Ella Barrick - Quickstep to Murder

“Mm.”

We stood on the shallow brick portico outside my front door, which I noticed needed repainting. Its glossy forest green had dulled and was flaking near the bottom. One more expense. Maybe if I went at the knocker with some brass polish, that would spiff up the door. I pushed the thought aside.

“What is it, exactly, you want me to do, Ms. Graysin?” Lissy asked, finger-combing his dishwater-colored hair from left to right.

“Arrest Héctor Bazán! At least talk to him, not just about last night, but about Rafe’s murder. Now that we know that Rafe was helping Victoria Bazán-”

“We don’t know this,” Detective Lissy said. “You say that Victoria Bazán said … You see where I’m going with this?”

I ignored his interruption. “-it makes sense to think that her husband might have gone after him.”

“With your gun?”

“Yes! I told you that Rafe told Victoria he could get her a gun. It’s obvious that he stole my gun, intending to give it to her. Whoever killed him got the gun away from him somehow and shot him.”

“Ms. Graysin, in policing we like to rely on a little thing called ‘evidence.’ And you don’t have any.” He held up a thin hand to forestall my protests. “I’m going to talk to Héctor Bazán and see what he has to say.”

“What about his story? About his wife having mental problems and being in a car accident. He said it was just a couple of weeks ago, so you can look that up, can’t you? See if he’s lying?”

“As I might have mentioned before, I’ve been doing this job for twenty-seven years.”

With that not-so-subtle reminder that he didn’t need my help, he clomped down the steps and headed for his car.

I hurried after him. “Just one more thing, Detective,” I said, my eyes pleading with him. “Did you check on Sherry Indrebo’s whereabouts the night Rafe was shot?”

Lissy eyed me with something like fascination. “A diplomat’s not enough for you? Now you want to accuse a congresswoman?”

“I’m not accusing-”

“Who next? The Pope?”

“Was she-”

“Ms. Indrebo was at a fund-raiser at the Corcoran, in full view of assorted Republican movers and shakers and a photographer who has dozens of photos of her from when the party kicked off until they turned off the lights. Satisfied?” He yanked open the car door, rubbing at a smudge on the mirror.

Frustrated was more like it, but I thanked him and watched him drive away. Then I went inside and called Phineas Drake.

I spent the morning restoring order to my life and house after the competition weekend. I sorted through my costumes and put aside those that needed a trip to the dry cleaner, stowed my makeup and hair accessories, and cleaned the bathrooms and kitchen. With only minutes to spare before Drake arrived, I polished the knocker, kick plate, and doorknob on the front door with a crusty bottle of brass polish I found under the kitchen sink. I stepped back to admire the gleaming brass when I was done, liking the way they shone in the sunlight, but disappointed that their brightness actually made the door’s paint look shabbier in contrast. Drat .

Drake’s limo nosed up to the curb as I stood there and I hastily tucked the brass polish and rag into the house and gave my hands a quick sniff. They smelled a bit chemically from the polish, but not too bad. I hurried down the walkway as the chauffeur opened the door. Drake’s secretary had said he could spare me only fifteen minutes on his drive to the courthouse and I didn’t want to waste a second. I slid onto the slick leather seat and found Phineas Drake gazing at me, a tall glass foaming with a tan concoction in his hand.

“Protein drink,” he greeted me, hoisting the glass a couple of inches. “Doctor says I have to lose a few pounds or I’m going to keel over before I’m sixty.” He laughed and patted his hefty paunch covered by a tartan vest of blues and greens with a thin yellow stripe.

Since I’d already pegged him for past sixty, I didn’t comment.

Running his huge hand down his beard when he finished drinking, he fixed his sharp eyes on me. “You said you discovered something about Acosta’s murder this weekend?”

“Yes, and the police aren’t taking me seriously, so I thought you… that you might be able to look into it.”

“Tell me.”

I gave him the unedited version of the weekend, from Leon Hall’s attack on Sawyer, to bumping into Victoria in the hall and our conversation followed by her disappearance, to Bazán’s attack at my house, to my theory about Rafe stealing the gun. I looked at Drake anxiously when I finished, trying to read his expression. The luxuriant facial hair made it tough, especially in the dimly lit limo.

“That’s good-the bit about Acosta having your gun with him. That’s the kind of creative thinking that makes a good criminal defense lawyer. Any interest in giving up ballroom dancing for the law?” He chuckled.

Was he saying he didn’t believe me? “It’s not ‘creative thinking’-it’s what must have happened,” I said indignantly. “And, no, I can’t see myself as a lawyer.” Working in an office all day, wearing rigid suits, responding to someone’s beck and call. I shuddered.

“You’re more the creative type,” he said indulgently. “My wife’s that way, too-scrapbooking is her thing. That and eBay.”

Great. He clearly dismissed my career as a hobby on par with his wife’s interest in scissors that cut wavy patterns and colored cardstock. I held on to my temper. “Do you have a way to check out Bazán’s story?” I asked. “And maybe find out more about Leon Hall?”

“A diplomat, huh?” Drake said, looking thoughtful, calculating the angles. “If the police were convinced he did it, they’d stop looking at you, and they wouldn’t have to worry about enough evidence for ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’ because the case would never see the inside of a courtroom. The State Department might PNG Bazán if the cops built a good enough case, but that’s about it.”

“PNG?”

“Make him persona non grata-boot him out of the country.”

“That’s not right,” I said, appalled. “If he killed Rafe he should go to prison for the rest of his slimy life.”

Drake shrugged, dismissing my outrage as too naive to bother with. The limo glided to a stop at the courthouse curb and Drake shifted his bulk toward the door. “I think it’d be useful to locate this Victoria gal again. She sounds like a wily one.” His tone was admiring.

A shaft of sunlight penetrated the car as the chauffeur swung the door open. Drake got out, then bent over to peer in at me. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about anything. Since the police haven’t moved on you yet, chances are they won’t, at least not without new evidence. I’ll be in touch.” Giving orders to his driver to take me back to the town house, he strode up the courthouse steps, fending off reporters as he went.

Halfway back to the house, my cell phone rang. Tav Acosta.

“How did the competition go this weekend?” he asked.

His voice, rich and dark and lightly accented, sent a little tingle through me. I stomped it down. Business. This was only business.

I shrugged, even though he couldn’t see me. “Some wins, some losses. Better than I thought it would, actually, without Rafe.”

We were silent for a moment, thinking about Rafe; then Tav said, “The police have released his body. I can take him back to Argentina.”

“Oh.” I was surprised by how sad I felt at the thought of him leaving. “When?”

“As soon as I can make arrangements with the airlines-probably two or three days.”

“Oh. Well, it was nice meeting you. I hope you have a good trip back.” The inanities were a defense against the surprisingly strong stab of disappointment I felt at the news he was leaving.