Dead on the Dance Floor (6 page)

“No, no, I just wondered. You're doing fine. I was just curious as to how many teachers you have.”

“Ben Trudeau is teaching full time now.”

“Trudeau?” he said.

“He used to be married to Lara. They've been divorced for several years. He was mainly doing competitions and coaching, but he decided a few months ago that he wanted to take up residence on the beach. He's an excellent teacher.”

“He must be devastated.”

“We're all devastated, Mr. O'Casey.”

“Sorry. I can imagine. She must have been something. So accomplished, and such a friend to everyone here, huh? Doug told me she taught here sometimes.”

“She coached,” Shannon told him.

“Must be hard for all of you to have the studio open and be teaching already.”

“Work goes on.”

“So all the teachers have come back?”

“Yes.”

“Who are the rest of them?”

“Justin Garcia and Sam Railey, and Jane Ulrich, who teaches your brother, and another woman, Rhianna Markham.”

His foot landed hard on hers once again.

“Sorry—I told you I had two left feet,” he apologized.

Shannon drew a deep breath. “We do want to get you to where you can converse while you're on the floor, but maybe if you didn't ask so many questions while we were working, it might be better.”

“Sorry. Just want to get to know the place, feel a little more comfortable here.”

“That's what the practice sessions and parties are for,” she murmured.

“Parties?”

“And practice sessions,” she said firmly. “Beginners come on Monday, Tuesday and Friday nights, sometimes even the other weeknights if we get busy, and learn more steps in groups. Then you hone those steps with your teacher.”

“Do students have to come?”

“Of course not. But individual sessions are expensive. The group sessions are open to all enrolled students. You learn a lot faster and make a lot better use of your money by attending the group classes.”

“And the parties? When are they? Are they for all the students?”

“Wednesday nights, eight to ten, and yes, beginners are welcome. You should come.”

“I will.”

His foot crunched down on hers once again. Hard. She choked back a scream. How much longer? Fifteen more minutes. She wasn't sure she could take it.

She looked around. Jane still hadn't returned from her appointment. Rhianna was working with David Mercutio, husband of Katarina Mercutio, the designer who shared the second floor of the building with them. She was wonderful—specializing in weddings, with one-of-a-kind dresses for both brides and wedding parties. She had also learned the special requirements for ballroom-competition gowns, and had made some truly spectacular dresses. Just as it was great for the studio to be right on top of the club, it was a boon to have Katarina right next to them.

David was a regular who came twice a week to work with Rhianna. He had also known and worked with Lara. He and Rhianna were deep in conversation as they twirled around, working on a tango. She knew they were probably discussing Lara. Sam Railey, however, didn't have a student at the moment. He was putting his CDs in order.

Quinn O'Casey's really large left foot landed on her toe once again.

“Sam!” she called suddenly, breaking away from her partner.

“Yeah?” he looked up.

“Can I borrow you for a minute?”

“Sure.”

Shannon headed toward the stereo, waiting for the tango to play out, removed the CD and replaced it with an old classic—Peggy Lee singing “Fever.” Sam walked over to partner her as she spoke to her new student. “Right now, you're just trying to get the basic box. But if you think of the steps to the music, it might help you.”

Sam led her in the basic steps while she looked at Quinn. She was not at all convinced he was trying very hard.

To her surprise, Sam spoke up. “It looks like a boring dance,” he said to Quinn. “But it can be a lot of fun.”

The next thing Shannon knew, Sam had taken the initiative. They moved into a grapevine, an underarm spin and a series of pivots. Steps far advanced from anything their new student could begin to accomplish.

“Okay, Sam,” she said softly. “We don't want to scare him off.”

“Well…he should see what he can learn,” Sam replied.

She couldn't argue. They did lots of demonstrations to show their students what they could learn. She just wondered about this particular student.

But Quinn was nodding and looking as if he had suddenly figured something out. He stepped in to take his position with her again. The guy had a great dance hold; he also wore some kind of really great aftershave. He should be a pleasure to teach.

Except that he was always watching.

But weren't students supposed to watch?

Not the way he did, with those piercing blue eyes.

She looked back up into them, reminding herself that she was a teacher, and a good one.

“Listen, feel it, and move your feet. Remember that you're just making a square.”

To her amazement, he had it. He finally had it. A box. A simple box. It felt like a miracle.

“Head up,” she said softly, almost afraid to push her luck. “Don't look at your feet. It will only mess you up.”

His eyes met hers, and he maintained the step and the rhythm. His dimple showed as he smiled, pleased. His hold was just right. There was distance between them, but she was still aware of hot little jolts sweeping through her, despite the lack of real body contact. Not good.

Dance teachers needed to be friendly. Accustomed to contact. The more advanced a student, the closer that contact. She was accustomed to that.

But it had never been like this.

She suddenly wanted the lesson to be over for reasons other than her sore feet.

When they were done, he seemed actually enthused.

“When do I come again?” he asked.

“Whenever you schedule.”

“Tomorrow?” he asked.

“You'll have to see Ella, our receptionist.”

They were standing near the little elevated office. Ella had already heard. “He can have a two-o'clock.”

“I thought I had an appointment with the hotel about blocking out rooms for the Gator Gala?” Shannon said frowning. “And I know I have Dr. Long coming in for his regular class.”

“The hotel pushed the meeting to Wednesday,” Ella said cheerfully. “And they want you to call them back. Dr. Long isn't in until five-fifteen.”

“Two o'clock, then,” Shannon said.

“Thanks. I'll see you then.”

Their new student departed, and Shannon stared after him.

Jane, returning from the dentist, passed him at the door. “Who the hell was that?” she demanded when she reached Shannon.

“Doug's brother.”

“Doug's brother…wow. Look what a few more years are going to do for that guy. Of course, the eyes…shit! Who taught him?”

“I did,” Shannon said.

“Oh. And you're keeping him?” She tried to sound light.

Shannon hesitated. “Yes.”

Sam went dancing by, practicing a Viennese waltz on his own. “Hey,” he teased Jane. “You've already got the one brother.”

Jane gave him a serious glare. “Yeah, and I also have nasty old Mr. Clinton, ninety-eight, and decaying with each move we make.” She looked at Shannon. “I thought you weren't going to take on any new students.”

“I wasn't. But you know how it goes.”

“You're the manager,” Jane reminded her. “You don't have to keep him.”

“I know, but that forty-five-minute investment of time felt like ten hours. The guy is a challenge I don't think I can refuse. Hey,” she added quickly, teasingly, “careful—your old-timer just walked in.”

Jane glanced at her white-haired, smiling student.

Ben had already walked forward to shake his hand. That was studio policy—all employees greeted all students when not otherwise occupied. Courtesy and charm to all students, regardless of sex, age, color, creed or ability.

They were a regular United Nations.

And more. Being in South Florida, gateway to Latin America, they were also a very huggy bunch. People hugged hello and hugged goodbye. Cheek kissing went on continually. It was nice; it was warm, and it was normal behavior for most people who had grown up here.

Mr. Clinton was actually a dear. They all kissed and hugged him hello all the time. He wasn't really decaying, and he wasn't nasty. He was just a little hard-of-hearing, so it sounded as if he was yelling sometimes.

Jane sighed. “Yep, here's my old-timer.”

“Jane, he brings you gourmet coffee,” Shannon reminded her.

“He's a sweetie, all right.”

Jane stared at her. She didn't say anything more. They both knew what she was thinking.

Sure, the old guy was a sweetie. He just wasn't Quinn O'Casey.

Jane forced a smile.

“You are the boss,” she murmured lightly, and moved away. “Mr. Clinton, how good to see you. What did you say you wanted to do today. A samba? You're sure you're up to it?”

“You bet, Janie,” he assured her with a broad grin. “I got the best pacemaker ever made helping this old ticker. Let's get some action going.”

Watching them, Shannon smiled. No, Mr. Clinton wasn't a Quinn O'Casey, but then again…

Just what did Quinn expect to get from the studio?

Suddenly, for no reason that she could explain, she felt a shiver trickle down her spine.

I
n 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.”