Dead on the Dance Floor

  “What the hell is it?” Sam asked, looking at her with concern.

  “Race you to the blankets!” Shannon said, then started to tear down the beach. She was fast, and she knew it. Sam took the bait, flying after her.

  When they reached their spot, she sat down first. He followed her, gasping and panting.

  “I won,” she told him.

  Still panting, he stared at her and smiled.

  “What?” she demanded.

  “Oh, yeah. That ankle is bad. Like hell.”

  She groaned. “Where’s your car?”

  “A block from your place.”

  “Walk me home, then. We can cool off for a while, and then I’ll make us something to eat.”

  There were times when Quinn was definitely glad he was no longer a cop or with the Bureau.

  There really were no such things as regular hours, no matter what some schedule said. Of course, for him, life was still that way, but at least he could step back and take time when he wanted.

  He’d intended to be doing just that now, he remembered. He should have been on a beach, all right, but a beach in the Bahamas. Cool breezes blowing. An icy brew in his hands. Kids playing in the sand. Calypso music coming from somewhere. Salt eroding the tangle of cobwebs that held all the disillusioned nightmares of his mind.

  Then again, had he been in the Bahamas, there wouldn’t have been last night on his boat.

  And he wouldn’t be with Jake and Ashley, wondering what the hell Shannon Mackay had done on his boat after he’d left and staring at a strip of sand where a corpse had washed up from Biscayne Bay.

  A fresh one, thank God, as the assistants down at the M.E.’s office had been saying. Duarte had spent the week so swamped, he wasn’t cutting into his newest arrival until the following day. Jake was the head homicide detective on the case, and he’d decided to take another look at the scene in daylight. Quinn had come along, but not until he’d returned to the boat and made a thorough inspection of it, ascertaining that nothing was missing, despite the fact that Shannon had taken the time to make coffee, then left in such haste that she hadn’t bothered locking the door. Meanwhile, Ashley had managed to get out on an earlier flight, so Jake had picked her up, and after this quick look at the crime scene, they were going to head over to the morgue. Ashley was going to do a sketch of the woman’s face for the paper, hoping to find someone who could identify her.

  The cops didn’t want a photo of her; they wanted her looking as she would have looked when she was alive.

  Ashley had been a rare find for Jake Dilessio—a woman with two loves in her life: art and police work. She never tired. Despite the fact that she was expecting their first child within the month—and looked like she was walking around with a bowling ball under her shirt—she was still intent on work. They were both going to take some time when the baby was born, but until then, as Ashley said with a shrug, what did she have to do except sit around and feel huge? Later, as they drove to the morgue, Quinn couldn’t help but ask her if sketching corpses didn’t ever give her a queasy stomach, at the least.

  “You don’t ever get over an unnatural death being horrible,” she told Quinn, leaning over the seat to look at him as they drove. “But I’ve had a great pregnancy. I don’t feel ill at all—never had a second of morning sickness. And my work is important. Both Jake and I are creating a better world for the child we’re bringing into it.” She smiled, glancing at Jake, who was driving. “We can’t solve all the ills in the universe, but every little bit helps, right?”

  “Ashley, you should be cloned,” Quinn told her.

  She flashed him a smile. Beautiful and delicate, she could also be tough as nails.

  “Thanks.” She fell silent, then said, “Whatever the circumstances…you know we’re glad to have you back down here, right?” She sounded awkward, but she wasn’t the type to pry. “Hey, if Nell Durken hadn’t come to you, and you hadn’t kept such meticulous records when you tailed her husband, he might have gotten away with it.”

  “He hasn’t gone to trial yet,” Quinn reminded her. He frowned. She might not feel queasy, but now, when he thought about the Durken case, he did.

  They reached the morgue. Jake and Ashley flashed their badges, and an assistant came out to escort them into one of the rooms, where the victim from the beach was brought out.

  According to Duarte’s initial estimation, she hadn’t been dead twenty-four hours yet.

  Amazing what the sea and the life within it could do in that time.

  And still, certain facts were obvious.

  She had been young, beautiful and, apparently, rich. Her nails—on the untouched fingers—were elegantly manicured. What remained of her makeup was expertly applied and apparently long lasting. Her hair was rich, thick, dark, well tendered. High cheekbones graced her face, and, when her mouth was opened, it appeared that her teeth were perfect. Bone structure, muscle tone…everything indicated that she’d had every opportunity in life.

  Ashley was already sketching.

  The assistant provided gloves, but their cursory inspection provided little additional information, except that they noted the needle tracks in her arms.

  “A user…but she hadn’t moved beyond her arms,” Jake said.

  Quinn shook his head. “Her physical condition appears to have been good otherwise.”

  “She couldn’t have been into it long,” Jake agreed.

  A little while later, Ashley told them that she was finished.

  Her sketch wasn’t of a smiling, cheerful face but rather one at rest. It was excellent, and far better for a loved one to discover in the newspaper than a photo of what that once-beautiful face had become.

  After leaving the morgue, they headed back to the spot where the body had been found. Since the crime-scene detectives were still busy searching the sand, they kept their distance, talking to the patrol officers who had canvassed the area, asking questions.

  A delicate matter. The body had actually been found on hotel property, though no one at the hotel recognized Ashley’s sketch. Or if they did, they didn’t let on.

  Jake noted the proximity of the spot where the body had been found to the studio—and to Shannon’s house.

  He said goodbye to Jake and Ashley, assuring them he would get back to the marina fine, and started walking.

  He rang the bell at Shannon’s house. He heard movement near the door, apparently someone looking through the peephole, but it wasn’t opened.

  Then he heard people speaking. Whispering. He leaned his ear against the door.

  “What’s the matter with you? Why don’t you open it?” A man’s voice. Quinn recognized it as Sam Railey’s.

  “It’s Sunday—I’m off.” Shannon’s reply was terse.

  He shouldn’t have come here, Quinn realized. There was that fraternization thing.

  “Well, open the door and tell him that,” Sam said.

  “No. Just let him go away.”

  “That guy has a thing for you, I think.” Sam sounded teasing.

  “He’s a student.”

  “Screw that! He’s hardly a student. He won’t last. The guy gives new meaning to the term ‘two left feet.’”

  True but painful, Quinn thought wryly.

  “Let’s get away from the door,” Shannon said.

  Great. Thanks for defending me, Quinn thought.

  He rang the bell again.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Sam muttered.

  “All right, all right.”

  Quinn stepped back just in time. The door flew open.

  Shannon stared at him. She didn’t simply look angry that he had shown up at her house when a fellow teacher was there.

  She looked lethal.

  Her emerald-green eyes were harder and icier than he had ever seen them. Her body language was downright hostile. She was stiffer than a concrete pillar.

  And she didn’t ask him in but left him standing on the porch.

  Sam, on the other hand, looked highly am
used. “Hey, Quinn,” he said cheerfully.

  “What do you want, Mr. O’Casey?” Her tone could freeze fire.

  “I came by to see how you were.” He glanced at Sam. “I knew where Miss Mackay’s house was because I dropped her off the other night.” He turned to Shannon. “After everything…I was in the neighborhood. I just thought I’d see how you were doing.”

  “You were just in the neighborhood, were you?” There was saccharine in the query.

  Then he knew. Something hit the pit of his stomach like a rock. She’d gone through his place. Well, he’d been a real idiot, leaving her there, with what was in his drawers.

  “Are you talking about what happened on the beach? Some kids found a body there,” Sam said.

  Apparently she hadn’t said anything to anyone else yet. That was a relief. Not that his real line of work was a national secret.

  “I heard,” he said evenly, staring at Shannon.

  “Sam and I were on our way out,” Shannon said.

  “Oh?” She had on a terry cover-up. Sam was in cutoffs. They were both dusted with sand.

  “We were?” Sam said. “I thought you were going to cook?”

  Shannon glared at him. He stared back, as if really confused. “Well, hell, don’t leave our new student out here while we figure this out.” He backed away, smiling. “Come in, Quinn. Or Mr. O’Casey. You know, according to the rules, we’re supposed to call our students Mr. or Mrs. or Miss all the time. I think those rules must have been written a while ago, because they don’t even refer to a possible Ms. We’ve always gone by first names, though. What do you think?”

  “Quinn is just fine,” he said, taking advantage of the opportunity Sam afforded him and stepping inside.

  He and Shannon needed to talk. Somehow.

  “Sam,” Shannon said warningly beneath her breath.

  “Come on, Shannon, aren’t you even curious? Quinn can tell us all about the case.”

  “You two feel free to chat,” she said. By her tone, she didn’t mean it at all. “I’m taking a shower. Sam, we are going out. Mr. O’Casey, we’d love to invite you, but I’m sure you’ve heard that we have a studio policy? We don’t want anyone feeling we’re giving one student more attention than another.”

  She’d left him little choice. He managed to grin awkwardly.

  “Actually, my ride disappeared. I thought I could get a return favor, and you could give me a lift home.”

  Let her handle that one politically.

  “Shannon, let’s not be idiotic,” Sam pleaded. “Don’t you need to talk to Quinn about a charter boat for the Gator Gala, anyway?”

  “I don’t think Mr. O’Casey has what we’re going to need.”

  “Oh, but I do. Really. And I can get you the best deal in the area,” he told her.

  She stared back at him. Her eyes were so hard that he could almost hear the word Liar! screamed on the air.

  “I’ve been thinking, and I’m not sure we should do business with a student,” she said.

  “I swear to you, I can give you a charter you won’t believe,” he said. He leaned a hand against the door frame, and she seemed to understand that, short of having a few honest words right there and then, with Sam present, he wasn’t leaving.

  “Gordon would want you to hear him out,” Sam said pleasantly.

  Quinn realized that Sam was actually savoring the situation. He had the look of the devil in his eyes.

  “I still need to shower. Sam, if you want, you can rinse off in the guest bath. And, Mr. O’Casey, you can…” Her voice trailed off. He knew exactly what she thought he should be doing with himself. “Have a seat. Wait, if you must.”

  She spun around, heading for her room.

  “Hang tight,” Sam said, casting Quinn a sympathetic look. “We’ll be ready in a minute.”

  He, too, disappeared.

  Quinn wandered out to the Florida room. It was a day when autumn was becoming more and more obvious—even in Florida. The temperatures were still high, but darkness was coming earlier and earlier.

  He leaned against the wall, looking out into the backyard, with its rich growth of palms, key limes, shrugs, crotons and more. A stone trail had once cut a swath through the foliage, but it was largely overgrown now. A gentle breeze lifted leaves and bent branches.

  And yet, as he stared out, he thought that far more than the breeze was moving in one area of the yard.

  He tensed, watching. He had the eerie feeling he was being watched back.

  Lights were on in the house. The shadows of coming darkness were protecting the yard. And…yes, someone was there.

  He swore, and reached for the knob of the back door. Nothing happened when he twisted it, and he realized the door was double bolted.

  He twisted the locks with a jerk and threw the door open with a bang.

  Branches snapped, as someone began to run.

  Quinn burst out of the house in pursuit.

  CHAPTER 12

  Gordon Henson appreciated his Sunday afternoons.

  Not that he worked all that hard at his studio anymore. He’d banked on grooming Shannon for the job of managing the place, and he’d chosen well. He could actually have retired already, but he had discovered that he didn’t want to. In the past few years, he’d actually begun to make money—real money.

  But he couldn’t do it without his involvement in the studio.

  Not to mention the fact that he would never fall out of love with dance. He didn’t teach anymore, but he attended the parties and certainly spent time down at the club. A nice lifestyle. He’d been married once, discovered it wasn’t for him, and despite the fact that time was passing, he didn’t feel the need for a permanent relationship. Rather, he liked the lifestyle on the beach and in the nearby clubs, where just about everything went. There were so many people out there. So many colors, nationalities, heights, weights, creeds, whatever. Even sexual mores. Gordon was open to anything in life.

  He loved the studio, the club, his work week.

  But he loved his Sundays, too.

  Sometimes Sundays meant spending some off time with his employees. He would have Ella Rodriguez plan a picnic at a park, maybe up in Broward, where there was a small pretense of a water park. He also liked to get his teachers up on skates—roller, in-line, or ice—because they helped with movement and balance. Sometimes he used his Sundays very privately, having found an intriguing person to date.

  And sometimes, after an eventful week like this one, he liked to sit in his condo and catch up on movies he hadn’t seen, or watch an old classic.

  Years ago, he’d fallen in love with dance by watching Fred and Ginger, Cyd Charisse, Donald O’Connor, Buddy Ebsen, Gene Kelly, or any one of the men or women who embodied the grace and spirit of dance. Today he’d chosen to watch “Singin’ in the Rain.” He would never tire of it.

  Gene Kelly was moving across the screen with his own particular brand of sheer genius when the phone rang.

  He ignored it, letting the machine pick up. When it did, the caller hung up, then rang again. Persistently.

  Gordon swore, clicked the hold button on the remote and answered the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “You got a good thing going there, at that studio.”

  “Yes?”

  “That’s it. You got a good thing going at that studio. A really good thing. Remember that. Remember that at all times.”

  Then the phone went dead in Gordon’s hand, and he stared at it, feeling a bead of perspiration break out on his flesh, along with an eerie sense of chill.

  “What the hell is going on?” Shannon demanded, bursting out of her room and flying to the back porch.

  The door to the yard was open.

  It was like inviting the shadows in.

  Sam came running up behind her.

  “See, look at that. You were so rude, the poor fellow freaked out and ran away.”

  She shot a furious glare at him. “Sam, something obviously happened out there
. Or there was someone out there.”

  “Then, let’s go see, shall we?” He looked at her raised brows and reached out a hand. “What’s the matter with you? What are you afraid of?”

  “Um, maybe somebody out there with a gun or a knife.”

  He laughed. “Why on earth would anyone be running around your yard with a gun or a knife?”

  “I think there was a body on the beach this morning, and that we all need to be careful,” she said sternly.

  “Good thing you’ve got a muscle-bound student to go after things in the dark, huh?” he said slowly.

  “Check the front door—let’s make sure it’s locked before we head out the back,” she said.

  Through the yard, out to the street, down the street, through another yard.

  His elusive prey remained just in front of him.

  Finally they hit the beach.

  Darkness had crept its fingers over the daylight, so as close as he got, Quinn couldn’t quite ascertain the physical makeup of the person he was chasing.

  Then, at last, he was almost upon them.

  A woman. A small one.

  He collided with her body in a tackle, bringing her down into the sand. She didn’t scream; her breath escaped her body with a “whooshing” sound. Then he was on top of her, staring down into her face.

  Along with making Sam check that the front door was locked, Shannon grabbed her tennis racket. They went out the back. She’d always loved her yard so much. Now, it seemed that every tree, every bush and branch, was hiding something.

  “I guess we should look through the foliage?” Sam said.

  She shook her head. “If Quinn saw something, someone, out here—which I assume he did—he’s chased them out.”

  “Great. We’ve checked the front door, we have that lethal tennis racket for protection, and we’re just going to stand here?”

  She scowled at him.

  A rustling sound came from behind them. They both swung around.

  It was Mr. Mulligan, who lived next door, with Harry, his retriever.