Dead on the Dance Floor

by Heather Graham

  But she hadn’t left fast enough. Art hadn’t been abusive, not physically, though he had been sexually demanding of Nell while spending his own time in a number of places outside his own home—and with a number of women who had not been his wife.

  Who the hell could have known the guy would suddenly become homicidal?

  He should have—he should have suspected Nell could be in danger.

  Today he felt something like the boat—his time on that particular case had caused a growth of barnacles over his skin. Some time off might help scrape off the festering scabs of surprise and bitterness.

  Vacation. From work, from family, from friends.

  Maybe especially family. Doug didn’t deserve any of his foul mood or foul temper.

  And also, he hadn’t actually been up to spending time with Doug. His brother could be a royal pain in the ass, a nonstop barrage of questions and inquiries. Like an intern in an emergency room, ready to diagnose a malady in any tic of the body, Doug was ready to find evil in every off-the-wall movement in the people around him.

  A tough way to be in Miami-Dade County, where more than half the inhabitants could be considered a bit off-the-wall.

  Quinn didn’t know whether to groan or be concerned. Doug wouldn’t have hunted him down to ask hypothetical questions. A tinge of unease hit him suddenly.

  “Mom?” Quinn said worriedly.

  “Heart ticking like an industrial clock,” Doug assured him quickly. “However, she did mention that you hadn’t been by lately, and she enjoys it when you come around to dinner once a week. You might want to give her a call.”

  “I left her a message that I was fine, just kind of busy.”

  “Yeah, but she’s a smart woman, you know. She reads the newspapers.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” Quinn demanded, arching a brow.

  “I have a case for you,” Doug said, moving around his brother to grab the dive tank Quinn had just unbuckled.

  “Guess what, baby bro? I don’t need you to find cases for me. The agency does that very well—too well. Besides, I’m on vacation.”

  “Yeah, Amber told me. That’s why I thought it would be a great time for you to take on something private I’ve been thinking about.”

  Quinn went ahead and groaned. “Dammit, Doug. You mean you want me to do a bunch of prying around for free.” He glared at Amber.

  “Hey, he’s your brother,” she said defensively. “And you know what? Now that we’ve found you, I think I’ll let you two talk. I’m going over to Nick’s for a hamburger.” Tossing her long blond hair over her shoulder, she started off the boat, casting back a single glance so she could try to read Quinn’s scowl and figure out just how annoyed he was with her.

  Doug wore a rueful grin on his face. “Hey, I’ll rinse your equipment for you,” he said, as if offering some kind of an apology.

  “Good. Go ahead. I’ll be in the cabin.”

  Quinn took the two steps down to the Twisted Time’s head, stripped and stepped beneath a spray of fresh water for a moment, then wrapped a towel around his waist and dug a clean pair of cutoffs out of the wicker laundry basket on the bed of the main cabin. Barefoot and still damp, he returned to the main cabin area, pulled a Miller from the fridge in the galley and sat on the sofa just beyond it, waiting, fingers drumming, scowl still in place.

  Doug came down the steps, nimble and quick, a grimace on his face as he, too, went to the fridge, helped himself to a beer and sat on the port-side sofa, facing Quinn.

  “You want me to do something for free, right?” Quinn said, scowling.

  “Well…sort of. Actually, it’s going to cost you.”

  “What?”

  “I need you to take dance lessons.”

  Quinn stared at his younger brother, stunned speechless for several seconds. “You’re out of your mind,” he told Doug.

  “No, no, I’m not, and you’ll understand in a few minutes.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Yes, you will. It’s about a death.”

  “Do you know how many people die everyday, Doug? Hey, you’re the cop. If this was suspicious death, it was—or will be—investigated. And even if it was deemed natural or accidental, you must know someone in the department who can look into it.”

  Quinn shook his head. Looking at Doug was almost like seeing himself a number of years ago. There was an eight-year age gap between them. They looked something alike, identical in height at six-two, but Doug still had the lean, lanky strength of a young man in his early twenties, while Quinn himself had broadened out. Quinn’s hair was dark, while Doug’s was a wheaten color, but they both had their father’s deep blue, wide-set eyes and hard-angled face. Sometimes they moved alike, using their hands when they spoke, as if words weren’t quite enough, and folding them prayer fashion or tapping them against their chins when they were in deep thought. For a moment Quinn reflected on his irritation at being interrupted here, but Doug had always been a damned good brother, looking up to him, being there for him, never losing faith, even when Quinn had gone through his own rough times.

  “I can’t get anyone in the department interested in this,” Doug admitted. “There’s been too much going on in the county lately. They’re hunting a serial rapist who’s getting more violent with each victim, a guard was killed at a recent robbery…trust me, homicide is occupied. Too busy to get involved when it looks like an accidental death. There’s no one who’s free right now.”

  “No one?”

  Doug made a face. “All right, there were a few suspicious factors, so there is a guy assigned to follow up. But he’s an asshole, Quinn, really.”

  “Who?”

  Sometimes guys just didn’t like each other, so rumors went around about their capabilities. The metro department had endured its share of troubles through the years with a few bad cops, but for the most part, the officers were good men, underpaid and overworked.

  Then again, sometimes they were just assholes.

  “Pete Dixon.”

  Quinn frowned. “Old Pete’s not that bad.”

  “Hell no. Give him a smoking gun in a guy’s hand, and he can catch the perp every time.”

  “That from a rookie,” Quinn muttered.

  “Look, Dixon’s not a ball of fire. And he’s just following up on what the M.E. has ruled as an accidental death. He isn’t going to go around looking under any carpets. He’s not interested. He’ll just do some desk work by rote. He doesn’t care.”

  “And therefore I should? To the point of taking dance lessons? Like I said, bro, I think you’ve lost your mind,” Quinn said flatly.

  Doug smiled, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans. He pulled out his wallet and, from it, a carefully folded newspaper clipping. That was just like Doug. He was one of the most orderly human beings Quinn had ever come across. The clipping hadn’t been ripped out but cut, then folded meticulously. He shook his head at the thought, knowing that his own organizational skills were lacking in comparison.

  “What is it?” Quinn asked, taking the paper.

  “Read.”

  Quinn unfolded it and looked at the headline. “‘Diva Lara Trudeau Dead on the Dance Floor at Thirty-eight.’” He cocked his head toward his brother.

  “Keep reading.”

  Quinn scanned the article. He’d never heard of Lara Trudeau, but that didn’t mean anything. He wouldn’t have recognized the name of any dancer, ballroom or otherwise. He could free-dive to nearly four hundred feet, bench-press nearly four hundred pounds and rock climb with the best of them. But in a salsa club, hell, he was best as a bar support.

  Puzzled, he scanned the article. Lara Trudeau, thirty-eight, winner of countless dance championships, had died as she had lived—on the dance floor. A combination of tranquilizers and alcohol had caused a cardiac arrest. Those closest to the dancer were distraught, and apparently stunned that, despite her accomplishments, she had felt the need for artificial calm.

  Quinn looked back at his brother an
d shook his head. “I don’t get it. An aging beauty got nervous and took too many pills. Tragic. But hardly diabolical.”

  “You’re not reading between the lines,” Doug said with dismay.

  Quinn suppressed a grin. “And I take it no one in the homicide division ‘read between the lines,’ either?”

  Doug smacked the article. “Quinn, a woman like Lara Trudeau wouldn’t take pills. She was a perfectionist. And a winner. She would have taken the championship. She had no reason to be nervous.”

  “Doug, are you even reading the lines yourself? We’re talking about something that no one can outrun—age. Here’s this Lara Trudeau—thirty-eight. With a horde of twenty-somethings following in her wake. Hell, yes, she was nervous.”

  “What, you think people keel over at thirty-eight?” Doug said.

  “When you’re a quarterback, you’re damn near retirement,” Quinn said.

  “She wasn’t a quarterback.”

  Quinn let out an impatient sigh. “It’s the same thing. Sports, dancing. People slow down with age.”

  “Some get better with age. She was still winning. And hell, in ballroom dance, people compete at all ages.”

  “And that’s really great. More power to them. I just don’t understand why you chased me down about this. According to the paper and everything you’re telling me, the death was accidental. It’s all here. She dropped dead in public on a ballroom floor, so naturally there was an autopsy, and the findings indicated nothing suspicious.”

  “Right. They found the physical cause of death. Cardiac arrest brought on by a mixture of alcohol and pills. How she happened to ingest that much isn’t in the M.E.’s report.”

  Quinn groaned and pulled over the day’s newspaper, flipping quickly to the local section. “‘Mother and Two Children Found Shot to Death in North Miami Apartment,’” he read, glaring at his brother over the headlines. “‘Body Found in Car Trunk at Mall,’” he continued. “Want me to go on? Violence is part of life in the big city, bro. You’ve been through the academy. There’s a lot out there that’s real bad. You know it, and I know it. Things that need to be questioned, and I’m sure the homicide guys are on them. But a drugged-out dancer drops dead, and you want to make something more out of it. You’ll make detective soon enough. Give yourself time.”

  “Quinn, this is important to me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m afraid that someone else is going to die.”

  Quinn frowned, staring at his younger brother, wondering if he wasn’t being overly dramatic. Doug looked dead calm and serious, though.

  Quinn threw up his hands. “Is this based on anything, Doug? Was someone else threatened? If so, you’re a cop. You know the guys in homicide, including Dixon. And he’s not that bad. He knows the law, and on a paper chase, he’s great.”

  “You know them better.”

  “Knew them better,” Quinn corrected. “I was away a long time, before I started working with Dane down in the Keys. Anyway, we’re getting away from my point. Doug, take a look at the facts. There was an autopsy, and the medical examiner was convinced that her death was accidental. The cops must see it that way, too, if all they’re doing is a bit of follow-up investigation. So…? Did you hear someone threaten her before she died? Do you have any reason whatsoever to suspect murder? And if so, do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill her?”

  Doug shrugged, contemplating his answer. “Several people, actually.”

  “And what makes you say that?”

  “She could be the world’s biggest bitch.”

  “And you know this for a fact?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  Again Doug hesitated, then cocked his head to the side as he surveyed his brother. “I was sleeping with her.”

  Quinn groaned, set his beer on the table and pressed his temples between his palms. “You were sleeping with a woman more than ten years your senior?”

  “There’s something wrong with that?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You sure as hell did.”

  “All right, it just seems a little strange to me, that’s all.”

  “She was quite a woman.”

  “If you say so, Doug, I’m sure she was.” He hesitated. “Were you emotionally involved, or was it more of a sexual thing?”

  “I can’t say that I thought I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her or anything like that. And I know damn well she didn’t feel that way about me. But whether she could be a bitch or not, and whether or not we were meant for the ages, hell, yes, I cared about her.”

  “And are you asking me to look into this because your feelings are ruling your mind?” Quinn asked seriously.

  Doug shook his head. “We weren’t a ‘thing,’ by any means. And I wasn’t the only one involved with her. She could play games. Or maybe, in her mind, she wasn’t playing games. She kind of considered herself a free spirit.” He shrugged, not looking at Quinn. “Kind of as if she was a gift to the world and the men in it, and she bestowed herself when she felt it was warranted, or when she was struck by whim, I guess. At any rate, I wasn’t the only one she was sleeping with,” Doug said flatly.

  “Great. You know who else she was seeing?”

  “I know who she might have been seeing—anyone around the studio.”

  “And how many people knew about your relationship?”

  “I don’t know,” Doug admitted.

  “This is pretty damn vague.”

  “It wouldn’t need to be—if you would just agree to look into what happened.”

  Quinn surveyed his younger brother thoughtfully. He was caught up in this thing emotionally. And maybe that was why he didn’t want it to have happened the way it appeared.

  “Maybe you should make it a point to stay away from the homicide guys, Doug. If the police suspected someone of murder, you might be first in line.”

  “But I didn’t kill her. I’m a cop. And even if I wasn’t, I’d never murder anyone, Quinn. You know that.”

  “You had a relationship with the woman. If you convince people that she was killed, you could wind up under investigation yourself, you understand that?”

  “Of course. But I’m innocent.”

  Quinn looked at the newspaper again. “She died because of an overdose of the prescription drug Xanax. The alcohol might have enhanced the drug, bringing on cardiac arrest.”

  “Yes,” Doug said. “And the cop on the case is certain that in her pigheaded quest for eternal fame—my adjective, not his—she got nervous.”

  “Doug, I’m sorry to say it, but I’ve seen people do a lot of stupid things. It may be tragic, but it looks as if she got nervous, took the pills, then drank.”

  Doug groaned, shaking his head. “No.”

  “You don’t think that’s even possible?”

  “No.”

  “The prescription was in her name. Her doctor was contacted. According to him, she’d been taking a few pills before performances for the past several years. It’s in the article.”

  “That’s right,” Doug agreed calmly.

  “Doug, unless you’ve got more to go on…I can’t even understand what you think I can do for you.”

  “I’ve got more to go on. A hunch. A feeling. A certainty, actually,” his brother said firmly. Quinn knew Doug. He was capable of being as steadfast as an oak. That was what had gotten him through school and into the academy, where he had graduated with honors. The kid was going to make a fine detective one day.

  “There are times to hold and times to fold, you know,” Quinn said quietly.

  Doug suddenly looked as if he was about to lose it. “I’ll pay you.”

  “We charge way too much,” Quinn told him brusquely.

  “Give me two weeks,” Doug said. “Quinn, dammit, I need your help! Just come into the studio and see if you don’t think people are behaving strangely, that people besides me believe she was murdered.”

  “They’ve tol
d you this?”

  “Not in so many words. In fact, those who knew her well all admit she took pills now and then. She had a drink here and there, too. And yeah, she was getting up there for a woman determined on maintaining her championships in both the smooth and rhythm categories, and in cabaret.”

  “Doug, you might as well be speaking a foreign language,” Quinn said irritably.

  “Rhythm is the faster dances, rumba, cha-cha, swing, hustle, merengue, West Coast swing, polka. Smooth is the fox-trot, waltz, tango. And cabaret is for partners and combines different things.”

  “All right, all right, never mind. I get the picture.”

  “So?”

  “Doug…”

  “Dammit, Quinn, there were plenty of people who hated her. Plenty of suspects. But if I push any further, someone will start investigating me. Will they ever be able to prove I caused her death? No, because I didn’t. Can my career be ruined? Can people look at me with suspicion for the rest of my life? You bet, and you know it. Quinn, I’m not asking a lot. Just go and take a few dance lessons. It won’t kill you.”

  It won’t kill you. An odd sensation trickled down Quinn’s spine. He wondered if he wouldn’t come to remember those words.

  “Doug, no one will believe I’ve come in for dance lessons. I can’t dance to save my life.”

  “Why do you think guys take lessons?” Doug demanded.

  “To pick up women at the salsa clubs on the beach,” he said flatly.

  “See? A side benefit. What are you going to do—hole up like a hermit for the rest of your life?”

  “I haven’t holed up like a hermit at all.” Did he actually sound defensive?

  His brother just stared at him. Quinn sat back and said, “Wait a minute—is this how you got into the whole thing to begin with? Dance lessons.” He couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d heard that Doug had taken up knitting. Doug had nearly gone the route of a pro athlete. He remained an exceptional golfer and once a week coached a Little League team.

  “Yeah, I was taking lessons,” Doug said.