"You need to assign police protection to her. Someone's poisoning the Charlestons. I'm afraid the poisoner may go after her next."
The lieutenant motioned to the other cop. "Sarge, make a note of that. The suspect threatens to poison his sister-in-law next."
Waltz slid his foot into his left dance shoe, the one with the white R. "Very funny. I didn't poison my brother and I didn't poison his dog."
The lieutenant picked up Waltz's other shoe and studied the white L. "Don't you do anything normal?"
"It's a joke. You wouldn't understand."
The lieutenant tossed the shoe against the wall. It skittered down the wall to the floor. "Can we take a look around?"
Waltz retrieved the shoe. "Go ahead, but hurry up. I've got to go to work soon."
The lieutenant signaled Sarge to take the bathroom. "Hurry, Sarge. Don't hold him up. He's got important dancing to do." He turned to Waltz. "Why don't you sit on your couch and relax." He raised the edge of the mattress and looked under it.
Waltz reached for a cigarette. Then he remembered. He quit. His desire for a cigarette was building. He could feel it deep in his gut. No. His entire body yearned for a cigarette, like his body starved for it.
Too bad. His body would have to starve.
Sarge stuck his head out of the bathroom. "Lieu, come here."
The lieutenant glanced at Waltz and smiled. He went into the bathroom. In a minute, he came out. He held up a plastic bag. "Look what Sarge found in the toilet tank. It was taped to the top."
"What is it?"
The lieutenant smiled. No, it was a sneer. "You really don't know?"
"No."
The lieutenant held it out.
"A book?" Waltz read the title. "Terminal Exit."
"Know what it's about?"
"No."
"Yeah, right. It's a book on how to kill yourself using sleeping pills and alcohol. And see what else."
Sarge held up a smaller bag containing a pill bottle. "Seconal."
"That's not my book. Those are not my pills. I don't even know what Seconal is."
The lieutenant waved the bag containing the pills in front of Waltz's face. "Right. Take a guess."
"Sleeping pills?"
"Good guess. Let's see, Sarge. That gives us means." The lieutenant held up one finger. "The book telling him how and the pills to do it with. Plenty of alcohol at the party."
Sarge held up two fingers. "He had opportunity. He was the bartender. How convenient was that?"
The lieutenant held up three fingers. "And motive. His brother was after him about poisoning his dog."
"I didn't poison Cha-Cha."
"Your brother said you did. Not only that, you were worried about your brother gambling away the studio's money."
"I wasn't worried about that. Lala was."
"And speaking of Lala, we've got the neighbor who reports you left your brother's house at eight this morning. You kissed your sexy sister-in-law goodbye at the door. Not a peck. It was a nice long passionate kiss. The sister-in-law was wearing nothing but a skimpy negligee. Meanwhile, your brother's in the hospital dying."
The lieutenant grabbed Waltz's shoulders and shook him. "Don't you have any human feelings - any at all?"
The lieutenant shoved Waltz away like he was too dirty to touch and turned to Sarge. "The same old boring story. Money, sex, and murder. But give him credit, Sarge. To liven things up, he threw in a Chihuahua and a toe."
Sarge held up another bag. "Look at this. A twenty-five caliber pistol."
The lieutenant grabbed it and examined it. "What were you planning to do with this pistol?"
"It's not mine."
"So it's not yours?"
"No."
"Whose is it, then?"
"I don't know. It looks like Jazz's."
"So you disarmed him, then poisoned him."
Sarge pulled Waltz's hands behind his back and cuffed him. "I don't think a jury will have much trouble deciding this."
"I had no idea that stuff was in the toilet tank. I never look in the toilet tank. Nobody does."
Sarge grabbed him by the arm and started him toward the door. "We do. We always do."
Waltz stumbled and caught his balance. "Why would I leave the poison and the poison book in my apartment if I poisoned Jazz?"
Sarge whispered in his ear. "Maybe you didn't have time to get rid of it."
"All I had to do was walk a few blocks and throw them into a dumpster. Why wouldn't I do that?"
The lieutenant opened the door. "Weren't you a little busy last night with your sister-in-law? Besides, you crooks are stupid. Why do you rob convenience stores for twenty dollars in change? You're stupid. You're so stupid you don't realize that the first people we investigate are relatives of the victim."
Sarge grinned. "I like you, Waltz. I like stupid crooks. They make it easy. This was easy. Wasn't it, Lieu?"
The lieutenant danced backwards in front of Waltz as they went down the hall. "Yes it was. We got three crooks in one shot." He held up one finger. "We got a brother poisoner." He held up a second finger. "We got a dog poisoner." He held up a third finger. "And we got a toe collector. I wonder what he does with them, suck them like a pacifier?"
Sarge held up his hand. "Ah, Lieu. Don't be so hard on him. He's very generous. He mails them to his family for keepsakes."
"I didn't do it, not even one finger's worth."
The lieutenant grinned. It was a real grin. It wasn't a sneer. "That's what they all say, isn't it, Sarge? Keep an eye on him. He's dangerous. Plenty dangerous. Don't let him mix you any drinks. And, if you ever want to go en pointe, don't turn your back on him."
***
Sarge lit his pipe. Perfumed smoke filled the air. "We've got all the evidence we need to prove you poisoned your brother, but I know the son of a bitch deserved it. He threatened you. You were just defending yourself. If that's the case, I'll talk to the DA. He'll let you off on a plea of self-defense."
Waltz sucked in as much of the smoke as he could. "I didn't poison him. I loved him."
The lieutenant snorted. He leaned toward Waltz. "You may have Sarge fooled, but you don't fool me. You and your sexy sister-in-law poisoned your brother for the oldest two motives in the world, sex and money."
"Lala wasn't even at the studio. She left long before Jazz was poisoned."
The lieutenant leaped to his feet and bent over Waltz. He screamed. "That's because you did it for her. Do you think we're stupid? She talked you into poisoning your own brother, and now you're going to prison. She'll own the studio, get rich, and screw all the gigolos she wants. Are you going to let her get away with that?"
Waltz leaned backwards as far as he could from the lieutenant's spray of spit and hatred. Waltz didn't understand what pissed off the lieutenant so much. He didn't do it.
Sarge pulled the lieutenant away. "Take it easy. The last time you hurt a perp, you almost got fired."
The lieutenant flung Sarge's hands off him. "I don't care anymore. Punks like this piss me off. They don't deserve to live."
Sarge turned back to Waltz. "I'm trying to help you. Help me before Lieu goes berserk. Your brother threatened you. You had to protect yourself. Right?"
Sarge was a nice guy, a reasonable guy. Maybe he could get Waltz off. Waltz would be out of jail and he could find the real killer.
As Waltz opened his mouth to admit self-defense, it hit him. Sure, Sarge was a good guy. Good cop, bad cop. They fooled Lorelei with it on Dance of Deceit. "I want a lawyer."
***
They threw him in a cell with four bunks and a steel commode, like the one in Dance of Deceit, the one they put Celeste in when they accused her of murdering Landon. Little did they know that Landon wasn't dead. He was shacked up with Lorelei at her mountain cabin.
The commode didn't even have a seat. It had to be ass-clenching cold.
One of the prisoners left his bunk and approached Waltz. Waltz tensed. The guy couldn't have a knife. They'd all be
en strip-searched. The guy was small, scrawny. Waltz could take him. Waltz did plenty of weight training.
The guy reached into his pocket. Razor blade? Waltz set himself. First, he would kick the guy in the balls. Second, he would twist the guy's wrist and force him to drop the blade. Third, kick him in the balls again.
The guy's hand came out of his pocket. Waltz tensed his leg.
The guy handed Waltz a card. "Good evening, sir. It is indeed a pleasure to have you join us. My card."
A card? How'd he get that in here? Unshaven, hair unkempt, he exuded the aroma of a homeless one. Waltz kept an eye on him while he read the card. T-Bone La Rue, Hustling Done, Writhing River Bridge. "You do hustling? What does that mean?"
"I can get you anything."
Waltz fingered the card. It was embossed. "Like what?"
T-Bone counted off the items on his fingers. "Drugs, guns, ammo, cars - any kind - cheap. Pussy - any kind - expensive. Whatever you want."
"I want out."
"Except that. I'm not good at getting out. I'm good at getting in."
"You could get me a gun - in here?"
"Not in here, but when you get out."
"That won't do any good. I won't need a gun if I get out. I'm not a gunman."
"I'll grant you don't have the look of an assassin. What do you do?"
"Ballroom dance instructor."
T-Bone smiled. He assumed ballroom dance posture, holding an imaginary woman. "Excellent. This is indeed a stroke of luck. I'm contemplating taking tango lessons. Tango is an excellent avenue for meeting women. Do you teach it?"
"Yes."
T-Bone dipped his woman and performed a series of kicks. "Superb. I'm more interested in the Argentine style than I am the American. Do you offer it?"
Maybe T-Bone was trying to distract him so they could gang up on him. Waltz kept his eyes on his other cellmates. "Yes. We do both. I recommend starting with the American style. It's simpler and would serve as a basis for moving into Argentine later."
T-Bone pushed his woman away and threw his right hand up in a dramatic finale to his tango. Still holding his partner's hand, he bowed. "Superb. I'm fortunate to run into you. I presume it would be possible for you to supply me with a beautiful young female instructor."
"No problem." Who could he get to teach him, if the guy showed up?
Waltz smiled. Yvette would be good.
"I'll visit your studio as soon as I get out. Do you have a card?"
The other prisoners didn't seem interested in the conversation. They were probably asleep. "Sorry. The guy who looked up my asshole found mine. I should've known better than to hide them there. But you can find me easy. My studio is the Dance Terminal."
"Dance Terminal. I say, what an intriguing name for a dance studio. I shall come to you soon."
He moved closer and whispered into Waltz's ear. "Don't mention being a dance instructor to the other guys. They might not understand. They might think you're queer. There's no sense getting them stirred up. They're an irascible lot." He stepped back. "Well, it's bedtime for me. I like to get up with the sun." He assumed dance posture, whistled a tango rhythm, and danced to bed.
Waltz climbed onto the empty upper bunk. He edged his back against the wall, so he could keep an eye on his cellmates. Would he live in a cell for the rest of his life? Locked up with nowhere to go - ever? With guys he didn't like and couldn't trust? No dancing? No women - ever?
He might as well hang himself. A headline flashed in his mind. Dance Instructor Hangs Self In Crotch Of Jumpsuit.
No, too embarrassing.
***
The next morning, the judge set bail at thirty thousand dollars. Waltz would have to wear an electronic monitor. If Jazz died, they'd revoke bail and arrest Waltz on a charge of murder.
The bondsman demanded a forty-five hundred dollar deposit. Lala refused to put it up, claiming they were broke. She said she had the lieutenant eating out of the palm of her hand. Soon he would find the real culprit and free Waltz.
Over the weekend, Rachel sold Waltz's car, made up the shortfall out of her own money, and on Monday bailed Waltz out.
"Oh, yeah." She rummaged in her purse and handed him a card. "Here. They told me to make sure you read this."
"They want me to read this?"
She nodded.
Waltz shrugged his shoulders. "Warning! Show up on time for court dates and obey all conditions of your bail, unless you want bounty hunter Bully Boy Bristle to come for you! Ask your cellmates! You don't want that!"
Waltz laughed. "Bully Boy Bristle. What a name."
If it got that far, he would make his court dates. And he would never break any of the conditions of his bail. Only a fool would do that. His problem was the lieutenant. He was a ghoul waiting for Jazz to die. If that happened, swarms of cops would be all over Waltz.
***
Rachel dropped Waltz at the hospital a little before noon.
Waltz held Jazz's hand. It was cold. "You're not going to die. I won't let you. You'll wake up in a few days, just like Cha-Cha. I'll let you bite me on the ankle."
He wanted a cigarette bad. Had he seen a machine in the hall? "I quit smoking. I'll never smoke again. Thanks to you, I'll have a boner when I'm ninety-nine."
He sobbed. "Oh Jazz, I went to bed with Lala. I don't know why I did it. I couldn't help it. I'm sorry. I'll never do it again."
He was the lowest of the low. He still couldn't believe he did it.
Jazz's face remained calm.
Didn't he care?
Waltz got up and screamed. "I went to bed with Lala!"
"Quiet please. This is a hospital."
Waltz flinched. He turned. A nurse frowned in the doorway.
Waltz hung his head. "I'm sorry."
"I doubt he cares that you finally got a little. If you insist on bragging about it, do it in a normal conversational voice please."
Waltz sank back into his chair. Jazz remained serene. He was going to die.
Waltz collapsed onto Jazz's chest and held him. He wept. "I'm sorry. I let the guy poison you. I didn't see him. I'm going to make it up to you. I'm going to save the studio and get the guy that poisoned you. Don't die. Give me time. I'll get him for you. I promise."
Chapter 7
Flying Down to Rio
Waltz adjusted his wave in the ballroom mirror and went in the office. Jazz's oversize chair dwarfed Lala. His desk was clear of clutter, the shoe containing six decks of cards and the bowl of dice gone. Lala had polished away the rings left by Jazz's countless strawberry slushes.
She frowned. "Waltz. How you get out?"
Waltz plopped in his chew-out chair. "I sold my car, and Rachel loaned me the rest. Aren't you glad to see me?"
Lala slammed one drawer shut and opened another. "You no should spend that money. Studio no have cash to pay expenses - to stay open."
"Last time I checked, we had a fair balance."
Lala slammed the drawer shut. "Jazz make big withdrawal the day he got poison."
Waltz adjusted his ankle bracelet. It was resting right on the knob of his ankle. It was going to rub a sore spot and interfere with his dancing. "What for?"
"I guess gambling. He planned to go to Vegas again the next day." She opened and shut another drawer.
"What are you hunting for?"
She rubbed her thumb on her first two fingers. "He must have a stash somewhere for gambling. We must find it. Where can it be? Do you know?"
Waltz threaded his sock under the bracelet, cushioning his skin. "No. He never said a word to me about it."
She slammed the last drawer shut and leaned back. "Somewhere in the house?"
"I can't think of any place."
"When you were little, is there one place where he hid things? Like from your mama?"
"If he did, he was hiding stuff from me too."
Lala tapped her pencil on the desk, pursing her pouty lips. "I search everywhere. In pockets of his clothes, in suitcases, in the trunk of
the car, in the hub caps, and in the attic."
"I never thought about where he was getting the money to gamble."
"Think. Maybe you know." She began searching the credenza.
"Have you checked the bank statements to see if there was a charge for a safety deposit box?"
Lala got out the bank statements and started going through them.
Waltz settled at his desk and got out the Yellow Pages. He found investigators, lots of them. Maybe he could talk one into working on credit.
The first one was interested, even eager, until Waltz proposed a credit arrangement. Then the guy cooled down and became sarcastic. He explained, as though to an idiot, how difficult it was to collect from a client who ended up on death row. He'd take the case only for cash in advance, or he'd take a credit card.
Waltz's one card was maxed out.
He continued calling. Maybe he'd stumble across a guy who was desperate for a client, willing to take a chance.
He was halfway through the list, his enthusiasm more than halfway gone, before he found an investigator who suggested that Waltz might borrow money against his property. Waltz said he didn't have any property, that he'd just sold his car to bail himself out. The guy said lots of people had that idea at first, until they thought about it. They'd forget they owned stocks and bonds, mutual funds, insurance policies with a cash value, or a business.
Waltz slapped his hand on his forehead. "I forgot. I own twenty-four percent of a ballroom dance studio. How about that?"
"That would solve your problem. Is it a partnership or corporation?"
"It's a corporation."
"Bring in your stock certificate. I know a finance company that would loan you money on it."
Lala's hands massaged Waltz's shoulders. Her touch felt good.
"I'll call you back. I'll have to ask my sister-in-law where the certificate is."
Lala continued the massage. Waltz leaned back and relaxed. He had the investigator. It was a matter of taking him the certificate. Her fingers felt so good.
Lala nibbled his ear. "I no can wait. I miss you."
"What about the lieutenant?"
She kissed his neck. "Silly. He disgust me. I wish only to stay on his good side, so he will clear you. Next student is three hours. I will put Armando in charge. We go home."
Waltz shook his head. "I promised Jazz. There can never be anything romantic between us."
Drink, Dance, Divorce Page 9