Then, shortly before Amanda’s eighteenth birthday, Teddy ran into trouble. She was nearly twenty years old, and as trouble went, it wasn’t at all unique. Always afterward, Amanda would believe it could have been resolved to Teddy’s satisfaction, if only outside influences hadn’t intervened.
It would have been.
Dammit, weren’t she and Teddy in the process of working it out when their parents found out about it and decided to take a hand in its solution?
Caught up in old memories, Amanda didn’t realize she had stopped dancing. She stared unseeingly at her reflection and remembered another time.
God, how many times had it exploded full-blown in her mind, sneaking up unexpectedly? It had been a long dry spell, though, since the last time. Amanda had thought it was finally behind her.
It was never recollected in its entirety, all tidy and pat, a neat little scene squeezed between commercials. Rather, it flashed through her mind in vignettes, blurred at the corners, colors faded and indistinct. It was recalled as an elusive aroma, snatches of remembered conversations, tableaux from the past, frozen in time.
Her sister Elenore, flipping through a glossy magazine as she openly eavesdropped on Amanda’s argument with their parents.
The smell of cherry wood crackling in the fireplace; the rain as it ran down the library windows. The soft pool of illumination from the antique lamp spilling across the highly polished fruit-wood desk.
Echoes of the passion in her voice as she defended her decision to go to New York after graduation: “I am going to dance professionally. I need advanced classes that I simply cannot get here!”
The cool distaste in her mother’s voice as she explained how unsuitable it would be for a Charles to become what she termed a “dancing girl”—in the same tone of voice another mother might use to describe a child molester.
Elenore’s mouth curled up in a mocking smile. And her supercilious tone of voice. “Oh, Mother. Let her go. After all, it could be worse. She could be pregnant, like Theodora.”
The quiet—so thick you could hear the ancient manor house creak as its timbers settled. Then the pandemonium, subdued on her parents’ part, her own strident shrillness.
“How do you know?”
“You bitch!”
“…Difficult to miss with Teddy tossing her cookies in our bathroom every morning.”
Teddy summarily summoned.
And then afterward—oh, God, afterward…
Amanda blinked, reemerging in the present with a physical jolt. She picked up her towel and blotted the cooling perspiration off her brow. “Shit,” she whispered wearily. “Shit, shit, shit.”
That was all she needed to round out her day. Here she’d been attempting to exhaust herself so she could still catch a few hours’ sleep tonight, and instead, she had dredged up the one sure memory guaranteed to keep her awake.
As she restored the studio back to a dining room once again, she reflected with bitter resignation that she might as well kiss good-bye all thoughts of sleep tonight. Her chances would have been a good deal more sporting if she had just continued to dwell on the image of murderers who liked to brutalize dancers, and big, cold-eyed cops who apparently got their jollies out of dragging helpless women in to view the results.
Chapter
4
Tristan was ready to snarl with frustration by the time he finally pried himself loose from police headquarters the next day. He climbed into the passenger side of Joe Cash’s car and slammed the door. “Get us to the Cabaret, Joe,” he directed in a clipped voice. Then his temper slipped its leash and he growled in disgust, “We’ll be damned lucky if we can catch anyone still there. Bloody police brass—they’re the same wherever you go.” He drew a calming breath and whispered to himself, “Bugger ’em all.”
Joe, who heard, grinned and pretended he hadn’t. He gunned the motor, shooting out into traffic.
Tristan stared out the window at the garish lights flashing by. Damn Captain Tweedt and his demands that he chain himself to a desk while the new task force was being put into effect! He wasn’t a desk cop, never had been, and the purpose of his transfer here sure as hell wasn’t to turn him into one. But it had taken wasted hours of argument before Captain Tweedt had finally seen the light.
Although Tristan had no way of knowing it, as he stared impassively out the window at the passing scenery, the decisive argument on which the captain’s determination had been based had been Tristan’s own heated assertion that the ultimate objective should be to catch this killer as quickly as possible. And the best way to do so, he had insisted, was not with a one-man task force but by utilizing all the personnel at Tweedt’s disposal, maximizing each individual’s strength in an area best suited for him.
Gory murder headlines were not popular in a town with an economy that was dependent to a large degree upon the tourist trade, and Tweedt had everyone from the mayor to the chief of police breathing down his neck, demanding a quick solution. Also, being an intrinsically fair man, Tweedt couldn’t fault Lieutenant MacLaughlin’s claim that he had been assigned here to train and assist, not to bloody well man a desk. With a feeling of sheepishness, which he kept well hidden, Tweedt belatedly remembered his conversation with MacLaughlin’s superior in Seattle. He had been advised to give MacLaughlin his head, wryly informed he’d get maximum results out of the stubborn Scot if he was left alone to do the job his own way. And so, in the end, Tweedt had somewhat gracelessly acceded. It wasn’t the easiest thing he had ever done. For all that MacLaughlin appeared extremely well-prepared and had a reputation for being damn good at his job, he was an abrasive son of a bitch to deal with.
More hours had been used up finding the best men within the precinct to draft into the task force. Joe had been a big help in that respect, and so had Tweedt, Tristan grudgingly had to admit, once the captain had warmed to the project. When all pertinent personnel had finally been assembled, Tristan had held a meeting to brief his new task force. And it was off to a smooth start, for although Tristan was often impatient with police superiors when he felt they were preventing him from doing his job in the quickest and most efficient manner possible, he was excellent with the rank and file. He had a knack for pinpointing each detective’s primary strength and making use of it, which in turn imbued enthusiasm in his unit for the work at hand. And he had done his research well before he’d left Seattle. By the time he and Joe had left the precinct, the gears that would make this task force go around had already begun to mesh.
Joe pulled over to the curb and Tristan studied the glitzy facade of the hotel that housed the showroom where the murdered lass had worked. It was deep in the heart of Reno’s gambling district. The two men climbed out of the car and went inside.
The Cabaret was located off the main casino on the ground level of the hotel. Blinking yellow lights spelled out the name of the lounge in a glittering arc above the drawn gold velvet draperies guarding the entrance. Two free-standing brass poles stood sentinel in front of the drapes, connected by a velvet rope that sagged gently beneath the weight of a sign reading: LOUNGE CLOSED. OPEN AT EIGHT.
The casino was bright with lights that reflected off the myriad mirrored surfaces, and it roared with sound. Bells rang, and the loud metallic clank of silver dollars hitting the trays of nearby slot machines, most of which were manned by white-haired ladies, assaulted Tristan’s ears as he hesitated outside the Cabaret’s entrance to skim the lobby card. He leaned down to peer at the eight-by-ten glossy of the Cabaret’s dancers in the lower left-hand corner, his gaze moving quickly from face to face. His eyes paused just once, hesitating for the merest fraction of an instant. His heart began to pound with inexplicable force, and he straightened. He must have drunk too many cups of coffee at the precinct earlier. Rolling his shoulders impatiently, he swung a long leg up over the velvet rope, sidestepping it easily, then slipped behind the draperies. Joe followed suit.
As the velvet curtains fell back into place behind them, the obtrusive casi
no noises faded to an indistinct murmur, and a small corner of Tristan’s mind noted the well-planned quality of the acoustics. He and Joe paused a moment to let their eyes make the transition from the casino’s glare to the dimness of the empty lobby before they crossed the narrow expanse. A piano tinkled somewhere behind the closed double doors leading to the lounge proper. Tristan eased the doors open just wide enough for the two of them to slip through.
They entered a world of confusing sensory impressions. The lounge itself was dark, but lights flooded the raised stage, bathing it in a strong white blaze that eliminated even the smallest shadow as far back as the wings. The large room smelled of stale tobacco, perfume, and sweat. A piano player banged out a jazzy tune. A dictatorial voice called out commands, and the stage floor thudded rhythmically beneath a dozen pair of feet as the dancers ran through their routine.
Tristan tripped over a chair, and he swore softly. It had been a mistake to stare into the glare of white lights illuminating the stage, but for just an instant, his attention had been riveted by the dancers. They were damned good—bloody excellent, in fact. He stood very still, waiting once again until his eyes adjusted properly. Almost simultaneously, the number on the stage came to an end and the room went abruptly silent, except for the uneven sound of dancers loudly sucking in oxygen, dragging it deep into their diaphragms and then harshly expelling it. They stood or milled about in small, shifting groups, flexing arms and legs to keep limber, the exposed portions of their skin glistening with perspiration. Their eclectic dance garb provided the only bright splashes of color on the dun-colored stage.
“I’ve seen better dancing at a first-year recital, people,” a voice called out. Using the sound for direction, Tristan located a short, slender man, with the unnaturally pale complexion of a person who never sees the light of day. He was seated at a table directly in front of center stage. The man’s foot jiggled rapidly on the end of a crossed leg, and he puffed furiously on a white filtered cigarette, giving the overall impression of a man with more than his fair share of energy to burn. “Let’s take it once more, from the top. And this time, people, I wanna see some professionalism up there. Hit it, Lennie.”
The piano began again. The seated man snapped his fingers in time to the music and called out, “and five, six, sev-en, eight…”
The dancers had lined up as he talked and on the count of eight they burst into motion. To Tristan’s eye they looked professional in the extreme, and for the first time, it hit him that there were actually dancers who were dead serious about their craft and put as much effort into it as he put into his own career. But the man with the arrogant, authoritative voice—Charlie?—apparently felt otherwise, for he kept up a shouted, running critique, and it was rarely favorable.
“Keep your head up, David,” he bellowed. “Rhonda, you’re slacking off on the kick. Good, nice turn, Kelly.” He was silent for three beats, then he roared. “Who the hell ever told ya you could dance, June? Get in step! David! Head up, dammit! You, Amanda, you’re snapping your head back again, hold it still. Goddammit, David, keep your fucking eyes off your feet and bring that chin up! And side, side, cross over, chorus line kick! This ain’t no friggin’ solo, Amanda; bring your kick down to match everyone else.”
“Let’s go,” Tristan muttered, and he and Joe cautiously wove between the close-packed ranks of tables supporting tipped-up chairs until they flanked the seated man. When their combined shadows fell across the table where he sat, blotting out what little light had illuminated it, Charlie dragged his attention from the dancers, glancing up in annoyance.
“How did you get in here?” he snapped. “This ain’t no goddamn peep show.” The action on the stage grabbed his attention. “Pete! Pick up your feet—you look like a friggin’ logger.” He turned back to the two men still towering over him and looked straight into Tristan’s gold shield, which he had flipped open and was holding at eye level. Pushing his chair away from the table, he stubbed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and lit a new one, his attitude changing only slightly. He exhaled a plume of smoke through his nostrils. “What the hell is this all about? I’m a busy man, and as far as I know, I haven’t done anything illegal.”
“You Charlie Bagotta?” Joe asked, and the man nodded. Tristan glanced up at the stage, locating Amanda. Sweat lent a sheen to the bare portions of her honey-toned flesh, and her deep purple leotard and white tights stuck to her in damp patches as she danced with unsmiling vigor and grace. There was something about her…something both coolly competent and heatedly sexual—impressions at odds with each other.
Tristan’s eyebrows snapped together. Bagotta didn’t know what this was about? Bloody hell, hadn’t she even mentioned to this clown that one of his dancers was recently murdered? He felt a curiously strong disappointment in her. She had appeared some torn up about it yesterday, but maybe she only allotted one day’s time to grieve for a friend before it was back to the business at hand. Yesterday he had admired her ability to remain cool in a tight situation, but he sure hadn’t pegged her for a totally cold bitch, devoid of normal feelings. He hadn’t been able to pin down precisely what type of woman he thought she was, but “cold” sure as bloody hell hadn’t been the word to enter his mind. He knew he had felt an unwilling sort of admiration for the strength she had displayed.
But he didn’t admire this, not at all. He didn’t care for this flaming little sod Charlie, or the manner in which he bullied his dancers. Even less did he like the idea of a lass who was so lacking in emotion it enabled her to identify her dead friend one day, and then turn around the next and not even bother to mention to her fellow dancers that one of their number had died a slow and painful death. She must live one hell of a fast-paced life if she didn’t find something like that worth mentioning. Just what did these people consider important? He was beginning to think that dancers were a selfish and cold-blooded lot, a breed that set itself apart from the rest of the human race.
“We’re here in regard to Maryanne Farrel,” Tristan said with a frigid control that did not allow his personal feelings to show.
“Yeah, what’d she do? I ain’t hiring her back, and you can tell her that from me. No one just walks outta one of Charlie Bagotta’s productions without an explanation and then expects…”
“She’s dead, mon,” Tristan interrupted, and he received a savage sort of pleasure seeing the color drain out of the officious little bastard’s face, leaving Bagotta’s complexion dead white. Verra unprofessional attitude, MacLaughlin, Tristan admonished himself dispassionately. Then, immediately upon the heels of the admonishment, he shrugged. Tough shit. He noticed that Joe wasn’t above rubbing it in a little, either.
“We suspect Miss Farrel is the latest victim of the Showgirl Slayer,” he said. “I’m a bit surprised Amanda Charles or Rhonda Smith didn’t tell you, since Miss Charles identified the body for us yesterday, and Miss Smith was at the morgue also, to lend her moral support.”
Charlie rubbed his hands against his scalp, making the thinning hair on the top of his head stand up untidily. “Amanda and Rhonda had last night off,” he muttered distractedly. “And they were late this morning. They came running in here at the last minute, wanting to talk about something, but I told ’em to get their butts up on stage. They had already interrupted practice, and they damn well know my policy regarding tardiness.” His hand slid to the back of his neck and he gouged his fingers into the muscles there. “Dead. Jesus Christ.”
The music had come to an end, and the dancers shifted about in puzzled silence, hands shielding eyes from the glare as they peered out into the gloom of the lounge. Why wasn’t Charlie screaming abuse at them? Maybe he’d had a heart attack, someone speculated in a hopeful voice, but someone else whispered that she thought there were people out there talking to him. Everyone immediately strained harder to see, since Charlie’s attitude about interruptions during rehearsal was notorious. However, there did appear to be two large, shadowy figures standing over him at his tabl
e, just barely discernible from the stage, and when the troupe tacitly fell silent again and moved a little closer to the edge of the stage, they could also hear the quiet murmur of voices, although whoever was out there spoke in tones too low to be overheard. Rhonda was the one who recognized, by its sheer size and bulk, one of the dark images intercepting the light. Solemnly, she turned to look at Amanda. “MacLaughlin.”
Amanda’s mouth went dry and her heart throbbed in her throat. It had been early morning before she had finally fallen asleep, and then she had slept like the dead until a pounding on the door woke her up. It had been a rude awakening in more ways than one. She had been disoriented, forgetting for a moment where she was and what had happened yesterday. She’d picked up the bedside clock and sworn, yelling at the person pounding at the door that she was coming. Then, as she had thrown back the covers to leap out of bed, she had practically been poleaxed by a rush of mental images—images of Maryanne, of the morgue, of MacLaughlin and his unreadable, assessing eyes, and of Teddy—the way she had looked the last time Amanda had seen her. It had all come crashing down around her like a truckload of clammy gray cement, threatening to bury her alive.
The timing could not have been worse, for she hadn’t had so much as a minute to pull herself together and try to make some sense of it. She had barely had time to do more than brush her teeth, scrape her hair into a ponytail, and throw a coat over her dance clothes before she and Rhonda had raced out the door. Then, in a town that didn’t have all that many streetlights, they had somehow managed to hit every red one there was between home and the Cabaret. They had talked very little—just enough to decide between them that as little as they relished the prospect, they were going to have to break the news of Maryanne’s murder to Charlie and the dance troupe.
Shadow Dance Page 6
