Dead on Her Feet (An Antonia Blakeley Tango Mystery Book 1)

by Lisa Fernow

  “Hey! You want a piece of me?”

  The Argentine parried in rapid colloquial Spanish.

  The man in the Aloha shirt shoved the Argentine. Eduardo immediately headed for the floor but the stranger who’d avoided her cabeceo got to the newer dancer first.

  “Whoa, Bessie.” The stranger took the man aside and said something in a low voice and Aloha Man and his companion left the floor. Honor satisfied, the Argentine took his partner back in his arms. Eduardo returned to the table and settled back down.

  Christian asked, “What was that?”

  “The idiot took a back step against the line of dance,” Roland said, before Eduardo could answer.

  Antonia said, “If you don’t know how to navigate on a crowded floor you shouldn’t be out there.”

  Eduardo pointedly put his arm around Nathalie. “The man should have respected his place.”

  Roland drained his champagne glass. “He’s lucky he just got bumped. A century ago he might have gotten a knife in the side. Isn’t that right, amigo?”

  Eduardo brushed the question aside. “That was another era. I am happy to say we have put that chapter behind us.”

  Nathalie traced her finger down Eduardo’s cheek. “How many times has that happened here, would you say?”

  Antonia said, “This is Atlanta. We just charm you to death.”

  Roland said to Christian, “In the old days in Argentina the milongueros used to fight over the women.” Seeing no one else seemed to want more champagne he poured a glass for himself and held it up, toasting, “To the victor go the spoils.”

  Nathalie’s lips curved into a feral smile. “Eduardo, have you ever fought like that?”

  Antonia glanced at Christian who by that point had apparently decided to try to sneak some champagne and was reaching for the bottle. Little devil. She nudged him. Not in public. He grinned. Had to try.

  Eduardo said, “On the pista? It was never necessary.”

  Nathalie’s smile widened. “How about off the dance floor?”

  She obviously doesn’t know what Eduardo went through in the Dirty War, Antonia thought. They can’t be that close.

  “Querida, death is not a joking matter.”

  “It’s just a question, darling. I want to know if we women are still worth fighting for.”

  “Some more than others,” Antonia said pointedly.

  Nathalie smiled at Christian. “What about you? Would you fight? To the death?”

  Christian froze.

  Don’t go there, Antonia thought. “Ask Roland. He started this.”

  The diversion worked. Nathalie batted her lashes at Roland. “You’re my last hope.”

  “I’m sorry to have to disappoint you.”

  “No strong male impulses? Not even jealousy?”

  Roland said, “I must not be a very passionate man.”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” Nathalie said in a low voice, and Antonia saw Roland’s eyes stray to Nathalie’s décolletage.

  Eduardo frowned. “Have you forgotten your fiancée, Roland?”

  “I trust Shawna completely. She’s a lady.”

  “That isn’t what I meant. In my experience you can’t be too sure of anyone.”

  Nathalie turned to Eduardo. “Are you suggesting I’m not to be trusted?”

  Christian said, “I’m sure nobody meant … I mean, you’re so beautiful it would be natural … It’s not your fault.”

  The DJ started a set of Pugliese, in Antonia’s opinion the most inflammatory music in all of tango. And, of course, perversely, just when she had to protect Christian from Roland and Nathalie, that was the moment her favorite milonguero, the elusive, exclusive Osvaldo, cabeceoed her.

  “Nathalie,” Antonia said, hoping to get her out of the way so she could accept Osvaldo’s invitation, “Why don’t you and Roland dance?” What she meant was why didn’t each of them dance, instead of stirring up ridiculous competitions, but it came out as if she wanted them to dance together.

  Roland extended his hand to Nathalie. “What do you say?”

  Antonia nearly fell out of her chair. Roland was breaking the codigo, interfering with an existing relationship. Eduardo could not possibly let that stand.

  “Nathalie is with me,” Eduardo said.

  “I’m sure I can decide for myself.” Nathalie accepted Roland’s hand and rose from the table, acting as if she didn’t notice the dark look Eduardo was giving her.

  The visiting Argentines, acutely aware of every social nuance, had not missed the slight to one of their own. Antonia could see the disapproval in their body language. She craned to see if Osvaldo was still looking her way but, to her disappointment, he’d found another partner.

  She turned her attention back to the floor to see Roland insinuate his arm around Nathalie’s back and begin to draw Nathalie to him. Nathalie pretended to resist. The sexual tug of war went on for a few seconds. Then, in a move straight out of a bodice ripper, Roland yanked her full length against him in a complete violation of the tango code.

  “A Mis Companeros” dramatic, staccato phrases jolted in tune with Antonia’s heart. Pugliese’s music could be suspenseful, even dangerous, but she’d never before thought of it as angry.

  Eduardo pushed back his chair and stood. He buttoned his jacket and smoothed back his hair. He replaced the chair to its original position. He picked up Nathalie’s evening bag. He stepped to the edge of the dance floor and waited for Roland and Nathalie to circle around. When the couple passed in front of him Eduardo grabbed Nathalie by the arm, stripped her from Roland’s clutches and forced her off the dance floor, through the maze of tables, towards the exit while Nathalie screeched in indignation.

  Christian burst out laughing.

  Antonia said, “What?”

  “You call this shit civilized?”

  CHAPTER 8

  Obstacles

  Marines never give up, never give in, never willingly accept second best

  MORROW’S TASTES RAN TO PLAIN DRIP but Jackson was addicted to a higher form of caffeine, so they’d agreed to meet at Caribou Coffee to compare notes.

  The answering tape had turned out to be a bust. They hadn’t been able to stop Guest from going to Argentina but there had been nothing to prevent Morrow from following him when he returned to see if he tried any funny business. It had been a calculated risk to track him into Bones, and then El Abrazo, but a guy like that wasn’t likely to remember a cop. It had been useful to see the dynamics between Guest and the other members of his party. Only downside, the dance instructor had almost certainly recognized him when he’d accidentally caught her eye. But she probably wouldn’t say anything. She clearly didn’t like Guest. That fact might come in useful.

  By the time he had gotten his joe, claimed one of the leather armchairs, and powered up his laptop, Jackson had dispatched a midmorning cinnamon roll popover and was halfway to pounding down a “moosed” caramel cooler with whipped cream. Eating like he still played football—no wonder the guy struggled to stay in shape.

  Jackson pulled out a sheet of paper and consulted it. “In Buenos Aires there were thirteen individuals and seventeen companies on the antique store contact list and a bunch of restaurants and bars, at least I think that’s what most of them are. When I compared these numbers with calls Rothenberg made I got four matches; one to a guy named Eduardo Sanchez Jar – oh shit, what’s this name, J-A-U-R-Y, and three to antiques dealers. All in—,” he balked again, “San Telmo. Is that a neighborhood?”

  “Sounds like.” Morrow scrolled through his e-mails to see if the tox results had come through yet, half hoping they hadn’t.

  “What do you expect Guest was up to in Buenos Aires before? And what’s he doing going there again?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Drug dealing? He could be bringing cocaine to Ms. Blakeley’s class and selling it there. Anyone can take a dance lesson.” Jackson’s face brightened. “Miss Muir works for an airline; think she could be sneaking stuff out o
f Argentina for her fiancé?”

  “Not unless the ground crew was in on it. The flight attendants go through security with everyone else.”

  “How about prostitution?”

  Morrow laughed. “I like your drug idea better.” He found one of the e-mails he had been waiting for, a response to his inquiry into Rothenberg’s finances. “Looks like Miles Rothenberg made a substantial withdrawal from one of his business bank accounts the day he died. Wired two million, seven hundred ninety-five thousand dollars to the Argentine Central Bank. They don’t know where it went after that, yet.”

  Jackson said, “I thought you couldn’t wire money without knowing who’s who on the other end.”

  “Branch manager is out sick, apparently. They’re talking to him tomorrow.”

  “Do you think Guest knows about the transfer?”

  “He ought to. According to this, one of the tellers remembers he came in to make a deposit late on Friday.”

  Jackson said, “So Guest could have known the money was gone but not where it went.”

  Guest didn’t seem worried last night, Morrow thought. In fact, he acted like a man who’d just beat a rap. “Why do you think Guest didn’t say anything about this when I interviewed him at the dance studio?”

  “He might have thought Rothenberg was doing some sort of business deal for the company. For all we know, maybe he was.”

  While Morrow stared at the screen a new e-mail popped up. Tox screen results were in. He opened the e-mail and scanned the report. “Rothenberg had wine in his system but nothing else. Death’s an accident. I’ll notify Lauren Weiss Rothenberg.”

  Jackson said, “So that’s it. It’s Fraud’s case now.”

  Morrow held his fire. Jackson was new. He still took the rules literally.

  ***

  Morrow spent the rest of the day on the phone to Latin America. He saved the call to Horatio Ruiz of the Policía Federal Argentina for last. Ruiz was one of the good guys. It had been six years since their last contact so when Morrow called he wasn’t sure whether Ruiz would remember him.

  To Morrow’s pleasant surprise, Ruiz did.

  “The man who never quits. They’re still talking about you here. ¿Qué tal?”

  They shot the shit for a few minutes. When Ruiz began to reminisce about how Morrow had helped him track down and ship a reluctant government witness back to Argentina by tricking him into thinking his rich mother was about to elope with a gigolo, Morrow sensed it was time to get down to business. “I need to find an Argentine national named Jaury. Eduardo Sanchez Jaury. I’ve called the number we have for him but there’s no answer. Looked in the online paginas blancas and there’s no other number or address.”

  “Did you look under Sanchez?”

  “How’s that?”

  “Jaury is his mother’s maiden name. His legal name is Eduardo Sanchez Jaury for passports and credit cards, but in social situations, and in the phone book, he would be known as Eduardo Sanchez. A venerable family.”

  Hell. Morrow tossed back the dregs of his third coffee. He’d been out until two in the morning and the caffeine wasn’t helping. “Know anything about him?”

  “Very little. Except what one hears.” Ruiz went silent and for a few seconds Morrow thought the line had gone dead. “The Sanchez family once owned cattle ranches and vineyards in Mendoza. When Perón came to power he instituted reforms that ruined many of the old families completely.” The Argentine coughed. Ruiz was a heavy smoker. “We’re all banging pots in the streets half the time so that part of the story is perhaps not so interesting. The Sanchez family would undoubtedly have disposed of some assets over the years.”

  And Rothenberg and Guest were antiques dealers. Morrow briefly outlined the case to Ruiz, including the details that Rothenberg had wired money to Argentina and called Eduardo Sanchez Jaury and several antiques dealers the day he died.

  Ruiz said, “You believe those two facts are connected?”

  “Don’t know. This isn’t public, but we just got word two point eight million of Rothenberg’s money went to the B’nai B’rith of Argentina.”

  Ruiz grunted. “The Jewish community service organization? They must have been very grateful.”

  “But not helpful. They had no idea why Rothenberg did it.”

  “And the three antiques stores you say he called the night he died – any connection there?”

  Morrow stifled a yawn. “They remember talking to him all right, but they all say he was just checking on the status of his shipments.”

  “All? Using those exact words?”

  Ruiz was right, of course. It was too neat. Guest had had plenty of time to square the dealers if he’d needed to.

  Guest’s company did a multi-million dollar business in Europe, Japan, and Latin America, much of which was conducted in cash and dutifully reported every year to the IRS, making the IRS very happy. If Guest was up to any funny business it probably wasn’t tax evasion.

  “Hell,” Morrow said, kicking back in his chair. “Why did Rothenberg want to atone to the tune of nearly three million dollars?”

  “At least you know he’s dead. In Argentina one doesn’t always have that luxury.”

  “Can you find Sanchez? Find out what connection he had to Rothenberg and Guest and what Rothenberg said to Sanchez that day. And anything you can get on the antiques shops.”

  “I will try.”

  “And if you could get me a check on Sanchez’ criminal background, if any.”

  “It can be dangerous to seek out such facts, if in fact they exist. The Dirty War may have ended but it has left us paranoid.”

  “Even today?”

  “All it takes is a new president to hand out a pardon.”

  Morrow waited.

  “Some of the government files have been opened,” Ruiz said, cautiously. “Perhaps some truths can now be held up to the light. But you have to know what you are doing.”

  Morrow tried to think what he could say that would convince Ruiz to investigate Sanchez. “You told me once everyone has a right to justice.”

  “That’s true. But not everyone receives it.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Sacada

  A displacement

  IN THE COUPLE OF WEEKS following Trasnochando, Antonia saw little of Christian. He’d gone to ground in his apartment and reunited with his computer, most likely spending all his free time on line, tweeting, chatting, blogging, role-playing, doing God knows what. But her plan to expose him to the real tango through Eduardo had borne fruit because right after the fall school session started Christian called her up and asked her to help him buy a pair of dance shoes. That led to Antonia giving him a quick series of private lessons over Labor Day weekend. Today was his first actual group class as a participant and she was determined to make it a success.

  Velocity Studio smelled of Murphy’s Oil Soap, but in an hour, with twenty or so people dancing, it would smell like a locker room despite the tubercular fan wheezing away in the back.

  Antonia fiddled with the CD player and, dissatisfied with her original choice, switched to D’Arienzo. She wanted her students to feel a clear beat and D’Arienzo’s rhythms were cheerful and unmistakable. “El Portenito” was one of her favorites.

  At least her students were making progress on the navigation front, managing to stay in their own lanes, except for Bobby who traveled a more erratic orbit sort of like an asteroid, although she wasn’t clear if asteroids had orbits or if they just randomly hurtled through space.

  Roland’s dance had improved materially since his most recent trips to BA. Navigating on crowded floors at the milongas had forced him into a simpler vocabulary, and while he still indulged in the odd showy move, he was starting to understand that it wasn’t about steps it was about the feeling you put into them. Barbara seemed to be enjoying the results, judging from the astonished pleasure on her face.

  Christian slouched by one of the café tables. Today’s t-shirt choice, the Grateful Dead, meant h
e was feeling reasonably mellow.

  She went to check on him. “Ready?”

  He looked down at his feet and polished the floor with his toe, testing the suede sole of his new dance shoes. “Ha ha. It’ll take me thirty years to learn to walk.”

  Shawna breezed in, still in her flight attendant’s uniform, tresses swept in a chignon, each hair perfectly into order. Despite the heat she looked perfectly cool; Antonia never understood how she managed it. “Sorry I’m late.” She darted into the ladies room and emerged a few minutes later in her usual cotton tee and yoga pants, having washed off the mask of makeup required by her profession.

  Antonia promptly hailed her. “I need your help.”

  “Ant, really.” Shawna waved her off. “None of your schemes. I had a rotten flight.”

  “Christian’s feeling wallflowery. I need you to make his first class a success without him thinking I rigged it. He thinks I interfere enough as it is.”

  Shawna faced the mirror and extended one hand high over her head, then the other, using the bar to steady her. “He’s right,” she said to Antonia’s reflection.

  “Just build up his confidence, that’s all I ask.”

  “How do you suggest I do that?”

  “Dance with him. Talk to him about something he knows. Ask him to help you with your computer. You know how long it takes you to send out those e-mails to the tango community. Maybe he can help you automate the process or something.”

  Shawna placed one heel on the ballet bar and settled into a stretch. “That would be something, all right,” she said, bringing her nose to her knee.

  Antonia stooped so her face was level with Shawna’s. “Humor me?”

  Shawna shook her head ruefully as she switched legs. “I can see I’ll get no peace until I agree.”

  Antonia flagged Christian down and he shuffled over. “Why don’t you warm up with Shawna?”

  “I’m really crappy.”

  Shawna turned from the bar. “Everybody was new once. The men you saw at El Abrazo danced every night for years to get where they are.” She opened her arms, inviting Christian to embrace her.