Dead On The Dance Floor

CHAPTER 4

In the afternoon, the beach wasn’t so bad, Quinn thought. It was slower. Weekends, it was crazy. If he suddenly heard there had been a run of cab drivers committing suicide on a Friday or Saturday night at the beach, it wouldn’t be shocking in the least. Traffic sometimes snarled so badly that a lifetime could pass before a vehicle made it down a block.

But in the afternoon…

Though they were moving into fall, temperatures were still high, but there was a nice breeze coming off the ocean, making the air almost cool. Walking from the studio, which sat between Alton Road and Washington, he passed some of the old Deco buildings and houses that had undergone little or no restoration, appreciating their charm. There were also a number of small businesses, including a coffeehouse that wasn’t part of a big chain, a pretty little flower shop, some duplexes, small apartment houses and a few single dwellings. The beach itself was barely three blocks away, and he was tempted to take a quick stroll on the boardwalk and get a real feel for the area.

The stretch of sand facing the bay was dotted with sun worshipers. A volleyball game was going on, and down a bit, a mother was helping two toddlers build a sand castle. The little girl wore a white eyelet cap, protecting her delicate skin, while just a few feet away, a young couple, both bronzed and beautiful, applied great gobs of something from a tube labeled Mega-Tan to each other’s skin. During the week, the beach could be great. He had to admit, the Keys didn’t offer huge expanses of beach. Just more privacy.

On the stretch in front of a chic Deco hotel, the bronzed and beautiful were joined by the more mundane. A huge woman wearing a skimpy suit that was totally unsuitable for her ample physique was strolling along with a scrawny man in a Speedo. They were smiling happily, and nodded as they passed him. Quinn offered them a hello and decided that the mind’s perception of the self was really what created happiness. The couple looked completely content. More power to them. Who the hell was he to judge? He was walking the beach in dress shoes, chinos and a tailored shirt.

A bit farther down, a group of kids seemed to be dispersing. Gathering towels, chairs and lotion bottles, they were calling out to one another, saying their goodbyes. He kept walking, watching as one by one they all disappeared—except for one little waif who was tall when she stood but slim to the point of boniness. Beyond model slim. She had long brown hair and huge eyes, and as she watched her friends disappear, she suddenly wore a look of loneliness and pain. She looked so lost he was tempted to talk to her, but hell, this was South Beach—she could be anyone, including an undercover cop.

Not old enough.

She heard his footsteps in the sand and swung around, looking straight at him. She sized him up and down, and swallowed.

“Hey, mister, you got a dollar?”

“You a runaway?”

She flushed but said, “Not exactly. I’m eighteen. Honest.”

“But you ran away?”

“I left. I’ve graduated high school. I just haven’t been able to find a job. A real job.”

“So you’re living on the streets.”

She actually grinned. “The beach isn’t as bad as the streets. Really. If you’re going to be homeless, this is the place to be.”

“But you’ve got a home?”

“What are you, a cop?”

“No, just a concerned citizen who doesn’t want to see your face in the news. ‘Does anyone know this girl? Her body was discovered Saturday night.’”

The girl shook her head vehemently. “I’m careful. You got a dollar or not? I don’t need a third degree.”

“Hey, wait.” He pulled out his wallet and found a five.

She blinked and walked toward him. “What do you want?” she asked uneasily. “I’m not a cheap hooker.”

He shook his head. “I just want you to tell me that you’re going to buy food, and that you’re not a junkie, either.”

“Hey, you see any punctures in these arms?” She was wearing a tank top over cutoff jeans, and she spoke with pride as well as conviction.

“Get yourself something to eat, then. And hey, listen. If you do need help, you can get it, you know. Find a cop. The guys on the beach are pretty damned decent, and if not, head for the South Miami station. There’s a woman there who is a victims’ advocate, and she’s an absolute gem. Wait, I’ll give you her card.”

She looked as if she was going to run with the five at first, but then she waited and even took the card.

“I thought you said you weren’t a cop.”

“I’m not.”

“Kind of overdressed for the beach, aren’t you?”

He started to shrug. Her eyes widened. “I’ll bet you were at that dance studio.”

He didn’t answer, and she laughed. “Hey, I’d be there, too, if I had the bucks. God, I love to dance.” She flushed again, then wiggled the five in her hand. “Thanks.”

“Be careful, huh?”

“Hey, don’t I know? Don’t worry, I’m tougher than I look. And I know that you can get into a lot more out here than just sea and sand.”

She turned and sprinted off, then paused a good thirty feet away and called back to him, “Hey, you’re all right, you know? My name is Marnie, by the way.” Then, as if she had given away far too much, she turned again, this time running toward the street at full speed.

He watched her go. He hoped she was as tough as she thought.

Miami Beach was a gateway to every vice in the western hemisphere.

He noted the position of the sun in the sky and glanced at his watch. Time to get moving.

He headed back for his car, which was parked over on Alton. He wasn’t sure why, but he hadn’t wanted to park closer to the studio. He returned to his car, took a look at his watch again and figured he had time. It was a short hop from South Beach to pay a visit to the medical examiner’s officer.

The newly revamped and renamed hotel where they were hoping to hold the Gator Gala had called while Shannon was giving Quinn O’Casey his first lesson. When she returned the call, she was happy to learn that she had played hardball with them to just the right degree—they were calling to agree to a per-night room charge that was completely reasonable and would surely help draw northern entrants to the competition, which was planned for the second week in February. Despite the heavy pall that had seemed to hang over her since Lara’s death, Shannon was delighted. They would wrap up the deal at their meeting later in the week. She hurried into the main office to tell Gordon.

“Great,” he told her, really pleased. “That should make a difference for us. I mean, who wouldn’t want to come to Miami Beach in the middle of winter? Especially at such a great price. What about the meals?”

“We’re still negotiating,” she said.

“What are we negotiating?” Ben Trudeau asked, poking his head in.

“Meals,” Shannon told him.

“Ah.” Ben was one of those men who was so good-looking he was almost too pretty. Of course, once upon a time, it hadn’t seemed that way to Shannon. Once he had been like a god to her—tall, lithe, elegant, able to move with the speed and electric power of lightning or as smoothly as the wind.

He was an incredible dancer and always a striking competitor. His hair was ebony, his eyes dark as ink, and his features classically flawless. He had amazing technical ability and was a showman to boot. For several years he had competed with Lara, but then it had all fallen apart. They’d been divorced for almost five years before her death. In that time, she’d taken a number of championships, working steadily with Jim Burke. Ben, in the meantime, had grabbed any number of best in shows and number ones and cash prizes, but he hadn’t gone as far as Lara. He’d changed partners too many times. Now his eyes moved over Shannon as he stood in the doorway.

“It’s a waste,” he said.

“What?”

“All the time you’re spending on business.”

“Hey!” Gordon said.

“Well, she should be competing.”

Gordon looked at Shannon, a slight smile curving his lips. “She can go back into competition any time she wants.”

“Gentlemen, I’m well aware of that. And I don’t want to compete.”

“You know, that’s just silly,” Ben said, smoothing back a thatch of hair from his forehead. “You get out there in the Pro-Ams with your students all the time. What’s the difference?”

“They’re my students.”

“Lucky students,” Gordon noted, still amused. “You make them look great.”

“And I’m really proud of them when they do well. Why can’t you two understand that? Everyone isn’t ruled by blinding ambition.”

She sighed. “Look, since I broke my ankle all those years ago, it’s never been the same. I never know when it’s going to give, and after too much practice, it hurts like hell. It’s not good enough to work as hard as I’d have to if I wanted to compete professionally. The good thing is, I really love to teach. I get my thrills by working with the students.”

“Beginners,” Ben said, a note of contempt in his voice.

“Everyone is a beginner at some point.”

Ben laughed. “Right. So you gonna talk that new student of yours—that tank—into entering the newcomers division at the Gator Gala? That the kind of challenge you’re up to?”

“Maybe I will talk him into it,” she said.

“It’s all just an excuse for cowardice,” Ben said.

She didn’t have a chance to respond. A buzzer sounded on Gordon’s desk, and he hit the intercom button.

“Dr. Long is here for his lesson with Shannon,” Ella’s voice informed them.

“I’m on my way.” Before she left, she addressed the two men one last time. “Both of you—I’m happy with what I do. Jane and Rhianna are both young and beautiful and talented. Let’s support them, huh?” She glared at both men. Neither responded.

Shannon started out of the office. Ben slipped up behind her, catching her shoulder the minute they were out of the doorway.

“We were good, you know,” he reminded her.

“Once.”

“You really are afraid, you know. Maybe you’re afraid of me.”

“Ben, I promise you—I’m not afraid of you.”

“We could be really good together again,” he whispered huskily.

“Not in this lifetime, Ben,” she said sweetly, then edged her shoulder free. “Excuse me. My student is waiting.”

“Time has gone by, you know. A lot of it.”

“My student is waiting.”

“You don’t have to hurt us both by being bitter. You could forgive me.”

“I forgave you a long time ago, Ben.”

“Then don’t play so hard to get.”

“Are you trying to come on to me again—or do you just want to dance with me?”

“Both?” He laughed with a certain charm, but it just didn’t strum the same heartstrings for her it once had.

“I’m sorry. I know this must be amazing to you, but I’m not hateful, bitter or playing hard to get. I’m just not interested.”

“You’ll be sorry,” he said, his voice teasing.

She stopped, staring at him. “Ben, you have a new partner. What’s her name, from Broward. Vera Thompson.”

He shook his head. “She’s okay. She’s not the caliber I need.”

“Have you told her that?” Shannon inquired.

“Of course not. Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“You haven’t agreed to dance again.”

She shook her head. “Ben, if I ever were to dance professionally again, it wouldn’t be with you.”

“Why not?”

She could have told him that the reasons should have been obvious. But then, maybe nothing was as obvious to Ben as it should be.

So she shrugged. And then she couldn’t help the reply that came to her lips. “You’re just not the caliber I need,” she said, and hurried out to meet Richard for his class.

Quinn had already read the police report that had been provided by Doug. He’d read the M.E.’s report, as well, which had provided a stroke of luck. There were eight M.E.s under the direction of the chief, but Anthony Duarte had performed the autopsy on Lara Trudeau.

Just as he had performed the autopsy on Nell Durken.

And though Dixon might not be a ball of fire in the homicide department, Duarte was tops in his field, a man with a natural curiosity that gave him the propensity to go far beyond thorough, even in the most straightforward circumstances.

At the desk, Quinn produced his credentials, though he knew the receptionist and she waved away his wallet as she put through the call to Duarte.

Despite it being close to five, Duarte came down the hall, smiling as he greeted Quinn. “Hey, thought you were heading off on vacation.”

“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.