Dead on the Dance Floor (39 page)

But there was space…space and limitless comfort, and here she had the freedom of his body, room to slide and creep and crawl all over him, taste and savor and caress the length of his body, hear the thunder of his heart, the gale wind of his breath, the feel of his arms and hands, know his eyes when he rose over her, drowning in the first slow, excruciating moments as he sank into her with the full force of his body, hunger and being. Then, finally, when it seemed to Shannon that her whole world had rocked and exploded to the highest peaks, she drifted down in comfort and warmth and lay at his side, totally relaxed for what seemed like the first time in forever. Then her mind began working, because it was impossible to turn off her brain, and she felt the first sense of self-defense, because it was frightening to feel so desperately for someone, to want him so badly, not only in such a sexually passionate manner, but in moments of laughter, fear, purpose and just plain existing.

His fingers moved through her hair as he pulled her close, and she was stunned by the first words that left his lips.

“She's right, you know.”

“Who?”

“Marnie. I
am
falling in love with you.”

She was afraid to reply.

He gripped her harder, pulling her taut to the curve of his body, into something that had surely been a male hold since the beginning of time. She was wrapped in him, and it was good, very good. She wanted to whisper something back, but fear kept her silent.

“Okay,” he murmured softly. “Don't reply. Though that is one of those things that kind of demands an answer.”

She wasn't facing him, instead lying flush against him, her back to his chest, her rump curved into his hip.

“I think you were pretty incredible.”

He laughed. “Always the judge. We're not talking performance level here.”

“Cocky, too,” she murmured.

He rolled her to face him, and the laughter was gone. His eyes were the deepest, most piercing blue she had ever seen, and his features were striking, strong and taut.

“I don't want to play games anymore. I quit being a student. Screw the friggin' Gator Gala. I want to be with you.”

“I'm…I'm…”

“A coward. A chicken.”

Anger flickered through her.

“I am not!”

“Then at the least admit you want to take a chance.”

She hesitated, uncomfortably aware that he was right. “I want to stay with you until morning. I want to sleep with you over and over again,” she said.

“Why?” He smiled. “Other than the fact that we really are great together. Better than the most erotic dance known to man.”

She smiled, and then his smile faded, and his words were a promise of everything to come. “Because you are the best waltz I've ever known. The most erotic rumba, the greatest exhilaration, the wildest, most beautiful music.”

He kept staring down at her. Then, after a moment, he said, “Okay…so I think you
are
falling in love with me. At least a little bit.”

“I
am
falling in love with you,” she managed to say. “More than a little bit.”

He kissed her again.

She thought later that there was so much they needed to say. So much was happening that she needed to convince him, needed him to see, to understand….

Nothing could be real, nothing could be right…until the trail of corpses shadowing them came to a halt.

But that would have to wait until morning. Because now, more than anything, they needed the night.

“I
swear someone pushed me over,” Shannon said.

She was more appealing to Quinn than ever, hair fresh washed, dressed in a pair of jeans and a denim shirt borrowed from Ashley Dilessio, sitting at his table on the boat and sipping one last cup of coffee.

He was going with Jake down to the main station.

She was going to go home, check on Marnie, and let Sam have the rest of his Sunday for whatever he wanted to do. Strange, Marnie had been a street kid, but now Shannon didn't even want her left alone during the day.

They'd spent a nice morning taking time for themselves, then having breakfast at Nick's and spending an hour playing with the new baby, Shannon getting to know Ashley, Ashley getting to know Shannon, finding out they were fascinated by each other's professions, quickly becoming friends. They had talked about the case, too. Shannon had expressed her sadness over Manuel Taylor but had been quick to point out that she had overheard Gordon mention him in a group, so his “role” was common knowledge at the studio.

Quinn couldn't help it. He wasn't satisfied with the possibility that the man's death wasn't connected, so Jake had offered to go down to the station with him, look at the report, then take a ride down to the area of the Grove, where it had happened. But first, he and Shannon had gone back to the boat so Quinn could get ready to go.

“The really strange thing is that right before I went overboard, I heard people whispering.”

“Saying what?” he demanded.

She frowned, thinking. “Something about having to stop, about there being no visible connection.”

“Connection to what?”

“I have no idea. I was eavesdropping. Well, not really. I was just there and heard pieces of the conversation.”

“I'm telling you, everything's connected. I want you to watch out for Gordon, especially. Don't ever be alone around him.”

“Gordon has been like a second father to me, you know,” she told him.

“I don't care. Watch out for him.”

There was a call from topside. “Quinn, you ready?”

“Yeah!” he called back. He gave Shannon a kiss on the top of the head, suddenly loath to leave her, even for a few hours.

“See you later?” he asked.

She nodded. “If Sam doesn't have plans, the three of us will probably head to the beach and get some sun.”

“Great.” With a wave to her, he headed topside.

“You know,” Jake told him, “I'm a big one for hunches myself, but we're beginning to move a little strangely here. Two overdoses by prescription drugs. Two deaths by heroin overdose, both victims found near the studio. But this…okay, so Manuel Taylor was a waiter the day of the competition. But he was in Coconut Grove, not on the beach, when he was killed. And he was shot.”

“I know,” Quinn said.

“So?”

“I still say everything's related.”

Jake shrugged. “All right. Am I driving?”

“Let's take both cars.” Jake stared at him, and he shrugged. “I'm heading back out to the beach after we hit the Grove.”

At the station, Quinn pored over the report, which had been prepared by Jake's partner, Anna. The woman was thorough. Everything pointed to an innocent man being caught in gang war crossfire.

“I'll make you a copy, then we can head out to the site.”

Jake disappeared. The station was staffed on Sunday, but it was still slow. When Quinn's phone rang, it sounded like an alarm going off.

It was Marnie.

“Hey, is Shannon with you?” she asked.

“No, she was heading home.”

“She isn't here yet.” Marnie sounded a little plaintive. She went into a whisper. “Sam is like a little kid. He wants to go the beach.”

“Try her cell. I left before she did. She might still be on the way.”

“I just tried her cell. She didn't answer.”

“Try her again and leave a message, but I'll drive on out there, okay?”

“Great. Thanks.”

He hung up. When Jake returned, Quinn told him he was going to head straight out to the beach. “Shannon's not answering her cell,” he explained.

“She could just be out of satellite reach,” Jake told him.

“I still feel kind of antsy about this,” Quinn said. “Too much happening too fast. This may have nothing in common with the rest—or far too much.”

“Want me to follow you?”

Quinn shook his head. “No, I'm probably acting a little panicky. I'm just concerned, I guess.”

Jake made no comment on why he might be overly worried. “Call me if you need me.”

“Great. Thanks.”

As he walked out to his car, Quinn tried dialing Shannon himself.

Her phone rang and rang, and then he heard her voice.

“Shannon! It's Quinn.”

“If you'd like to leave a message, I'll get back to you as soon as possible.”

He swore. “Dammit, yes, get back to me as soon as possible!”

He pocketed his phone with a growing sense of danger.

 

Shannon hadn't meant to do anything other than drive straight to her house. She knew that Quinn was worried about her, and that he'd probably come close to insisting that she hang around on the boat until he returned. And he seemed so down on Gordon. She couldn't believe that Gordon could be responsible for the things that had happened, even though she'd had her own brief flights of fear regarding the man. No. Not Gordon.

She hadn't even mentioned the incident in the storeroom to Quinn. In retrospect, the whole thing seemed ridiculous, an instance when panic had caused her problems, so she'd kept quiet.

It took her only minutes to reach the beach. It was getting a little chilly these days for the locals, and they weren't into tourist season yet. But when she reached the turnoff for her house, she found herself driving to the studio.

Sunday. The place would be empty. Katarina wouldn't be working, and there wouldn't be a soul around the studio. No music, no noise. She would only stay a second.

And maybe figure out what the strange sound she kept hearing was.

She parked in back and hurried up the stairs to the outer hall and balcony. She slipped her key into the lock and entered, carefully locking the door behind her, then walked around the space.

Nothing had changed since they had left yesterday.

Feeling a little foolish, she stood in the center of the dance floor.

Then she heard it again.

The grating sound.

It was coming from the direction of the men's room.

She turned and went into the men's room, checking it out stall by stall. Nothing. And yet, clearer than ever before, she could hear the noise.

She paused, hurried back to her purse and found her key chain with the little container of pepper spray she kept there. So armed, she went out back and stared at the door to the storage room. She should wait. Call someone and tell them about the noise.

But hell, every time she wanted someone to hear it, the noise didn't come. It was undoubtedly nothing.

Maybe they just had a resident rat, or an army of cockroaches.

She slipped the key into the lock and entered, wedging the door open. If there was something in there, she wanted to be ready to run.

Turning the light on, Shannon went in.

Shelves held their multitude of boxes. Katarina's dressmaker's dummy was back up, standing sentinel again. Shannon slowly walked to the back, tiptoeing, listening.

And then she heard it. It was coming from the back wall.

She walked back determinedly, stood and listened. She looked back to the door and then again to the rear of the room.

The room wasn't as deep as it should have been, she realized suddenly.

She went to the shelves and started moving boxes.

 

Quinn made it to the house but didn't see Shannon's car.

When she heard him drive up, Marnie came running out, followed by Sam.

“She's not here, I take it?” he said.

Marnie shook her head, leaning in his window, frowning.

“What?”

“Why is that woman's picture on your front seat?” she asked.

“What?” he asked, distracted. She pointed. A sketch of Sonya Miller was on top of the file folders stacked on the passenger seat.

“You know her?” he demanded.

“No, I don't know her. But I've seen her go up the back stairs at the studio.”

Quinn glared at Sam.

Sam put his hands up. “I've never seen her before. She wasn't a student, Quinn. I swear it! Maybe she went to Suede.”

“You're certain you've seen this woman?” Quinn asked Marnie.

“Yes. And she didn't go to the club, she went up the back stairs,” Marnie said stubbornly.

He jerked the car into reverse with Marnie still leaning in the window. “I'm going over there. Call the cops.”

Marnie moved back just in time.

He shot back out onto the street. He didn't know what the hell it meant, exactly, that Marnie had seen Sonya Miller.

He only knew he felt a sense of urgency unlike any he had ever known before.

 

Finally she had all the boxes removed from the area of the back wall.

She stepped closer, noticing what looked like either a crack in the wall or a structural juncture. She pressed it and felt nothing.

She tapped it, and the sound was hollow.

She pressed again, putting weight behind the effort. The wall began to give. She realized she hadn't needed to move the boxes—the shelving was part of a false door.

The door opened. That had been the creaking sound. But opened to what? Maybe she didn't need to know—not now, anyway. It was time to get the hell out. She started to back away, ready to reclose the false door and put the boxes back.

“Ah, Shannon. I knew it was just a matter of time before you got here. Actually, I've been waiting for you.”

She opened her mouth to scream and prepared to flee. But before she could do either one, fingers of steel wound around her wrist, jerking her forward.

 

Quinn raced up the back steps and saw the door to the storage room standing open. He raced to it and looked in just in time to see Shannon heading through the false wall.

For a moment he was stunned into stillness.

Shannon was hiding something at the studio. A sense of illness pervaded him. No, it couldn't be.

But there she was, at the studio, when she had said she was heading straight for the house. No other cars in the lot. No one around, no sound…

Just Shannon, disappearing as he stood.

He hardened himself and flew into action. Behind the false door was a long hallway.

He followed.

 

She was being jerked along so fast she could barely breathe, much less scream. The pepper spray was in her pocket, but she couldn't get to it because her wrists were being held in such a vise. The hall was narrow. The only light came weakly from the secret doorway back into the storage room.

The hallway ended. She thought she was going to be slammed through a wall, but, like the other, it gave when pressed.

She burst into a room. A narrow room, four feet at best in width, eight feet in length. It was tight and only dimly lit, but when her eyes adjusted, she was able to make out details. At one end were shelves filled with plastic bags that held a white powder. At the other end was a narrow circular stairway that led up.

To Gabriel Lopez's apartment.

Gabriel thrust her away from him, and she saw that he had pulled a gun.

She was terrified into speechlessness at first. Then something kicked in. She stared at the gun, self-preservation telling her to talk, to do anything, say anything, to keep him from shooting her.

“You son of a bitch! Why?”

He shook his head. “Money,
chica,
money. And the life, of course.” He gave her a disdainful look. “Dancers! You were the best cover in the world. All your silly little people, awed by the club, always waiting to catch sight of a celebrity. And this building…perfect. Everyone was so pleased with the renovations. When the cops would come by, they met a dressmaker and dancers, and they could check me out and check me out and search the place…and find nothing. Nothing but boxes of costumes and student records.”

She had to get out, and she knew it. Taking a chance, she pulled out her key chain.

He lifted the gun, playing with his thumb and finger, showing her how quickly he could cock the weapon. “Drop it.”