Dead on the Dance Floor (2 page)

“H
ey, Quinn, someone to see you.”

Quinn O'Casey was startled to see Amber Larkin standing at the top of the ladder as he crawled his way up. He was in full dive gear, having spent the past forty-five minutes scraping barnacles from the hull of the
Twisted Time,
his boat.

To the best of his knowledge, Amber had been in Key Largo, at work at the office, where she should have been. He was on vacation. She wasn't.

He arched a brow, indicating that she should step back so he could come aboard. She did so, ignoring the look that also questioned her arrival when he should have been left the hell alone. So much for chasing a man down.

She backed up, giving him room, and when he stepped on deck, tossing down his flippers, pulling off his dive mask, he saw the reason she had come. His brother was standing behind her.

“Hey, Doug,” he said, frowning at them both.

“You might have mentioned you were coming up. I wouldn't have had to drive down to Key Largo just to make Amber drive back up to Miami with me.”

Maybe he should have mentioned his vacation time to his brother, but why drag him down? Doug had gone through the police academy less than a year ago. An enthusiastic and ambitious patrolman, he was a younger brother to be proud of, having survived his teen years and young adulthood without the growing pains that had plagued Quinn's younger years—and a few of his older ones, for that matter. But hell, that was why he was back in South Florida, despite the gut-wrenching work he'd found instead of the easy slide he'd expected at the beginning.

Quinn shook his head. He was glad to be back home in South Florida. It could be one hell of a great place to live.

It could also showcase the most blatant forms of man's inhumanity to his fellow man.

And thus, the vacation. It wasn't as if he felt shattered or anything like that. Hell, he knew he couldn't control the evils of the world, or even those of a single man. But who the hell had ever expected what had happened to Nell Durken? He should be glad that the scum who had killed her was under arrest and would either be put away for life or meet a date with death. Still, whatever Art Durken's sentence, Nell was gone. And maybe he did blame himself a little, wonder if he shouldn't have told her to get away from the man immediately. But she had just come in to hire Quinn for routine surveillance, so who the hell knew until it was too late just what kind of a hornet's nest they'd stirred up. Eventually he
had
suggested that she part from her husband, and he had assumed she meant to do so, armed with the information regarding the man that Quinn had been able to give her.

But she hadn't left fast enough. Art hadn't been abusive, not physically, though he had been sexually demanding of Nell while spending his own time in a number of places outside his own home—and with a number of women who had not been his wife.

Who the hell could have known the guy would suddenly become homicidal?

He should have—he should have suspected Nell could be in danger.

Today he felt something like the boat—his time on that particular case had caused a growth of barnacles over his skin. Some time off might help scrape off the festering scabs of surprise and bitterness.

Vacation. From work, from family, from friends.

Maybe especially family. Doug didn't deserve any of his foul mood or foul temper.

And also, he hadn't actually been up to spending time with Doug. His brother could be a royal pain in the ass, a nonstop barrage of questions and inquiries. Like an intern in an emergency room, ready to diagnose a malady in any tic of the body, Doug was ready to find evil in every off-the-wall movement in the people around him.

A tough way to be in Miami-Dade County, where more than half the inhabitants could be considered a bit off-the-wall.

Quinn didn't know whether to groan or be concerned. Doug wouldn't have hunted him down to ask hypothetical questions. A tinge of unease hit him suddenly.

“Mom?” Quinn said worriedly.

“Heart ticking like an industrial clock,” Doug assured him quickly. “However, she did mention that you hadn't been by lately, and she enjoys it when you come around to dinner once a week. You might want to give her a call.”

“I left her a message that I was fine, just kind of busy.”

“Yeah, but she's a smart woman, you know. She reads the newspapers.”

“Is that why you're here?” Quinn demanded, arching a brow.

“I have a case for you,” Doug said, moving around his brother to grab the dive tank Quinn had just unbuckled.

“Guess what, baby bro? I don't need you to find cases for me. The agency does that very well—too well. Besides, I'm on vacation.”

“Yeah, Amber told me. That's why I thought it would be a great time for you to take on something private I've been thinking about.”

Quinn went ahead and groaned. “Dammit, Doug. You mean you want me to do a bunch of prying around for free.” He glared at Amber.

“Hey, he's your brother,” she said defensively. “And you know what? Now that we've found you, I think I'll let you two talk. I'm going over to Nick's for a hamburger.” Tossing her long blond hair over her shoulder, she started off the boat, casting back a single glance so she could try to read Quinn's scowl and figure out just how annoyed he was with her.

Doug wore a rueful grin on his face. “Hey, I'll rinse your equipment for you,” he said, as if offering some kind of an apology.

“Good. Go ahead. I'll be in the cabin.”

Quinn took the two steps down to the
Twisted Time
's head, stripped and stepped beneath a spray of fresh water for a moment, then wrapped a towel around his waist and dug a clean pair of cutoffs out of the wicker laundry basket on the bed of the main cabin. Barefoot and still damp, he returned to the main cabin area, pulled a Miller from the fridge in the galley and sat on the sofa just beyond it, waiting, fingers drumming, scowl still in place.

Doug came down the steps, nimble and quick, a grimace on his face as he, too, went to the fridge, helped himself to a beer and sat on the port-side sofa, facing Quinn.

“You want me to do something for free, right?” Quinn said, scowling.

“Well…sort of. Actually, it's going to cost you.”

“What?”

“I need you to take dance lessons.”

Quinn stared at his younger brother, stunned speechless for several seconds. “You're out of your mind,” he told Doug.

“No, no, I'm not, and you'll understand in a few minutes.”

“No, I won't.”

“Yes, you will. It's about a death.”

“Do you know how many people die everyday, Doug? Hey, you're the cop. If this was suspicious death, it was—or will be—investigated. And even if it was deemed natural or accidental, you must know someone in the department who can look into it.”

Quinn shook his head. Looking at Doug was almost like seeing himself a number of years ago. There was an eight-year age gap between them. They looked something alike, identical in height at six-two, but Doug still had the lean, lanky strength of a young man in his early twenties, while Quinn himself had broadened out. Quinn's hair was dark, while Doug's was a wheaten color, but they both had their father's deep blue, wide-set eyes and hard-angled face. Sometimes they moved alike, using their hands when they spoke, as if words weren't quite enough, and folding them prayer fashion or tapping them against their chins when they were in deep thought. For a moment Quinn reflected on his irritation at being interrupted here, but Doug had always been a damned good brother, looking up to him, being there for him, never losing faith, even when Quinn had gone through his own rough times.

“I can't get anyone in the department interested in this,” Doug admitted. “There's been too much going on in the county lately. They're hunting a serial rapist who's getting more violent with each victim, a guard was killed at a recent robbery…trust me, homicide is occupied. Too busy to get involved when it looks like an accidental death. There's no one who's free right now.”

“No one?”

Doug made a face. “All right, there were a few suspicious factors, so there is a guy assigned to follow up. But he's an asshole, Quinn, really.”

“Who?”

Sometimes guys just didn't like each other, so rumors went around about their capabilities. The metro department had endured its share of troubles through the years with a few bad cops, but for the most part, the officers were good men, underpaid and overworked.

Then again, sometimes they
were
just assholes.

“Pete Dixon.”

Quinn frowned. “Old Pete's not that bad.”

“Hell no. Give him a smoking gun in a guy's hand, and he can catch the perp every time.”

“That from a rookie,” Quinn muttered.

“Look, Dixon's not a ball of fire. And he's just following up on what the M.E. has ruled as an accidental death. He isn't going to go around looking under any carpets. He's not interested. He'll just do some desk work by rote. He doesn't care.”

“And therefore I should? To the point of taking dance lessons? Like I said, bro, I think you've lost your mind,” Quinn said flatly.

Doug smiled, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans. He pulled out his wallet and, from it, a carefully folded newspaper clipping. That was just like Doug. He was one of the most orderly human beings Quinn had ever come across. The clipping hadn't been ripped out but cut, then folded meticulously. He shook his head at the thought, knowing that his own organizational skills were lacking in comparison.

“What is it?” Quinn asked, taking the paper.

“Read.”

Quinn unfolded it and looked at the headline. “‘Diva Lara Trudeau Dead on the Dance Floor at Thirty-eight.'” He cocked his head toward his brother.

“Keep reading.”

Quinn scanned the article. He'd never heard of Lara Trudeau, but that didn't mean anything. He wouldn't have recognized the name of any dancer, ballroom or otherwise. He could free-dive to nearly four hundred feet, bench-press nearly four hundred pounds and rock climb with the best of them. But in a salsa club, hell, he was best as a bar support.

Puzzled, he scanned the article. Lara Trudeau, thirty-eight, winner of countless dance championships, had died as she had lived—on the dance floor. A combination of tranquilizers and alcohol had caused a cardiac arrest. Those closest to the dancer were distraught, and apparently stunned that, despite her accomplishments, she had felt the need for artificial calm.

Quinn looked back at his brother and shook his head. “I don't get it. An aging beauty got nervous and took too many pills. Tragic. But hardly diabolical.”

“You're not reading between the lines,” Doug said with dismay.

Quinn suppressed a grin. “And I take it no one in the homicide division ‘read between the lines,' either?”

Doug smacked the article. “Quinn, a woman like Lara Trudeau wouldn't take pills. She was a perfectionist. And a winner. She would have taken the championship. She had no reason to be nervous.”

“Doug, are you even reading the lines yourself? We're talking about something that no one can outrun—age. Here's this Lara Trudeau—
thirty-eight.
With a horde of twenty-somethings following in her wake. Hell, yes, she was nervous.”

“What, you think people keel over at thirty-eight?” Doug said.

“When you're a quarterback, you're damn near retirement,” Quinn said.

“She wasn't a quarterback.”

Quinn let out an impatient sigh. “It's the same thing. Sports, dancing. People slow down with age.”

“Some get better with age.
She
was still winning. And hell, in ballroom dance, people compete at all ages.”

“And that's really great. More power to them. I just don't understand why you chased me down about this. According to the paper
and
everything you're telling me, the death was accidental. It's all here. She dropped dead in public on a ballroom floor, so naturally there was an autopsy, and the findings indicated nothing suspicious.”

“Right. They found the physical cause of death. Cardiac arrest brought on by a mixture of alcohol and pills. How she happened to ingest that much isn't in the M.E.'s report.”

Quinn groaned and pulled over the day's newspaper, flipping quickly to the local section. “‘Mother and Two Children Found Shot to Death in North Miami Apartment,'” he read, glaring at his brother over the headlines. “‘Body Found in Car Trunk at Mall,'” he continued. “Want me to go on? Violence is part of life in the big city, bro. You've been through the academy. There's a lot out there that's real bad. You know it, and I know it. Things that need to be questioned, and I'm sure the homicide guys are on them. But a drugged-out dancer drops dead, and you want to make something more out of it. You'll make detective soon enough. Give yourself time.”