Heather Graham - Dead On The Dance Floor

Shannon started out of the office. Ben slipped up behind her, catching her shoulder the minute they were out of the doorway.

“We were good, you know,” he reminded her.

“Once.”

“You really are afraid, you know. Maybe you’re afraid of me.”

“Ben, I promise you—I’m not afraid of you.”

“We could be really good together again,” he whispered huskily.

“Not in this lifetime, Ben,” she said sweetly, then edged her shoulder free. “Excuse me. My student is waiting.”

“Time has gone by, you know. A lot of it.”

“My student is waiting.”

“You don’t have to hurt us both by being bitter. You could forgive me.”

“I forgave you a long time ago, Ben.”

“Then don’t play so hard to get.”

“Are you trying to come on to me again—or do you just want to dance with me?”

“Both?” He laughed with a certain charm, but it just didn’t strum the same heartstrings for her it once had.

“I’m sorry. I know this must be amazing to you, but I’m not hateful, bitter or playing hard to get. I’m just not interested.”

“You’ll be sorry,” he said, his voice teasing.

She stopped, staring at him. “Ben, you have a new partner. What’s her name, from Broward. Vera Thompson.”

He shook his head. “She’s okay. She’s not the caliber I need.”

“Have you told her that?” Shannon inquired.

“Of course not. Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“You haven’t agreed to dance again.”

She shook her head. “Ben, if I ever were to dance professionally again, it wouldn’t be with you.”

“Why not?”

She could have told him that the reasons should have been obvious. But then, maybe nothing was as obvious to Ben as it should be.

So she shrugged. And then she couldn’t help the reply that came to her lips. “You’re just not the caliber I need,” she said, and hurried out to meet Richard for his class.

Quinn had already read the police report that had been provided by Doug. He’d read the M.E.’s report, as well, which had provided a stroke of luck. There were eight M.E.s under the direction of the chief, but Anthony Duarte had performed the autopsy on Lara Trudeau.

Just as he had performed the autopsy on Nell Durken.

And though Dixon might not be a ball of fire in the homicide department, Duarte was tops in his field, a man with a natural curiosity that gave him the propensity to go far beyond thorough, even in the most straightforward circumstances.

At the desk, Quinn produced his credentials, though he knew the receptionist and she waved away his wallet as she put through the call to Duarte.

Despite it being close to five, Duarte came down the hall, smiling as he greeted Quinn. “Hey, thought you were heading off on vacation.”

“I was.”

“What are you doing down here?”

“Right now? Feeling damned lucky to see you.”

“Most people don’t feel that way—when I’m at work, anyway,” Duarte said with a touch of humor.

“Let me rephrase. Since I have to see a medical examiner, I’m glad it’s you. You performed the autopsy on Lara Trudeau.”

Duarte, a tall, slim black man with the straightest back Quinn had ever seen, arched a graying brow. “You’re working an angle on Lara Trudeau?”

“That’s surprising, I take it?”

Duarte lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Nothing surprises me. I’ve been here far too long. I ruled the death accidental because I sure as hell couldn’t find any reason not to. Due to the circumstances, though, Dixon is still doing some work—though nothing more than paperwork, I imagine.”

“What do you mean, the circumstances?”

“A healthy woman popped too many nerve pills, swallowed some hard liquor and dropped dead. It isn’t a daily occurrence. Not even in Miami.” The last was spoken dryly and a little wearily. “Although, in all honesty, the number of people who do die from the misuse of prescriptions and even over-the-counter drugs is a hell of a lot higher than it should be.”

“Really?”

“People mix too much stuff. And then they think, like with sleeping pills, hey, if one helps, I could really get a good night’s sleep with a bunch of them. As for Lara Trudeau, who the hell knows what she was thinking? Maybe she just thought she was immortal.”

“I’m surprised the stuff didn’t affect her dancing.”

“That too—she must have had a will of steel.”

“She dropped dead in front of an audience.”

“Not to mention the television cameras. And no one saw anything suspicious.”

“There was no sign of…?” Quinn said. Though what the hell there might be a sign of, he didn’t know.

“Force? Had someone squeezed open her cheeks to force pills down her throat? Not that I could find. The cops, naturally, checked for prints on her prescription bottle. Not a one to be found.”

“Not a single print?” Quinn said with surprise. “Not even hers?”

“She was wearing gloves for her performance.”

“And that would normally wipe the entire vial clean?”

“If she was rubbing her fingers around it over and over again, which a nervous person might do.”

“Still…”

Duarte shrugged. “I guess it’s one of the reasons the cops kept looking. She was famous and apparently not all that nice, so…there might have been any number of people who wanted her dead. Trouble is, they just haven’t got anything. There were hundreds of people there. She went out to dance with a smile on her face. No apparent argument with anyone there…well, I’m assuming you’ve read the report.” He stared at Quinn. “She’s still here. Want to see her yourself?”

“I thought you’d released her body.”

“I did. The funeral home won’t be here until sometime tonight. Come on. I’ll have her brought out.”

They walked down halls that, no matter how clean, still somehow reeked of death. Duarte called an assistant and led Quinn to a small room for the viewing. Loved ones weren’t necessarily brought in to see their dearly departed. A camera allowed for them to remain in the more natural atmosphere of the lobby to view the deceased.

She was brought in. Duarte lowered the sheet.

Lara Trudeau had been a beautiful woman. Even in death, her bone structure conveyed a strange elegance. She truly gave the appearance of sleep—until the eye wandered down to the autopsy scars.

Quinn stared at her, circling the gurney on which she lay. Other than the sewn Y incision that marred her chest, there was no sign of any violence. She hadn’t even bruised herself when she’d gone down.

“I couldn’t find anything but the prescription pills and alcohol. She’d barely eaten, which surely added to the pressure on her heart. That’s what killed her—the heart’s reaction to drugs and alcohol.”

“Like Nell.”

Frowning, Duarte stared at him. “Not exactly. No alcohol in Nell. Why, what do you think you’re seeing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is that why you’re on this?”

“Maybe. I found out that Nell Durken had been an amateur dancer and took lessons at the same studio where Lara Trudeau sometimes practiced and coached.”

“But the police arrested Nell’s husband. And his fingerprints were all over the pill bottle. You were the one who followed the guy, right, and gave the police your records on the investigation?”

“Yep.”

“Art Durken has been in jail, pending trial, for over a week. He sure as hell wasn’t at that competition.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So?”

“I don’t know. There’s just…something. That’s all.”

“Durken still denying that he murdered his wife?”

“Yes.” Quinn met Anthony Duarte’s eyes. “Admits he was a womanizing bastard, but swears he didn’t kill her.”