Dead on the Dance Floor (41 page)

“Hey,” Ben repeated. “What are you up to?”

“Champagne. Thought I'd wake up our advanced group a bit.”

“Richard just made coffee for that same reason.”

Richard came up behind Ben. “Whatever. Champagne sounds good to me.”

 

Mona O'Casey had never remarried, but neither had she fallen into any kind of lifelong depression. Left with an ample income, she had given up her job as a nurse and instead spent her time on a number of charities. She was five-five, slim, with short-cropped silver hair and bright, powder-blue eyes, a little dynamo of energy.

“I was bad, huh?” Quinn said.

Mona smiled. “I guess I know you when you're in your moods. When I can talk to you, naturally, I feel better. But I know you'll always call when you're ready.” She sighed softly. “And since you and your brother both insist on dangerous professions, I've learned not to stay awake nights worrying. Besides,” she added, “Doug assured me that you were all right, just moody. And,” she added, taking a sip of merlot and grinning, “I hear that I'm going to get to see both of you dance very soon.”

“Hey, the waltz. I owe it all to you.”

She laughed. “Well, thank goodness I taught you something of value.”

He took his mother's hand, running his fingers over it. “You taught us both all kind of things of tremendous value. Took me a while to catch on, but Doug was a pretty good kid straight from the start.”

Mona grew serious suddenly. “Strange, isn't it, what does and doesn't bother people? Your brother went through everything at the academy, crime scenes, the morgue visits, the tests, and was as stalwart as a tree. But when it comes to his dancing…I would have loved to see him compete, but he didn't want me to watch him. Dancing makes him nervous.”

“Heck, I'm afraid for you to see me waltz,” he told her.

She looked unhappy for a minute. “Maybe. But nervousness just isn't a good reason to take drugs. I told Doug that.”

“Doug?”

“Yes, can you believe it? Your brother got a prescription for that drug himself, just to take the edge off before he dances.”

A gut-deep, miserable sensation speared through Quinn. No. Not his brother. Lopez had been the killer.

Lopez had also looked right at him and said, “You don't know the half of it.”

His brother had been sleeping with Lara Trudeau.

He'd known something was still wrong with their picture of the crime.

But not Doug. Not his brother.

“What's the matter, dear?”

“Excuse me, Mom, okay?”

He dialed the studio. The machine picked up.

He dialed Shannon's cell phone and was asked to leave a message there, too.

There was no reason to feel that anything was wrong. All sorts of people had been at the studio all week long. Shannon wasn't alone now. Her advanced class would be in progress any minute.

“Quinn, you're scaring me,” Mona said.

“I'm sorry. Forgive me just one more minute. I'm going to give Doug a call.”

When he got his brother's answering machine, as well, his muscles tightened.

“Mom,” he said, standing, “I'll make this up to you, but I've got to go.”

She met his eyes. “If you don't call me by midnight, I'll send the cops out after you.”

“If I don't call you by midnight, make sure you do.”

He threw down some cash and hurried out of the restaurant.

 

Shannon set down her glass of champagne, hearing the distant beeping of her phone. “Excuse me, everyone, will you? Advanced class in two minutes, and no champagne, ever again, if anyone blames their lack of balance on it.”

She found her cell phone and checked her messages. There was one from Quinn. She called him back and was frustrated when she got the message service. Strange, she should have gotten him at the restaurant. But maybe he had left and was going in and out of coverage areas on the highway.

“Hope all went well with your mom,” she said cheerfully. “Call me. We're quiet here, but everything's fine.”

She hung up thoughtfully and waited a minute, drumming her fingers on her desk. She started up, but then sat again, grabbing the phone as it rang. “Quinn?”

“Sorry, it's me. Marnie. Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I'm fine, why?”

“Quinn called here, said he couldn't get through to you.”

“Well, I just left him a message. All is well.”

“I'll try to get him back for you again.”

“Thanks, Marnie.”

She hung up, then frowned. The studio was very quiet except for a waltz playing very softly.

She stood up and left her office. When she reached the dance floor, she came to a dead halt, staring around her.

They were on the floor. All of them. Katarina and David were on top of each other. Richard Long was a few yards in front of her office, facedown. Ben and Rhianna just steps away from him. Doug O'Casey was almost beneath her feet. It looked as if Justin had fallen on his way out of the men's room.

Ella was slumped over the reception desk.

She exhaled in confusion and shock, fear seeping into her. She dropped to her knees, set her fingers against Rhianna's throat and gasped out a sigh of relief.

She could feel Rhianna's pulse.

She rose and spun, anxious to rush to the phone and dial for help.

But she couldn't.

Because one of the fallen had risen.

And for the second time in a little over a week, she was staring down the barrel of a gun.

 

Quinn got Shannon's message, and while he was listening to it, swearing at the poor reception he got despite the ads the phone company ran all the time, another call beeped through. It was Marnie, telling him that things were fine.

He thanked her and hung up.

But despite her words, and Shannon's, he felt the need to reach the studio quickly.

That was it, wasn't it? The
half
of it. Gabriel Lopez hadn't worked alone.

Doug had been taking a prescription drug for his nerves. The same drug that had killed both Nell Durken and Lara.

“Not my brother!” he swore aloud.

He pushed harder on the gas pedal, swearing at himself for letting his guard down.

He had known it wasn't over.

 

“You didn't drink your champagne,” Richard Long told Shannon. “You should have.”

She stared at him. “Richard?”

“You really need to drink your champagne.”

“Why are you doing this?”

He sighed. “Well, you see, too many people know that something just isn't right in Denmark, or however the saying goes. I was sweating it big time at first. I was sure Lopez would give me away, but he didn't. Then that damn cop had to come here—sleeping with Lara, for God's sake! And then his big brother, the private eye, showed up. The questioning started all over again. The homicide cop and all his friends, the narc guys. Sooner or later, they're going to come knocking. So, you see, I have to fix things now.”

“How can you fix things this way? You know Quinn will come here. And then his friends will come after him—the homicide cops, the narc guys.”

“Shannon, I really don't want to hurt you. So drink your champagne. I can't tell you how easy it will be. Like falling asleep.”

“Right. And how is all this supposed to have happened?” she asked dryly, gesturing around the room.

He grinned. “The last to arrive will be Mr. Quinn O'Casey. I don't think he knows it, but I wrote Doug a few prescriptions. There's one in his pocket right now. Everyone knows already—whether they admit it or not—that he slept with Lara. So his brother shows up, and knows what Doug has done, so he confronts him on it. Of course Doug's already drugged himself—suicide being the only answer for what he's done—but he has a little juice left and gets into a shoot-out with his big bro. He's the better shot, kills Quinn, and then dies of an overdose, just the way he planned. Everyone in the room dies. I was lucky enough to get tired and leave the class early. Otherwise, I'd have died, too. What a terrible tragedy.”

“You're insane,” she told him, then wished she hadn't spoken that way, because he was twitching. “Richard, I don't get it. How did you and Lopez…?”

“I introduced Gabe to many of my clients. You can't begin to know how many rich people enjoy their recreational therapy. They never knew he was the supplier. They just knew they could come to his club, leave payment and get their drugs delivered. We both made good money. It started with Nell. She was lonely—and Mina, quite frankly, bores me to tears. Then Nell stepped back. She was going to make up with her husband, who, quite frankly, is a creep. I went to talk to her, we argued…she insulted me. Preferred the creep to me. So I took matters into my own hands. As for Lara…you knew her. What a bitch. First, for fun, she decided to seduce me. Then, for fun, she started following me, and she figured out what I was up to with Lopez. Then she decided she was going to blackmail me, and she taunted me, letting me know she was sleeping with the cop, too. He was younger, she said. So…I had to take care of her. Gabriel got careless with the prostitute and the socialite, so they were his to clean up. I simply got mad—and then even—with Nell. And Lara. Come on, the bitch deserved to die.”

“Lara could be a bitch,” Shannon agreed placatingly. How much had all those on the floor ingested? How long could they survive?

“You have to understand. This will put an end to everyone saying that something just wasn't right, that Lopez couldn't have done it all.”

Shannon jerked around, certain she heard someone rushing up the stairs.

Richard heard it, too. He grabbed her, dragging her down to the floor, the barrel of the gun against her heart.

 

He burst in and felt as if he had come across the scene of a strange massacre. They were on the floor, all of them, Justin Garcia's body nearly tripping him as he came in. He fell to his knees, checking for a pulse.

Faint, but there.

He rose, carefully moving across the floor.

There was Doug, down like the others.

He thanked God briefly as he checked his brother's throat and found a pulse.

Gun in one hand, he reached for his cell with the other. But before he could hit a single key, a shot exploded, searing across his hand.

His gun flew across the room, and his phone fell to his feet as he instinctively reached for his injured hand, damning himself for his stupid vulnerability.

He turned. Richard Long was halfway up, and it was definitely a moment of déjà vu.

Shannon was in front of him, his gun against her temple.

“The doctor, naturally,” he said calmly. “You know, you son of a bitch, I almost suspected my own brother.”

“It
was
your brother,” Long said.

“Like hell.”

“Well, everyone else is going to believe it was your brother. Too bad he's going to shoot you.”

“You're a fool. Forensics will come here and figure you out to a T. You'll go up for capital murder. You'll die from lethal injection.”

“No, I won't. I have it figured out absolutely logically.”

“So why isn't Shannon unconscious on the floor, too?”

“She wouldn't drink her champagne. However, you can get her glass and give it to her, so she can die more easily.”

“I am not drinking that champagne!” Shannon said. Quinn met her eyes. She didn't look terrified; she looked furious.

“It will be easier for her. Tell her, Quinn.”

Quinn rose slowly, his hands in the air. He flexed his fingers, grateful to realize that the shot had only skimmed his flesh.

“I'll tell her to drink the champagne, Richard,” he said evenly, his eyes on Shannon. “But I want something from you. You need to set up your little scene properly, and I'll help you. But I want something from you first.”

Richard didn't ease his hold on Shannon.

“What the hell are you talking about, Quinn?” Shannon demanded darkly.

He looked at Richard then. “You let Lara die poetically, and she was the biggest bitch in the world. Shannon has treated you like a king, taught you…face it, she's been great. And as for me, well, I came in off the street and learned something of elegance here.”

“So?”

“One waltz,” Quinn said. “We get one waltz.”

“A waltz? Are you crazy?” Shannon whispered.

“I can shoot you right now!” Richard said.

“Yes, but it won't look right. Let me have my waltz. What have you got to lose?”