Heather Graham - Dead On The Dance Floor

It was still early—for clubbing—when Quinn returned to the beach. Luckily it was a weeknight, and he was in time to get a meter right on the street and a seat at the sidewalk café across from Suede and Moonlight Sonata. He sat staring at the Deco building that housed the club and dance studio. He’d watched people arrive for dance classes—taking the stairs up to the second floor at the side of the building—along with the few who were already arriving for a night on the town. Several people had entered the lower level dressed in shorts and T-shirts with lettering that advertised “Suede.” Apparently they were employees. In between arrivals, the café was one of those perfect spots for people-watching.

A gothic group cruised by, one girl, two guys, all three with nose rings and enough silver in their ears to weight down a cargo ship. Despite the balmy quality of the weather, they wore dark jeans and long black jackets, along with makeup that left them looking like walking cadavers.

They were followed by an elderly couple, moving very slowly. Harvey, as the wife addressed the man, wasn’t holding the bagel bag securely enough, according to Edith, the woman.

Three bathing beauties strolled past him next. One had on a short jacket, which pretended to cover up the expanse of ample breasts displayed by the strings of her bikini top. The jacket, however, ended at her midriff. The bottom of her bathing suit was a thong. She was wearing three-inch heels, as well.

Interesting ensemble.

As night came on, so did more of the bold, the beautiful and the downright ugly.

A doorman came out to guard the entrance to the club.

A lithe Latin girl in see-through white entered with a tall dark man, followed by three obvious rockers, speaking so loudly that their English accents were clearly discernible across the street.

Quinn sipped a mineral water, somewhat amused as he turned a page in the notebook before him—compliments of Doug. His brother was meticulously thorough. This file described the teachers at the studio. Interesting group. He’d started with Gordon Henson, who had bought the business in the early seventies. He no longer taught, but in his day, he had apparently instructed some of the top champions in the world. He still showed up at the studio and did some overseeing of the day-to-day business. He had basically turned things over to Shannon Mackay, though. She had some students but also saw to the running of the studio. She was a native Floridian, born in Winter Haven, moved with her folks to the Miami area when she was three, had graduated from the area’s specialized high school, then gone to an arts school in New York City. She was five feet seven inches, one hundred and twenty-five pounds, a green-eyed, dark blond dynamo, with a capacity for pure professionalism. Doug, it seemed, had waxed a little poetic on the last.

That didn’t surprise Quinn.

Everyone he had seen in the studio was attractive. Well-dressed, well-groomed. The men wore suits, the women dresses or feminine pants ensembles. The girls were pretty, the men, if not exactly handsome, certainly presentable. But Shannon Mackay was a standout. Features delicate but precise, hair soft in a stunning color of sunlight, and eyes deep, direct and thoughtful. More, she seemed to radiate a sensual energy, her every movement unintentionally seductive, her smile somehow open and secretive in one. Beguiling.

She wore one of the Versace scents—he knew it because his mother loved perfumes and he’d learned the names. Shannon had the ability to touch gently but still steer and manipulate a student as she wanted. At his stage, he stood somewhat awkwardly apart from her when they danced. Close enough, though. She was something. Maybe that was why he had done so badly—it was difficult to concentrate when he was so close to her. Hell, yes, difficult to concentrate, but he just wasn’t cut out for dancing. Didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be taking lessons long.

He wondered idly what he would have felt if he’d met her under different circumstances. Severely piqued interest, at the least. She had a chemistry that instantly aroused interest at an instinctive level. He would have liked to ask her out, listen to her voice, get between the light and shadow of her eyes.

She was as suspect as anyone else in a possible murder, he reminded himself.

A damned sexy suspect.

And yet…what if he’d met her elsewhere? He suddenly found himself pondering his last night with Geneva and wondering what exactly was wrong with him. They’d been together five years, and that night, she had just exploded. He was never with her, she’d said. Not ever really with her. Not even when they made love. He lived work, breathed work and had become his work. She’d been crying. He had wanted to assure her somehow, but every word she’d said had been true. To others, it had been a perfect relationship. He was FBI; she was an assistant D.A. Tough schedules, the same parties. She teased that she always looked great on his arm; she was bright and beautiful. But somehow, it was true. The work—and the way it didn’t always work—had begun to obsess him. He had been able to leave the office but never to let go. His workouts at the gym were no longer exercise but him beating up an enemy he couldn’t touch, a vague force that was beating him, creating an inner rage.

Over. Over and done with. He was further disturbed by the knowledge that he hadn’t felt any lonelier when she was gone. He had merely felt the strange darkness, the frustration, and, finally, the feeling that he wasn’t where he should be, that he was no longer effective. Time to change his life, maybe even come home.

Then there had been the Nell Durken case.

The bastard who had killed her was in jail. Largely because of his work, his records, and what he’d given the cops. A killer was caught. He would face trial.

But was he the killer?

The question nagged at him, and he gritted his teeth.

Back to the files. The business at hand.

Shannon Mackay. She ran the business, taught, didn’t compete. Apparently a broken ankle several years ago had caused her to step out of the arena of professional competition. She’d been at the top of her form, and the trophies she’d won were part of what gave the studio its reputation.

So what had she felt about Lara Trudeau? Doug’s files didn’t say.

He stared across the street, reflecting on his instructor. She’d been tense. His questions had made her nervous. Or maybe she was always tense. No…she was on edge, something more than usual.

Rhianna Markham, Jane Ulrich. Both pretty, unmarried, no solid relationships, no children. Rhianna was from Ohio and had a degree from a liberal arts college. Jane had never gone past high school but had worked three years as a dancer at one of the central Florida theme parks before coming south. Both were ambitious, wanted to advance in the professional world. Lara Trudeau would have been their competition.

Of course, every female competitor in the dance world would have been in the same position. Assuming that Lara Trudeau had somehow been helped to her demise, she had done so before a crowd of hundreds—a large percentage of them competitors. He could be barking up the wrong tree entirely.

But he had to start somewhere. If Lara Trudeau had been murdered, it had been by someone with whom she had a close relationship. To have her die the way she did, before a crowd of hundreds, a murderer would have had to plan very carefully. And it certainly did seem odd that a woman who had been a student at the school had died from an eerily similar overdose just weeks before, even if she hadn’t been at the studio in some time.

So…

Love. Hate.

The male instructors. Ben Trudeau. The ex-husband. Always a good suspect. Late thirties, tall, attractive, talented, a bit hardened, and, like Lara, growing old for the field of competition. He’d taken a steady teaching job rather than just coaching. Sam Railey, Jane Ulrich’s partner, deeply loyal, determined that they would rise to the top—they had come close together, many times. Justin Garcia, salsa specialist, newest teacher at the studio.