Dead on the Dance Floor (22 page)

“I don't think Mr. O'Casey has what we're going to need.”

“Oh, but I do. Really. And I can get you the best deal in the area,” he told her.

She stared back at him. Her eyes were so hard that he could almost hear the word
Liar!
screamed on the air.

“I've been thinking, and I'm not sure we should do business with a student,” she said.

“I swear to you, I can give you a charter you won't believe,” he said. He leaned a hand against the door frame, and she seemed to understand that, short of having a few honest words right there and then, with Sam present, he wasn't leaving.

“Gordon would want you to hear him out,” Sam said pleasantly.

Quinn realized that Sam was actually savoring the situation. He had the look of the devil in his eyes.

“I still need to shower. Sam, if you want, you can rinse off in the guest bath. And, Mr. O'Casey, you can…” Her voice trailed off. He knew exactly what she thought he should be doing with himself. “Have a seat. Wait, if you must.”

She spun around, heading for her room.

“Hang tight,” Sam said, casting Quinn a sympathetic look. “We'll be ready in a minute.”

He, too, disappeared.

Quinn wandered out to the Florida room. It was a day when autumn was becoming more and more obvious—even in Florida. The temperatures were still high, but darkness was coming earlier and earlier.

He leaned against the wall, looking out into the backyard, with its rich growth of palms, key limes, shrugs, crotons and more. A stone trail had once cut a swath through the foliage, but it was largely overgrown now. A gentle breeze lifted leaves and bent branches.

And yet, as he stared out, he thought that far more than the breeze was moving in one area of the yard.

He tensed, watching. He had the eerie feeling he was being watched back.

Lights were on in the house. The shadows of coming darkness were protecting the yard. And…yes, someone was there.

He swore, and reached for the knob of the back door. Nothing happened when he twisted it, and he realized the door was double bolted.

He twisted the locks with a jerk and threw the door open with a bang.

Branches snapped, as someone began to run.

Quinn burst out of the house in pursuit.

G
ordon Henson appreciated his Sunday afternoons.

Not that he worked all that hard at his studio anymore. He'd banked on grooming Shannon for the job of managing the place, and he'd chosen well. He could actually have retired already, but he had discovered that he didn't want to. In the past few years, he'd actually begun to make money—real money.

But he couldn't do it without his involvement in the studio.

Not to mention the fact that he would never fall out of love with dance. He didn't teach anymore, but he attended the parties and certainly spent time down at the club. A nice lifestyle. He'd been married once, discovered it wasn't for him, and despite the fact that time was passing, he didn't feel the need for a permanent relationship. Rather, he liked the lifestyle on the beach and in the nearby clubs, where just about everything went. There were so many people out there. So many colors, nationalities, heights, weights, creeds, whatever. Even sexual mores. Gordon was open to anything in life.

He loved the studio, the club, his work week.

But he loved his Sundays, too.

Sometimes Sundays meant spending some off time with his employees. He would have Ella Rodriguez plan a picnic at a park, maybe up in Broward, where there was a small pretense of a water park. He also liked to get his teachers up on skates—roller, in-line, or ice—because they helped with movement and balance. Sometimes he used his Sundays very privately, having found an intriguing person to date.

And sometimes, after an eventful week like this one, he liked to sit in his condo and catch up on movies he hadn't seen, or watch an old classic.

Years ago, he'd fallen in love with dance by watching Fred and Ginger, Cyd Charisse, Donald O'Connor, Buddy Ebsen, Gene Kelly, or any one of the men or women who embodied the grace and spirit of dance. Today he'd chosen to watch “Singin' in the Rain.” He would never tire of it.

Gene Kelly was moving across the screen with his own particular brand of sheer genius when the phone rang.

He ignored it, letting the machine pick up. When it did, the caller hung up, then rang again. Persistently.

Gordon swore, clicked the hold button on the remote and answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“You got a good thing going there, at that studio.”

“Yes?”

“That's it. You got a good thing going at that studio. A really good thing. Remember that. Remember that at all times.”

Then the phone went dead in Gordon's hand, and he stared at it, feeling a bead of perspiration break out on his flesh, along with an eerie sense of chill.

 

“What the hell is going on?” Shannon demanded, bursting out of her room and flying to the back porch.

The door to the yard was open.

It was like inviting the shadows in.

Sam came running up behind her.

“See, look at that. You were so rude, the poor fellow freaked out and ran away.”

She shot a furious glare at him. “Sam, something obviously happened out there. Or there was someone out there.”

“Then, let's go see, shall we?” He looked at her raised brows and reached out a hand. “What's the matter with you? What are you afraid of?”

“Um, maybe somebody out there with a gun or a knife.”

He laughed. “Why on earth would anyone be running around your yard with a gun or a knife?”

“I think there was a body on the beach this morning, and that we all need to be careful,” she said sternly.

“Good thing you've got a muscle-bound student to go after things in the dark, huh?” he said slowly.

“Check the front door—let's make sure it's locked before we head out the back,” she said.

 

Through the yard, out to the street, down the street, through another yard.

His elusive prey remained just in front of him.

Finally they hit the beach.

Darkness had crept its fingers over the daylight, so as close as he got, Quinn couldn't quite ascertain the physical makeup of the person he was chasing.

Then, at last, he was almost upon them.

A woman. A small one.

He collided with her body in a tackle, bringing her down into the sand. She didn't scream; her breath escaped her body with a “whooshing” sound. Then he was on top of her, staring down into her face.

 

Along with making Sam check that the front door was locked, Shannon grabbed her tennis racket. They went out the back. She'd always loved her yard so much. Now, it seemed that every tree, every bush and branch, was hiding something.

“I guess we should look through the foliage?” Sam said.

She shook her head. “If Quinn saw something, someone, out here—which I assume he did—he's chased them out.”

“Great. We've checked the front door, we have that lethal tennis racket for protection, and we're just going to stand here?”

She scowled at him.

A rustling sound came from behind them. They both swung around.

It was Mr. Mulligan, who lived next door, with Harry, his retriever.

“Evening, Shannon!” he called out. “Hello there, Sam,” he added, since the two men had met before, when Shannon had invited the group over for dinner.

“Hi, Mr. Mulligan,” Sam said.

The neighbor smiled at them, then stared at the tennis racket Shannon was holding as if it were a baseball bat.

“You've taken up tennis again? Good for you.”

“We think there was someone in the backyard, Mr. Mulligan,” Sam said. “A friend is chasing them.”

“Here? In this neighborhood?” Mr. Mulligan seemed to think that was unlikely. “Must have been Harry, here.” The dog, who loved people far too much ever to be an effective guard dog, trotted over to Shannon.

“Hi, fellow,” she said, scratching his ears.

“You know, young lady, I'm right next door, if you ever need help,” the older man admonished her.

“I know that, thank you,” she said, looking at the man, who—with his wrinkles and bald pate—might have been a hundred and five, in age
and
in weight.

“You just call me any time. Harry, come on in.”

The dog trotted obediently back to his master, and they walked back to their own house.

“This is kind of silly,” Sam said to Shannon when Mr. Mulligan was out of sight. “Wherever Quinn went, whoever he went after, he's gone, and we don't know where.”

“Maybe we should call the police,” Shannon murmured.

“Maybe you really did scare the guy off. You
were
awfully rude to him.”

“I'm the studio manager, remember? Don't correct me or argue with me in front of students.”

“Sorry,” Sam said. “Hey! Here he comes. And he's not alone.”

Quinn was returning, entering the yard from the sidewalk. He was accompanied by a skinny waif with a cascade of brown hair flowing down her back. She was in jeans and a tank top. Young. Very young. And pretty. With brown eyes that eclipsed her face.

Shannon and Sam just stood, watching.

The girl seemed to be uncomfortable, accompanying Quinn. She was very young, yet it was obvious that she knew him.

Shannon couldn't help staring at him with calculating eyes.

“Shannon, Sam, this is Marnie. Shannon, she's been living in your backyard.”

“What?” She focused accusingly on the girl.

“I didn't hurt anything!” the girl said quickly. “I wasn't going to break in or take anything. It's just that it's so overgrown back there…. Some of the trees actually make a little shelter. Honestly, I wasn't going to steal anything.”

Shannon thought the girl was telling the truth. “But don't you have a home? Shouldn't you be in school?” she asked.

“Runaway,” Sam murmured.

“No, I'm not. Look, my dad died when I was a kid,” the girl explained, as if she were now well on her way to old age. “My mother remarried. And he…”

Shannon breathed out a soft expletive, staring at Quinn. “She needs to go to the police. He should be prosecuted!”

“He didn't do anything. Yet,” the girl explained. And she did sound as if she were almost one hundred. “You don't understand. My mom was alone a long time. And, like, desperate. And he made her think that…that I was coming on to him. He's not all that old—younger than my mom. And she wants him more than me, and it was just…I had to get out. I graduated from high school last June. I'm over eighteen. It's my right to be out. It's the truth. You can check it all out.”

“But you can't…you can't just live in people's yards,” Shannon said. She still felt somewhat confused, but sorry, too. There was something about the girl that was defiant; and also truthful. She was like a puppy, thrown out into the cold, determined to adopt the attitude of a Doberman. “Let's go inside,” Shannon said. “You can tell us more.”

“No,” Quinn said firmly.

Shannon stared at him, startled.

“We're going to go see a friend of mine. A cop.”

“I don't want you to arrest her,” Shannon protested.

“I'm not a cop,” Quinn reminded her wearily.

“He's not arresting me,” the girl explained, as if she felt obliged to come to Quinn's defense. “He's taking me to some shelter. My, uh, stuff is still in your yard, though.”

“Oh.” Shannon stared at Quinn again.

“We're going to check out Marnie's story,” he said firmly. “Sam, follow what's left of that little trail, and you'll find a book bag. Her things are in it.”

“Okay,” Sam said, though it was evident he was wondering why he was the one who should look for the book bag, when Marnie was standing right there.

“I'm not going to bolt on you,” Marnie said wearily.

“Sam would love to get the book bag for you,” Quinn said to her.

“Yeah, sure, I'm going right now,” Sam said.

“Quinn…” Shannon murmured. Strange. She'd actually had a few jealous thoughts when she'd first seen him with the girl, but now she felt a protective surge sweep through her. She'd been lucky. She had loving parents who would die before hurting her, and they'd never doubted her word when she'd been growing up. This little waif…

“We're going to the police station,” Quinn said firmly. “I have a very good friend who is a victim's advocate. She's wonderful. She'll help Marnie get settled safely.”

The girl suddenly smiled, staring at Shannon. “I've seen you dance!” she told her. She flushed. “In fact, that's how I found your yard. I watched you through the windows at the studio. I would trade half my life to move like that.”

“You want to dance?”

“More than anything.”

“All of our first lessons are free,” Shannon said.

The girl stared at Quinn.

He let out a deep sigh. “Tonight, you come and meet my friend, Annie. I'll see to it that you can get to the studio for a lesson. In fact, I'll buy you a guest pass with a bunch of lessons, all right?”

“Really?”

The tiny face lit up. She was more than just pretty. She looked so young, like a child just given the best birthday present in the world.

“Yeah, really.” He sounded gruff.

“I don't have a car,” Marnie said softly.

“That's the kind of thing Annie can help you with,” he explained.

“Actually, I can't even drive.”

“Annie will see that you get where you need to go,” Quinn told her. “Hell, don't worry about it. We'll get you back down here.”

Sam returned with the bag. “Here you go,” he said, smiling at the girl.

“Thanks.” Marnie turned to Shannon. “I know you didn't exactly have me at your place on purpose, but thanks,” she said.

“Let's go,” Quinn told her.

“Hey, Quinn, how are you going to get her anywhere? I thought you needed a ride,” Sam said.

“I'll call a cab.” He stared at Shannon. “Well, now, the two of you can have that dinner on your own. Good night. Marnie, let's move. Night, Sam.”

He set a hand on Marnie's shoulder, steering her toward the road.

“Why don't we invite both of them to dinner?” Sam whispered to Shannon.

She'd felt the urge herself. But then she'd remembered that Quinn O'Casey was a lying son of a bitch who had used her.

“He needs to get the girl settled,” she said firmly.

“She could get settled after dinner.”

“No.” She sounded sharper than she had intended.

Sam sighed. “Let's see, you have no life. A terrific guy is apparently interested in you. You shove him out like refuse. Don't come to me when you're old and lonely.”