Dead on the Dance Floor (8 page)

“You're close to retirement. You might want to live to enjoy a little of it,” Quinn said.

“Like you're a vegetarian or something,” Pete muttered.

Quinn grinned. “No, I think I'll have a cheeseburger, too. But just one.”

“You brought him here,” Pete said to Jake. “Make sure his food goes on your bill.”

“I'll even pick up
your
bill,” Jake said. “Quinn has a few questions for you.”

Pete groaned aloud. He was a big man. His belly jiggled as the sound escaped him. “Hope Nick has some Rolaids back there. Shit. I'm off duty. You had to bring a P.I. here to bug me?”

“Hey, I've got my boat up here,” Quinn protested. “This is the most convenient place for me to eat.”

“What do you want?” Pete asked him flatly. Before Quinn could answer, he looked at Jake again. “You really picking up my tab? If so, you can order me another beer.”

“Sure thing,” Jake said, grimacing at Quinn. He looked around and saw one of the waitresses at the next table. “Debbie, when you get a minute…”

The girl turned to him, scratching on her pad. “Pete—another cheeseburger?”

“Funny,” Pete said.

“No, but two for Quinn and me, and three Millers,” Jake said.

“Coming up.” Debbie was young and cheerful, bronzed and wearing tiny white shorts. Pete watched as she walked away.

“Pete, pay attention over here. What's the story on Lara Trudeau?” Quinn asked.

Dixon frowned. “Trudeau? You're here to ask me about that?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I closed it up today.”

“You closed the case already?” Quinn said.

“What case? There is no case. You want to see what happened yourself, the tape is in my office. Come by anytime. She went out on the dance floor smiling like a little lark. Moments later, she drops. A doctor is right there and tries to revive her. The ambulance arrives, and the med techs try to revive her. She gets to the hospital, and she's pronounced dead on arrival. She's turned over to the M.E., who discovers that she did herself in with booze and pills. Or her heart gave in 'cuz of the booze and pills. She ordered a drink at the bar herself—a dozen witnesses will tell you so. And the pills were a prescription from a physician with a flawless reputation. No prints on the vial. Our lady was wearing gloves. Of course, we checked anyway. We questioned waiters and waitresses, judges, dancers and the audience. Dozens of people talked to her. No one saw her argue with anyone. Hell yes, I closed the case. There was no damned case.”

Debbie arrived with the three beers as he finished. They thanked her, and she nodded, moving on quickly. It was casual at Nick's, but the place was getting busy, and Debbie seemed to be working the patio area alone.

When she was gone, Quinn asked, “You don't think her death was odd?”

“Odd? You should see my caseload. It's odd that a man shoots his own kid, his wife, and then himself. It's odd that out of the clear blue, a shot rings out in North Miami and a kid in all honors classes falls down dead. Hell, there's odd out there. You bet. But as far as this Trudeau thing goes, what the hell do you want? There's nothing there. So it's odd. So what? Everyone down here is frigging odd. And guess what? It ain't illegal to be odd.”

“If I understand the situation,” Quinn said evenly, “there were lots of people out there who hated Lara Trudeau.”

Pete Dixon stared at him, lifted his beer bottle and took a long swig. “Maybe lots of people hate
you,
Quinn. It's America. It's allowed.”

“I'm not dead,” Quinn reminded him.

“Yeah, well, hell, you're not in the position we're in at the force, either. People hire you, pay you by the case, and you've got the luxury of lots of time to investigate ‘odd' and nasty things. My plate is full with stuff that definitely has murder written all over it. You feel free to spend your time chasing ‘odd.' I can't do it.”

“Hey, we're all on the same side here,” Jake reminded him. “You know, fighting crime. That's the idea.”

“Yeah, that's right, and our big man Quinn here comes straight from the FBI. How was it, then, Quinn? What the hell made you leave, anyway? Or did being with the Feds just make you think you could come back and be better than anyone else?”

Quinn might not have expected a lot of help from Dixon, but he hadn't expected total animosity, either. He watched his fingers curl too tightly around his beer bottle, and he forced himself to control his temper.

“You're right, Pete. You've got lots of cases. Right now, I've just got one. If you do think of anything that can help me, I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know.”

Maybe he should have spent a little more time with the Bureau shrink—the control thing seemed to work. To his amazement, Pete flushed. Being such a big man, he went very red.

“Yeah, sure.” He swallowed more of his beer. “Hell, the whole damned thing was odd, you're right. The oddest thing is, how the hell did she down all that stuff and get out on the floor and dance so damned well, then…drop? She must have been totally oblivious to what she was doing beforehand. Come by and get the tape. Maybe that will help you. Who the hell knows? I looked at it over and over again, and it didn't give me a thing. I gotta go. My brother's kid is playing the saxophone at some dumb school thing.” He stood. “Thanks for the meal, Dilessio.”

“Sure thing,” Jake said.

“He gets discounts here anyway, you know?” Pete said to Quinn. “Married the proprietor's niece. When's that kid due, Dilessio?”

“Soon.”

“Hope you have a boy.”

“Oh, why?” Jake said.

“'Cause women are trouble. Right from the get-go.”

The both stared after him as he walked away toward the parking lot. Then Jake laughed out loud. “Quinn, you've come a long way.”

“Oh yeah?”

“For a minute there, I thought you were going to get up and deck him.”

Quinn shrugged. “Psychology one-oh-one,” he said lightly, except that he had a feeling Jake knew better. “You know, I think he believes there's more there than meets the eye, but he's got the same problem as everyone else.”

“And what's that?”

“Figuring out just how ‘odd' fits in with illegal. And murder.”

“Well, if you need help, I'm around,” Jake told him.

“What, you've got a small caseload?”

Jake shook his head, scratching the paper off the beer bottle. “Nope. Murder is murder, though. Whether it's obvious or not. You find something, I'll step on a few toes for you.”

“Great. Thanks.”

“We're playing poker later, out back in Nick's house, if you want to join us.”

“I think I'm going clubbing.”

“You're going club hopping?”

“Not hopping. Just clubbing.”

“Heading down to Suede?”

“Yep. Want to blow off the poker thing and come with me?”

Jake shook his head. “Someone down there might know me.”

“How come?”

“I got called in when a dead hooker was found not far from the place.”

“Was that one ever solved?”

“No.” Jake looked up at him. “The kid had no track lines, but she managed to overdose.”

“So it was, or wasn't, a homicide?”

“I haven't closed the case,” Jake said flatly. “Haven't found anything, but I haven't closed the case. I haven't put it into cold cases yet, either. Sometimes, the drug cases are the easiest. The perps are known to the narcotics guys. Not in this instance. They ran the ropes for me on it, checking into every club with a name. No one has come up with anything. She had a name, Sally Grant, and she picked up tricks on the street, no known regular johns. There were no witnesses, no one who could be found who admitted to seeing her in days, just a dead girl with a needle next to her.”

“Prints on it?” Quinn asked.

“Her own—but that could have been staged.”

“Hell of a lot overdoses going on,” Quinn commented.

“The M.E.s will tell you their tables are full of them. Legal substances, illegal substances. But it sure does add up to ‘odd,' doesn't it? Two dance students, too much Xanax. One dead hooker, too much heroin. They shouldn't connect. But maybe they do. Hell, maybe dancing is dangerous for your health.”

“The prostitute was a dancer?”

“Not that I know of. She was just found not too far from the studio. Not that that necessarily means a damn thing.”

“Did they question anyone at the studio, find out if she had ever been in?”

“Yep. None of the teachers had ever seen her.”

“Thanks again for the dinner, Jake.”

“Keep me informed.”

“Will do.”

Quinn left Jake at the table and headed for his boat to change. It had been one hell of a long time since he'd been to a club on the beach.

What the hell were people wearing to clubs these days?

“W
ant to make me look good?”

“Pardon?” Shannon said.

She was definitely off today. First there had been the strange lesson with Quinn O'Casey, which she had wanted to scream through, her patience nonexistent.

Now Richard.

She didn't need to scream when she danced with Richard. He was good. Excellent. A doctor, he had found that dance took his mind off the strain of his day. He wasn't performing brain surgery on a daily basis, but something far more demanding—at least in the eyes of his customers, he had once told her humorously. He was a plastic surgeon. Trusted with looks—the most important thing in the world, to the players in the area. He'd “fixed” or repaired the old, the young, the famous, the rich. He was written up constantly in magazines and had even been touted as the “Botox king of the western world” by one popular publication.

Shannon wasn't sure about his age but assumed he was around forty. He was in great shape, a golf enthusiast when he wasn't in the studio or working. He maintained a great tan, had a full head of almost platinum blond hair and fine gray eyes. He was married, and his wife, a pediatrician, came in now and then, as well, but she wasn't as enamored of dancing as Richard was. She preferred diving and spent most of her free time out on a boat. They seemed to have a perfect relationship. When they could be together, they were. When one had an opportunity that didn't work for the other, they just went their separate ways. Mina Long was petite and, like her husband, fortyish, platinum blond, bronzed and in great shape. The only difference was that she had brown eyes. After all their years of marriage, Shannon thought with some humor, they almost resembled each other.

He was a nice guy, and she enjoyed teaching him. He learned quickly, and in the year since he had been coming to the studio, he had advanced rapidly. But then again, he could afford all the private lessons he wanted. Most people, with more moderate incomes, took one or two private lessons a week and attended group lessons whenever they could.

“Earth to Shannon.”

“Oh, sorry. Make you look good? You don't need anyone to make you look good, Richard. In fact, you've gotten so good, I have to admit, I did just drift off in thought. Forgive me. That's not at all a good thing for a teacher to admit.”

He smiled. “You're still upset about Lara.”

“Of course,” she admitted.

“You do know I did everything that I could,” he said quietly. “I may be a plastic surgeon, but I was top of my class at med school and spent plenty of time interning in the emergency room.”

“Oh, Richard, of course, I know you did everything. It's just still so…sad.”

“Yes. We'll all miss her tremendously. I mean, you
will
miss her, right?”

“Of course.” Shannon frowned. “Why do you say that?”

“No reason.”

They had been waltzing. She stopped near the stereo, frowning as she looked at him.

“Richard, why did you say that?”

“Oh, Lord, now I'm really sorry.”

“Richard.”

“A little bird told me once—a while ago—that you and Ben Trudeau had been partners and a very hot duo—before Ben married Lara.”

“I see.”

“You
were
partners, right? I hear you stormed the floor in competitions, that no one even came close to being as good.”

“We won a few competitions, but that was ages ago. And I do mean ages.”

“Sorry, I shouldn't have said anything.”

“Who told you about it?”

“Now, I swear, my lips are sealed.”

“It doesn't matter, Richard. It's not like it was a deep, dark secret or anything. I was just curious.”

“I told you, my lips are sealed. And hey, you didn't answer my question.”

“What question?”

He sighed with a pretense of mock impatience. “Do you want to help me look good?”

“I did answer your question. You do look good.”

He shook his head, smiling. “There are some hotshots down from the board. I'm bringing them out to Suede tonight. Would you show up for a few minutes?”

“Richard, I was going to try to head home early. Someone will be down there, though. Rhianna or Jane.”

He shook his head. “You're my teacher. We both know that even the top professionals work with their partner over and over again. I look best with you. Show up for one dance and one drink? I'll get you out of there by ten-thirty, I swear it. Please?”

“Richard, don't beg.”

“I am begging.”

“All right—you tell me what little bird told you about Ben and me, and maybe I'll come.”

“That's bribery!”

“You bet,” she said, smiling.

“I can't tell you. And I don't fold easy.”

“If you want me to show up…”

“Gordon,” Richard said.

“Gordon?”

“Yes, I said Gordon, didn't I?”

“Yes…and quickly. You folded like a bad poker hand,” she said, laughing.

“Right. So now you have to show up.”

“I will, I will,” she told him. “Right after I strangle Gordon.”

“Why? You just said that it wasn't a deep, dark secret or anything.”

“But still…we're not supposed to bring our personal lives into the studio.”

Richard let out a snort. “That gets ridiculous, you know.”

“It's only professional.”

“Not professional—silly,” Richard said. “And you're getting that prim look on your face again. I'll let it go, but let's concentrate on something wild and sexy. I want to be known as the salsa king of Miami, not the reigning Botox monarch, okay?”

She laughed.

“We'll give them a show,” she promised.

“And, Shannon?”

“What?”

“What happened was terrible. But it wasn't your fault in any way. We're all stunned, and so sorry, but…please. It's okay to grieve. Lara was tremendously talented, a force…. We'll all miss her, maybe forever. But…well, you've got to move on. It hurts to see you so unhappy.”

“I'm fine. It's just…the whole thing was so absurd. I can't believe it. I can't believe Lara would drink on top of drugs before a performance.”

“You've got to accept it. It happened. You can't keep questioning fate—you have to let it go, however much you don't want to.”

“Thanks. Moving into psychiatry, are you?” she teased.

He put up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, I quit. Come on, let's play some salsa, huh? I really want to wow 'em tonight.”

She walked over to the stereo system. “Salsa it is.”

 

What did they wear to clubs these days?

Next to nothing, it seemed.

It was still early—for clubbing—when Quinn returned to the beach. Luckily it was a weeknight, and he was in time to get a meter right on the street and a seat at the sidewalk café across from Suede and Moonlight Sonata. He sat staring at the Deco building that housed the club and dance studio. He'd watched people arrive for dance classes—taking the stairs up to the second floor at the side of the building—along with the few who were already arriving for a night on the town. Several people had entered the lower level dressed in shorts and T-shirts with lettering that advertised “Suede.” Apparently they were employees. In between arrivals, the café was one of those perfect spots for people-watching.

A gothic group cruised by, one girl, two guys, all three with nose rings and enough silver in their ears to weight down a cargo ship. Despite the balmy quality of the weather, they wore dark jeans and long black jackets, along with makeup that left them looking like walking cadavers.

They were followed by an elderly couple, moving very slowly. Harvey, as the wife addressed the man, wasn't holding the bagel bag securely enough, according to Edith, the woman.

Three bathing beauties strolled past him next. One had on a short jacket, which pretended to cover up the expanse of ample breasts displayed by the strings of her bikini top. The jacket, however, ended at her midriff. The bottom of her bathing suit was a thong. She was wearing three-inch heels, as well.

Interesting ensemble.

As night came on, so did more of the bold, the beautiful and the downright ugly.

A doorman came out to guard the entrance to the club.

A lithe Latin girl in see-through white entered with a tall dark man, followed by three obvious rockers, speaking so loudly that their English accents were clearly discernible across the street.

Quinn sipped a mineral water, somewhat amused as he turned a page in the notebook before him—compliments of Doug. His brother was meticulously thorough. This file described the teachers at the studio. Interesting group. He'd started with Gordon Henson, who had bought the business in the early seventies. He no longer taught, but in his day, he had apparently instructed some of the top champions in the world. He still showed up at the studio and did some overseeing of the day-to-day business. He had basically turned things over to Shannon Mackay, though. She had some students but also saw to the running of the studio. She was a native Floridian, born in Winter Haven, moved with her folks to the Miami area when she was three, had graduated from the area's specialized high school, then gone to an arts school in New York City. She was five feet seven inches, one hundred and twenty-five pounds, a green-eyed, dark blond dynamo, with a capacity for pure professionalism. Doug, it seemed, had waxed a little poetic on the last.

That didn't surprise Quinn.

Everyone he had seen in the studio was attractive. Well-dressed, well-groomed. The men wore suits, the women dresses or feminine pants ensembles. The girls were pretty, the men, if not exactly handsome, certainly presentable. But Shannon Mackay was a standout. Features delicate but precise, hair soft in a stunning color of sunlight, and eyes deep, direct and thoughtful. More, she seemed to radiate a sensual energy, her every movement unintentionally seductive, her smile somehow open and secretive in one. Beguiling.

She wore one of the Versace scents—he knew it because his mother loved perfumes and he'd learned the names. Shannon had the ability to touch gently but still steer and manipulate a student as she wanted. At his stage, he stood somewhat awkwardly apart from her when they danced. Close enough, though. She was something. Maybe that was why he had done so badly—it was difficult to concentrate when he was so close to her. Hell, yes, difficult to concentrate, but he just wasn't cut out for dancing. Didn't matter. He wouldn't be taking lessons long.

He wondered idly what he would have felt if he'd met her under different circumstances. Severely piqued interest, at the least. She had a chemistry that instantly aroused interest at an instinctive level. He would have liked to ask her out, listen to her voice, get between the light and shadow of her eyes.

She was as suspect as anyone else in a possible murder, he reminded himself.

A damned sexy suspect.

And yet…what if he'd met her elsewhere? He suddenly found himself pondering his last night with Geneva and wondering what exactly was wrong with him. They'd been together five years, and that night, she had just exploded. He was never with her, she'd said. Not ever really with her. Not even when they made love. He lived work, breathed work and had become his work. She'd been crying. He had wanted to assure her somehow, but every word she'd said had been true. To others, it had been a perfect relationship. He was FBI; she was an assistant D.A. Tough schedules, the same parties. She teased that she always looked great on his arm; she was bright and beautiful. But somehow, it was true. The work—and the way it didn't always work—had begun to obsess him. He had been able to leave the office but never to let go. His workouts at the gym were no longer exercise but him beating up an enemy he couldn't touch, a vague force that was beating him, creating an inner rage.

Over. Over and done with. He was further disturbed by the knowledge that he hadn't felt any lonelier when she was gone. He had merely felt the strange darkness, the frustration, and, finally, the feeling that he wasn't where he should be, that he was no longer effective. Time to change his life, maybe even come home.

Then there had been the Nell Durken case.

The bastard who had killed her was in jail. Largely because of
his
work, his records, and what he'd given the cops. A killer was caught. He would face trial.

But
was
he the killer?

The question nagged at him, and he gritted his teeth.

Back to the files. The business at hand.

Shannon Mackay. She ran the business, taught, didn't compete. Apparently a broken ankle several years ago had caused her to step out of the arena of professional competition. She'd been at the top of her form, and the trophies she'd won were part of what gave the studio its reputation.