Tutu Deadly

  “Fine, well, we will have someone monitoring your home phone for calls.”

  Apparently, judging by the look on his face, Marshal John Doe got the honor of sitting and watching my phone, which undoubtedly would ring off the hook all day with calls from psycho dance moms, who wouldn’t be happy my voice mail had been disconnected and they had no way to vent to me.

  I got ready to leave, sneaking a few furtive glances at Tate, who remained remote and distant, as though we had never met, and then I realized I didn’t have my cell phone, which some days would be a blessing. But, considering the circumstances I knew I needed it. I had to search for it, because, as usual, it was not where it should be, in my purse, in the pocket made specifically for cell phones. I bought this purse just for that reason, but it didn’t seem to matter. The phone never made it into the pocket. I was hopeless. It took me at least five minutes to find it. It was in a pocket all right, just not the one in which it belonged. It was in the pocket of the sweat-suit jacket I had been wearing the night before. A jacket that was lying by the side of my bed. The one that Tate had taken off me the night before. Last night, I had been too exhausted to even think about responding. Today, every sexual part I had was tingling. And he was acting like he’d never seen me before. Great.

  I set the phone to vibrate. “I’ll check each caller to make sure it’s not Taylee. If it is, I’ll answer.”

  “We need to get a tracker on that phone, too, and . . .”

  I sighed loudly, and Fallon stopped speaking.

  “Have you not learned that my life is a joke? You really want to listen to all the psycho dance moms and also my weird family? Be my guest. Really, just walk all over my civil rights, because I’m sure I don’t deserve to have them, based on the fact that I’m a slightly eccentric, redheaded dance teacher who was just trying to raise some money!”

  “Maybe you didn’t sleep very well last night,” Fallon suggested. His voice was calm. Gentle. Grating on my nerves like a shovel on cement.

  My cell phone chose that moment to ring, and I looked at the ID, seeing that Tiajuana’s mom was calling, probably to confirm that I would be there for her daughter’s lesson. I didn’t answer. There were three cops staring at me, and for heck’s sake, I hadn’t missed a solo lesson before. After four rings it stopped, and I’m sure she left a message. This would go on all day. Before it was over, the voice mailbox would be full and there would be no more venting. That was one upside.

  A very distant Tate—where was the man who had just an hour before been gazing longingly at my nipple?—asked me to please check my e-mail to see if I had any more messages. Before this was over I was going to be really computer proficient. Really. Okay, maybe not, but at least I was doing it without help.

  Marshal Fallon excused himself and left my apartment, perhaps concerned I was going to explode and things might get messy. I turned the computer on and listened to the soft whirring as it started up. When it was ready, I logged on to AOL, proud I could do it without any help or instruction. After the deep male voice told me, “You’ve got mail,” I clicked on the mailbox and read the list of correspondence, Tate looking over my shoulder, but not getting too close or commenting. Again I wondered what had happened to cause this distance. I’d probably obsess about it all day. Damn. I did not get men. But it made me mad. Really mad. I felt used.

  I sighed lightly, hoping he wouldn’t hear, and then perused my mail. I had a lot of spam and more requests for me to help Nigerians move large sums of money out of their country and into my bank account with no strings attached—and yet another e-mail from my cousin Kim, this one titled “Eternal Mate Fireside you would love, bring cute Det.!”—but nothing else. I signed off just as Fallon walked back into my apartment from outside, where, I had learned, they had one of those fancy surveillance vans set up. You know, the ones they have on TV, with all the electronic equipment, and headphones, and bells and whistles. I really wanted to see inside that van, but was afraid to ask.

  He carried in his hands some papers, and he gave them to Tate, then turned to me and smiled. My stomach did flip-flops. I was a hussy. All it took was for Detective Wilson to go distant on me and I was all over the next hot man. Please. This was not my life. Any minute now I was going to wake up in a movie. “Were you out there all night? Are you tired?”

  Tate snorted. I ignored him. He deserved whatever he got.

  “No, I was off duty and went home. We trade off shifts. Nobody can work that many hours straight.”

  “Yeah, I guess that doesn’t make a lot of sense. So does Marshal John Doe take over when you are off, or are you guys partners?” Good God, was I really flirting? Or just trying to make Tate jealous? What really scared me was I didn’t know the answer.

  “Marshal John Doe?”

  “Uh, him,” I said, indicating the man whose name I did not know. “Nobody ever told me who he was.”

  “Jenny, you are a crack-up,” Fallon said, a genuine smile lighting up his incredibly handsome face. Help me!

  “I’m Marshal John Smith,” the other marshal said, a confused look on his face. Now that was funny. John Doe or John Smith. Sevens. Or was it sixes? I could never remember.

  “Let’s get back to the case here, please. I’m guessing we are nowhere on those two strange anonymous e-mails that Jenny got,” Tate said, no hint of a smile or any amusement at all on his face. “No way to trace them?”

  “Nope, they were sent from an Ogden Public Library computer from a Hotmail account, which was set up with false information,” Fallon answered. He didn’t look as grumpy as Tate. “Whoever did this knew what they were doing, or at the least had received some lessons in remaining anonymous.”

  “Like someone who had been in witness protection for a while?” I asked without realizing that I had stumbled onto something. “Even a young someone like Taylee, who obviously knows she’s in danger. I’m guessing you primed her pretty well.”

  Tate and the two marshals all turned to stare at me. Fallon didn’t look as happy now. I didn’t care. At least I didn’t think I did.

  “I’m not as dumb as I seem,” I said in explanation. “Taylee is alive, and she’s hiding out because she doesn’t know who the bad guys are and who the good guys are. Even with you. She’s not sure you can keep her safe. That’s hard enough to know when you’re an adult.” I wasn’t trying to drive home a point, or even thinking about the cookie dough that showed up without warning in my fridge, the assault outside my door, or the Humvee full of snipers (okay, maybe it had just seemed like a lot of people), but all three officers looked chagrined. Even Tate, who was looking angry, chagrined, distant, and hot all at the same time.

  I continued. “About the only thing Taylee is sure of is me. Poor girl. She’s probably not sure I can keep her safe. I guess I get that. But she’s just a little girl, and she’s out there somewhere. Alone. How is she surviving? We have to find her. And I’m not kidding when I say ‘we.’ Because the truth is, as much as I would like to believe it’s my charming personality and ravishing good looks that have you all hovering around, if you thought you could find her without me, none of you would be here.”

  There was no response, even from Tate, and even though I knew he couldn’t really show interest in me, outside this case, for right now, it hurt. And the truth was, he had shown interest. Even Fallon had seen it. And now he was acting like he’d never seen me before—or my nipple—outside of this case.

  “You need me, because you don’t know where she is, or where to look, or basically anything at all. Admit it.”

  “We don’t know,” Fallon admitted, a crestfallen look covering his handsome face.

  “Well, I think I do.”

  “Huh?” Fallon said, giving me a hard look, his eyebrows getting closer to his eyes as he glared at me in consternation.

  “See, ever since I met her, Taylee has been like a little adult. She was so young, and yet she would do her own hair and her makeup. At dance competitions, when other moms hover and fuss
, Sandra was missing half the time, and obnoxious the other half when she was there, but she never, ever took care of Taylee. Ever. It was more like Taylee was taking care of her.”

  “Yes, we got the same impression, when we would . . . uh . . .” Marshal Smith shut up, especially after the glacier stare he got from Marshal Fallon. What a sucky job they had, working in a field you couldn’t talk about, on a case that was top secret. Why the heck would anyone pick this line of work? Thinking of my job, and all those psycho dance moms, I decided that was not a question I wanted to be asking.

  “Yeah, yeah, right. You know nothing. Anyway, Taylee is very self-sufficient. She’s been taking care of herself for a very long time. And so she is going to be okay. For now. But she knows that eventually she is going to have to surface. That’s why she is contacting me. She’s trying to find a safe avenue.”

  “That’s good, Jenny,” said Tate, admiration filling his voice. I was still kind of peeved with him, so I chose not to acknowledge him.

  “At any rate, I better not lose my cell phone in the next little while. Hmm, where is my cell phone?” Damn, I had just had it! I reached over to the side table in my entryway, and grabbed my purse, rummaging through it until I came up successful. Apparently, I had stuck it in there without realizing it, just moments before. I did that a lot.

  “Okay, I have a solo lesson to teach, so I’m outta here.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Tate said, the look on his face something between consternation and anger. Perhaps he realized he was no longer my favorite Ogden police officer. Despite the fact I knew my anger was not logical, I couldn’t help it. I wanted him to speak up about his interest, and he hadn’t. He couldn’t. And to me, that spoke volumes.

  “Not necessary. I’ll be fine.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Jenny . . .”

  I turned and glared at him. “I will be fine. I can take care of myself. You go ahead and investigate your case. Do your job. Find Taylee.”

  His face hardened, as though I’d implied he wasn’t doing his job, but I didn’t care. I was flying high on what was possibly PMS and too little sleep, and the need for some really good potato salad.

  I gave a nonchalant wave and headed out the door, hoping that Detective Tate Wilson was not following. Of course, he was. Things like this never happened when I wanted to be followed.

  Why couldn’t my life go the way it did for the heroines in movies?

  “You aren’t leaving without me.”

  I whirled around and glared at him. “I’ll be fine. I know I need to be cautious now, and I will be, but I do not need a babysitter.”

  “You’re really mad at me.”

  “No, I’m not. I just have a life, and I have to live it. I have a solo lesson to teach, and then I need to go pick up costumes, and I don’t have time to waste, okay?”

  “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

  I gave a sigh of disgust and turned and walked away, but I knew he was following me. I didn’t care. I wanted to get to my solo lesson, and away from all this chaos, and the confusing sexual chemistry between me and Tate.

  I unlocked my Bug and jumped inside, starting it up and fighting the desire to just take off, because I knew the car would do its stutter-and-stall routine and I’d end up looking like an idiot. I waited a minute, and watched as Tate pulled his car up directly behind mine and waited. Great. I had a cop on my tail.

  I put the car into drive and moved forward, Tate following closely as I edged out into traffic, which, of course, was pretty nonexistent. It was, after all, just a bit after 9 a.m. on a weekday morning.

  I was determined to ignore the man following me, mostly because he seemed to be doing some ignoring of his own, in regard to me, at least in front of other people, but it wasn’t easy. You’re supposed to watch your rearview mirror all the time, but I was trying to pretend I didn’t see or care that there was a very hot man following me closely.

  I reached the studio and parked in my usual spot, continuing to ignore the man who parked in my lot and watched me closely, then followed me up the metal stairs to the glass door with the “Jenny T. Partridge Dance Academy” decal on it. My dad grumped all the time about the door being glass, and letting all kinds of cold air in, but it was a dance studio. I wanted people to see what was happening inside, to want to come in and participate. This, of course, was sheer vanity on my part. In order to come in and see what was happening, they would have to climb the metallic stairs. So far, no one ever had wandered in after hearing the music. Even in the summer, when I opened all the windows. But someday it might happen.

  Camari Stone was waiting there with her daughter, Tiajuana Jacqui. Camari did not fit her exotic name. She wore a simple V-neck cotton sweater, covered with a coat that was probably new once—twelve years before. She had on sweatpants that matched the black stripe in the V-neck, or at least had probably matched it once, and worn, scuffed tennis shoes, and her dirty blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

  “Hi Jenny, Tiajuana is ready to go, aren’t you, Teej?”

  Tiajuana said, “I am ready to go, Jenny.” She sounded thirty-six, like her mother. She was five. And unlike her mother, she was wearing a brand-new knee-length coat, with beautiful white fur trim. Underneath, I’m sure, she was wearing the latest in dancewear, purchased in Park City, an upscale resort not far from Ogden. Camari hoped, I’m sure, that other dancers would not have the same clothes, but the dance world is small. And competition tough. And forty minutes was not that far to drive when you were trying to best the other psycho dance moms.

  Camari turned toward Detective Wilson and raised her eyebrows, but didn’t say anything. As long as he wasn’t in the way of her daughter’s solo lesson, she probably wouldn’t complain. For Camari, it was all about dance—her daughter’s dance, to be specific. I’d been around her long enough to know one thing—there is an interesting dichotomy between moms whose daughters love dance, and who want to support their children, and those who are just plain freaking nuts. Camari was nuts. She would probably go out there and do the damned solo herself, except there was no division in youth competition dance for thirty-six-year-old soloists. I guess they figured by the time you reached eighteen or so, you either realized you didn’t have a future in dance or you moved on to professional companies and whatnot. Camari talked incessantly about her days dancing with a local franchise dance team, and then her high school drill team, but beyond that, her resume was kinda slim. Then along came Tiajuana.

  Tate followed us in as I opened the studio and quickly set Tiajuana into action, so I could get this solo lesson done, collect my twenty dollars, and get on my way to pick up costumes from Monica.

  Tate watched with great interest as both Teej and her overachieving mother did the movements I’d choreographed for the solo. On the five-year-old, they were cute and spotlighted her dance skill, which was just about, oh, below average for a child of that age. Still, kids that age were so cute most people weren’t too critical of their skills. On the mother, well, let’s not go there.

  After we finished up, Camari informed me that “they” needed at least one more lesson that week.

  “Busy week, Camari. I have the Nutcracker performance coming up, so we’re just going to have to settle for once a week, okay? At least until competition season. You are aware that it’s about four months away?”

  “That’s barely enough time to prepare, Jenny!” Camari said, shock tingeing her voice.

  “It’s enough, Camari. She’s five.”

  She gave me a look and then turned and stomped off, Teej scrambling to follow in her mother’s wake, one shoe still untied and her dance shoes left on the floor. Worst of all, I realized just as the door thumped behind them that she had not even paid me. Great.

  My life was great, all right. Great big mess.

  “That was interesting,” Tate commented from the chair where he sat.

  “Thanks. We’re glad we ca
n amuse you.”

  “Who is the ‘we’ you’re talking about? You’ve been hanging around the psycho moms too long.”

  “Oh, drop it, Detective Wilson.”

  He stood up and headed toward me, and a brief moment of panic flowed through me. Then I remembered how angry I was, and the panic fled and irritation replaced it. Mostly. Okay, there was a tiny bit of hormonally charged panic, but he was hot, you know.

  Tate had an intense, purposeful look in his eye, but I still remembered how it hurt to have him hide his interest—if that was what he was doing. Why was I so unclear on this? I turned away from him and walked away toward my office, trying for nonchalance. I heard him behind me and turned to tell him to back off when a deafening roar erupted from behind me, in the stairwell. I turned to the noise, confused, and then a whoosh of air told me that Tate was right there beside me. He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the door, even as I was headed to the stairwell to investigate. “Come on, we have to get out of here, now,” he said, yanking me through the door and down the metal stairwell, our footsteps making a clanging, metallic noise. He pulled me out into the snow a short way from the building. We heard another loud boom and black smoke started filtering out the door, still slightly ajar. The smoke stopped when the door closed with a slight “smack” noise, and I screamed. Tate pulled me into his arms as I watched, silently and helplessly, as my life, my studio, and my dreams all went up in smoke. Literally.

  TWENTY-ONE

  DESPITE my fear of total decimation, the truth was not quite so bleak. Everything in both my studio and Jack and Marco’s store smelled pretty bad, and there was an ugly sooty covering to all the walls and floors, but there had been no real fire, and nothing had been destroyed. Nothing, that is, but the entrance to the tunnel that had been walled off. Someone had placed a small but potent bomb there, and it had effectively cleared all the cement that had been shored up there years before, when the building owners were trying to meet earthquake codes.