting POed, but the officer was too dense to notice.

“Turner, ma’am.”

 “I know you have your job to do but I’m sure you’ll agree our first priority should be to make sure Christian doesn’t have a concussion.”

“I’m fine,” Christian mumbled, trying to ignore the throbbing in his temples. Normally he enjoyed having Ant fuss over him; nobody else ever paid him any attention. But the last thing he wanted right now was to look weak in front of some asshole with a fake military badge.

Officer Turner said, “He broke into the registrar’s computer system to find out her schedule for the fall session. He’s admitted to following her on several occasions.”

Christian muttered, “I just said I sometimes went to her classes.”

Ant straightened up and addressed Turner directly. “There’s a big difference between hovering and harassing. Believe me, I know, I was married. What about this girl, what’s her name? What does she have to say?”

He’d just wanted to get to know her a little first before he talked to her, that’s all. Courtenay Augenbroe came from Seal Beach, California and her birthday was November 27. She had signed up to take Construction Technology and Design Integration, French Literature, Medieval Architecture, and Introduction to Design Computing, which he wouldn’t be able to go to since it conflicted with his schedule, but sounded interesting. She liked fantasy novels and poetry, just like he did. Sometimes she wore flowing dresses that reminded him of Arwen in
Lord of the Rings
.

 Ant made herself at home in one the metal chairs at the table, crossed her legs, and started to play with her ponytail, a sign Christian knew from experience meant she was going to blow some serious smoke. “You know, Officer Turner, there’s a romantic tradition of men doing what it takes to be close to the women they love. Romeo and Juliet, what light from yonder window breaks, what’s his name in
Carmen
—that’s probably not a good example, I think he stabs her —”

What the fuck, Christian thought.

“—Stanley and Stella in
Night of the Iguana
– maybe that’s the wrong play, it’s one of those Tennessee Williams plays, you know, Marlon Brando. Stellllllll-aaaah.”

And then it dawned on him. Ant was trying to get the officer to crack up.

Officer Turner didn’t seem to know what to do. So he shuffled his papers. “Your nephew also attacked our star quarterback. Broke his nose.”

Damn. He didn’t remember hitting the guy. What burned in his brain was how they’d dragged him out of the cafeteria like a criminal in front of the entire universe. Courtenay had noticed him then, all right. Her flashing green eyes had met his as the campus security people paraded him past her and out of the building.

“Christian? A hundred and forty?” Ant was shaking his shoulder.

He realized he’d spaced out. “What?”

“I was just saying it looks like the other guy hit you pretty hard. Officer Turner, are we by chance talking about that star player, Beaumont? Didn’t his family just give you guys a zillion dollars for a new locker room? Beaumont must have, what, at least thirty pounds on you, Christian. How much do you weigh?”

“A hundred and fifty-four,” he muttered, touching the area around his eye. The swelling was getting worse.

“There’s no way Christian started this fight,” she said to Officer Turner. “What do the other witnesses say? There must have been quite a crowd in the cafeteria.”

The officer shifted in his seat and Christian realized campus security hadn’t even bothered to check. They just took the neanderthal’s word because he was on the fucking football team.

Ant pressed her advantage. “You wouldn’t want one of your student’s parents to charge your star player with assault, would you? Even an accusation would be damaging. All those suits and countersuits, allegations flying, pretty soon people don’t know what to believe and all they remember is that Georgia Tech is losing its football games because their quarterback’s been suspended, and just like that”—she snapped her fingers—“there goes the money for the new stadium. Don’t they cancel each other out, officer, like a debit and a credit? An eye for an eye? Or in this case, an eye for a nose?”

Ha, Christian thought.

Officer Turner picked up his notes, leafed through them, and finally squiggled something at the bottom. He put the cap back on his pen and laid it down in front of him. He didn’t seem to realize Ant had just beaten him. “Miss Augenbroe has agreed not to press charges as long as your nephew keeps his distance from her.”

 Oh great, Christian thought. Now I’ll never see her again.

“Can you guarantee that, Miss Blakeley?”

“Absolutely,” she said, twisting her ponytail into a knot and letting it spill from her fingers. She wasn’t going to promise anything to some dumbass. He was free, and as soon as he got out he was going to the drive-through to get himself a ginormous hamburger and a chocolate milkshake.

“However, the UJC has suspended Christian for thirty days.”

Ant’s mouth dropped open. “What? That’s completely unfair. What about your football player? Did you suspend him? What did Courtenay Augenbroe say? You never answered my question.”

Officer Turner stood up and hitched up his pants. “Take it up with them if you don’t like it.”

“This is totally rigged, I should have expected this. C’mon, Christian, let’s go.” Ant took him by the arm and hauled him out of the chair. “Somewhere civilized.”

Chasing the Ghost

ATLANTA’S ANNUAL TANGO WEEKEND,
Trasnochando, held the first week of August, attracted some of the best dancers in the US and even a smattering of authentic Argentine milongueros from Buenos Aires. Seven nights a week, fifty-two weeks a year, these hard-core dancers ventured out to the
milongas
to seek that one elusive, transcendent moment of heaven on the social dance floor. Some called it “chasing the ghost.”

The welcome milonga, held at El Abrazo restaurant, was the most formal of the dances, as authentic and civilized a tango experience as you could hope for outside of Buenos Aires. The level of dance was quite high. People dressed up. And most importantly from Antonia’s perspective, they honored the
codigos
, the laws of etiquette defining the ethical code and behaviors that allowed men and women to safely navigate the tango world, socially and emotionally. Without these rules, the passions that tango inspired could spin out of control with disastrous consequences.

The organizers had arranged the tables in a U shape around the Brazilian-cherry dance floor as they would have been laid out in an Argentine milonga. Antonia had snuck Christian in with the help of his fake ID, and because of her friendship with the host she’d been able to reserve one of the coveted tables in the front row. As a special favor he’d also let her have a lesser one directly behind it. She and Shawna would occupy the best table; Roland, Eduardo, and Christian would take the second best, and they could switch later in the evening.

Antonia sipped her mineral water with lemon and let the kaleidoscope of impressions flash by: men and women of all ages chatting in English and Spanish, an older dancer buttoning his suit jacket, a dress held together with a Jacob’s ladder of laces, a worn maroon suede shoe with three-inch heels and ankle straps, the somber accordion-like sound of the bandoneon, smells of warm flesh, perfume, and espresso. Home. It was all she could do to stop herself from finding the nearest man and dragging him onto the floor, but of course, it didn’t work like that.

Her plan was perfect. Expose Christian to the tango world, introduce him to some suitable women to take his mind off the Georgia Tech girl, have Eduardo serve as his role model, as a dancer and socially. And she’d sneak in a few killer dances.

She turned around to see what Christian was making of the scene and found him rocking back and forth in his chair trying not to gawk at all the women in their body-revealing dresses. In the amber light the remains of his black eye were barely noticeable.

Arturo, her favorite DJ, stood at the controls in the sound booth, conducting an imaginary orchestra. Instinctively knowing which song out of hundreds would inspire the dancers at any given moment, he’d chosen Pedro Laurenz’ version of “Milonga Compadre.” Cheerful and peppy but not frantic. Just right.

Christian nudged her foot. “How come the women and the men aren’t sitting together? It’s like junior high in here.”

“It’s the convention in Argentina and we’re trying to create an authentic experience. If you come with a date and you sit at separate tables it tells everyone you’re both free to dance around. If you sit together you’re dancing just with each other. It’s part of the code.” Seeing Christian’s blank look she scooted her chair closer to his table so she could talk without disturbing her neighbors. “In a Buenos Aires milonga you never approach a woman who’s attached.”

Christian drummed his fingers on the table, typing at an imaginary keyboard.

She patted his forearm. “Aren’t you glad you came?”

“Nobody understands,” he muttered, but Antonia noticed his attention had turned back to the women.

The rock and roll
cortina
began to play, signaling the end of the set. The table to her right still had a reserved sign on it to be claimed by one of the cab drivers, yoga instructors, reporters, software developers, doctors, or artists who arranged their lives around tango. None of her favorite out-of-town partners had shown yet: Osvaldo,
dulce de leche
smooth; Matthew, insistent and staccato; Marcelo, all romantic paisleys; and the man she’d privately nicknamed the Golden Pillow, who danced a beautiful lullaby. Poor Julio wouldn’t be coming again, ever. He’d collapsed in the street from a heart attack after dancing all night at Nino Bien in Buenos Aires. The old guard was dying off, and with each loss a little piece of her was dying with them.

The DJ might have sensed her melancholy because right on cue came one of her personal favorites, Troilo’s “Mi Tango Triste,” the vigorous introduction enough to revive the composer himself from the dead. The orchestra picked up the nostalgic tune and turned it joyful, the violins, bandoneon and piano teasing each other, flicking notes back and forth; then Alberto Marino’s voice joined them, hesitating ever so slightly at the end of a phrase, leaving space for the orchestra’s response before plunging in again.

She spied Shawna, resplendent in a midnight-blue halter dress, slipping in past the bar and through the crowd. Roland followed close behind in one of his too-perfectly tailored suits, supporting her elbow with his hand to guide her through the closely packed tables. Antonia said to Christian, “Now remember, pay no attention to any of Roland’s advice on tango or women.” She stood up, preparing to greet the couple.

“I heard that, sweetie.” Shawna kissed her cheek. “Sorry we’re late. Bones was packed. Hi, Christian.”

Roland took Antonia’s hand and surveyed her head to toe. “Helen of Troy,” he said, his voice more a caress than a drawl, “in that little number you could launch a thousand ships. Breathtaking.”

Shawna threaded her arm through Roland’s and rolled her eyes at Antonia. “My oxygen-deprived fiancé.” She dropped her shoe bag under the table and sat while Roland settled in next to Christian.