Dead On The Dance Floor

“What is it?” Quinn asked, taking the paper.

“Read.”

Quinn unfolded it and looked at the headline. “‘Diva Lara Trudeau Dead on the Dance Floor at Thirty-eight.’” He cocked his head toward his brother.

“Keep reading.”

Quinn scanned the article. He’d never heard of Lara Trudeau, but that didn’t mean anything. He wouldn’t have recognized the name of any dancer, ballroom or otherwise. He could free-dive to nearly four hundred feet, bench-press nearly four hundred pounds and rock climb with the best of them. But in a salsa club, hell, he was best as a bar support.

Puzzled, he scanned the article. Lara Trudeau, thirty-eight, winner of countless dance championships, had died as she had lived—on the dance floor. A combination of tranquilizers and alcohol had caused a cardiac arrest. Those closest to the dancer were distraught, and apparently stunned that, despite her accomplishments, she had felt the need for artificial calm.

Quinn looked back at his brother and shook his head. “I don’t get it. An aging beauty got nervous and took too many pills. Tragic. But hardly diabolical.”

“You’re not reading between the lines,” Doug said with dismay.

Quinn suppressed a grin. “And I take it no one in the homicide division ‘read between the lines,’ either?”

Doug smacked the article. “Quinn, a woman like Lara Trudeau wouldn’t take pills. She was a perfectionist. And a winner. She would have taken the championship. She had no reason to be nervous.”

“Doug, are you even reading the lines yourself? We’re talking about something that no one can outrun—age. Here’s this Lara Trudeau—thirty-eight. With a horde of twenty-somethings following in her wake. Hell, yes, she was nervous.”

“What, you think people keel over at thirty-eight?” Doug said.

“When you’re a quarterback, you’re damn near retirement,” Quinn said.

“She wasn’t a quarterback.”

Quinn let out an impatient sigh. “It’s the same thing. Sports, dancing. People slow down with age.”

“Some get better with age. She was still winning. And hell, in ballroom dance, people compete at all ages.”

“And that’s really great. More power to them. I just don’t understand why you chased me down about this. According to the paper and everything you’re telling me, the death was accidental. It’s all here. She dropped dead in public on a ballroom floor, so naturally there was an autopsy, and the findings indicated nothing suspicious.”

“Right. They found the physical cause of death. Cardiac arrest brought on by a mixture of alcohol and pills. How she happened to ingest that much isn’t in the M.E.’s report.”

Quinn groaned and pulled over the day’s newspaper, flipping quickly to the local section. “‘Mother and Two Children Found Shot to Death in North Miami Apartment,’” he read, glaring at his brother over the headlines. “‘Body Found in Car Trunk at Mall,’” he continued. “Want me to go on? Violence is part of life in the big city, bro. You’ve been through the academy. There’s a lot out there that’s real bad. You know it, and I know it. Things that need to be questioned, and I’m sure the homicide guys are on them. But a drugged-out dancer drops dead, and you want to make something more out of it. You’ll make detective soon enough. Give yourself time.”

“Quinn, this is important to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m afraid that someone else is going to die.”

Quinn frowned, staring at his younger brother, wondering if he wasn’t being overly dramatic. Doug looked dead calm and serious, though.

Quinn threw up his hands. “Is this based on anything, Doug? Was someone else threatened? If so, you’re a cop. You know the guys in homicide, including Dixon. And he’s not that bad. He knows the law, and on a paper chase, he’s great.”

“You know them better.”

“Knew them better,” Quinn corrected. “I was away a long time, before I started working with Dane down in the Keys. Anyway, we’re getting away from my point. Doug, take a look at the facts. There was an autopsy, and the medical examiner was convinced that her death was accidental. The cops must see it that way, too, if all they’re doing is a bit of follow-up investigation. So…? Did you hear someone threaten her before she died? Do you have any reason whatsoever to suspect murder? And if so, do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill her?”

Doug shrugged, contemplating his answer. “Several people, actually.”

“And what makes you say that?”

“She could be the world’s biggest bitch.”

“And you know this for a fact?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Again Doug hesitated, then cocked his head to the side as he surveyed his brother. “I was sleeping with her.”

Quinn groaned, set his beer on the table and pressed his temples between his palms. “You were sleeping with a woman more than ten years your senior?”

“There’s something wrong with that?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You sure as hell did.”

“All right, it just seems a little strange to me, that’s all.”

“She was quite a woman.”

“If you say so, Doug, I’m sure she was.” He hesitated. “Were you emotionally involved, or was it more of a sexual thing?”

“I can’t say that I thought I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her or anything like that. And I know damn well she didn’t feel that way about me. But whether she could be a bitch or not, and whether or not we were meant for the ages, hell, yes, I cared about her.”

“And are you asking me to look into this because your feelings are ruling your mind?” Quinn asked seriously.

Doug shook his head. “We weren’t a ‘thing,’ by any means. And I wasn’t the only one involved with her. She could play games. Or maybe, in her mind, she wasn’t playing games. She kind of considered herself a free spirit.” He shrugged, not looking at Quinn. “Kind of as if she was a gift to the world and the men in it, and she bestowed herself when she felt it was warranted, or when she was struck by whim, I guess. At any rate, I wasn’t the only one she was sleeping with,” Doug said flatly.

“Great. You know who else she was seeing?”

“I know who she might have been seeing—anyone around the studio.”

“And how many people knew about your relationship?”

“I don’t know,” Doug admitted.

“This is pretty damn vague.”

“It wouldn’t need to be—if you would just agree to look into what happened.”

Quinn surveyed his younger brother thoughtfully. He was caught up in this thing emotionally. And maybe that was why he didn’t want it to have happened the way it appeared.

“Maybe you should make it a point to stay away from the homicide guys, Doug. If the police suspected someone of murder, you might be first in line.”

“But I didn’t kill her. I’m a cop. And even if I wasn’t, I’d never murder anyone, Quinn. You know that.”

“You had a relationship with the woman. If you convince people that she was killed, you could wind up under investigation yourself, you understand that?”

“Of course. But I’m innocent.”

Quinn looked at the newspaper again. “She died because of an overdose of the prescription drug Xanax. The alcohol might have enhanced the drug, bringing on cardiac arrest.”

“Yes,” Doug said. “And the cop on the case is certain that in her pigheaded quest for eternal fame—my adjective, not his—she got nervous.”

“Doug, I’m sorry to say it, but I’ve seen people do a lot of stupid things. It may be tragic, but it looks as if she got nervous, took the pills, then drank.”

Doug groaned, shaking his head. “No.”

“You don’t think that’s even possible?”

“No.”

“The prescription was in her name. Her doctor was contacted. According to him, she’d been taking a few pills before performances for the past several years. It’s in the article.”

“That’s right,” Doug agreed calmly.

“Doug, unless you’ve got more to go on…I can’t even understand what you think I can do for you.”

“I’ve got more to go on. A hunch. A feeling. A certainty, actually,” his brother said firmly. Quinn knew Doug. He was capable of being as steadfast as an oak. That was what had gotten him through school and into the academy, where he had graduated with honors. The kid was going to make a fine detective one day.

“There are times to hold and times to fold, you know,” Quinn said quietly.

Doug suddenly looked as if he was about to lose it. “I’ll pay you.”

“We charge way too much,” Quinn told him brusquely.

“Give me two weeks,” Doug said. “Quinn, dammit, I need your help! Just come into the studio and see if you don’t think people are behaving strangely, that people besides me believe she was murdered.”

“They’ve told you this?”

“Not in so many words. In fact, those who knew her well all admit she took pills now and then. She had a drink here and there, too. And yeah, she was getting up there for a woman determined on maintaining her championships in both the smooth and rhythm categories, and in cabaret.”

“Doug, you might as well be speaking a foreign language,” Quinn said irritably.

“Rhythm is the faster dances, rumba, cha-cha, swing, hustle, merengue, West Coast swing, polka. Smooth is the fox-trot, waltz, tango. And cabaret is for partners and combines different things.”

“All right, all right, never mind. I get the picture.”

“So?”

“Doug…”

“Dammit, Quinn, there were plenty of people who hated her. Plenty of suspects. But if I push any further, someone will start investigating me. Will they ever be able to prove I caused her death? No, because I didn’t. Can my career be ruined? Can people look at me with suspicion for the rest of my life? You bet, and you know it. Quinn, I’m not asking a lot. Just go and take a few dance lessons. It won’t kill you.”

It won’t kill you. An odd sensation trickled down Quinn’s spine. He wondered if he wouldn’t come to remember those words.

“Doug, no one will believe I’ve come in for dance lessons. I can’t dance to save my life.”

“Why do you think guys take lessons?” Doug demanded.

“To pick up women at the salsa clubs on the beach,” he said flatly.

“See? A side benefit. What are you going to do—hole up like a hermit for the rest of your life?”

“I haven’t holed up like a hermit at all.” Did he actually sound defensive?

His brother just stared at him. Quinn sat back and said, “Wait a minute—is this how you got into the whole thing to begin with? Dance lessons.” He couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d heard that Doug had taken up knitting. Doug had nearly gone the route of a pro athlete. He remained an exceptional golfer and once a week coached a Little League team.

“Yeah, I was taking lessons,” Doug said.

“I see.” He paused thoughtfully. “No, I don’t see at all. Why did you decide to take dance lessons?”

Doug grinned sheepishly. “Randy Torres is getting married. I agreed to be his best man. He and his fiancée, Sheila, started taking lessons for the wedding. I figured, what the hell? I’d go with him a few times and be a good best man. There aren’t nearly as many guys taking lessons as females. The place seemed to be a gold mine of really great looking women. The studio is on South Beach, right above one of the hottest salsa clubs out there. Nice place to go after classes and make use of what you’ve learned. So I started taking lessons.”

“And wound up…dating an older diva?”

“That’s the way it went. She wasn’t actually a teacher there—she got paid big bucks to come in and coach now and then. So she wasn’t really in on the teacher rules.”

“What are the teacher rules?”

“Teachers aren’t supposed to fraternize with students. A loose rule there, because everyone goes down to the salsa club now and then. Let me tell you, Moonlight Sonata has the best location in history for a dance studio. Sometimes couples come in, and they can dance with each other. But for singles…well, they’re still nervous at first. So if you can go to a club and have a few drinks and have a teacher there to dance with you, make you look good—well, it’s a nice setup. And hey, South Beach, you know. It’s one of those places where rockers and movie stars stop in sometimes.”

“So there are a lot of players hanging around. And, I imagine, drugs up the wazoo. What’s the name of the club?”

“Suede.”

Quinn arched a brow. “I know the name, and I never hang out on South Beach. I hate South Beach,” he added. And he meant it. The place was plastic, at best. People never doing anything—just coming out to be seen. Trying to make the society pages by being in the right club when Madonna came by. Proving their worth by getting a doorman to let them into one of the new hot spots when the line was down the street.

The only good thing in his opinion was Lincoln Road, where some good foreign and independent films occasionally made it to the theater, a few of the restaurants were authentic and reasonable, and every canine maniac in the city felt free to walk a dog.

“Come on, the beach isn’t really that bad. Okay, it’s not as laid-back as your precious Keys, but still…And as for Suede, there was an investigation not long ago. A runaway-turned-prostitute was found about a block away, just lying on the sidewalk. Heroin overdose. So Narcotics did a sweep, but Suede came out clean. Hell, maybe the girl did get her drugs from someone at the bar. You know as well as I do that dealers don’t have to look like bums. And there’s money on the beach. Big money people pop in at Suede. But as for the management and the club itself, everything came out squeaky clean. In fact, they’re known for enforcing the twenty-one-and-over law on drinking, and there was a big thing in the paper a few months ago when one of the bartenders threw out a rock star, said he wasn’t serving him any more alcohol. It’s a good club, and like I said, students and teachers see one another and dance, maybe have a drink or two—it gives the school a real edge, because people can use what they learn. But outside of that, teachers and students really aren’t supposed to hang around together.”

“Why?”

Doug sighed as if his brother had gotten old and dense. “Favoritism. Dance classes are expensive. Someone could get pissed if their teacher was seeing someone outside the studio and maybe giving that student extra attention. Still, it’s a rule that gets broken. You need to come down there, Quinn. Could it really hurt you to take a few lessons, ask a few questions, make a few inquiries—get into it in a way I can’t?” Doug asked.

Quinn winced. “Doug, one day, I’d like to take up skydiving. I’d like to up my scuba certification to a higher level. I’d like to speak Spanish better, and I kind of always wanted to go on safari in Africa. Never in my life have I wanted to take dance lessons.”

“You might be surprised,” Doug said. “Quinn, please.”

Quinn looked down at his hands. He’d thought he would clean up the boat and head out to the Bahamas. Spend two weeks with nothing but fish, sea, sun and sand. Listening to calypso music and maybe some reggae. Listening to it. Not dancing to it.

But this seemed to matter to Doug. Really matter. And maybe something had been going on. Doug wouldn’t be here if he didn’t have a real feeling about it. Better he find it out before the police, because Doug would be a natural suspect.

He looked up at Doug, ready to agree that it wouldn’t kill him just to check the place out and ask a few questions. Then he hesitated. “I need a break,” he said honestly. “I’m not even sure you want me handling a case that means so much to you.”

Doug shook his head angrily. “Quinn, you know better than to blame yourself for anything that’s happened—lately. You do your best with what you’ve learned and what you know. And sometimes knowledge and laws work, and sometimes they don’t. I still have faith in you—even if you’ve lost it in yourself.”

“I haven’t lost faith in myself,” Quinn said. Shit. Beyond a doubt, he was sounding defensive.

“No?” Doug asked. “Good. Because I’ve got some news for you that I think will change your mind about this case—among other things.”

Quinn looked at him questioningly.

“Your girl took lessons at the Moonlight Sonata studios. Right up until last November.”

Quinn frowned. “My girl? My girl who?”

“Nell Durken. I managed to sneak a look in the file cabinet at Moonlight Sonata, and Nell Durken’s name is there, right in the record books.”

Quinn hadn’t known a damn thing about Nell Durken’s dance lessons. But then again, he hadn’t known all that much about her, really. She had just hired him to find out what her husband spent his time doing.

So he had found out.

And the bastard had killed her.

“Actually,” Doug continued, “Nell was one of their advanced students. Then, last November, she just quit going. Never mentioned it to you, I guess. Curious, though. The records indicate that she was gung ho—and then just gone. Makes you wonder, huh?”

“Fine,” Quinn said flatly. “I’ll do some checking. I’ll take a few fucking dance lessons.”

CHAPTER 3

“Hey, how’s it going?”

Ella Rodriguez tapped on Shannon’s half-open door, then walked the few feet to the desk and perched on the corner of it. Shannon sat back in her desk chair, contemplating a reply to her receptionist.

“I don’t know. How do you think it’s going? Personally, I think we should have shut down for the week,” Shannon said.

“We shut down for three days,” Ella reminded her. “That’s about what most corporations are willing to give for members of the immediate family when someone has passed away.”

“Her pictures are all over the walls,” Shannon reminded Ella.

“Right. And teachers and really serious students are going to miss her—one way or another—for a long time. But you have some students who aren’t all that serious, who never want to see a competition floor, and who are getting married in a matter of weeks, left feet and all. They need the studio open, Shannon.” Ella had short, almost platinum hair, cut stylishly. She had a gamine’s face, with incredible dark eyes and one of the world’s best smiles. She considered herself the least talented employee in the studio, but whether she was right about that or not, her warmth and easy charm surely accounted for many of their students.

Except that now Ella made a face that was hardly warm or charming. “Shannon, I’m well aware you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead. But truth be told, I didn’t like Lara. And I’m not the only one. There are even people who think that her dropping dead on the dance floor was a piece of poetic justice.”

“Ella!”

“I know that sounds terrible, and I’m really sorry. I certainly didn’t want anything to happen to her,” Ella said. She stared at Shannon. “Come on, you’ve got admit it—she couldn’t possibly have been your favorite person.”

“Whether she was or wasn’t, she was a dynamic force in our industry, and she started here. So this was her home, so to speak,” Shannon said.

“We’re all sorry, we know she was a professional wonder, and I don’t think there’s a soul out there who didn’t respect her talent.” Ella met Shannon’s eyes. “Hey, I even said all that when the detective talked to me.”

“You told him that you hadn’t liked Lara?” Shannon asked.

“I was dead honest. Sorry, no pun intended. Oh, come on, he was just questioning us because he had to. You know—when someone dies that way, they have to do an autopsy, and they had to question a bunch of people, too, but hell, everyone saw what happened.” Ella arched a brow. “Did you tell them you had adored her?”

“I was dead honest, as well—no pun intended,” Shannon said dryly. “Well, for all of the four and a half minutes he questioned me.”

Ella shook her head. “What did you expect? There’s no trick here. Her dance is on tape—her death is on tape.” Ella shivered. “Creepy. Except Lara probably would have loved it. Even her demise was as dramatic as possible, captured on film for all eternity. She got carried away, and she died. A foolish waste. There’s nothing anyone can do now. But you closed the studio in her honor. Now we’re open again. And you’ve got a new student arriving in fifteen minutes.”

“I have a new student?”

“Yeah, you.”

Shannon frowned and said, “Wait, wait, wait, I’m not taking on any of the new students. Me being the studio manager and all? I have too much paperwork and too many administration duties, plus planning for the Gator Gala. Remember what we decided at the last meeting?”

“Of course I remember. But as I’m sure you’ve noticed, Jane isn’t in yet. She has a dental appointment—which she announced at the same meeting. Rhianna couldn’t change her weekly two-o’clock, because we don’t open until then and her guy works nights. And this new guy is coming in because Doug bought him a guest pass. Actually, it’s Doug’s brother. Personally, I can’t wait to see him.”

“I keep telling you that you should go ahead and get your certification to teach,” Shannon said. Ella had the natural ability to become an excellent teacher. But she had come to the studio two years ago looking for a clerical position and still shied away from anything else.

As for herself, at this particular time, Shannon just didn’t want to teach, which was odd, because watching the growth of a student was something she truly enjoyed.

Everything, however, had seemed off-kilter since Lara had dropped dead. Naturally it had shaken the entire dance world. Sudden death was always traumatic.

But it was true as well that Lara Trudeau hadn’t been her favorite person.

Championships—no matter how many—didn’t guarantee a decent living, not in the States. Lara had coached to supplement her income. Gordon Henson had been her first ballroom instructor. He had maintained his pride in his prize student, and, to her credit, Lara had come to the Moonlight Sonata studio whenever he asked her, within reason. But after he had begun to groom Shannon to take over management of the studio, he had left the hiring of coaches to her.

And because Lara was excellent and a real draw for the students, Shannon had continued to bring her in. But unlike a number of the other coaches they hired, Lara was not averse to making fun of the students—or the teachers—after a coaching session.

Shannon also had other, more personal, reasons for disliking Lara. Even so, it still bothered her deeply that Lara had died. It might have been the simple fact that no one so young should perish. Or perhaps it was impossible to see anyone who was so much a part of one’s life—liked or disliked—go so abruptly from it without feeling a sense of mourning and loss. Part of it was a sense of confusion, or of disbelief, that remained. Whatever the reasons, Shannon simply felt off, and it was difficult enough to maintain a working mentality to deal with the needs of the upcoming Gator Gala, much less consider teaching a beginner with a smile and the enthusiasm necessary to bring them into the family fold of the studio.

“She hasn’t even been dead a week yet,” Shannon said. “She hasn’t even been buried yet.” Because Lara’s death had to be investigated, she had been taken to the county morgue until her body could be released by the medical examiner. But once his findings had been complete, Ben, Lara’s ex, along with Gordon, had gotten together to make the arrangements. Lara had come to Miami for college almost twenty years ago, and sometime during the next few years, her parents had passed away. She’d never had children, and if she had any close relatives, they hadn’t appeared in all the years. Because she was a celebrity, even after her death had officially been declared accidental, the two men had opted for a Saturday morning funeral.

“Shannon, she breezed through here to dance now and then, and yes, we knew her. She wasn’t like a sister. We need to get past this,” Ella insisted. “Honestly, if anyone really knew her, it was Gordon, and he’s moving on.”

Yes, their boss was definitely moving on, Shannon thought. He had spent yesterday in his office, giving great concern to swatches of fabric he had acquired, trying to determine which he liked best for the new drapes he was putting in his living room.