Dead on Her Feet (An Antonia Blakeley Tango Mystery Book 1) (7 page)

Jackson said, “So that’s it. It’s Fraud’s case now.”

Morrow held his fire. Jackson was new. He still took the rules literally.

***

Morrow spent the rest of the day on the phone to Latin America. He saved the call to Horatio Ruiz of the
Policía Federal Argentina
for last. Ruiz was one of the good guys. It had been six years since their last contact so when Morrow called he wasn’t sure whether Ruiz would remember him.

To Morrow’s pleasant surprise, Ruiz did.

“The man who never quits. They’re still talking about you here.
¿Qué tal?
”

They shot the shit for a few minutes. When Ruiz began to reminisce about how Morrow had helped him track down and ship a reluctant government witness back to Argentina by tricking him into thinking his rich mother was about to elope with a gigolo, Morrow sensed it was time to get down to business. “I need to find an Argentine national named Jaury. Eduardo Sanchez Jaury. I’ve called the number we have for him but there’s no answer. Looked in the online
paginas blancas
and there’s no other number or address.”

“Did you look under Sanchez?”

“How’s that?”

“Jaury is his mother’s maiden name. His legal name is Eduardo Sanchez Jaury for passports and credit cards, but in social situations, and in the phone book, he would be known as Eduardo Sanchez. A venerable family.”

Hell. Morrow tossed back the dregs of his third coffee. He’d been out until two in the morning and the caffeine wasn’t helping. “Know anything about him?”

“Very little. Except what one hears.” Ruiz went silent and for a few seconds Morrow thought the line had gone dead. “The Sanchez family once owned cattle ranches and vineyards in Mendoza. When Perón came to power he instituted reforms that ruined many of the old families completely.” The Argentine coughed. Ruiz was a heavy smoker. “We’re all banging pots in the streets half the time so that part of the story is perhaps not so interesting. The Sanchez family would undoubtedly have disposed of some assets over the years.”

And Rothenberg and Guest were antiques dealers. Morrow briefly outlined the case to Ruiz, including the details that Rothenberg had wired money to Argentina and called Eduardo Sanchez Jaury and several antiques dealers the day he died.

Ruiz said, “You believe those two facts are connected?”

“Don’t know. This isn’t public, but we just got word two point eight million of Rothenberg’s money went to the B’nai B’rith of Argentina.”

Ruiz grunted. “The Jewish community service organization? They must have been very grateful.”

“But not helpful. They had no idea why Rothenberg did it.”

“And the three antiques stores you say he called the night he died – any connection there?”

Morrow stifled a yawn. “They remember talking to him all right, but they all say he was just checking on the status of his shipments.”

“All? Using those exact words?”

Ruiz was right, of course. It was too neat. Guest had had plenty of time to square the dealers if he’d needed to.

Guest’s company did a multi-million dollar business in Europe, Japan, and Latin America, much of which was conducted in cash and dutifully reported every year to the IRS, making the IRS very happy. If Guest was up to any funny business it probably wasn’t tax evasion.

“Hell,” Morrow said, kicking back in his chair. “Why did Rothenberg want to atone to the tune of nearly three million dollars?”

“At least you know he’s dead. In Argentina one doesn’t always have that luxury.”

“Can you find Sanchez? Find out what connection he had to Rothenberg and Guest and what Rothenberg said to Sanchez that day. And anything you can get on the antiques shops.”

“I will try.”

“And if you could get me a check on Sanchez’ criminal background, if any.”

“It can be dangerous to seek out such facts, if in fact they exist. The Dirty War may have ended but it has left us paranoid.”

“Even today?”

“All it takes is a new president to hand out a pardon.”

Morrow waited.

“Some of the government files have been opened,” Ruiz said, cautiously. “Perhaps some truths can now be held up to the light. But you have to know what you are doing.”

Morrow tried to think what he could say that would convince Ruiz to investigate Sanchez. “You told me once everyone has a right to justice.”

“That’s true. But not everyone receives it.”

Sacada

A displacement

IN THE COUPLE OF WEEKS
following Trasnochando, Antonia saw little of Christian. He’d gone to ground in his apartment and reunited with his computer, most likely spending all his free time on line, tweeting, chatting, blogging, role-playing, doing God knows what. But her plan to expose him to the real tango through Eduardo had borne fruit because right after the fall school session started Christian called her up and asked her to help him buy a pair of dance shoes. That led to Antonia giving him a quick series of private lessons over Labor Day weekend. Today was his first actual group class as a participant and she was determined to make it a success.

Velocity Studio smelled of Murphy’s Oil Soap, but in an hour, with twenty or so people dancing, it would smell like a locker room despite the tubercular fan wheezing away in the back.

Antonia fiddled with the CD player and, dissatisfied with her original choice, switched to D’Arienzo. She wanted her students to feel a clear beat and D’Arienzo’s rhythms were cheerful and unmistakable. “El Portenito” was one of her favorites.

At least her students were making progress on the navigation front, managing to stay in their own lanes, except for Bobby who traveled a more erratic orbit sort of like an asteroid, although she wasn’t clear if asteroids had orbits or if they just randomly hurtled through space.

Roland’s dance had improved materially since his most recent trips to BA. Navigating on crowded floors at the milongas had forced him into a simpler vocabulary, and while he still indulged in the odd showy move, he was starting to understand that it wasn’t about steps it was about the feeling you put into them. Barbara seemed to be enjoying the results, judging from the astonished pleasure on her face.

Christian slouched by one of the café tables. Today’s t-shirt choice, the Grateful Dead, meant he was feeling reasonably mellow.

She went to check on him. “Ready?”

He looked down at his feet and polished the floor with his toe, testing the suede sole of his new dance shoes. “Ha ha. It’ll take me thirty years to learn to walk.”

Shawna breezed in, still in her flight attendant’s uniform, tresses swept in a chignon, each hair perfectly into order. Despite the heat she looked perfectly cool; Antonia never understood how she managed it. “Sorry I’m late.” She darted into the ladies room and emerged a few minutes later in her usual cotton tee and yoga pants, having washed off the mask of makeup required by her profession.

Antonia promptly hailed her. “I need your help.”

“Ant, really.” Shawna waved her off. “None of your schemes. I had a rotten flight.”

“Christian’s feeling wallflowery. I need you to make his first class a success without him thinking I rigged it. He thinks I interfere enough as it is.”

 Shawna faced the mirror and extended one hand high over her head, then the other, using the bar to steady her. “He’s right,” she said to Antonia’s reflection.

“Just build up his confidence, that’s all I ask.”

“How do you suggest I do that?”

“Dance with him. Talk to him about something he knows. Ask him to help you with your computer. You know how long it takes you to send out those e-mails to the tango community. Maybe he can help you automate the process or something.”

Shawna placed one heel on the ballet bar and settled into a stretch. “That would be something, all right,” she said, bringing her nose to her knee.

Antonia stooped so her face was level with Shawna’s. “Humor me?”

Shawna shook her head ruefully as she switched legs. “I can see I’ll get no peace until I agree.”

Antonia flagged Christian down and he shuffled over. “Why don’t you warm up with Shawna?”

“I’m really crappy.”

Shawna turned from the bar. “Everybody was new once. The men you saw at El Abrazo danced every night for years to get where they are.” She opened her arms, inviting Christian to embrace her.

Christian shrugged. “Kowabunga.” He placed his right arm across her back but instead of meeting her sternum he looked down, turning his body into a human comma.

“It’s okay,” Shawna said.

“I don’t want to step on you.”

“Don’t worry, you won’t.”

Bobby and his partner listed dangerously near. “It’s true,” he yodeled joyfully over his shoulder to Christian. “I never step on Shawna’s feet. Don’t know why.”

Antonia knew why. Shawna was a good dancer and knew how to get out of the way. But with Bobby she back-led. Followers weren’t supposed to do that but with Bobby it was a matter of self-preservation.

“Just walk,” Antonia said.

Shawna turned to Antonia and pointedly raised her eyebrows. “Don’t you have a class to teach?”

Seeing Christian was well in hand Antonia waited until the tune ended and went to start the class. “Is everyone warmed up? Sorry about the sauna, the air conditioner guy can’t come ’til next week.”

The students groaned.

“Today we’re going to cover sacadas. A sacada is a displacement. It looks like you’re pushing the woman’s leg out of the way with yours but that’s just an illusion.” She invited Shawna to help demonstrate as she walked the class through the move. “Leaders, as your follower takes an open step, you step in towards your partner’s center, taking the space that she leaves. Watch where you put her weight and don’t kick her leg out.”

She took questions, cued up Di Sarli’s stately and sultry “Cuando El Amor Muere” and directed the class to try the move to music. “We’ve got more women than men today so, followers, rotate after each song. Make sure you let someone in who didn’t dance the last time.”

Roland took Barbara in his arms. After a few weight changes he led her in a simple walk and repent step. As he led her forward to his right he stepped towards Barbara’s center to initiate the sacada, but midway through the step he looked towards the door and shifted back on his heels, taking Barbara off her axis.

Antonia followed Roland’s gaze to see what had broken his concentration.

Oh, for heaven’s sakes.

“Hellooooo, everyone.” Nathalie LeFebre posed in the doorway and wiggled her fingers. Black leotard, pink flounce skirt, spike-heeled silver shoes with open toes. Bubblegum lipstick. Everything about her outfit screamed ballroom competition.

Nathalie made her entrance, the mirrors reflecting and multiplying her image, and Antonia felt the energy in the room electrify like the air right before a thunderstorm. Nathalie’s star power was such that everyone stopped and stared; the men frankly interested, the women disappointed it wasn’t another man. Bobby just blinked like he’d found dinosaur remains in the wrong geologic period. Christian’s face lit up and Antonia uneasily remembered how flustered he’d gotten over Nathalie at El Abrazo.

What in the world was she doing back in Atlanta? She was just here. So she said, cheerfully, “Take five, everyone,” as if she’d planned a break all along, and went to intercept The Interloper. Roland, trailing closely behind, seemed to have the same plan.

“Hi. How nice to see you again,” Antonia said, not meaning it.

“Hello.” Nathalie offered her a limp hand to shake. Antonia gave it a good hard squeeze.

“What are you doing here?” Roland said under his breath.

“I couldn’t wait, darling,” Nathalie said and planted a smooch on Roland’s mouth.

That’s no courtesy Hollywood peck, Antonia thought. Glancing at Shawna she saw her friend had put on her airline face: the persona that enabled experienced flight attendants to carry on in the face of air rage, bawling children, and groping drunks.

“Are you joining us today?” Antonia asked Nathalie.

Roland quickly said, “I mentioned you were teaching a class.”

Nathalie picked a stray grain of mascara off one eyelash. “Roland said you’d studied in Argentina so I thought I should give you a chance.”

The temptation to toss Nathalie out on her tutu was nearly irresistible but Antonia knew that would disrupt the class even more, so instead, she gushed, “I’m so sorry I didn’t get to see you out on the floor at Trasnochando,” keeping a straight face as she remembered how Eduardo had frog-marched Nathalie out of the milonga.

By that time Shawna had collected herself, walked over and extended her hand, taking up Antonia’s cue with the aplomb of a cold war diplomat. “We met last month. I’m Shawna Muir.”

Nathalie tilted her head back and half-closed her eyelids. “Oh. Roland’s friend.”

“Fiancée, actually,” Shawna said, fanning herself.

Nathalie dabbed at the gloss on her upper lip with the back of a manicured fingernail.

“Let me introduce you to the others.” Roland hastily took Nathalie by the elbow and steered her away.

Bobby poked forward and thrust out his hand, seemingly oblivious to the tension between the women. “Robert Glass.”

Roland added, “Bobby’s a Professor of Geology and Paleontology at Emory.”

“Oh how thrilling,” Nathalie said, “just like Cary Grant!”

Bobby blinked and Antonia could tell that the
Bringing Up Baby
reference had gone right past him. “Sorry about our weather,” he said to Nathalie, his bald spot glistening in silent testimony.

“I won’t shake hands, I’m too sweaty,” Barbara said. Antonia imagined a dog sniffing another dog and not liking the result.

Nathalie looked over Barbara’s shoulder. Seeing Christian she gave him a beauty queen touch-pearls-and-wave greeting. “So, handsome, are you learning tango now?”

Christian blushed. “Sort of. I mean, she’s teaching and I guess I’m learning.”

“Save a dance for me in that case,” Nathalie said, kissing the air in his direction.