Heather Graham - Dead On The Dance Floor

A bit farther down, a group of kids seemed to be dispersing. Gathering towels, chairs and lotion bottles, they were calling out to one another, saying their goodbyes. He kept walking, watching as one by one they all disappeared—except for one little waif who was tall when she stood but slim to the point of boniness. Beyond model slim. She had long brown hair and huge eyes, and as she watched her friends disappear, she suddenly wore a look of loneliness and pain. She looked so lost he was tempted to talk to her, but hell, this was South Beach—she could be anyone, including an undercover cop.

Not old enough.

She heard his footsteps in the sand and swung around, looking straight at him. She sized him up and down, and swallowed.

“Hey, mister, you got a dollar?”

“You a runaway?”

She flushed but said, “Not exactly. I’m eighteen. Honest.”

“But you ran away?”

“I left. I’ve graduated high school. I just haven’t been able to find a job. A real job.”

“So you’re living on the streets.”

She actually grinned. “The beach isn’t as bad as the streets. Really. If you’re going to be homeless, this is the place to be.”

“But you’ve got a home?”

“What are you, a cop?”

“No, just a concerned citizen who doesn’t want to see your face in the news. ‘Does anyone know this girl? Her body was discovered Saturday night.’”

The girl shook her head vehemently. “I’m careful. You got a dollar or not? I don’t need a third degree.”

“Hey, wait.” He pulled out his wallet and found a five.

She blinked and walked toward him. “What do you want?” she asked uneasily. “I’m not a cheap hooker.”

He shook his head. “I just want you to tell me that you’re going to buy food, and that you’re not a junkie, either.”

“Hey, you see any punctures in these arms?” She was wearing a tank top over cutoff jeans, and she spoke with pride as well as conviction.

“Get yourself something to eat, then. And hey, listen. If you do need help, you can get it, you know. Find a cop. The guys on the beach are pretty damned decent, and if not, head for the South Miami station. There’s a woman there who is a victims’ advocate, and she’s an absolute gem. Wait, I’ll give you her card.”

She looked as if she was going to run with the five at first, but then she waited and even took the card.

“I thought you said you weren’t a cop.”

“I’m not.”

“Kind of overdressed for the beach, aren’t you?”

He started to shrug. Her eyes widened. “I’ll bet you were at that dance studio.”

He didn’t answer, and she laughed. “Hey, I’d be there, too, if I had the bucks. God, I love to dance.” She flushed again, then wiggled the five in her hand. “Thanks.”

“Be careful, huh?”

“Hey, don’t I know? Don’t worry, I’m tougher than I look. And I know that you can get into a lot more out here than just sea and sand.”

She turned and sprinted off, then paused a good thirty feet away and called back to him, “Hey, you’re all right, you know? My name is Marnie, by the way.” Then, as if she had given away far too much, she turned again, this time running toward the street at full speed.

He watched her go. He hoped she was as tough as she thought.

Miami Beach was a gateway to every vice in the western hemisphere.

He noted the position of the sun in the sky and glanced at his watch. Time to get moving.

He headed back for his car, which was parked over on Alton. He wasn’t sure why, but he hadn’t wanted to park closer to the studio. He returned to his car, took a look at his watch again and figured he had time. It was a short hop from South Beach to pay a visit to the medical examiner’s officer.

The newly revamped and renamed hotel where they were hoping to hold the Gator Gala had called while Shannon was giving Quinn O’Casey his first lesson. When she returned the call, she was happy to learn that she had played hardball with them to just the right degree—they were calling to agree to a per-night room charge that was completely reasonable and would surely help draw northern entrants to the competition, which was planned for the second week in February. Despite the heavy pall that had seemed to hang over her since Lara’s death, Shannon was delighted. They would wrap up the deal at their meeting later in the week. She hurried into the main office to tell Gordon.

“Great,” he told her, really pleased. “That should make a difference for us. I mean, who wouldn’t want to come to Miami Beach in the middle of winter? Especially at such a great price. What about the meals?”

“We’re still negotiating,” she said.

“What are we negotiating?” Ben Trudeau asked, poking his head in.

“Meals,” Shannon told him.

“Ah.” Ben was one of those men who was so good-looking he was almost too pretty. Of course, once upon a time, it hadn’t seemed that way to Shannon. Once he had been like a god to her—tall, lithe, elegant, able to move with the speed and electric power of lightning or as smoothly as the wind.

He was an incredible dancer and always a striking competitor. His hair was ebony, his eyes dark as ink, and his features classically flawless. He had amazing technical ability and was a showman to boot. For several years he had competed with Lara, but then it had all fallen apart. They’d been divorced for almost five years before her death. In that time, she’d taken a number of championships, working steadily with Jim Burke. Ben, in the meantime, had grabbed any number of best in shows and number ones and cash prizes, but he hadn’t gone as far as Lara. He’d changed partners too many times. Now his eyes moved over Shannon as he stood in the doorway.

“It’s a waste,” he said.

“What?”

“All the time you’re spending on business.”

“Hey!” Gordon said.

“Well, she should be competing.”

Gordon looked at Shannon, a slight smile curving his lips. “She can go back into competition any time she wants.”

“Gentlemen, I’m well aware of that. And I don’t want to compete.”

“You know, that’s just silly,” Ben said, smoothing back a thatch of hair from his forehead. “You get out there in the Pro-Ams with your students all the time. What’s the difference?”

“They’re my students.”

“Lucky students,” Gordon noted, still amused. “You make them look great.”

“And I’m really proud of them when they do well. Why can’t you two understand that? Everyone isn’t ruled by blinding ambition.”

She sighed. “Look, since I broke my ankle all those years ago, it’s never been the same. I never know when it’s going to give, and after too much practice, it hurts like hell. It’s not good enough to work as hard as I’d have to if I wanted to compete professionally. The good thing is, I really love to teach. I get my thrills by working with the students.”

“Beginners,” Ben said, a note of contempt in his voice.

“Everyone is a beginner at some point.”

Ben laughed. “Right. So you gonna talk that new student of yours—that tank—into entering the newcomers division at the Gator Gala? That the kind of challenge you’re up to?”

“Maybe I will talk him into it,” she said.

“It’s all just an excuse for cowardice,” Ben said.

She didn’t have a chance to respond. A buzzer sounded on Gordon’s desk, and he hit the intercom button.

“Dr. Long is here for his lesson with Shannon,” Ella’s voice informed them.

“I’m on my way.” Before she left, she addressed the two men one last time. “Both of you—I’m happy with what I do. Jane and Rhianna are both young and beautiful and talented. Let’s support them, huh?” She glared at both men. Neither responded.