Dance of Deception

by Trish Reeb

  Dance of Deception

  Copyright © 2012 by Trish Reeb

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  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

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  permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied

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  trish_reeb@yahoo.com

  This e-book is a work of fiction. The names of

  characters, places, and incidents are products

  of the writer’s imagination or have been used

  fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living

  or dead, actual events, locale or organizations

  are entirely coincidental.

  Dedicated to my mother:

  Mary Lou Palmer Ormond

  1922-1963

  Acknowledgments

  Cover Design by Sherin Nicole

  Photograph by Dimitri Castrique

  Dance of Deception would not have evolved into the story you are about to read without Sherin Nicole. Her encouragement, guidance, and support propelled me to a level far beyond my perceived limitations. Sam Thompson, former Detroit police officer, advised me on proper police procedures during criminal investigations. Discrepancies in protocol should not fall on his shoulders, but on that of the author's for using creative license. Mucho kudos to copy editor, Susie Hornbeck, for putting red pen to paper confirming what all writers have been told: we cannot proofread our own material. She's made a firm believer out of me. Thanks to Judy Zumwalt, Stephanie St. Clair, and Julie Ard for reading my book, providing valuable feedback, and their much appreciated comments. In addition, many thanks to the members of the writers' groups to which I belong(ed) for igniting my muse, sparking ideas, and supplying a plethora of information on writing. Last, but not least, I am grateful to my family and friends for their continuous interest and enthusiasm as they awaited the debut of my book. My husband deserves a trophy for riding the roller coaster of emotions with me over the years. I want to thank him for his help in searching for that perfect word, listening to the flow of a sentence or paragraph, acting out scenes with me, but—most of all—for speaking his mind instead of tiptoeing around his opinion.

  “Apathy is the glove into which evil slips its hand.”

  Bodie Thoene

  PART I

  CHAPTER 1

  Friday, February 9

  Alex Tamburelli shivered, burrowing into her cashmere coat. Her gaze traveled around the windowless security office in which she waited to be interrogated. The morning started out normal enough. And, had it not been for the signs blinking like a neon arrow pointing at trouble, she'd be waiting with the rest of the early birds. Waiting and wondering what had transpired to warrant sequestering them. As usual, she couldn't ignore the unusual.

  Her parents liked to blame it on her natural curiosity—easy for a kid to swallow. But any intelligent adult would choke on the explanation. Hence, she kept her Achilles heel filed under the classified section of her life. She closed her eyes and opened her mind to the trail of clues that transported her to this unforeseeable place.

  Driving into Lincoln High's staff parking lot, her tires crunched on new over old snow. She rolled into a prime spot, her bonus for arriving early. The police car parked near the entrance enticed only slight interest due to the young hour. Break-in, most likely. Alex grabbed her belongings, slid out of the car, and shuffled through the four inches of white stuff that accumulated overnight.

  At first, the snow-covered car under a security spotlight did not pique her curiosity. Clunkers, usually belonging to students parked illegally, often decided not to function in inclement weather. She looked closer. Not a clunker, but a red Buick Regal. Was it Taryn's car? Alex hustled over to it and peered into the driver's window. A yellow rose on a white ribbon, identical to the one in her SUV, hung from the rearview mirror. Staring at the vehicle, she absently scratched her wrist. Hm-m, this is weird. Taryn would've called if she'd experienced car trouble last night. That's what best friends did. She sighed. Unless, of course, one of them recently snagged a new boyfriend. Taryn had Jordan now. Another explanation for the car made her chuckle: Taryn sleeping here after her drama club ran late. She could picture her curled up on the stage using her coat for a pillow. Truthfully, not a far-fetched notion. Zany should've been Taryn's middle name. Though Jordan coming to the rescue seemed more plausible, Alex chose not to think about him.

  Needing an explanation—but unwilling to call Taryn lest she stayed at her boyfriend's last night—she hurried inside. Heading for Taryn's classroom, she wound her way through the halls feeling as if she were missing something. She paused to contemplate. Too quiet, no chatter and clatter had resonated from the kitchen when she passed. And normally she ran into Mr. Walters, also an early arriver and holder of a perfect attendance record for ten straight years.

  One more turn and she'd come to the English wing. The tingling in her wrist increased. Stop it! She couldn't wait to see Taryn and share a good laugh. How her dependable itching wrist when trouble came calling, like the time her brother got hit by a car on his way home from school, misled her this time. Rounding the corner, Alex came to a dead stop, anxiety jabbing her stomach. She stared at the black and yellow tape plastered across the entrance to the wing leading to Taryn's classroom. Her heart sped up along with her feet.

  A cop appeared at the door barking, "This wing's closed."

  "What happened?" Alex asked, scratching at her wrist.

  He pointed to the ribbon across the opening.

  "A break-in?"

  "Might say that." The refrigerator-size man shrugged.

  Alex pivoted, rooting through her handbag for her cell phone. She punched number two, calling Taryn. A faint, but clear, My Favorite Things, came from down the hall. Stunned, she listened until the music ceased and the alarm in her head sounded. Circumventing Refrigerator, she sailed down the corridor in the opposite direction toward the staircase. And an alternate route. After climbing to the second floor, she sped through the hall to the opposite end, scurrying down a different flight of stairs.

  Once she hit the ground floor, a rod-thin cop grabbed her with an ironclad grip. Shooting daggers at him, Alex rubbed her wrist against the nap of her coat. She had to find a way inside Taryn's room. The adrenaline raged through her body.

  A radio crackled. Loosening his hold on her arm, the officer fumbled for the receiver. Alex yanked free and bolted down the hall, heart hammering, stomach so tight it hurt. Bookbag and purse banged against her side, her full length coat whipping her legs. Everything along the corridor blurred—classroom doors, overhead lights, linoleum-tiled floor. Everything, except room 142.

  Up ahead, Refrigerator closed in on her destination. Younger, thinner, and faster, she sped up. Would she make it in time? A few feet from the room, Alex's heart sank. The cop slid into place blocking the door. She skidded to a stop, frozen. Unable to swallow. She could barely breathe, as if the police tape across the door frame were wrapped around her neck. The prickling on her wrist now unbearable, she scratched with her nails, unaware of sprouting pink welts.

  Hands on hips, Refrigerator stared down his veined nose at her. "You're," huff, "trespassing. Leave . . . now," he said, panting hard.

  On tiptoes, Alex attempted to peek over his shoulder. Her view still obstructed, she shifted to the right. He went with her. She tried left. He followed. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted two men in business suits approaching. It's now or never.
<
br />   Aiming the heavy bag at Refrigerator, she swung. Yelping, he grabbed himself. Using the wall for leverage, she shoved him hard with her backside like when she moved her piano. He crashed to his knees. The sound of running feet turned her. She threw her back against the door jam half a second before Refrigerator’s partner came within striking distance. She sent a foot to his gut.

  Alex spun to face the room. "No!" she cried, a fisted hand to her mouth. Heat abandoned her body, leaving her cold and trembling. Dropping the bags, she tore through the crime scene tape, stumbling toward Taryn lying on the floor.

  Hands seized Alex from behind, dragging her from the room. The yellow and black ribbon tangled in her feet.

  "Why don’t you do something?" Alex whimpered. "Can’t you see she’s bleeding?"

  The cops slammed her facedown to the floor.

  CHAPTER 2

  Alex wrapped her coat tighter around her waist. She wanted nothing more than to hibernate in its silk lining and forget that her best friend . . . . Bright red on turquoise flashed in her head. Her mind struggled to banish the image while her body battled the feelings. Oh God, Taryn, how could this have happened to you?

  Alex, manage your emotions, her mother’s voice echoed in her head.

  Mentally, she shoved her feelings into the drawer where she stowed stuff she didn't want to deal with and slammed it shut. Instead, she focused on the room in which she'd been interred. With no windows to distinguish night from day, rain or shine, the office had all the ambience of a cellar. She'd only been inside it a handful of times in the ten years she worked at Lincoln High—always as an authority figure with the best interest of her students at heart. Now, she sat on the opposite side of the legal system waiting for the verdict.

  Alex cracked a knuckle. Another and another, the sound slicing through the silence of the room. The ritual soothed her like a meditation.

  "Excuse me. Is that necessary?"

  Alex jumped. She’d forgotten the woman cop. The molded plastic chair creaked as she shifted to look at her jailer. The officer sat behind a beat-up desk the size of a semi. Dwarfing her, it almost, but not quite, disguised her queen-size girth.

  "Sorry," Alex said, hating to leave the task undone. "Bad habit. Drove my mother nuts. Once she made me wear boxing gloves."

  "That’s novel." Queenie yawned.

  Alex shrugged. "I took up the sport soon afterward. Got pretty good, too." She paused for a beat. "Not Laila Ali good, but I won a few matches. Against the guys who got me hooked on the knuckle cracking."

  "Nice payback." Queenie tossed a counterfeit smile and returned to the dog-eared book in front of her.

  Keeping her eye on the cop, Alex cracked the knuckles on her other hand in rapid succession. Pop, crack, crunch—

  Queenie cleared her throat.

  Alex attempted a sheepish smile. She'd kicked the habit two decades ago. Today it returned with a vengeance. Would the relapse set the addiction back twenty years, like a recovering alcoholic taking that first drink? At least her mom wouldn't witness her fall from grace.

  Taryn teethed her fingernails but never enough to damage her meticulous manicure. Taryn, who did this to you? Why?

  Alex stood and paced. She hugged her coat close in an attempt to stop the trembling. In addition to her feet, her nose and butt—always the first to absorb the cold—felt like blocks of ice.

  Queenie pushed back the chair and swaggered across the room. Towering over Alex, she rested one hand on the cuffs dangling from a wide leather belt. "Sit down."

  Needing to work off some of the tension and get her circulation moving, she said, "You gonna cuff me?"

  Queenie smiled.

  Accustomed to being around older, larger playmates as a child and now teenagers standing two stories taller than her five foot two inches, Alex did not intimidate easily. She glanced at the handcuffs before looking at Queenie. "Go ahead, but I need to stretch my legs."

  "I don’t think so. Lucky you’re not in leg irons."

  "You’re joking."

  "It's my watch, and I want you seated." Queenie glared, waiting until she sat before retreating.

  Alex threw a scowl at her back.

  The radiator clanked, the heat kicking on. Desperate to latch onto something normal in a world gone awry, she welcomed the noise she usually abhorred. Although her body might thaw, the boost in temperature wouldn't begin to melt the coldness she felt to her core.

  Alex brushed the dirt from the front of her coat. She opened it. The black shark on the light blue Lincoln High sweatshirt wore floor dust as did her black jeans. On Fridays, the designated day to show school spirit, she dressed casually. Thank goodness. Otherwise, she'd have to be reimbursed for the cost of laundering the dry-clean-only Prada or Armani, her normal attire. Or not, considering she wasn't in any position at the moment to make that kind of request.

  Less than a quarter of the staff wore the blue and black school colors or insignia clothing to show their support. Even she—Lincoln High’s unofficial cheerleader—doubted its capacity to keep the staff morale afloat. Or rescue the sinking school spirit. After today, what would it take to salvage the ship more and more staff members jumped every year?

  After a minute Alex asked Queenie, "What’s he like?"

  "Who?"

  "The detective who’ll be questioning me."

  The policewoman shrugged. "I don't know. Never been sitting where you are."

  "Helpful," she said under her breath. "What’s his name?"

  "Detective Grant." Queenie resumed reading the manual in front of her.

  If Detective Grant arrested her, she'd have to contact an attorney. The only criminal lawyer she knew happened to be Jordan Whitfield, Taryn's beau. Not too keen on the idea, Alex wondered if he'd heard about Taryn. Was he, like her, having difficulty believing it? A thought reeled her insides. What if he played a part in this? She shook her head. Not possible. But who else could have killed her?

  She rifled through her purse for the phone and came up empty. Refrigerator had confiscated it. At the time, she’d been too dazed to think much about it. Now she questioned his authority. Didn't she have the right to make one phone call?

  A knock sounded on the door. The chair scraped the floor as Queenie rose to answer it. Instead of the expected Detective Grant, a familiar voice asked for Alex.

  "Can’t see her now."

  Alex sprang out of her chair and dashed to the door. "Ellery!" Ellery Humbarger, her Rock of Gibraltar, had rushed to her side again. Today she needed his support more than ever before—well, except ten years ago in another lifetime.

  "Honey, I’m here. I’ll be in my—" The door slammed shut.

  Alex yearned to lay her head on his burly chest, feel the softness of his sweater on her cheek, inhale the fresh musk of his soap. She closed her eyes trying to capture it, but gave up after several seconds. She had an exceptional imagination, but it failed now as if she tried to write inside her head with a broken pencil lead.

  "Back to your seat, or I’ll cuff you to it."

  Jolted away from her thoughts, Alex raised her hands. "Look, I forgot." Shoving too accessible hands into her coat pockets, she said, "I won't be a bother."

  "Girl, you already there."

  Alex back-stepped to her chair. No question, I'm in a shitload of trouble. She couldn't think of one incident that paralleled her current predicament. But if given the chance, without a doubt she'd do it all over again.

  The bell sounded, announcing the start of Lincoln High’s first hour. Eight o’clock. Ninety minutes since her life had taken a U-turn.

  CHAPTER 3

  Alex relinquished hope of ever meeting Detective Grant at about the same time a tall man, the color of crème caramel, strode into the room. Exuding confidence, he glided across the floor with the grace of a mountain lion. He wore a navy sport coat over an open collar white shirt, a black leather coat slung over one arm. She stared at the chiseled face, her eyes going briefly to the scar running through his le
ft eyebrow.

  Something stirred at her center. It sent a tingling sensation to other body parts joining in the rabble-rousing. She groaned inwardly. This is neither the time nor the man.

  Mesmerizing, like a god, he took her breath away. Breathe. She exhaled. I hope he's a merciful one. Would he be tough, but fair, or narrow-minded and vindictive? She couldn’t read him. Thanks to Queenie, she hadn’t a clue. The room grew warm enough for Alex to shed her coat, but she wrapped it tighter. Detective Grant frightened and aroused her at the same time. Taryn would call him a spoon man—so delicious-looking you could eat him with a spoon.

  After dismissing Queenie, Detective Grant crossed the room to Alex, picked up a chair from the queue, flipped it around, and sat in a single fluid motion.

  He stared at her.

  Alex stared back, but he said nothing. She squirmed, feeling perspiration form under her arms, heat rising from her center. Years ago in high school, while the teacher droned on about chemical equations, she propped her elbows on the table, chin in hands, and stared at the cutest boy in the class. After a couple minutes, he caught on. Then it became a contest to see who caved first. Alex won. Now? Her seat growing hotter by the second, she hoped Detective Grant spoke up soon or she'd have to yell, 'fire.'

  He extended his hand. "I’m Detective Cole Grant."

  Sliding a cold hand into his, she squeaked, "Alex." She cleared her throat. "Tamburelli."

  Dusty-road eyes staring into hers, he said nothing.

  The quiet stretched between them waiting to be filled. Averting her eyes, she avoided those that seemed to reach inside her chest and squeeze the air out. No matter where she glanced—his forehead, square-jawed chin, the strong neck—her eyes always snapped back to his.

  He moistened his bottom lip.

  Her look gravitated to his mouth. Waiting for him to speak, she prayed he’d go easy on her, but feared he wouldn’t.