Dead on the Dance Floor (23 page)

She didn't respond.

“Shannon, that guy may not come back.”

She turned around. “Oh, he'll be back.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Because he's investigating us. Some of us more than others, she thought.

“He'll be back, trust me. Let's just stay in and order a pizza, all right?”

“Shannon…”

She spun on him hard. “I do not want to talk about it. Bring it up one more time, and I will fire your ass!”

He didn't believe it, but the threat fulfilled its purpose.

“No pizza, please. I'm gaining weight. We can order from the sushi place, okay?”

“Fine. But not one more word about Quinn O'Casey, got it?”

“Yes'm, boss, I got it.”

They went into the house. Sam was true to his word. They watched a movie and wound up comparing opinions on the leading man. Sam was gay, and they often spent time dissing or admiring various actors.

He left her house at about ten, and she locked the door, glad to be feeling both safe and ridiculous. She
had
been hearing things—because a kid had been living in her backyard. She wondered who Annie was and where she could be found. Because whether Quinn had meant it or not, Shannon intended to make sure Marnie got her dance lessons.

By midnight, she was asleep.

And she slept well, waking in the morning to feel as if it really was over.

Lara was buried.

And that was that.

 

Quinn's phone rang at six-fifteen in the morning.

It was Jake Dilessio.

“Sonya Marquez Miller, twenty-nine. El Salvadoran by birth, married an older American eight years ago, became an American citizen. She must have cared for him. Even Miller's kids like her. His daughter saw the sketch and called in to identify her. The girl hadn't seen her in almost a year, but Sonya would call and chat now and then. When Gerald Miller died, Sonya went a little crazy, realizing that she was still young. She'd gotten big time into the club scene, partying at a place toward the north end of South Beach most of the time. She lived alone and acquired a lot of acquaintances, but, according to Eva Miller, the stepdaughter, no one close. Or not that she knows anything about, anyway.”

“Did she ever take dance lessons?” Quinn asked.

“Not that we've discovered so far. The cops have scoured the local hotels and restaurants, and we've found a few places where she liked to eat, shop and party. But not one person ever saw her come in or go out with anyone else. She lived in an apartment on Collins, and the doorman saw her leave her house at about eight o'clock Saturday night. That's the last time we can find anyone who admits to seeing her. Duarte is doing the autopsy in an hour. Show up, if you want. He told me he actually likes having you around.”

Quinn thanked him and hung up. Before he could rise and head for the coffeepot and a shower, the phone rang again. It was his brother.

“Hey, bro. You heard about the new body on the beach, right?” Doug asked.

“Yes, Jake Dilessio has the case. I went down with him yesterday, and I'm going to the autopsy this morning.”

“Well, that kind of sucks, doesn't it?”

“What? A woman being dead sucks? Hell, yes, it always does.”

“No, I'm a cop—you're not. You're invited to the autopsy. I'm not.”

“I can get you in if you want.”

“Exactly. There's irony for you. No, I'm working, but thanks.”

“You
will
make detective.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. It's just strange sometimes, you know? I wanted you on this, and I'm glad you are, but…Anyway, I don't think this woman has anything to do with Lara, but what do you think?”

“Sure, I have a couple of feelings about things. I feel, like you, that something's not right. Do I have any real leads? Not one.”

“It's the studio, I'm telling you. Something is wrong there. We can't see it, because the place looks so benign, but something's going on. Hey, do you have a class scheduled for today?”

“No.”

“You should. No, maybe you shouldn't. You need to look a little casual, but make sure you show up tonight.”

“For…?”

“Group. Beginners' group class. Seven forty-five. Make sure you're there.”

“Do you come to beginners' group? They all talk about you as if you're the next John Travolta—what would you be doing in a beginners' class?”

“Advanced tech is at eight-thirty. I'll be in early for that. I'll see you there.”

“I'll be there.”

 

Richard Long was Shannon's first student. He ran in between a face-lift at ten and a tummy tuck in the afternoon. After that, she had Brad and Cindy Gray, a married couple she'd worked with since she had started at Moonlight Sonata. Gunter showed up alone for a coaching session, anxious for help in perfecting his bolero.

She had just finished with Gunter when Gordon stuck his head into her office.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” she returned.

“How was your Sunday?”

“Great. A couple of us went to the beach.” She didn't know why she felt so slimy. That was the truth. “How about you?”

“Great. I spent it alone.”

“Didn't want to join us at the beach, huh? You've had it with your ‘kids,' is that it?”

“I love you kids, but enough is enough. I wanted to check something with you. Didn't you say you were going to charter a dinner cruise for the local students and teachers taking part in the Gator Gala?”

“Yeah.”

“I heard you were going to arrange it through Quinn O'Casey.”

She hesitated slightly. “I was.”

“Have you talked to him about it yet?”

“Um, not really. I started to think that maybe we shouldn't go through him. He
is
a student.”

“Find out what he can do for us. I was just looking over some costs. We don't have to make money doing this our first year, but we can't go into the hole too deeply, either.”

“I don't know, Gordon.”

“Talk to him. Get some costs. I want to go on the cruise well ahead of the gala. Let the students bond, gear up, you know? Talk to Quinn. Is he scheduled for today?”

“No.”

“Maybe I'll give him a call.”

“He'll show up.”

“I'll call him.”

“Gordon, he'll show up.”

Gordon hesitated, looking at her. “Confident, aren't you?”

Right. Confident. Why didn't she just tell him that the guy was a private eye?

“I'll call him anyway. Want me to handle this?”

Usually, she would have said no. She liked to handle everything. But this time she hesitated, then said, “Sure. That would be great, Gordon. I hadn't expected to be asked to do so much coaching.”

“You got it. I'm on it.”

He left. Shannon stared after him, chewing on the nub of a pen. She wondered if she should call Quinn herself anyway. She wanted to find out what had happened with Marnie.

No…she wanted an excuse to see him alone. No Sam, no one else.

Among other things, she wanted to tell him just what she thought about his methods of investigation.

 

Quinn stood with Jake about three feet back from the table, giving Anthony Duarte room to work. A microphone hung over the corpse, and after the preliminary photographs were taken, Duarte, in slow, clear, well-enunciated words, recorded his observations.

Scrapings were taken from beneath the nails. Duarte noted that there wasn't a single bruise on the woman's body. Her excellent, well-toned physical condition was duly noted, as well. Though it didn't appear that she had been in the water long, there were indications that she had been nibbled on by sea life. Her eyes, he informed the microphone and silent room, were dilated. And there were track marks in her arms, though none were found at other locations on the body.

Vaginal swabs were taken, and Duarte voiced for the microphone that there was no sign of rape or recent intercourse. Her last meal had been a good one: lobster, asparagus, rice, largely undigested.

Duarte's voice seemed to drone after a while as he went through many of the rote, technical aspects of observation as the Y incision was made and organs were removed, weighed, observed, and tissue samples taken. His suspicion that they would discover cardiac arrest due to substance overdose was stated, along with the fact that he would await lab results before final analysis. Duarte was a thorough man.

The brain saw made an eerie sound in the room. The brain was duly weighed, and additional tissue samples were taken.

They had stood silently on the hard floor for hours when Duarte at last stepped back, removing his gloves.

He stepped around the gurney, approaching Jake and Quinn. “Whatever happened to her, it doesn't look like she put up any fight.” He shrugged.

“Any chance that she was out with a wild group on a party cruise, got into a state of euphoria and just fell overboard, unnoticed until it was too late?”

“Not unless she managed to die before she plummeted into the water. It's clear she didn't drown. I suspect we'll find she died of cardiac arrest. No, gentlemen, she overdosed, either on her own or with help, and someone with her panicked and tossed her body overboard.”

“And then she washed up on the beach,” Jake said.

“So she was either helped to her death or died by her own hand, and then she was dumped off a boat,” Quinn commented. “But it looks like a case of illegal substances, not overdose by prescription drugs?”

“You saw the tracks,” Duarte reminded him.

“But until those lab tests come back, you won't actually know just what was in her,” Quinn persisted.

“I'll call Dilessio the minute I get anything. There could be some surprises in the lab work,” Duarte said. “I'll have the reports to you by the end of the day, or first thing tomorrow, maybe. We're a bit backed up here. Hell, we're always a bit backed up here. There was a major accident on I-95 this morning. Five people killed, an infant among them. Hell, when will people learn that there's nowhere you have to be in that big a hurry?”

“Thanks. And thanks for letting me hang around,” Quinn added.

Duarte managed a grin. “You know, oddly enough, there are plenty of people out there who would like to witness an autopsy. Not like the line for a pop band, but still…Hell, Quinn, believe it or not, I can remember way back to when you were in the Miami-Dade academy. They were dropping like flies around you. You just turned green. I knew you'd make it big.”

“I'm a small-time P.I.,” Quinn corrected him.

Duarte arched a brow. It wasn't the time or place to get into the things Quinn had done between then and now.

“I have an infant waiting, gentlemen,” Duarte said. “I'll get back to you as soon as possible.”

They started out, and Jake's phone rang.

He answered tersely, then a smile split his face.

“I'm having a baby,” he said.

“Great, get going.”

“No, come with me.”

“Ashley doesn't want me in the delivery room!”

“No, and I don't want you in there, either. But apparently she's been there for a while already. You know my wife—she wouldn't take me off duty until the moment it was necessary. The baby should be here within the next two hours, at the most. Come on. Spend some time with the living.”

Since Jake sounded cool but looked a little nervous, Quinn decided that he could afford the time. All he had planned for the immediate afternoon was some Internet investigation and a call to Annie about Marnie, a call he could make from the hospital.

When they arrived, he was able to see Ashley for a few minutes. She was having contractions every few minutes, and they were obviously painful, but she managed to grin, and assure her husband that she would never have let it go so far that he wouldn't be able to get there in plenty of time. When the doctor arrived for an examination, Quinn wandered out to the waiting room. A few minutes later, Jake poked his head out to tell him that it was time, and Quinn wished his friend good luck. Then he found a quiet spot and called Annie down in South Miami.

“That girl is precious,” Annie told him. “And a smart cookie.”

“What about the stepfather?” Quinn asked. “Can anything be done?”

“Not as it stands,” Annie told him.

“It's got to mess the kid up—knowing the husband is getting ready to really hit on her, only her own mother thinks she's the guilty one, after the guy.”