Ella Barrick - Quickstep to Murder

“Are you sure you’re up to it?” She didn’t look well to me and since eating a mere three bites had turned a pale greenish color.

“I’m pregnant, not terminal. It’ll be my last competition for at least a year. Maybe I’ll never dance again.”

Despite the melodramatic utterance, I wasn’t tempted to laugh or even smile. Having a baby would change her life forever. She’d dance again, of course, if she wanted to, but I guessed she was probably thinking about all the things it was unlikely she’d ever do if she kept the baby: attend her senior prom, enjoy spring break in Cancun, date casually, go to college. It wasn’t that she couldn’t do those things, but it would be much harder. My heart ached for her.

“What’s your mom think about all this?” It struck me that I hadn’t seen Mrs. Hall around in a while. I used to see her when she dropped Taryn off for lessons, but since Taryn had turned sixteen and started driving herself, I hadn’t run into her mother.

Shoving a curd of egg around her plate with a fork, Taryn mumbled, “She left. Last year.”

“Oh.” Not knowing what to say and not wanting to pry, I stacked our plates and carried them to the sink.

“She ran off with someone,” Taryn said in a louder voice. “Just walked out on me and my dad. No ‘good-bye,’ no ‘keep in touch,’ just gone.” She flung her arm out on the last word, tipping the glass so cranberry juice washed over the table and dripped to the floor. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” Taryn jumped to her feet.

I lobbed a roll of paper towels toward her and she caught them, beginning to blot up the juice. “I’m sorry to hear about your mom,” I said, grabbing a sponge and joining her.

“ ’sokay,” she said, not looking at me as she tossed a sodden mass of paper towels into the trash can and pulled more off the roll. “That’s why I’m giving the baby up for adoption. Better to abandon it now when it doesn’t know the difference than to wait. That’s where Sawyer and I were yesterday-South Carolina, interviewing a couple who want to adopt the baby.”

“Is Sawyer the baby’s father?” I asked gently.

She didn’t answer directly. “I shouldn’t have said what I did about Rafe. I wasn’t thinking straight. My dad-It’s no excuse, but Rafe always seemed like he could cope with anything, that he could deal with my dad or anyone else.”

Her sixteen-year-old’s perspective on Rafe’s invincibility was touching. On the dance floor, he could cope with anything. Off it… Well, given our breakup, his scramble for money, and the bullet in his head, I didn’t think he rated an A-plus in coping. “Surely you knew that the truth would come out, that Rafe would deny being the father?”

She hung her head. “I told you, I wasn’t thinking. I guess I was hoping my dad wouldn’t find out, that something would happen-”

She broke off, realizing that something had happened. Her expression warned me just in time and I lunged for the bowl in the drainer and thrust it toward her as she threw up.

She felt better almost immediately afterward and insisted on returning to the ballroom in case Sawyer had shown up. He wasn’t there yet, but Tav Acosta was and she gasped when she saw him, apparently struck by his resemblance to Rafe. I introduced them and Tav chatted with her politely for a moment before signaling that he wanted to talk to me privately. Sawyer came in as Tav and I headed for my office and I left Taryn in Sawyer’s care.

“What’s up?” I asked.

Before answering, Tav closed the office door and turned to face me. I arched my brows, surprised.

“I’ve just come from the embassy,” Tav said. He stood, formal and severe-looking, yet somehow very attractive, in a gray suit with a white shirt, his back against the door. “The license plate you gave me belongs to the limousine that the deputy ambassador uses. His name is Héctor Bazán.”

His dark eyes scanned my face as if expecting a reaction, but the name meant nothing to me. I shrugged.

“Bazán is a big-time player, a multimillionaire industrialist who contributes regularly to the right campaigns. There have been rumors that some of his money came from drugs, but he has never been indicted. The journalists and others who repeat those rumors tend to disappear.”

“Are you suggesting Rafe was involved with drugs in some way?” I asked. I couldn’t believe it. It might explain his money woes, but I hadn’t seen any physical signs that he was doing drugs-no bloodshot eyes or lassitude or runny nose.

“No.” He waved the idea away impatiently. “Bazán and my father have been business associates for years. His ranch shares a border with ours.”

“Oh. So you think Rafe was just catching up with a family friend.” The idea was a letdown. I’d been so convinced there was something sinister about the limo and its occupant.

“Hardly. Although he is my father’s contemporary, Héctor married the girl Rafael was engaged to.”

“Rafe was engaged before?” Before me ? He’d never mentioned it. I was belatedly realizing that there were many, many things Rafe had never mentioned. What had we talked about besides ballroom dance, and judges, and other competitors, and the studio? I couldn’t think of much.

“Yes. When he was in college. Her name is Victoria. They dated in high school before Rafael and his mother returned to Texas. They must have kept in touch because she went to university in Texas and they got engaged. I remember my father talking about it and insisting that the wedding would take place in Argentina, on our ranch, despite the fact he hadn’t seen Rafael in several years by then. And then, next thing I knew, Bazán was introducing her around the neighborhood as his wife.”

“What happened?”

“I do not know.” Tav looked troubled. “Rafael never talked about it. But I find it concerning that you have seen Bazán’s limousine outside; I am not much of a believer in coincidence.”

“You think Rafe took up with Victoria again when he discovered she was in town? And that her husband found out?”

Tav’s silence answered me. “Bazán is a ruthless man,” he said after a moment. “One does not get to where he has gotten without playing what you call hardball. And Argentinean men can be very possessive about their women.”

After Rafe’s shenanigans with Solange, I didn’t find it all that hard to believe he had another woman on a string. But I didn’t see how Bazán, no matter how ruthless he might be, could’ve been the murderer, as Tav seemed to be hinting. “The killer used my gun,” I reminded Tav.

“I cannot explain it,” he said with a quintessentially Latin shrug. “All I know is that Bazán is capable of killing. One of his gauchos-cowboys-was found beaten to death three or four years ago. The police blamed it on a migrant worker who was never found and quickly closed the case. The other gauchos, they tell a different story. Very softly, it is true, but word has gotten around. They are afraid of him.”

I crossed to the window and looked out, half expecting to see the black limousine idling across the street. The space was open. I turned around. “Maybe it’s worth mentioning this Bazán to the police. You should do it since I’m sure you have more credibility with them than I do.” Which wasn’t saying much-Daffy Duck probably had more credibility with them than I did.

“He will have diplomatic immunity,” Tav said.

That gave me pause. The police probably wouldn’t be interested in a suspect they couldn’t toss in jail unless they had rock-solid proof he did it. I wondered what kind of investigatory resources Phineas Drake had available.

“There is a party at the embassy this evening.” Tav broke into my thoughts. “I have been invited. Perhaps you would like to go with me? It is almost certain Bazán will be there.”