Dead on the Dance Floor (36 page)

“Well, he says so, for one thing,” Quinn told her.

She smiled. “Most murderers claim to be innocent. You know that. You can see a guy pull the trigger, and he'll still look you right in the eye and deny it.”

“Like you, I think the two deaths are associated. And I also think they're associated with your drug overdoses.”

“There have been other deaths by drug overdose, you know. Even though we've actually cut down on murder cases per capita recently, we're still talking hundreds a year in the general area. You worked here—you know that many go unsolved.”

“Sadly, I do know that.”

“So what makes
you
think the deaths are all related?”

“Nell was a dance student at Moonlight Sonata. Lara Trudeau was a coach there and got her start there. The beach where Sonya Miller was found is right there, and, according to this report, Sally Grant was found just down the street.”

“I don't think our hooker, Sally Grant, took dance lessons. And she would have been thrown out of a club like Suede before her little toe passed the door. Sonya might have been in the place, but we grilled everyone in there as hard as we could, within the limits of the law,” Anna assured him. “The other business in the building belongs to a designer, and our hooker couldn't begin to afford her clothing. Patrolmen canvassed the area after both bodies were discovered. Officers spoke with the designer and her husband, and they talked to people at the dance studio, as well.”

Quinn stared at her, then paged through the file on Sonya Miller again. An Officer George Banner had spoken with Gordon Henson on Monday and been assured that the woman had not taken classes there at any time, nor did he recognize her as anyone who had ever been around.

Strange, Gordon had never mentioned the fact that the police had been in on Monday.

Gordon had a way of keeping quiet about things, he had realized that the other day at Nick's, when Gordon had revealed all he knew about Quinn.

“Anything else?” Anna asked him.

“After these deaths, narcotics did a sweep of the area clubs,” Quinn said. “What happened there?”

“After the first girl was found, we acquired search warrants for Suede and a few other clubs. Ted Healey, in narcotics, told me that when they arrived at Suede, they almost had to force the folks there to look at it. Management said they were welcome to tear the place apart if they wanted to. Suede prides itself on—”

“I know, I know. Controlling alcohol consumption by drivers and putting heavy pressure on their people to make sure that IDs are good,” Quinn said.

“Right,” Anna agreed, looking at him strangely.

“I know the guy who owns the place,” Quinn said. “Hey, you have extra pictures in here, sketches, of your first victim. Can I take one?”

“Absolutely.”

“Thanks. For this, and for all your help.”

“Hey, if you can find something we didn't, it'll be great.” Her eyes darkened for a minute. “Every unnatural death is sad, but you know, you come to live with it. When we found Sally Grant…I don't know. She got to me. Such a kid. And with no one. No one who cared at all. I'd give a lot to see that justice is done for her, even though she's dead and can never know.”

“I understand.”

“Since you think these deaths are related, as far as your dancer goes, do you have any suspects?” she asked.

He grimaced ruefully. “Too many,” he said.
And too few. The two people with the best motive seem to be my brother and the woman I'm falling in love with.

When he left the station, he returned to the
Twisted Time.
After checking his messages, he discovered that Manuel Taylor hadn't returned his call, so he made another and left another message.

Then, at his desk, he drew a map of the studio and the surrounding blocks.

He looked over his lists, making comparisons, looking for similarities. The only thing in common between the four deaths was proximity to or association with the building that housed Moonlight Sonata.

Someone had to know something.

The same someone, he was certain, who drove by Shannon's house in a gray or beige sedan.

He checked his e-mail.

His brother had come through on one thing. There was a list of plates and cars belonging to everyone who worked at the studio or at the building, or went there on a regular basis.

Elimination time. Shannon—it was unlikely she was casing her own house. Jane—she drove a red Chevy minivan. Rhianna Markham drove a blue Mazda.

Gordon had a beige Lexus. Ben had recently purchased a “pre-owned” gray Mercedes. Old Mr. Clinton owned a “taupe” Audi. Figured. He eliminated Clinton anyway. He went down the list. Gray or beige sedans were owned by Jim Burke, Mina Long, Justin Garcia, Christie Castle, Sam Railey, Gabriel Lopez and four more employees of Suede.

At least his own brother, the one who had definitely argued with Lara Trudeau the day of her death, drove a dark green aging Jaguar.

As he sat there mulling the cars, he finally realized just what Manuel Taylor had said that had bothered him, that he wanted to pursue.

He put through another call, but the man still didn't answer. He left another message, then headed out.

 

Quinn was gone when Shannon awoke, but he'd left coffee on again. “Schedule me for late afternoon,” was the message he left behind that day.

Determined to spend some time at the studio alone in nice bright daylight, Shannon slipped out before Marnie awoke, leaving her a note that she would be back later to pick her up. She hurried to the studio, letting herself in and locking the doors once more before determinedly looking around. She didn't know what she was looking for, but she went so far as to knock on walls, search the area around the toilet stalls, and then, at the end, let herself out the back door into the little hallway-balcony area off the stairs that led down to the back lot, up to Gabe's apartment, and over to Katarina's design shop.

She paused, then opened the door to the storage area. The costume on the dressmaker's dummy still seemed eerie, even in the glare of the light. She noted that the back shelves weren't actually very full and made a mental note that she could move more of the boxes of old paperwork back here, and also that she had lots of her old outfits back here, and some of them were in excellent shape. If she was considering competing again, she should start going through them. As she stood in there, surveying the shelves, she thought she heard someone out in the hallway. Glancing at her watch, she realized that the others would be arriving soon.

Suddenly the light went out.

“Hey!” She turned, not really afraid; it was daytime, after all.

But then the door closed, and the room was plunged into darkness.

“Hey!” she called again, and rushed forward, toward the door, just in time to hear retreating footsteps.

The pitch blackness caused her a moment's disorientation. She plunged into the dressmaker's dummy and struggled with it, trying to keep it upright at first, then trying to maintain her own balance. As she teetered backward, she would have frozen if she could have, because she was suddenly certain she heard the sound of breathing…right next to her ear.

It was right there.

While the footsteps had been outside, even when the light had gone out and the door had closed.

Suddenly the dummy seemed to collide with her. She fought wildly for her balance, then went crashing down to the floor. Her head struck a shelf, or, she thought rather bizarrely, the shelf struck her.

And as the blackness became complete, she thought that she heard a strange groaning sound, although it might have been issuing from her own lips.

 

Things were getting out of control, and it was all because of her. What the hell was she doing now, suddenly digging around in the storage room? Should he just have waited? She might have turned around, walked on out.

They all came in.

And they all walked out.

The cops had been through the building. Not because of the studio, but because of the club. They had gone over it with a fine toothed comb and found nothing. Because the club was clean. There was nothing to worry about.

So why had he moved so quickly?

Killers always made a mistake eventually, or so they said. Not true. People definitely got away with murder. So…

Slow down. Calm down.

What did she know?

Too much. Somehow.

She knew too much. Suspected too much. Those beautiful eyes were not as innocent as they looked. But he had known. He had watched. And he had wanted.

And now…

Some things were simply necessary.

All he really had to do was get a grip and remember to act naturally.

 

Quinn walked in with a handful of flowers, looked around the room and thought that his own bouquet was a bit shabby. But Jane, who was sitting up a little in the hospital bed, smiled radiantly at him.

She might have been in absolute agony on the floor the other night, but she was already glorious again. Her hair was brushed; she was wearing makeup.

“Quinn, hi. This is really nice of you. Thanks for coming by. And thanks for the flowers—they're beautiful,” she told him. She reached out, something like a queen awaiting a subject. He realized she was just used to greeting everyone with those double cheek kisses.

He obliged, then sat on the bedside chair.

“You're looking great.”

“I'm feeling awfully sore,” she said. “But, with the new keyhole surgery,” she added, brightening, “at least I'm not going to have one of those really long scars.”

“What a relief,” he murmured, only slightly amused. She lived off her body—and not in an evil way. He'd started to see more and more of what went on in her world. She was young, and very pretty, and the costumes she wore were often skimpy, exposing the length of her perfect back and toned midriff.

“That sounds petty, doesn't it?” she said with a sigh.

“I'm sorry. I understand.”

“Your brother just left,” she said.

“Did he? He's supposed to be on the job. He was lucky to get a regular nine-to-five patrol beat.”

“He only comes for a minute, just to say good-morning.”

He nodded. “So you two are seeing each other?”

“You can't tell anyone,” she said, plucking at the sheet nervously.

He smiled. “It might become evident.”

“If it reaches that point, I may have to quit.” She stared at the sheet, then looked up. “Gordon and Shannon are both willing to look the other way as long as they can, but…then again, maybe Shannon will be more understanding now.”

“Oh?”

Jane laughed out loud. “Hey, she hasn't taken on a new student in a long time.”

“I thought you were stuck with someone if they fell your way when they came in for their first lesson.”

“Not if you're Shannon. She's the manager. She chose to keep you.”

“Only because she was investigating me.”

Jane smiled again. “Because you're an investigator.”

“Everyone knows now, right?”

“Well, to be honest, Doug told me. But Katarina was in yesterday and told me you caused a real flurry, going to Dr. Long's office.”

“I see.”

“Actually, I can tell you a secret.”

“And what is that?”

“I don't think Shannon held on to you to try to find out what you were about,” she said with a conspiratorial smile.

“Well, she's not very fond of me at the moment.”

“You're wrong, you know.”

“Am I?”

“She's very proud. I wasn't around at the time, but Christie told me once that she never let anyone see how it hurt her when Ben decided to dance with Lara, then marry her. Christie said Shannon behaved as if it was the most normal and natural thing in the world, and she held her head high any time she saw them. As if he had meant nothing to her and it was a relief to teach and not have to mess with all the games involved in competition. Well, she does love to teach, of course. But…” Her smile deepened. “Wouldn't it be cool if Doug and I got married, and you married Shannon?”

He had to laugh out loud. “Wow, you two are moving fast.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You mean because of his thing with Lara?”

“Uh, frankly, yes.”

“Lara knew I liked him. Really liked him. And that I was proud of him as a student. That's why she went after him. I didn't blame Doug. I just kept telling him that I was his teacher, and that…well, we couldn't go out. But after Lara died, I don't know, maybe I realized that life could be short. And who knows? We're an independent studio. No corporate brass can come down on us or anything like that.”