Dead on the Dance Floor (24 page)

“She's tough. She'll be all right. I've got some time this afternoon, so I'm going to take her for driving lessons.”

“Great. She's situated okay?”

“Sure. I've got her in a home. She misses the beach, though.”

“Do you think she'll bolt on you?”

Annie thought for a moment on the other end of the line. “No. She wants to make something out of her life. She knows we're giving her real help.”

“Good, then. I'll check in later.”

When he hung up, Jake burst out into the waiting room. “It's a girl! I have a daughter.” He looked dazed.

Quinn rose, embraced him briefly and told him, “Congratulations.”

“They need a few minutes. Then you can come in and see her. She's amazing. Nick is on his way down. In a few hours, this place will be like Grand Central Station.”

Jake disappeared, and Quinn waited, as asked.

Fifteen minutes later, he got to hold his friend's daughter.

And she was amazing. A big baby, they told him—a few ounces over nine pounds. But she seemed incredibly tiny. She had been born with curling dark hair, her eyes were immense and blue, and she had a grip like steel. He was startled to feel a powerful surge of warmth and protectiveness, and as the baby stared up at him, he found himself thinking about Marnie. Jake's daughter would grow up in a wealth of comfort and love. The innocence in her eyes would remain.

When he returned the baby to her parents, he departed thoughtfully. It was amazing to hold an infant in her first few moments of life.

It made it all the harder to think of the fact that far too many lives were wasted.

Maybe including his own.

 

Sam came into Shannon's office at about five.

“Hey, did you see the paper this morning?” he asked.

“No, I didn't even put the news on this morning.”

“They ran a picture of the woman they found on the beach. I heard on the news that she's already been identified.”

“Oh? Did we know her?” Shannon asked, feeling a sudden chill.

“I don't think so. She was a Latin American, got into the U.S. by marrying some rich guy. She got along with his grown kids, though. One of them identified her this morning. Sonya Something. The rich old guy died, and she went wild. Sad, huh?”

“Very sad.”

“The old guy finally keels over, she's in the States with money—and whap!”

“Sam, that's terrible. Sonya what?” she persisted.

“I don't remember. It will be on the news again later. I didn't recognize her from the sketch in the paper, though.”

“How did they know she was murdered? Maybe she drowned.”

“She was found naked on the beach. But she'd been in the water long enough to get chewed by a few crabs. Plus she had track marks in her arms.”

“How do you know that?”

“I read the paper, and though cause of death isn't certain, the preliminary suspicion is an overdose.”

“Maybe she overdosed herself.”

“You think she overdosed, took herself to the beach, stripped and managed to make her clothing disappear, and then died?”

Shannon sighed. “Maybe she was out on a boat with a party crowd, did too many drugs, fell into the water and drowned.”

He frowned. “How the hell would I know? I was just mentioning it to you because we were there yesterday, and they ran a sketch of her in the paper with what the reporter had been able to find out. Interesting, huh?”

“Sad.”

He shrugged. “They found the body of that prostitute not far from there a while back.”

She sat back. “This woman wasn't a prostitute, was she?”

“No, unless she was really high-class. She didn't have on any clothing, but she was wearing thousands in jewelry.”

“It's horrible. I'm really sorry. And,” she added ruefully, “glad she wasn't a student here.”

“No, rest assured, I've never seen her. Hey, aren't you going to go eat? Want to go down to the Italian place with me?”

Shannon hesitated, then shook her head. “I'm taking dinner, but I've got a few errands to run. Sorry. I may be a little late, too. I don't have anything scheduled tonight except for going over the books and making sure the papers are in order for the Gator Gala. Do me a favor and let Ella know I may be late getting back.”

She rose, grabbed her handbag and started out.

One inner voice was telling her just to let things alone.

But another voice was telling her that she had to take care of a few matters or else explode.

She opted to listen to the second voice.

There were simply far too many dead people shadowing her life these days.

S
hannon Mackay walked out on the deck with true purpose, strides long, every inch of her body speaking volumes.

She was really angry.

Quinn wasn't surprised to see she was still furious with him.

He
was
surprised that she was there.

He was sitting at Nick's, where all the regulars had just been treated to drinks in honor of the new baby. He'd opted for a soda himself, since he intended to get to group class, and he was poring over the files on the table in front of him. Somewhere, in either the various police reports or the dossiers on the teachers and clientele of Moonlight Sonata, there had to be a clue.

Shannon searched the crowd, saw him and walked to his table. She didn't wait for an invitation but pulled out the chair opposite from him and sat.

He felt his muscles tighten, and he waited.

“You son of a bitch,” she said quietly, evenly. In fact, it was amazing that she could get so much venom into a tone that was so soft.

“You're wrong,” he told her.

“Oh, no. I'm not wrong. You are an absolute bastard. In fact, I could go on and on. But I've just come to tell you that, despite your methods, I don't intend to stand in your way, nor have I told anyone at the studio just what you are.”

“A bastard?”

“A private eye.”

A waitress, Ellen, walked cheerfully up to the table. “What can I get you?” she asked Shannon. “First drink is on the house.”

“I'm not drinking, thank you,” Shannon said distractedly, staring at Quinn.

“Oh, it doesn't have to be alcohol,” Ellen said.

“It's all right. I don't need anything.”

Quinn leaned forward. “Have an iced tea, a soda, a coffee. They're celebrating here today.”

“Iced tea,” Shannon said, then looked at the waitress. “Thank you.”

Ellen left. Shannon was too angry to ask what they were celebrating.

“Just keep your distance from me. I'll have Jane or Rhianna take over your lessons. Don't call me, don't come to my house, and stay away from me at the studio.”

Quinn leaned back, fighting hard to keep a casual pose. “You're wrong.”

“About what? You're not a P.I.? You weren't hired to investigate the people at Moonlight Sonata?”

He stayed silent, staring at her.

“Nice job. You're paid to fraternize.”

He shook his head, leaning closer. “No, I'm not making anything on this. It's costing me. I'm looking into it because Doug asked me to.”

“That's fine. You keep looking into it. Just stay the hell away from me.”

“You're wrong that the one thing has anything to do with the other.”

“You were investigating me,” she snapped.

“You should be investigated. You might be top of the line in a list of suspects—after Ben Trudeau, the ex-husband. Hey, who would have motive? She stole the man you were living with, your partner. She hit you when you were down.” He moved closer and closer, trying to keep his tone low. “You were the best, and you went down completely when Ben left you to dance with Lara, then married her to boot. You even gave up what you loved, competition.”

“I never loved competition—I love dance,” she grated. “And you are so full of—”

“Iced tea!” Ellen said, arriving back at the table. “They named her Kyra. Kyra Elizabeth,” Ellen informed Quinn. “It's a beautiful name.”

“She's a beautiful baby,” Quinn told Ellen.

“You've seen her already?” Ellen said.

“Yes.” He smiled at Ellen. He felt taut, his stomach clenched, and he couldn't think of a thing to say in his defense that Shannon would believe, so he took a certain enjoyment in seeing her try to maintain her temper and refrain from exploding while the waitress remained at their table.

“I'll bet she
is
beautiful, and it's cool that you said that,” Ellen informed him. “Most men say all babies look alike—like wrinkly little bald things.” She laughed.

“Well, Kyra Elizabeth isn't bald. She came with a head full of curly hair,” he said.

“Well, her mother's a beauty, and her dad…he's pretty darned cute, too,” Ellen said with a laugh. “Wave if you need me.” Then she hurried off to another table.

“Bull!” Shannon enunciated, hard and sharp.

“The baby
is
beautiful.”

“
You
are full of bull. The thing with Ben and me ended so long ago, it's ridiculous. And it's so flattering to know that the only reason you were determined to find out whatever you could about me is because I'm so high on your suspect list.”

He felt something snap inside him, and he leaned closer. “Whoa, back up here. I drove you home, I checked out your house.
You
came to my boat. I gave you your own cabin.
You
knocked on
my
door. I made a point of suggesting that it might not be a good time.”

“I wasn't drunk,” she said icily.

“And I wasn't using you,” he snapped back. “What, did that whole thing—over so long ago it's ridiculous—warp you so badly that you can't get on with life at all? Take a look at yourself. Is it so impossible that someone could want you? Enjoy your company? Think you're beautiful?”

She stared at him as if she wanted to scream, or simply throw something at him.

“And is what I do so damned bad?” he asked. “I make a legal living. I'm pretty good at what I do, too. Most of the time.”

“Oh, I'll give you that. You're good.”

“That sounds hostile. However, I'm going to take it as a compliment.”

“Being such an ass, you would,” she said. “Listen, like I said, I don't intend to give you away.”

“Because you think Lara was murdered.”

She hesitated. “Yes.”

“So quit hating me. Help me.”

“I can't help you. I don't have any idea who might have done it. And now I have to leave. Just stay away from me.”

“Great. We've discovered that the danger in your yard was a homeless kid, so now I should stay away.”

“I was always honest.”

“No. You lie to yourself so often you don't know the truth anymore.”

She exhaled a long, exasperated sigh. “I have no feelings for Ben Trudeau! No, that's not true. I feel sorry for him. His life isn't working out so well. I can cope with mine, because I love what I do. Ben needs to compete. He needs applause, to win. I hired Ben for the studio because he's good. And I hired Lara whenever I could, too.”

He shook his head slowly, looking at her. “You say you don't want to compete, but you're a liar and a coward. And you say that I used you. I didn't. I found out you aren't just some of the greatest eye candy in the world. You're intelligent, thoughtful, fun and a million other wonderful things. But you won't let yourself accept that. Ben Trudeau hurt you a long time ago. And so, for a
ridiculous
amount of time, you've been a coward, afraid of any man who shows an interest.”

She issued a sharp expletive and rose, walking away from the table.

Then she turned back, footsteps brisk as she returned. “How is the girl?”

“What?”

“The homeless girl.”

“Marnie is fine.”

“You'll really get her to the studio?”

“Yes, I'll really get her there. And for your information, I only met her once before, when she was panhandling on the beach. I'm not a child molester.”

She flushed. “I didn't suggest that you were.”

“You should have seen the way you looked at me that night. And by the way, I'll handle your charter boat for you, as well. I do own two boats—well, I own half of two boats. Dane Whitelaw and I run the investigations, and we also own boats that we rent out. I do fish, and I do dive. And I can give you the best deal you're going to get.”

“Gordon will be talking to you about that.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “I won't deal with Gordon.”

“It's his studio.”

“And I won't dance with Jane or Rhianna. You took me on. You keep me.”

“So don't take classes. What do I care?”

“Because I suck?”

“Because you're a jerk!”

She started to walk away, then swung back again.

“Who had the baby?”

“A friend.”

“The woman at the beach?”

His eyes narrowed. She had seen him when he had gone to the site where they had found the last body.

“Who else saw me there?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I was with Sam, but he didn't see you.”

“Sit down,” he told her.

“No!”

“Please.”

She inhaled, then sat, perched on the edge of the chair.

“The guy who came on the boat the other day is Jake Dilessio, a homicide cop. His wife is a forensic artist. Cops can get a lot of things P.I.s can't. And Jake is one damned decent guy—he's not threatened when an outsider looks into something. Anyway, I'm happy as hell for Jake and Ashley because they had their first child today. I'm kind of sorry, as well, because they're both going to take time off, and he's been a big help.”

She shook her head. “What did the woman on the beach have to do with Lara? She wasn't a student. She was never a student.”

He shook his head. “I don't know.”

“Then what were you doing there?”

“Trying to figure out why so many women are dying.” He hesitated. “You had a student once, a woman named Nell Durken.”

She frowned, and at last the tension in her seemed to dissipate. For this moment, at least, she wasn't ready to rip into him. “Nell was very good. She stopped coming, though. She wanted to put time into making things work with her husband. And then the bastard killed her anyway.” She shook her head. “But they got him. The police arrested him. He's facing trial.”

He nodded. “Nell hired me. A simple case of following him—she was convinced he was cheating. He was. When she turned up dead, his prints were all over the bottle of pills, and since he was seeing someone, he had definite motive.”

“Nell was a lovely woman. She had a lot to offer the world,” Shannon murmured.

“Yes, she did.”

“If her husband killed her, then…well, then these deaths can't be related,” Shannon said. “But it just seems a little too strange that both women might have died the same way and it's a total coincidence.”

“Well, that's the point, isn't it? Things
are
a little too strange.”

Shannon stood abruptly, as if remembering how angry she was. “I'm working. I have to get back. And as for you, I'll certainly cooperate in any way I can to help you find the truth. But other than that…”

“I know. Keep my distance. Because I know just a little too much about you, right?” His voice had an edge, a sound of bitterness he was surprised to hear himself betray.

“Yes, you've got it,” she informed him.

As she started to turn away, he caught her wrist. “There's something you're not telling me. There has to be a reason you were so edgy in your own house.”

There
was
something. He could tell. But either she was afraid it was just something minimal or silly, or she was afraid she might give someone else away.

She shook her head. “I don't know anything. I wish I did.”

“Maybe that's not a very good wish.”

“Why?”

“Maybe people die because they
do
know something,” he said.

She pulled her wrist free. “I'm sure I'll be seeing you, Mr. O'Casey.”

“Very soon. In a matter of hours.”

She frowned.

“Group class,” he reminded her pleasantly.

She turned on her heels. Her footsteps clicked in a no-nonsense manner as she walked along the path to the parking lot.

 

Rhianna was leading the beginners' class. From her office, Shannon could hear her directions.

“Slow, quick, quick, slow. Slow, quick, quick, slow…there you go, Mr. Suarez, look at that, Cuban motion already taking flight. Mr. O'Casey…think box. Just a box. Slow…quick, quick, slow. Think of the way we've been working, fox-trot, rumba. Two very different dances, one smooth, one rhythm, and yet we're still talking box right now. There will always be two aspects involved. The step itself, and then the technique of the step. Belinda, good motion! Just because it's slow, that doesn't mean that it's a stop. Eventually, each step flows into the other. A count doesn't necessarily mean a foot movement but rather a body movement, and though each is distinct, it flows. Feel the music, Mr. O'Casey. Slow, quick, quick, slow…slow, quick, quick, slow.”