Heather Graham - Dead On The Dance Floor

“You think a dancer is the killer?” Duarte shook his head. “Quinn, the circumstances were odd enough for the police to investigate, but you’ve got to think about the facts again. Lara Trudeau didn’t argue with anyone at that competition, and she walked out on the floor to dance without the least sign of distress. When she fell, she did so in front of a huge audience. The pills she took were prescription, the vial had no prints, and the prescription was written by a physician she’d been seeing for over ten years—and to the best of my knowledge, he wasn’t a ballroom dancer.”

“Yeah, I know. I read the report. I’m going to pay a visit to Dr. Williams, though I know he was already interviewed and cleared of any wrongdoing.”

Duarte grimaced. “If the cops blamed a physician every time a patient abused a prescription, the jails would be spilling over worse than they are now. This is a tough one, Quinn. Strange, and tough. I just don’t see where you can go. There’s simply no forensic evidence to lead you in any direction. If it is a crime, it’s just about the perfect one.”

“No crime is perfect.”

“We both know a lot of them go unpunished.”

“Yeah. And this time, I agree, there’s nothing solid to go on. Unless I can find someone who knows something—and that person has to be out there.”

“Wish I could be more helpful,” Duarte said.

Quinn nodded. “Nell Durken hadn’t taken a lesson in the sixth months before she died. With Nell…there was nothing else, either, right? No…grass, speed…anything like that?”

“No, sorry. There were no illegal substances in either woman. Just massive overdoses of prescription medications and, in the Trudeau case, alcohol.”

“Well, thanks,” Quinn said. “Sorry to take up your time.”

Duarte offered him a rueful smile. “You never take up my time. I really believe in the things you read and see on television. The dead can’t speak anymore. We have to do their talking for them, but sometimes we’re not as good at interpreting as we want to be. If I’ve missed something, or if I haven’t thought to look for something, hell, I want to know.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“You going back to the Keys tonight?” Duarte asked.

“No. I have my boat up at the marina by Nick’s, doing some work. I’m still there.”

“Maybe I’ll see you later. I’m starving—it was a long day. I got busy and forgot to eat. I’m dying for a hamburger.”

Quinn nodded, but at the moment, he didn’t feel the slightest twinge of hunger. He’d stood through a number of autopsies and he’d never gotten sick or fainted—as some of the biggest, toughest guys he knew had done—but he’d never gotten over a certain abdominal clenching in the presence of a corpse. Time and experience didn’t change some things.

Duarte was one of the best of the best. But he could chow down with body parts on the same table. Survival, Quinn thought, in a place where the houses of the dead were as big as they were in Miami-Dade County.

“You’ll be around later?” Duarte said.

“Sure,” Quinn agreed. It would be a lot later, he knew.

Lara was covered and rolled away by the assistant as the two men started out the door and back down the hall.

A trip to the main station on Kendall was pretty much as worthless as Quinn had suspected. Detective Pete Dixon worked nine to five.

No overtime for Dixon these days.

He said a quick hello to a few old friends and started out. In the parking lot, he ran into Jake Dilessio, with whom he’d worked prior to leaving for Quantico. He wished that Dilessio had been assigned to the Trudeau investigation. He was certain he wouldn’t be taking dance lessons if the chips had fallen that way.

“Hey, stranger, haven’t seen much of you,” Dilessio greeted him. “Seems we’re living only a few feet away from one another, too. You’re moored at the marina by Nick’s, right? Thought you were taking off for the Bahamas.”

“I was.” Quinn shrugged. “I’m investigating the Trudeau case.”

“Trudeau?” Dilessio arched a brow. “Sounds familiar.”

“The dancer who died.”

“I thought that was ruled accidental. Last I heard, Dixon was just tying up the reports to close the case.”

“It was ruled accidental.”

“But someone thinks it wasn’t?”

“Something like that.”

“So who are you working for?”

“The word ‘work’ would imply pay.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right. They’re calling your brother twinkle-toes on the beat. Not without some envy, I might add. I hear the kid is really good.”

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen him dance yet.”

“No?”

“I didn’t even know he was dancing until this all came up.”

Jake shrugged and nodded. “I saw him not too long ago. He said you’d been really wrapped up in work. Congratulations, by the way. I hear your surveillance reports on Art Durken gave the cops what they needed to arrest him and enough for the D.A.’s office to charge him.”

“Not really. If I’d been good enough, she wouldn’t be dead.”

“How long have you been in this business? You can’t blame yourself for all the bad shit that goes down.”

“Yeah, I know. But I can’t stop it from bugging me, either.”

Jake shrugged and said, “That’s true. But at least it’s better than the shit that goes unpunished.”

“I guess you’re right. Anyway, the dancer who died was connected with Doug’s studio. I’m doing a little follow-up of my own.”

“Well, Dixon is known to show up at Nick’s in the evening. No wife, no kids, no kitchen. He eats a hamburger there almost every night. I’m heading home now. In fact, if you’re free, I’ll buy you dinner.”

“If you’re buying me dinner, I’m not exactly free, but at least, at Nick’s, I’ll be cheap. Sounds good to me. Where’s your wife? Is she joining us? I saw her when I tied up the other day. That baby’s due awful soon, isn’t it?”

“Too soon. Three weeks. And she went up to Jacksonville anyway, with a special dispensation from the airline. They wanted her to do some sketches of a homicide suspect.”

“I thought that she left forensics and graduated from the academy.”

“She did graduate from the academy, but she stayed in forensics. She’s one of the best sketch artists in the state, in the country, maybe. They asked her to go, and she thought she could help, so she went.”

“You know, you marry a cop, and that’s what happens,” Quinn said lightly.

“Yeah, I know.”

They arrived at Nick’s right before six.

It was a great time of the day at the marina. Darkness was falling, coming fast, but the sky over the ocean was in the midst of its last majestic frenzy of color. Magenta, oranges, trails of gold, all sweeping together across the heavens over the shadowed ocean. The breeze at night was cool, pleasant after the heat of the day.

As Jake had suspected, Pete Dixon was there, already on his second cheeseburger, it appeared, since one empty basket was pushed behind the one in front of him.

Quinn pulled out a chair at Dixon’s table without being asked, turning it backward and straddling the seat. “Jeez, Pete, you might want to opt for something green now and then, watch out for the fat and cholesterol once a week, maybe,” he said.

Dixon wiped his mouth, looking at Quinn as if he’d just been joined by a barracuda. His eyes, small in the folds of his face, fell on Jake Dilessio next, riddled with pure accusation. “Sit down, Quinn, Jake. Come on, join me. And while you’re at it, give me grief about my eating habits.”

“Thanks,” Jake said, sitting.

“You’re close to retirement. You might want to live to enjoy a little of it,” Quinn said.