Dead on the Dance Floor (7 page)

“I was.”

“What are you doing down here?”

“Right now? Feeling damned lucky to see you.”

“Most people don't feel that way—when I'm at work, anyway,” Duarte said with a touch of humor.

“Let me rephrase. Since I have to see a medical examiner, I'm glad it's you. You performed the autopsy on Lara Trudeau.”

Duarte, a tall, slim black man with the straightest back Quinn had ever seen, arched a graying brow. “You're working an angle on Lara Trudeau?”

“That's surprising, I take it?”

Duarte lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Nothing surprises me. I've been here far too long. I ruled the death accidental because I sure as hell couldn't find any reason not to. Due to the circumstances, though, Dixon is still doing some work—though nothing more than paperwork, I imagine.”

“What do you mean, the circumstances?”

“A healthy woman popped too many nerve pills, swallowed some hard liquor and dropped dead. It isn't a daily occurrence. Not even in Miami.” The last was spoken dryly and a little wearily. “Although, in all honesty, the number of people who do die from the misuse of prescriptions and even over-the-counter drugs is a hell of a lot higher than it should be.”

“Really?”

“People mix too much stuff. And then they think, like with sleeping pills, hey, if one helps, I could really get a good night's sleep with a bunch of them. As for Lara Trudeau, who the hell knows what she was thinking? Maybe she just thought she was immortal.”

“I'm surprised the stuff didn't affect her dancing.”

“That too—she must have had a will of steel.”

“She dropped dead in front of an audience.”

“Not to mention the television cameras. And no one saw anything suspicious.”

“There was no sign of…?” Quinn said. Though what the hell there might be a sign of, he didn't know.

“Force? Had someone squeezed open her cheeks to force pills down her throat? Not that I could find. The cops, naturally, checked for prints on her prescription bottle. Not a one to be found.”

“Not a single print?” Quinn said with surprise. “Not even hers?”

“She was wearing gloves for her performance.”

“And that would normally wipe the entire vial clean?”

“If she was rubbing her fingers around it over and over again, which a nervous person might do.”

“Still…”

Duarte shrugged. “I guess it's one of the reasons the cops kept looking. She was famous and apparently not all that nice, so…there might have been any number of people who wanted her dead. Trouble is, they just haven't got anything. There were hundreds of people there. She went out to dance with a smile on her face. No apparent argument with anyone there…well, I'm assuming you've read the report.” He stared at Quinn. “She's still here. Want to see her yourself?”

“I thought you'd released her body.”

“I did. The funeral home won't be here until sometime tonight. Come on. I'll have her brought out.”

They walked down halls that, no matter how clean, still somehow reeked of death. Duarte called an assistant and led Quinn to a small room for the viewing. Loved ones weren't necessarily brought in to see their dearly departed. A camera allowed for them to remain in the more natural atmosphere of the lobby to view the deceased.

She was brought in. Duarte lowered the sheet.

Lara Trudeau had been a beautiful woman. Even in death, her bone structure conveyed a strange elegance. She truly gave the appearance of sleep—until the eye wandered down to the autopsy scars.

Quinn stared at her, circling the gurney on which she lay. Other than the sewn Y incision that marred her chest, there was no sign of any violence. She hadn't even bruised herself when she'd gone down.

“I couldn't find anything but the prescription pills and alcohol. She'd barely eaten, which surely added to the pressure on her heart. That's what killed her—the heart's reaction to drugs and alcohol.”

“Like Nell.”

Frowning, Duarte stared at him. “Not exactly. No alcohol in Nell. Why, what do you think you're seeing?”

“I don't know.”

“Is that why you're on this?”

“Maybe. I found out that Nell Durken had been an amateur dancer and took lessons at the same studio where Lara Trudeau sometimes practiced and coached.”

“But the police arrested Nell's husband. And his fingerprints
were
all over the pill bottle. You were the one who followed the guy, right, and gave the police your records on the investigation?”

“Yep.”

“Art Durken has been in jail, pending trial, for over a week. He sure as hell wasn't at that competition.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So?”

“I don't know. There's just…something. That's all.”

“Durken still denying that he murdered his wife?”

“Yes.” Quinn met Anthony Duarte's eyes. “Admits he was a womanizing bastard, but swears he didn't kill her.”

“You think a dancer is the killer?” Duarte shook his head. “Quinn, the circumstances were odd enough for the police to investigate, but you've got to think about the facts again. Lara Trudeau didn't argue with anyone at that competition, and she walked out on the floor to dance without the least sign of distress. When she fell, she did so in front of a huge audience. The pills she took were prescription, the vial had no prints, and the prescription was written by a physician she'd been seeing for over ten years—and to the best of my knowledge, he wasn't a ballroom dancer.”

“Yeah, I know. I read the report. I'm going to pay a visit to Dr. Williams, though I know he was already interviewed and cleared of any wrongdoing.”

Duarte grimaced. “If the cops blamed a physician every time a patient abused a prescription, the jails would be spilling over worse than they are now. This is a tough one, Quinn. Strange, and tough. I just don't see where you can go. There's simply no forensic evidence to lead you in any direction. If it is a crime, it's just about the perfect one.”

“No crime is perfect.”

“We both know a lot of them go unpunished.”

“Yeah. And this time, I agree, there's nothing solid to go on. Unless I can find someone who knows something—and that person has to be out there.”

“Wish I could be more helpful,” Duarte said.

Quinn nodded. “Nell Durken hadn't taken a lesson in the sixth months before she died. With Nell…there was nothing else, either, right? No…grass, speed…anything like that?”

“No, sorry. There were no illegal substances in either woman. Just massive overdoses of prescription medications and, in the Trudeau case, alcohol.”

“Well, thanks,” Quinn said. “Sorry to take up your time.”

Duarte offered him a rueful smile. “You never take up my time. I really believe in the things you read and see on television. The dead can't speak anymore. We have to do their talking for them, but sometimes we're not as good at interpreting as we want to be. If I've missed something, or if I haven't thought to look for something, hell, I want to know.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“You going back to the Keys tonight?” Duarte asked.

“No. I have my boat up at the marina by Nick's, doing some work. I'm still there.”

“Maybe I'll see you later. I'm starving—it was a long day. I got busy and forgot to eat. I'm dying for a hamburger.”

Quinn nodded, but at the moment, he didn't feel the slightest twinge of hunger. He'd stood through a number of autopsies and he'd never gotten sick or fainted—as some of the biggest, toughest guys he knew had done—but he'd never gotten over a certain abdominal clenching in the presence of a corpse. Time and experience didn't change some things.

Duarte was one of the best of the best. But he could chow down with body parts on the same table. Survival, Quinn thought, in a place where the houses of the dead were as big as they were in Miami-Dade County.

“You'll be around later?” Duarte said.

“Sure,” Quinn agreed. It would be a lot later, he knew.

Lara was covered and rolled away by the assistant as the two men started out the door and back down the hall.

 

A trip to the main station on Kendall was pretty much as worthless as Quinn had suspected. Detective Pete Dixon worked nine to five.

No overtime for Dixon these days.

He said a quick hello to a few old friends and started out. In the parking lot, he ran into Jake Dilessio, with whom he'd worked prior to leaving for Quantico. He wished that Dilessio had been assigned to the Trudeau investigation. He was certain he wouldn't be taking dance lessons if the chips had fallen that way.

“Hey, stranger, haven't seen much of you,” Dilessio greeted him. “Seems we're living only a few feet away from one another, too. You're moored at the marina by Nick's, right? Thought you were taking off for the Bahamas.”

“I was.” Quinn shrugged. “I'm investigating the Trudeau case.”

“Trudeau?” Dilessio arched a brow. “Sounds familiar.”

“The dancer who died.”

“I thought that was ruled accidental. Last I heard, Dixon was just tying up the reports to close the case.”

“It
was
ruled accidental.”

“But someone thinks it wasn't?”

“Something like that.”

“So who are you working for?”

“The word ‘work' would imply pay.”

“Oh, yeah, that's right. They're calling your brother twinkle-toes on the beat. Not without some envy, I might add. I hear the kid is really good.”

“I wouldn't know. I haven't seen him dance yet.”

“No?”

“I didn't even know he was dancing until this all came up.”

Jake shrugged and nodded. “I saw him not too long ago. He said you'd been really wrapped up in work. Congratulations, by the way. I hear your surveillance reports on Art Durken gave the cops what they needed to arrest him and enough for the D.A.'s office to charge him.”

“Not really. If I'd been good enough, she wouldn't be dead.”

“How long have you been in this business? You can't blame yourself for all the bad shit that goes down.”

“Yeah, I know. But I can't stop it from bugging me, either.”

Jake shrugged and said, “That's true. But at least it's better than the shit that goes unpunished.”

“I guess you're right. Anyway, the dancer who died was connected with Doug's studio. I'm doing a little follow-up of my own.”

“Well, Dixon is known to show up at Nick's in the evening. No wife, no kids, no kitchen. He eats a hamburger there almost every night. I'm heading home now. In fact, if you're free, I'll buy you dinner.”

“If you're buying me dinner, I'm not exactly free, but at least, at Nick's, I'll be cheap. Sounds good to me. Where's your wife? Is she joining us? I saw her when I tied up the other day. That baby's due awful soon, isn't it?”

“Too soon. Three weeks. And she went up to Jacksonville anyway, with a special dispensation from the airline. They wanted her to do some sketches of a homicide suspect.”

“I thought that she left forensics and graduated from the academy.”

“She did graduate from the academy, but she stayed in forensics. She's one of the best sketch artists in the state, in the country, maybe. They asked her to go, and she thought she could help, so she went.”

“You know, you marry a cop, and that's what happens,” Quinn said lightly.

“Yeah, I know.”

They arrived at Nick's right before six.

It was a great time of the day at the marina. Darkness was falling, coming fast, but the sky over the ocean was in the midst of its last majestic frenzy of color. Magenta, oranges, trails of gold, all sweeping together across the heavens over the shadowed ocean. The breeze at night was cool, pleasant after the heat of the day.

As Jake had suspected, Pete Dixon was there, already on his second cheeseburger, it appeared, since one empty basket was pushed behind the one in front of him.

Quinn pulled out a chair at Dixon's table without being asked, turning it backward and straddling the seat. “Jeez, Pete, you might want to opt for something green now and then, watch out for the fat and cholesterol once a week, maybe,” he said.

Dixon wiped his mouth, looking at Quinn as if he'd just been joined by a barracuda. His eyes, small in the folds of his face, fell on Jake Dilessio next, riddled with pure accusation. “Sit down, Quinn, Jake. Come on, join me. And while you're at it, give me grief about my eating habits.”

“Thanks,” Jake said, sitting.