Dead on the Dance Floor

by Heather Graham

  How many calls had he made? Twenty-something already.

  He tried the next name on his list. Manuel Taylor. A true Miami name.

  The man who answered spoke English perfectly, no hint of an accent. He listened to Quinn’s question.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  “I’m a private investigator. My name is Quinn O’Casey.”

  “You’re not a cop?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t have to speak with you, then, do I?”

  “No, you don’t. I can have a cop call you,” Quinn said.

  “They don’t think any of the waiters had anything to do with that woman’s death, do they?”

  “No.”

  “Then…”

  “I’m just trying to find the man who spoke to Miss Mackay and find out who instructed him to do so.”

  There was silence on the other end.

  Then, “It was me,” the man said.

  In the morning, Quinn was gone. The bottom lock on her front door was in place, though the bolt, which had to be latched from the inside or with a key, had necessarily been left unlocked.

  There was coffee waiting in the pot, along with a little note.

  Since it seems you’re not fond of tea, I made you coffee. See you later. I have a lesson today. Can’t wait. Know you can’t, either.

  “Funny, funny,” she muttered.

  She poured herself coffee. She leaned against the counter, feeling a little chill. She hadn’t experienced any of the wild, carnal excitement that had teased her memory and stirred her senses. She had gotten a good night’s sleep, instead.

  She wondered which she might really have needed more.

  An edge of hurt came creeping back. He had just been using her, getting to know her, getting close, investigating…

  At the same time, he definitely seemed like a decent guy. And decent guys didn’t come by all that frequently in life.

  Would it be so bad to have another memory of an incredible encounter?

  Stop, she warned himself.

  She had to teach him today. She didn’t want to feel any little electric jolts zapping through her while she danced. And she had a busy day ahead of her. Gunter and Helga, practicing for Asheville. A double appointment with Richard Long, coaching for Jane and Sam, the studio “party” that night, when the students danced with the teachers, practicing the steps they’d learned.

  There was a tapping at the door. Still in the ragged flannel nightshirt, she walked to the door and looked through the peephole.

  It was Gordon.

  Unease filtered through her. She remembered the way he had clicked the pen last night, open, then closed, open, then closed. With such agitation.

  Asking her what was wrong with her.

  After he’d discovered her prying in the men’s room.

  She hesitated.

  He stood on the step, hands shoved into his pockets, glancing around. He looked at his watch, then pounded on the door again.

  “Shannon, what the hell are you doing in there?” he demanded.

  It was broad daylight. And it was just Gordon, being impatient. It wasn’t the strangest thing in the world that he was there—he had stopped by in the morning many times before over the years. She hesitated a moment longer, then opened the door.

  He arched a brow, scanning her attire. “Not out to seduce anyone this morning, huh?” he asked.

  She grimaced. “I just woke up.”

  “Well, take a quick shower and come with me.”

  “Come where with you?”

  “To get something to eat.”

  “I have a really full schedule today,” she said.

  “You still have to eat. Don’t make your old boss go out alone. I don’t want to be alone right now.”

  “Grab some coffee then—you have to give me a few minutes.”

  She started back to her bedroom, but as she did, the phone rang.

  “Want me to get it?” Gordon asked.

  “No, I’m right here.” She picked it up, glancing at her watch. Ten o’clock. She really had slept late.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me, Quinn. Meet me at Nick’s in thirty minutes. Can you do it?”

  “I have company right now, and a killer schedule today.” She winced at her casual use of the word killer.

  “This is important.”

  “I was just heading out to eat.”

  “I’ve found the waiter.”

  “Who?”

  “The waiter who told you that you’d be next.”

  “My boss is here,” she said. “I’m going out with him.”

  “Gordon Henson is there? Now?”

  “Yes, we’re going to lunch. Breakfast. Brunch. Whatever.” She glanced at Gordon. He had wandered out to the Florida room as if he were totally uninterested in her conversation. Even so, he could probably hear her.

  “Tell him I’m coming to get you both,” Quinn said.

  “Wait a minute!”

  “Just do that. Tell him I’m coming to get you both. That we’re going to talk about the trip out on the bay. Tell him that. Make sure he knows I’m on my way over.”

  “All right. But tell me—”

  “Get into your room and lock the door. And make sure he knows I’ll be on the doorstep any second.”

  She felt a chill and lowered her voice, staring out at Gordon, a sinking feeling already seizing her. “It was Gordon, right?” she whispered.

  She clutched the phone more tightly.

  “Yes, it was Gordon. And he didn’t just ask him to say it to you—he tipped him fifty bucks to do it. Hang up, and lock yourself in your room until I get there.”

  “Right.”

  She nearly dropped the phone, trying to return it to the base. “That was Quinn,” she called out. “He’ll be on the doorstep any second. He’s going to take us to lunch, discuss the trip this Saturday. I’ll be right out!”

  She fled into her bedroom, wrenching the door closed, instantly hitting the lock.

  For long moments she remained there, her fingers curled around the handle, afraid to let go, even though the lock was in place.

  Then she heard Gordon. Walking back from the Florida room.

  “Shannon?”

  His hand was on the doorknob. She felt it twist beneath her fingers.

  CHAPTER 17

  Quinn was in his car in a matter of seconds.

  Gordon Henson had paid the waiter to say those words to Shannon. You’re next. Seconds before Lara fell down dead.

  That didn’t make him a murderer.

  And if he was a murderer, he was of the more devious variety. He would not head to Shannon’s house in broad daylight to commit an act of violence.

  He wasn’t going to hurt her. Especially not now that he knew Quinn was on the way.

  Quinn felt as if he was rocketing down US1.

  He was amazed he wasn’t stopped by a policeman.

  I-95 took him to the causeway. He watched the clock on the dashboard. Just a matter of minutes. He must be making record time.

  It didn’t make sense. What could Gordon Henson possibly gain from the death of Lara Trudeau?

  He swore softly. He didn’t need to be in such a panic. He hit the digit on his phone that called Shannon’s house. Gordon picked up.

  “Gordon, hey, it’s Quinn.”

  “Hey there. Thought you’d be here by now. The way Shannon spoke, I though you were just about in the front yard.”

  “I am just about in the front yard.”

  “Take your time. Shannon isn’t ready yet. She must be in the shower.”

  “I thought we could talk about the cruise.”

  “So she told me. Looking forward to it. You got us a hell of a deal.”

  “Right.”

  He was turning the corner onto her street.

  “I’m there,” he said, and hung up.

  In seconds he was out of the car and running up the path to her house.

  Shannon heard t
he thundering on the door. Heard Gordon walk across the living room to answer it.

  Gordon. She couldn’t believe it. She’d known him for years; he’d done everything in the world for her. And yet…

  She was still standing there by the door, frozen, as time elapsed. Maybe not that much time. Maybe it only felt like it.

  Quinn was there. She could let go.

  She did. Then she flew to get dressed.

  When she came out, both men were seated in the living room. They’d been talking casually, it seemed. Quinn looked as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  Gordon only looked hungry.

  “I’ve seen her change outfits five times at a show faster than that,” Gordon said, half joking, half aggravated.

  “But she’s ready now,” Quinn said.

  “Yes,” Shannon said. “I’m ready.”

  “Well, then, do you mind going to Nick’s? There’s someone who should be there that I’d kind of like to run into,” Quinn said.

  “The cop hangout? Sure, I’ve never been. I’d love to see the place,” Gordon agreed, heading for the door. “Maybe we should take two cars. That way Shannon and I can head over to the studio if you have other business during the day,” he continued.

  “I don’t have any business. I’m coming into the studio,” Quinn said.

  Shannon stared at him, trying to maintain a neutral expression. Had he actually figured out that Gordon had somehow killed Lara? Was he having him arrested? And if not…

  “Suit yourself,” Gordon said cheerfully.

  Quinn seated Shannon in the front seat of the Navigator. She looked at him questioningly, but he didn’t say anything as Gordon got in the back, complimenting the car. In fact, as they drove, he seemed laid-back and content, commenting on how nice it was not to be driving but just enjoying the scenery. “It’s easy to forget how beautiful it is out here, isn’t it?” he said, leaning forward.

  “Water, water everywhere,” Quinn murmured.

  “I hear that Nick’s is a nice place. He a friend of yours?”

  “I hung around there for years. And a friend of mine, a homicide cop, married Nick’s niece. Who is also a cop.”

  “Cool,” Gordon said. “So your brother hangs out there, too?”

  “Yes, Doug has always liked the place.”

  “Maybe we’ll run into him,” Gordon suggested. He didn’t seem worried about fraternization. “Then there’s his buddy—the wedding student, Bobby, and his bride, Giselle.”

  “We won’t run into either of them. They’re both on duty right now, toeing the line, sticking to their assigned districts,” Quinn said. He glanced at Gordon in the mirror. “Doug wants to be homicide eventually.”

  “Too bad. He could be a pro,” Gordon said.

  “Maybe he can be both,” Quinn said.

  Gordon laughed. “You haven’t really realized what the world of true pros is like yet, huh? They dance. They dance, and then they dance some more.”

  “Is Doug really that good?” Quinn asked. He glanced at Shannon.

  “I think he could be. He’s got a lot going for him,” she said.

  They had left the causeway and I-95 and were shooting down US1. They would be at Nick’s any minute. Gordon didn’t seem in the least alarmed.

  But why would he have paid a waiter to say such a thing? Shannon wondered.

  They parked and got out of the car. Shannon followed Quinn, who immediately headed for the outside patio. Gordon was behind her.

  The girl who had waited on them the last time she had been there saw them arrive. Apparently Quinn often wound up in her section, judging by the friendly way she greeted him.

  “Welcome back!” she said cheerfully to Shannon, who winced slightly.

  “You’ve been here before, huh?” Gordon said. There was a curious, teasing light in his eyes.

  She smiled weakly.

  “That friend of yours is in at the bar,” the girl told Quinn. “Did you want coffee?”

  “All the way round?” Quinn asked, looking at the other two.

  “You bet. And orange juice, at least for Shannon and me. You, too, Quinn?” Gordon asked.

  “Yeah, great,” he said.

  They slid into their seats. Before Gordon could ask about Quinn’s friend, the man himself came walking out to the patio. Gordon stared at the tall, attractive, Hispanic man coming their way. He squinted slightly, as if trying to remember where he knew him from. Then he said, “Hey! That guy was one of the waiters at the competition. I recognize him.”

  Shannon inhaled sharply, holding her breath.

  Quinn looked intently at Gordon. “That’s right. And you should recognize him.”

  Gordon stared at Quinn. The man reached the table.

  “Manuel, have a seat,” Quinn said.

  The man nodded and took a chair, looking a little awkward.

  “Manuel, hello. How are you doing? Leaving the hotel business and working here now?” Gordon asked pleasantly. “Or are you two friends?” he asked, looking from Manuel to Quinn.

  “Mr. O’Casey asked me to come out,” Manuel said.

  Coffee and orange juice arrived. “Sir, I brought you fresh coffee, too,” she told Manuel cheerfully.

  “Thank you,” Manuel said.

  Gordon waited for her to leave. Then he sat back, crossing his arms over his chest and staring at them all one by one. The biggest accusation in his eyes was for Shannon. “All right. What the hell is going on here?”

  “Gordon, right before Lara died,” Shannon said, “this man came up to me and said, ‘You’re next.’ You paid him to do that? Why?”

  “How the hell did I know Lara was about to drop dead?” Gordon said irritably. “And if you dragged me—and this poor man—out here just to have him as an eyewitness, we can let him go home now. I paid him to go up and talk to you, yes.”

  “Is it all right if I leave? I’m working a luncheon this afternoon,” Manuel said to Quinn.

  “Sure. Thanks for coming.”

  Manuel grinned. “No problem. I’m making pretty big bucks off your group. I wouldn’t mind working a cruise, sometime, though. Call me if you need help.”

  “Sure thing,” Quinn replied.

  As soon as Manuel left, Shannon turned to Gordon. “Gordon, why? Why pay someone to say something like that to me?”

  “I thought it might slip into your subconscious somewhere,” Gordon said. “Remind you that you should be next to dance. Awaken the spark of competition in your soul. Hell, it’s no secret that all the rest of us think you should be out there. Wait a minute.” He stared at Quinn then. “Hell, I was pretty damned slow there, huh? I think I’m finally getting this. Shannon, you think that someone killed Lara. And since I paid Manuel here to say ‘You’re next’ to you, I must be that person. Great. You think I killed her.”

  Shannon wanted to crawl beneath a chair. Gordon had never in his life looked so much like a beaten bloodhound.

  “Gordon, you don’t understand the way those words have haunted me!” she said.

  “Lara was my pride and joy. My creation,” Gordon said.

  “She bit the hand that fed her many a time, too, so I understand,” Quinn said.

  Gordon shook his head in disgust. “You don’t understand. If I were an architect, Lara would have been one of my greatest buildings. We can tease and nit-pick and argue among ourselves, and I’ll grant you, she was as impressed with herself as anyone could be, but she was still…family, I guess you’d say. There was a relationship. Good sometimes, aggravating at others. But in a thousand years, I’d never have hurt her. And you?” he told Shannon. “Fine. You want to throw away years of work and an ocean of natural talent, do it. You not competing saves me from any work I might have needed to do in these last few years before retirement.” He shook his head in hurt and disgust. “What, you don’t believe me?” he said to Quinn. “Is that why we’re here? Have you got the cops lined up to arrest me?”

  Quinn shook his head. “No. But when Sha
nnon told me about those words, we had to find out why the waiter came up to her and who told him to.”

  Gordon sighed, closing his eyes, opening them on Shannon. “So you’ve been spilling your guts out to this guy, huh?”

  “I mentioned a few fears, yes.”

  “Makes sense,” Gordon said.

  “Oh?” Shannon murmured.

  “Sure. He’s a private investigator.”

  “You knew that?” Shannon said.

  “Go through a few channels and you can pull him up on the Internet.” Gordon was staring at Quinn. “I shouldn’t have been surprised this morning. Finding the waiter was a piece of cake for him.” He kept looking at Quinn, but Shannon knew that he was speaking for her benefit. “He had to have his record expunged—he was thrown out his first year of college for drugs and disorderly conduct—but then he made a nice turnaround. A psychology major who became a cop, made it to homicide in record time, then applied to the FBI, where he joined the behavioral science unit—you know, the profilers’ division—and then he up and quit and came back here, joining up with a friend who was already in the business.”

  Shannon stared from Gordon to Quinn. “Everything is available on the damned Net, huh?” Quinn said.

  “Hey, you were a civil servant. What do you want?” Gordon said. “Do they serve food around here? I mean, I know you don’t trust me, I don’t know what to make of you, and Shannon would probably just as soon we both jumped in the bay, but I’m still starving.”

  “Yes, they serve food,” Quinn said, looking around to catch their waitress’s eye.

  Gordon was hungry. He ordered a breakfast special that included eggs, pancakes, steak, hash browns and toast. Shannon opted for just the last. Quinn stuck with coffee. Which was fine, because Gordon kept trying to get them to help him with the huge platter the waitress set down before him.

  Quinn and Shannon were both quiet throughout the meal. Shannon couldn’t help feeling a slow boil of anger again when she thought of just how much she hadn’t known about Quinn’s life. Things he apparently hadn’t thought to share, even when insisting on being a protector rather than an investigator.

  “Shall we get to the boat?” Gordon said.

  “What?” Quinn said.

  “The boat. Saturday is almost here. Let me ask this—do you really have a boat?”