Dead on the Dance Floor

by Heather Graham

  No attempt at logic seemed to help her any. She just wanted to get out, and get out fast. Instinct screamed at her as if she were being chased by a menace she could actually see and touch.

  She hurried to the back door, flying out of it, then reminding herself that the noise might not have come from within the studio but from without. She could see no one in the area that led toward the back. The stairs that led to Gabriel Lopez’s apartment above seemed swamped in shadow. The door to the storage room was locked.

  Even if someone was out here, it could be for a very valid reason.

  “Katarina? Hey, Kat, David…are you two here?”

  No answer.

  She looked at the shadowy stairs leading up to Gabe’s place.

  “Gabriel?”

  Not a whisper sounded from the shadows.

  She fled toward the stairs that led down to the rear parking area. As she stepped on the first, the grating sounded again.

  From behind her.

  She didn’t look back but started quickly down.

  Footsteps followed.

  She started to run.

  Her car was only forty feet away, and she had her keys and clicker out as she moved toward it, absolutely certain she was being followed.

  She hit the button. Her car clicked a friendly little beeping sound, and the lights went on.

  Shannon flew to the driver’s door and nearly wrenched it open, then slid into the seat, slamming the door shut instantly.

  She hit the locks.

  Then she screamed as a tap sounded against the window.

  CHAPTER 14

  Seated at the table of the galley, legs stretched out on the boothlike seat, Quinn chewed the nub of his pen and stared at his notes. Nell Durken, Lara Trudeau. Dancers with the studio in common. Art Durken in jail, more than a hundred witnesses when Lara died. Two more women found dead from drugs in the area of the studio, neither of them dancers. What could be the connection—or was there one?

  He glanced over his list of students and teachers, and realized with a growing headache that motive was not a problem with most of them.

  Eliminate. Get rid of the impossible, and whatever was left, however improbable, had to be the truth.

  Shit. Who the hell to eliminate?

  He started writing another list. Least likely, most likely. Least likely—Justin Garcia. A small burst of pure speed, didn’t work with Lara, loved salsa. And probably not her type. Being tall herself, she had apparently liked tall men, though what Quinn knew of her lovers other than Ben Trudeau and his own brother, he didn’t know. He wrote down Ben’s name and, beneath it, ex-husband still bitter.

  Gordon? Which side did he go on?

  There was a tap at the cabin door. “Yeah?”

  “It’s me. I’m here.”

  He rose, leaning up the steps to open the cabin door and allow his brother to walk down. Doug looked eager. “You’ve got something?” he asked.

  Quinn grimaced. “No.”

  Doug frowned. “I thought maybe you asked me here because you had something.”

  “Sit.”

  “Yes, sir,” Doug said, sounding a little irritated.

  “Did I interrupt something?” Quinn responded in kind. “You’re the one who got me into this.”

  “Right. I’m sorry,” Doug said quickly.

  “Who else was Lara seeing? How hot and heavy was your affair? You’ve got to give me more. I can’t get to know all these people overnight.”

  Doug drummed his fingers on the table, lowered his head for a minute and looked up. “I think she was seeing someone else.”

  “Was it Ben again?”

  “Maybe, I’m not sure. But she was ready to call it off.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She told me there was something in her life that had to change.”

  “Why would that be a man?”

  “Because she was Lara.”

  Quinn shook his head and muttered ruefully, “Bring that into a court of law.”

  Doug sat up straight, giving Quinn his full attention. “You had to know her. She could be the most exquisite person in the world, and she could be cutting and cruel.”

  “How did you get involved with her, exactly, and when did your involvement with her start?”

  “About three months ago.”

  “Where?”

  “Down at the club. We were dancing one night. She’d had a little too much to drink. I suggested I should give her a ride home and maybe stay awhile. I was just playing around, really. I never thought she’d say yes.”

  “Then?”

  “She said no—there was no way she’d take a chance on anyone knowing she was inviting me in. Then, in the same breath, she suggested that she come to my place. And she did. And after that, we saw each other at least once a week. Always at my place. She didn’t want anyone to know. I was trying to keep it casual, as if I knew she was a free spirit. But I honestly think she was beginning to care about me. Because, once, I pressed it. I said she didn’t work for the studio—we could be a couple if we wanted to be. And she said it wasn’t just the studio, that she had a few other problems she needed to solve. And the way she said it, I knew there was someone else. At least one other person.”

  “Ben?”

  Doug shook his head. “Maybe. Someone who was always at the studio, anyway. And I doubt it was Sam, ’cause he’s gay, and I doubt it was Justin, because she didn’t go for guys who weren’t over six feet.”

  His assumption had been right, Quinn thought.

  “Gordon?” he queried.

  “Gordon…he’s a lot older, but he’s still a nice-looking man. Known to go both ways, but I don’t know. If they were suddenly a hot ticket, there was no chemistry on the floor.”

  “What about her partner, Jim Burke?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  Doug stared at him and shrugged. “Lara liked her own strength, but she wasn’t attracted to a pushover. Jim did everything she said. I don’t see him as a lover for her.”

  Quinn leaned toward his brother. “There were hundreds of people there the night she died. Do you remember her having any confrontations?”

  Doug hesitated. “Can I get a beer?”

  “Help yourself. Just answer me.”

  Doug walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of beer. He arched a brow to Quinn, who reached up and caught the Miller his brother tossed his way.

  “She had a bit of a confrontation with me.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, not exactly with me. About me. She told Jane that she needed to follow, that I knew my stuff and Jane was being too strong, that she needed to let me lead. Under her breath, Jane muttered ‘Fuck you, bitch.’ Lara heard her and told her that they’d talk about it later. She could be really vicious when she wanted. In a cool, deadly way.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s the dead one. She and Jane were major competition, huh?”

  “Rhianna is more the current belle of the studio.” As Doug spoke, his cell phone rang. He reached into his pocket with a quick, “’Scuse me.”

  Quinn looked off. He saw that his brother was glancing furtively at him.

  “Yeah, I’m a little busy,” Doug said quietly, then listened for a moment.

  “I’m not sure,” he said next, then glanced at Quinn, looking oddly guilty.

  “Who is it?” Quinn mouthed.

  For a moment he thought Doug was either going to lie to him or tell him it was none of his business. But Doug covered the mouthpiece of the phone and whispered, “It’s Jane.”

  “Ulrich?” Quinn said.

  Doug nodded. “I…uh, I can tell her I can’t see her tonight.”

  “You’re not supposed to be seeing her at all, are you?”

  “No.” No wonder he’d looked so guilty. “You can’t say anything,” Doug told him quickly. “I mean, she could get fired. Look, I’ll just tell her that I can’t go over.”

  “No. Don’t.
Go over. And don’t forget that you’re a cop, and don’t forget that you dragged me into this.”

  “Don’t forget I’m a cop? You mean, question her.”

  “Hell yes.”

  “Doesn’t that seem a little…slimy?”

  “No. Murder seems a little slimy.”

  Doug nodded. “You’re right.”

  Quinn shook his head. “You were having an affair with Lara, and she’s only been in the ground a few days.”

  Doug nodded. “I know. But like I said, she was seeing other people, too. She meant something to me, yes. And solving this means a lot to me. I work with Jane. I’ve worked with her a long time. We’re good friends. And she’s shaken up right now. It’s not so much that we’ve begun something. She just doesn’t want to be alone. You think my spending time with her now is so bad?”

  Quinn drummed his fingers on the table. “No, I guess not. But, Doug, if you were so close to Lara, shouldn’t you have some idea of who she might have been alone with—if only for a few minutes—at the competition?”

  Doug waved a hand in the air. “People move quickly. Before the dinner and competition that night, there was a cocktail hour. People were all milling together. Plus the women instructors had a dressing room, and the men had another, but they were connected by a little outside balcony. So someone having trouble with a tie or a hook or whatever might have slipped out on the balcony and gotten whoever was there to help. And even the pros had some champagne or a cocktail of some kind.”

  “The glasses from the dressing rooms should have been analyzed,” Quinn said, wondering how such a simple procedure had been omitted.

  “You have to remember, it looked like a natural death,” his brother reminded him. “You don’t really think it could have been one of the women, do you?”

  “Why not? History has proved that women are certainly capable of murder. And when they do commit murder, they often opt for poison.”

  “This wasn’t poison.”

  “Drugs act the same way. But what I mean is, no knives, no gunshots, no shows of strength. Silent killers.”

  “But…Jane? If it were a woman, it would more likely be Shannon. She’s the one with the grudge.”

  “That’s true. And if it were just Lara’s death, I’d be more inclined to think we should be looking at the fairer sex. But Nell had a connection to the studio, and the circumstances were just too close. And I still don’t know if the illegal narcotic deaths were associated or not. My gut reaction says yes, but there’s nothing concrete to connect them yet. So I’m suspicious of everyone.”

  “Even Jane.”

  “Even Jane. Find out what she takes. If she does drugs. And if she has prescriptions. And if so, find out where she gets them.”

  “I still feel slimy. But…you’re right. I got you into this, and I’m the one who wants to make detective. But you were a detective. And when you were with the FBI, you analyzed the ways people acted, their psyches. You’ve got to have more of a feel for what’s going on than I do.”

  “Nothing but hunches,” Quinn told him. “But, hell,” he added dryly, “they seem to be just about as good as any other method I learned.”

  “Should I go now?” Doug asked.

  Quinn nodded, then frowned. “She’s still on the phone?”

  Doug indicated his hand, still tightly clamped over the mouthpiece. Then he moved his hand and spoke into the phone again. “I’m on my way.”

  On the other end, Jane said something. Something suggestive, Quinn imagined from Doug’s reaction.

  After Doug left, Quinn stared at his notes.

  Coincidence.

  Art Durken in jail.

  Lara Trudeau dead from the same drug that had killed Nell, combined with alcohol. The prescriptions from different doctors, both with reputations above reproach.

  How did the other dead women fit in? Maybe they didn’t.

  Nell and Lara, both dead by the same drug. Different doctors.

  That didn’t mean they hadn’t gotten more of the drug from different sources.

  He glanced at his watch. It was late. Didn’t matter. He picked up the phone, intending to call in a few favors.

  “Ben!” Shannon exclaimed in relief, reflexibly hitting the button to lower the window, then wondering if she should have.

  “Shannon, are you all right?” He sounded anxious as he stared in at her.

  “I’m fine. Why did you bang on the window like that?”

  “Because you came running out of the studio like a bat out of hell.”

  “Just nerves,” she said. But had it just been nerves? Had she imagined the sound of footsteps coming after her?

  “Then you’re all right?”

  “Yes—other than the near heart attack you gave me.”

  “I’m sorry, really sorry. I thought something was wrong.”

  She shook her head, then frowned. “Where the hell did you come from, anyway?”

  “I’d walked around from the front. I needed a few things from the convenience store down the street. But my car is back here.”

  “Oh. You—you didn’t go back upstairs, did you?”

  “No, I came from the street. Why?”

  “I don’t know. I thought I heard something.”

  “Buildings creak. Especially old ones, like ours.”

  “I suppose,” she agreed.

  “Want me to follow you home?”

  “It’s all right.”

  “I won’t get out of my car. I’ll just see that you get in your house.”

  “Sure, fine.”

  Ben went to his car, and Shannon revved hers into gear. Her house was so close she wondered why she drove.

  Because she didn’t feel like walking along any shadowy streets right now.

  The trip went quickly. As she turned into her own driveway, she saw Ben watching her from his car. She hurried up her walk, opened the door and went in, turning to wave to him before she closed the door.

  He waved back, then drove off.

  Alone, she leaned against the door and stared around the house. She had left on several lights, but despite that, shadows greeted her.

  Silence and shadows.

  You’re next!

  Those two words, spoken to her by a waiter at a competition, where they could have meant anything at all, could have been—must have been—spoken to her by mistake. And yet, they continued to haunt her.

  “So just break down already and check yourself into a hospital for the insane,” she murmured to herself.

  She felt the unbelievable urge to leave home and head for a boat on the marina called the Twisted Time.

  No.

  “Screw this!” she exclaimed aloud with irritation. But once again she found herself going through her house room by room, looking in closets and under the bed, checking out everything, assuring herself that the back door had remained locked and bolted in her absence.

  At last she drank a cup of tea and swallowed an Excedrin PM.

  After she did, she swore, thinking she would stay up all night long next time, rather than take anything, anything at all, even so much as an aspirin.

  It was late when she went to bed, lights blazing in the other rooms, only her own darkened. She would be in shadow and look out to the light. That thought eventually allowed her to close her eyes.

  Maybe Christie had been right. Maybe she did need a dog.

  She suddenly sat bolt upright, cloaked and chilled by the darkness in her room. Ben had said he’d gone to the convenience store.

  For what?

  He hadn’t been carrying anything, anything at all, when he’d come to her window.

  Home again, home again.

  She was home again.

  Alone. Surely, by now, stretched out in bed, glorious eyes closed, lashes sweetly sweeping her cheeks.

  No dog, no alarm, and it wasn’t difficult at all to don a pair of gloves and use the key he had to slip inside.

  She had no idea how vulnerable she was.

/>   At any time…

  Just what the hell did she know?

  Nothing, he assured himself.

  Except that…

  She was listening. Hearing what she shouldn’t even be noticing. Maybe, in time, she would start looking for the source of the noise.

  There was more.

  He’d overheard her one time too many. He’d seen the way she acted. And now, when he could, he watched her around the studio.

  But she’d known something tonight. She’d heard something.

  Vague, that was all. She had a vague sense of danger.

  He hesitated, thinking how easy it would be to slip in.

  But why?

  He could take her any time he wanted. If he needed to.

  He would really hate to see her dead.

  Right now, he would watch. Just watch.

  She shouldn’t die in her own house. Unless…

  No.

  There were far better ways. Should it become necessary.

  He had been standing on the sidewalk, in the shadows of an elm. But his car wasn’t parked far away.

  Actually, he tried never to be very far away. Ever. She never even noticed.

  Morning was coming.

  He would see to it that they were close during the day.

  He would watch and wait.

  Tonight, he could have touched her.

  So close, he could have reached right out and touched her.

  He had to remember that. He was always close. Always watching.

  And she never knew.

  He would always be watching.

  Always be close.

  Close enough just to reach out…

  And touch.

  CHAPTER 15

  Art Durken entered the jail conference room accompanied by a thirty-something, bulky guard and an older man in a rumpled suit. The older man introduced himself.

  “Theodore Smith, Mr. O’Casey. I’m Mr. Durken’s attorney, and my client has agreed to see you only in my presence, so if I don’t like your questions or attitude, I intend to remind him that he doesn’t have to see you at all. Mr. Durken insists on his innocence and is convinced that you may now have a few reasons to believe him—since you requested this meeting.”