Dancing with Fire

by Susan Kearney

  “What?” Kaylin blinked, peering down a hallway where lights flashed against the tawdry green walls and threadbare carpeting.

  “Aren’t you Miss Cotton Candy?”

  “Not in this lifetime.”

  Sawyer chuckled. As she stepped forward, she jammed her elbow into his rib. “Stop smirking.”

  “Sorry,” he muttered, still grinning.

  She ignored him as well as the sound of a high-pitched woman’s squeal and a man’s deep chuckle. What was going on here? “I’m Kaylin Danner, and I’d like to see Quinn.”

  The guy folded massive biceps and stepped forward to block them. “He’s busy. Of course, if you wanted to take off your clothes he might—”

  “That’s not an option.” Kaylin no longer had any doubts about Quinn’s being a standup kind of guy. Clearly if he made porn films, he wasn’t a pillar of the community.

  Sawyer reached into his pocket and came up with three twenties. Mr. Bouncer eyed the cash and waited. Sawyer added another twenty, and the guy pocketed the money and stepped outside. “If anyone asks how you got in, the door was unlocked, and you never saw me.”

  “Whatever.” Kaylin opened the door, and the sound of a camera clicking hit her, then a man’s voice directing, “Head up, turn, that’s the angle I need. Beautiful. Hold it. Hold it. Give me that expression again.”

  Kaylin forged down the hallway that opened onto a huge set filled with a black satin sheet-covered bed with women wearing lingerie, lights, camera people, assistants for hair and makeup and half a dozen other jobs she couldn’t name.

  Maybe she’d jumped to the wrong conclusion. They seemed to be filming lingerie. Not porn. No men were in sight—at least not on the set. None of the women were naked; they all wore a variety of lingerie.

  The man she’d seen on the security DVDs was the same man who sat directing the shoot. Quinn. Her father’s old partner, the man to whom he’d signed over half the rights to his future inventions. Quinn had thinning black hair with silver streaks, a straggly goatee, and wore clothes that looked as though they’d needed a washing two days ago.

  He paid no attention to their entrance. He sat in a chair marked Producer, an unlit cigar hanging from his mouth. Every once in a while he directed the photographer. Mostly he stared at the models.

  “People. People. You’re supposed to be having a frickin’ good time. You look like you’re in pain, sugar puff.”

  “I need more lube,” Sugar Puff complained.

  The model opened a jar and spread oil over the tops of her breasts. Right in front of everyone. Yuck. There was no romance here. No magic. No spark. She doubted the photographer knew the models’ names.

  Kaylin ignored the set and marched over to Quinn. The man took one look at her, and the cigar dropped from his mouth to the floor. “Kaylin? Kaylin Danner?”

  “You know me?”

  He closed his mouth. “Of course I know you. I bounced you on my knee. You used to call me Uncle Quinn. And—” he stood and gestured for another man to take his place “—a lady like you doesn’t belong here. That’s why Henry wouldn’t let me come over no more. He didn’t want his girls mixed up with the likes of me.”

  He ushered her and Sawyer to an office and shut the door. He waved at the set. “I’m sorry about that. But I’ve got to make a living. And lingerie catalogs pay well. Can I offer you a drink?”

  “No, thanks.” Kaylin felt dirty from just being in the same room with him. She tried not to look at the posters on the walls of half-naked bodies in provocative positions. She wanted to wash her hands—no, make that her entire body. She wouldn’t feel clean until she showered. Kaylin had watched dancers in tight leotards that showed just as much skin without batting an eye, but this creeped her out.

  It might be a “lingerie” catalog, but she doubted anyone bought the lingerie. She suspected these pictures went into men’s magazines or onto the Internet, and that it wouldn’t be long before the lingerie came off.

  The idea of accepting a drink from this guy made her stomach heave. She swallowed hard. “How did you recognize me?”

  She watched his expression to see if he’d lie. Had he been watching their every move? Is that how he’d known who she was?

  “You look just like your mother.” Quinn’s eyes softened, and his tone took on an almost reverent tone. Oh Lord, Quinn had been in love with her mother.

  Suddenly his eyes narrowed, and his tone hardened. “How did you get in here?”

  Sawyer shrugged. “The door was open. We walked in.” Sawyer’s words might have been casual, but no one in the room could have missed the possessive thread running through them. As he’d spoken, he placed a hand over her shoulder. Had Sawyer noted that the guy had had a thing for her mother?

  Quinn frowned, opened a box on his desk, and took out a cigar. He didn’t light this one, either. Just stuck it in his mouth. “So what can I do for you, Kaylin?”

  The way he spoke, Sawyer might not have been in the room. But Kaylin was very glad of his presence. Quinn had this way of staring at her that made her want to slap him. And it didn’t help that from the other room, the photographer’s directions, “Yes, girls. That’s it,” continued in the background.

  “You knew my parents since I was a kid.”

  “Since before you were born. I actually introduced Danielle to Henry. A big mistake. Once they met, she only had eyes for him.”

  “So can you tell me about the documents I found in my father’s safe deposit box? Why would he give you half the rights to his projects?”

  “I loaned him money and funded him for years. We made an agreement. A bad one on my part. Henry never came up with anything good after the paper mill invention. Your mother would have been better off with me.”

  Kaylin bit her lower lip. Antagonizing Quinn wouldn’t help her find Lia and Billy. Sawyer leaned forward. “Can you tell us why you went to see Henry the week before he died?”

  “I could.” Quinn chewed on his cigar.

  “Since my father’s death, we’ve been robbed, and my sister’s been kidnapped.”

  Quinn’s eyes widened. “Becca?”

  “No, Lia. And we were warned not to go to the authorities, so—”

  “Do I look like I’m the kind of guy who’s in bed with the cops?” Quinn chewed the cigar some more. “You came here thinking I had something to do with—”

  “We’re exploring every option. Can you tell me what you and my dad spoke about before he died?”

  “Yeah. I’ll tell you. Your father was worried about security.”

  “Let me get this straight. You and Dad haven’t seen each other for years—”

  “What gave you that idea? We met once a month. In my line of business, he didn’t want me around you girls. We met downtown in Ybor City at Pasha’s Restaurant for lunch. Had a standing date.”

  It was hard for Kaylin to believe this man and her father were friends. He seemed so sleazy, but her father had found friends in places that didn’t interest most people. However, if she could overlook what Quinn did for a living—and that was a huge if—she might obtain useful information from him. “Dad told you he was concerned about security. Why?”

  Quinn tapped the cigar on his desk. “I sell my photographs in the Middle East to some fairly high rollers. Henry thought I might be able to get some Middle Eastern guys to back off.”

  “What do you mean back off? Did they threaten Dad?” she asked.

  “They were pressuring him to sell. Not every Arab country has oil or refineries. Those that don’t have it, want it. Biodiesel is right up their alley.”

  “Did he give you names?” Sawyer asked, and Kaylin’s heartbeat thudded.

  “That’s when we had a little disagreement.”

  “Is that why you didn’t come to the funeral?” Kaylin asked.<
br />
  “I was there. Sat in the back. Left early. Funerals aren’t my thing.” Quinn looked her straight in the eye. Had he really been there? She supposed she could look in the guest book, but not everyone signed in. And she’d been so upset she might have looked straight at Quinn and not even noticed him.

  “What kind of disagreement did you have with Henry?” Sawyer asked.

  Quinn sighed. “I suspected Henry had actually come up with something good. He had this shine in his eyes. He was all excited like back in the old days. I offered to lend him money, but he didn’t want to give up more than half. We argued. I said good-bye, and the next thing I heard, the lab exploded. I’m sorry. I don’t know more than that.”

  Sawyer stood. “You have proof that you paid Henry in return for part of the proceeds?”

  “We made the deal a long time ago. Henry’s word was good. And to tell you the truth, I’m doing fine. Real fine. I don’t need any rights to his ideas. I don’t need the sheriff’s office poking into my affairs, either. So you go ahead and tear up those old papers and just forget about Quinn.” He peered at her without blinking, his eyes cold.

  Sawyer nodded, and Kaylin stood, hoping she’d never have to see the man again. “Good-bye, Quinn.”

  Kaylin didn’t speak until they were back in the car. “I don’t know what to think. Why would he tell us to tear up the old papers?”

  “Maybe he really thinks they’re worthless and doesn’t want the cops coming around. I’m not sure if what he does is legal.”

  “Or maybe he got Dad to sign new papers and gave him more money.”

  “It didn’t sound like it. They argued. Still, have you checked your father’s bank accounts?”

  “I didn’t go over them that carefully.”

  “Was there any unexplained influx of cash?”

  She shook her head. “I would have noticed.”

  “Quinn’s connection to the Middle East bothers me,” Sawyer admitted. “He might fear that if word of his partnership with Henry comes out, that the men who went after Henry will come after him.”

  Before Sawyer could say anything else, the phone rang. She grabbed her purse, snatched out the cell, and checked caller ID. “It’s not the kidnapper. Someone’s calling from home. Hello.”

  Becca spoke quietly. “Billy just came home. He took off all night. He didn’t even know Lia was missing.”

  30

  BECCA DIDN’T KNOW if she wanted to leave the house, especially after Billy’s sudden return. Billy had told them a story about staying overnight with a friend. When they’d expressed surprise, especially his mother, he’d insisted he’d told Lia and Mitzy ahead of time and that they’d forgotten. Suspicious of his story, Becca had wanted to stay at home to pry the truth out of him, but Shadee had suggested they leave Mitzy to deal with her son. The woman was so far gone into her booze that Becca wondered if maybe Billy had told the truth, that she had forgotten her son’s whereabouts. However, Mitzy’s drinking and Billy’s whereabouts last night weren’t Becca’s primary problem.

  Lia was. And Shadee had told Becca that if Middle Eastern men were behind the kidnapping, someone in the Arab-American community might have heard about strangers in town. So she agreed to accompany him. She’d dressed in her most conservative skirt and blouse and drove with Shadee to the Arab-American Community Center.

  She’d never noticed the building before. Highway 301 was mostly commercial and retail establishments, but the occasional house from an earlier era still stood beside the highway. Shadee turned into a paved parking lot beside a large yellow stuccoed house that had been remodeled on a fenced corner lot.

  Filled with anxiety that she wouldn’t fit into the community, and Shadee would drop her, Becca tried to remind herself that people were people. She heard kids playing out back. This place wasn’t so different from the Boys & Girls Club. But when she spied several women with their heads covered walking through the front door, their long skirts swishing over the concrete sidewalk, she stopped.

  “What’s wrong?” Shadee asked.

  “Will I be welcome here?” She tugged her skirt down an inch, but the hem still didn’t cover her knees.

  Shadee took her hand. “You’ll be fine.”

  She appreciated his confidence, but he seemed more of a people person than she was. At the marina, he was one of the guys. At her home, he’d adapted, almost like a chameleon. It was a skill she admired. Becca had pretty much never been out of her middle-class Southern neighborhood. Unlike Kaylin, who dreamed of going to the big city, she would have been happy to live in the Danner house for the rest of her life.

  She knew she had it good. She liked the Florida weather, enjoyed the slower paced Southern lifestyle. Why would she ever want to leave?

  Shadee brought her inside, and the scents of foreign food immediately made her mouth water. Women, many without headdresses, had laid out a buffet along one wall. Men stood in groups talking. Kids played tag and ping-pong and video games.

  Several people greeted Shadee with nods, and none of them made her feel unwelcome with hostile stares, as she had feared. Despite her lighter skin and her more revealing skirt, the crowd pretty much ignored her, which was a good thing, giving her time to look around and adjust.

  When a little girl ran over and hugged Shadee, he grinned and scooped her into his arms. “I thought Tariq was taking you to the beach.”

  “I am.” Tariq came over and joined the conversation. “This afternoon.”

  Tariq shook Becca’s hand. “Hello.” His greeting and manner had a stiffness to them. A formality that he might be using to hide resentment of her. And his eyes burned with an intensity she didn’t understand.

  Every time she was with Shadee and Tariq, Becca sensed something odd, like she didn’t belong. She didn’t like feeling like an outsider and told herself she’d have to get to know his family better.

  Uncomfortable, her gaze moved on to the child. She must be his cousin—a beautiful little girl with big brown eyes and curly black hair. The child handed Shadee a book. “Read me a story?”

  Shadee hesitated.

  “Brother, you neglect our family,” Tariq spoke, his voice low.

  Clearly Shadee felt bad about backing out of taking the child to the beach. But he had come to socialize with the men, see if anyone had heard about strangers in town, and he couldn’t do that if he read to his cousin.

  “I love to read,” Becca said.

  “Is this your new girlfriend?” the child asked with a bold curiosity.

  Becca sensed Tariq’s unusual interest in Shadee’s answer, but Shadee paid no attention to his brother. “Lana, this is Becca. Would you like her to read to you?”

  Lana smiled at Becca. “Yes, please.”

  Shadee handed her to Becca. In his arms, the child hadn’t looked heavy, but she was a handful. “My, you’re a big girl.” Becca gave her a hug and then let her slide to the floor. The brothers walked away, and Becca focused on the girl. “Where’s a good place to read?”

  Lana took her hand and led her to one side of the buffet. Tables and chairs awaited the diners. But apparently it wasn’t yet time to eat, so they had the area to themselves. Becca opened the book and began to read. As she turned the pages, she kept an eye on Shadee and Tariq.

  Together they moved from group to group, talking quietly, sometimes listening; at other times Shadee clapped a man on the shoulder or laughed at what appeared to be a joke. Today, of the two brothers, Shadee was the more outgoing. Tariq remained silent, brooding.

  But the camaraderie here was obvious. And while she didn’t feel comfortable, she didn’t feel unwelcome, except when Tariq had been close. As she watched the men, Shadee occasionally met her gaze, but Tariq acted as if she didn’t exist—which was fine with Becca. And no one seemed bothered by her presence or even seemed to notice her short
skirt.

  When Lana climbed onto her lap to turn the book’s pages, several women preparing the food smiled at her. Becca nodded a greeting and kept reading. She’d almost finished the story when one of the women announced the food was ready. Sensing Lana’s impatience, Becca quickly reached the end. Lana thanked her, took back her book, and joined the food line.

  Becca looked up, pleased when Shadee rejoined her. His brother had disappeared. “Would you mind if we left?”

  Praying he’d learned something useful, she shook her head but didn’t ask questions until they’d reached the privacy of the car. “What’s going on?”

  “Maybe nothing. Maybe something.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “One of the men I spoke to manages a popular Arab-American bank. He mentioned that funds have been wired to Pasha’s, a Middle Eastern restaurant in downtown Tampa.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “It is when it’s a great deal of money and it comes from Iran. The restaurant could be a front for a terrorist organization.”

  “Terrorism? But what would the owners of Pasha’s want with Lia?”

  “I don’t know. But you described four men who invaded your house. My contact thinks he may have seen these men at Pasha’s. If they are foreigners, they’d need a place to live and a place to eat. Unless they have family in the area, they’d stay at a hotel or a rental house. Either way, they need funds to operate, and who would notice Middle Eastern men in a Middle Eastern restaurant?”

  “That’s it?”

  “The men are from an assortment of countries. One’s actually Russian. One is from Morocco, and the other two are Lebanese.”

  “You think these men are the ones who came to the lab, invaded the house, and took Lia?”

  “It won’t hurt to check them out.”

  “You have their names?”