Heather Graham - Dead On The Dance Floor

“What is it?” Quinn asked, taking the paper.

“Read.”

Quinn unfolded it and looked at the headline. “‘Diva Lara Trudeau Dead on the Dance Floor at Thirty-eight.’” He cocked his head toward his brother.

“Keep reading.”

Quinn scanned the article. He’d never heard of Lara Trudeau, but that didn’t mean anything. He wouldn’t have recognized the name of any dancer, ballroom or otherwise. He could free-dive to nearly four hundred feet, bench-press nearly four hundred pounds and rock climb with the best of them. But in a salsa club, hell, he was best as a bar support.

Puzzled, he scanned the article. Lara Trudeau, thirty-eight, winner of countless dance championships, had died as she had lived—on the dance floor. A combination of tranquilizers and alcohol had caused a cardiac arrest. Those closest to the dancer were distraught, and apparently stunned that, despite her accomplishments, she had felt the need for artificial calm.

Quinn looked back at his brother and shook his head. “I don’t get it. An aging beauty got nervous and took too many pills. Tragic. But hardly diabolical.”

“You’re not reading between the lines,” Doug said with dismay.

Quinn suppressed a grin. “And I take it no one in the homicide division ‘read between the lines,’ either?”

Doug smacked the article. “Quinn, a woman like Lara Trudeau wouldn’t take pills. She was a perfectionist. And a winner. She would have taken the championship. She had no reason to be nervous.”

“Doug, are you even reading the lines yourself? We’re talking about something that no one can outrun—age. Here’s this Lara Trudeau—thirty-eight. With a horde of twenty-somethings following in her wake. Hell, yes, she was nervous.”

“What, you think people keel over at thirty-eight?” Doug said.

“When you’re a quarterback, you’re damn near retirement,” Quinn said.

“She wasn’t a quarterback.”

Quinn let out an impatient sigh. “It’s the same thing. Sports, dancing. People slow down with age.”

“Some get better with age. She was still winning. And hell, in ballroom dance, people compete at all ages.”

“And that’s really great. More power to them. I just don’t understand why you chased me down about this. According to the paper and everything you’re telling me, the death was accidental. It’s all here. She dropped dead in public on a ballroom floor, so naturally there was an autopsy, and the findings indicated nothing suspicious.”

“Right. They found the physical cause of death. Cardiac arrest brought on by a mixture of alcohol and pills. How she happened to ingest that much isn’t in the M.E.’s report.”

Quinn groaned and pulled over the day’s newspaper, flipping quickly to the local section. “‘Mother and Two Children Found Shot to Death in North Miami Apartment,’” he read, glaring at his brother over the headlines. “‘Body Found in Car Trunk at Mall,’” he continued. “Want me to go on? Violence is part of life in the big city, bro. You’ve been through the academy. There’s a lot out there that’s real bad. You know it, and I know it. Things that need to be questioned, and I’m sure the homicide guys are on them. But a drugged-out dancer drops dead, and you want to make something more out of it. You’ll make detective soon enough. Give yourself time.”

“Quinn, this is important to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m afraid that someone else is going to die.”

Quinn frowned, staring at his younger brother, wondering if he wasn’t being overly dramatic. Doug looked dead calm and serious, though.

Quinn threw up his hands. “Is this based on anything, Doug? Was someone else threatened? If so, you’re a cop. You know the guys in homicide, including Dixon. And he’s not that bad. He knows the law, and on a paper chase, he’s great.”

“You know them better.”

“Knew them better,” Quinn corrected. “I was away a long time, before I started working with Dane down in the Keys. Anyway, we’re getting away from my point. Doug, take a look at the facts. There was an autopsy, and the medical examiner was convinced that her death was accidental. The cops must see it that way, too, if all they’re doing is a bit of follow-up investigation. So…? Did you hear someone threaten her before she died? Do you have any reason whatsoever to suspect murder? And if so, do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill her?”

Doug shrugged, contemplating his answer. “Several people, actually.”

“And what makes you say that?”

“She could be the world’s biggest bitch.”

“And you know this for a fact?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Again Doug hesitated, then cocked his head to the side as he surveyed his brother. “I was sleeping with her.”

Quinn groaned, set his beer on the table and pressed his temples between his palms. “You were sleeping with a woman more than ten years your senior?”

“There’s something wrong with that?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You sure as hell did.”

“All right, it just seems a little strange to me, that’s all.”

“She was quite a woman.”

“If you say so, Doug, I’m sure she was.” He hesitated. “Were you emotionally involved, or was it more of a sexual thing?”

“I can’t say that I thought I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her or anything like that. And I know damn well she didn’t feel that way about me. But whether she could be a bitch or not, and whether or not we were meant for the ages, hell, yes, I cared about her.”

“And are you asking me to look into this because your feelings are ruling your mind?” Quinn asked seriously.

Doug shook his head. “We weren’t a ‘thing,’ by any means. And I wasn’t the only one involved with her. She could play games. Or maybe, in her mind, she wasn’t playing games. She kind of considered herself a free spirit.” He shrugged, not looking at Quinn. “Kind of as if she was a gift to the world and the men in it, and she bestowed herself when she felt it was warranted, or when she was struck by whim, I guess. At any rate, I wasn’t the only one she was sleeping with,” Doug said flatly.

“Great. You know who else she was seeing?”

“I know who she might have been seeing—anyone around the studio.”

“And how many people knew about your relationship?”

“I don’t know,” Doug admitted.

“This is pretty damn vague.”

“It wouldn’t need to be—if you would just agree to look into what happened.”

Quinn surveyed his younger brother thoughtfully. He was caught up in this thing emotionally. And maybe that was why he didn’t want it to have happened the way it appeared.

“Maybe you should make it a point to stay away from the homicide guys, Doug. If the police suspected someone of murder, you might be first in line.”

“But I didn’t kill her. I’m a cop. And even if I wasn’t, I’d never murder anyone, Quinn. You know that.”

“You had a relationship with the woman. If you convince people that she was killed, you could wind up under investigation yourself, you understand that?”

“Of course. But I’m innocent.”

Quinn looked at the newspaper again. “She died because of an overdose of the prescription drug Xanax. The alcohol might have enhanced the drug, bringing on cardiac arrest.”

“Yes,” Doug said. “And the cop on the case is certain that in her pigheaded quest for eternal fame—my adjective, not his—she got nervous.”

“Doug, I’m sorry to say it, but I’ve seen people do a lot of stupid things. It may be tragic, but it looks as if she got nervous, took the pills, then drank.”

Doug groaned, shaking his head. “No.”