Praise for New York Times Bestselling Author
Heather Graham

“Graham shines in this frightening tale. Paranormal elements add zing to her trademark chilling suspense and steamy romance, keeping the pages flying.”

—Romantic Times on Haunted

“Graham’s tight plotting, her keen sense of when to reveal and when to tease…will keep fans turning the pages.”

—Publishers Weekly on Picture Me Dead

“An incredible storyteller!”

—Los Angeles Daily News

“Demonstrating the skills that have made her one of today’s best storytellers, Ms. Graham delivers one of this year’s best books thus far.”

—Romantic Times on Hurricane Bay

“A suspenseful, sexy thriller…Graham builds jagged suspense that will keep readers guessing up to the final pages.”

—Publishers Weekly on Hurricane Bay

“A roller-coaster ride…fast-paced, thrilling…Heather Graham will keep you in suspense until the very end. Captivating.”

—Literary Times on Hurricane Bay

“The talented Ms. Graham once again thrills us. She delivers excitement [and] romance…that keep the pages flipping quickly from beginning to end.”

—Romantic Times on Night of the Blackbird

“With the name Heather Graham on the cover, you are guaranteed a good read!”

—Literary Times

HEATHER GRAHAM
DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR

For Ana and John,

with congratulations on their tremendous successes,

and best of luck, always, in the future!

For Shirley Johnson,

with the deepest thanks for all your instruction,

your smile—and the laughter!

For Vickie Regan,

eternally gorgeous, and of course our true reigning diva,

Honey Bunch.

And for Victor,

who always does me so much better than me!

But teaches so much and, with his work, gives to so many.

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER 1

There was always something to see on South Beach.

Always.

Glittering, balmy, radiant by virtue of the sun by day and neon by night. The rich and beautiful came and played, and everyone else came and watched. The beach sparkled, offering the most spectacular eye candy, gossip, scandal, traffic jams and more. Nearly bare bodies that were beautiful. Nearly bare bodies that were not so beautiful.

Models, rockers, skaters, bikers, would-be-surfers-were-there-only-some-surf, the MTV crowd, the very old, the very young.

But tonight there was even more.

One of the largest and most prestigious ballroom dance competitions in the world was taking place at one of the best-known hotels ever to grace the strip of sand called Miami Beach.

And with it came Lara Trudeau.

She spun, she twirled, she floated on air, a blur of crystal color and grace.

She was, quite simply, beauty in motion.

Lara demonstrated a grace and perfection of movement that few could even begin to emulate. She had it all, a flair to pin down the unique character of every dance, a face that came alive to the music, a smile that never failed. Judges were known to have said that it was difficult to look down and judge her footwork, much less notice the other couples on the floor, because her smile and her face were so engaging they almost forgot their duties. They had been known to admit that they hadn’t marked other couples as accurately as they might have; Lara was simply so beautiful and spectacular and point-blank good that it was hard to draw their eyes away from her.

Tonight was no exception.

Indeed, tonight Lara was more incredible than ever, more seductive, alluring, and glorious. To watch her was to feel that the senses were teased, stroked, awakened, caressed, excited and eased.

She was alone on the floor, or rather, alone with her partner, Jim Burke. During the cabaret routines, each of the couples in the finals took the floor alone, so there she was, her body a lithe example of feminine perfection in her formfitting ball gown of a thousand colors. Jim, as talented as he was, had become nothing more than an accessory.

Those who loved her watched in awe, while those who despised her watched with envy.

Shannon Mackay, current manager of Moonlight Sonata, the independent studio where Lara had long ago begun her career and continued to coach, watched with mixed feelings of wry amusement, not at all sure herself whether she loved Lara or despised her. But there was no denying her talent. Even among the spectacular performances by the best and most accomplished artists in the world community of professional dance, Lara stood out.

“She is simply incredible,” Shannon said aloud.

At her side, Ben Trudeau, Lara’s ex, snorted. “Oh, yeah. Just incredible.”

Jane Ulrich, who had made it to the semifinals but been edged out at the end, as usual, by Lara, turned to Ben with a brilliant smile.

“Oh, Ben. You can’t still be bitter. She’s so good, it’s as if she’s not really of this earth.”

Shannon smiled at Jane’s compliment. Jane was stunning that night herself; her figure lean and trim, and her waltz gown, a deep crimson, set off her dark coloring in a blaze of glittering fire.

“I’d rather dance with you,” Jane’s partner, Sam Railey, said softly, giving her a squeeze. “You, my love, actually dance with someone. Lara uses her partner like a prop.”

“But she is brilliant, just brilliant,” Gordon Henson, owner of the studio, said. He was the one who had first taught Lara, and his pride was justified.

“Let’s face it—she’s a mean, ambitious bitch who’d walk over a friend’s dead body to get where she wanted to go,” said Justin Garcia, one of the studio’s upcoming salsa specialists.

Next to him, Rhianna Markham, another contender, laughed delightedly. “C’mon, Justin, say what you really feel.”

Shannon nudged Rhianna and said softly, “Careful. We’re surrounded by our students.” And they were, since the hotel was just north of the South Beach area where the studio was located. As a teaching institution, it was the envy of many a competitor, for not only was it located in the limelight of a varied and heavily populated area, it was situated right on top of a club that had turned into a true hot spot over the past few years, since it had been bought by charismatic young Latin American entrepreneur Gabriel Lopez—who had come this evening, as well, in support of his friends. Due to the proximity of the event, even a number of the studio’s more casual students had come, entranced to see the very best of the best, competitors from all over the world.

“She’s just gorgeous,” Rhianna said loudly enough to be overheard, making a conspiratorial face at Shannon and lowering her head. Shannon had to grin.

But then Gordon whispered to her softly, “You should have been out there. You could have been more gorgeous.”

She shook her head. “I like teaching, not competing.”

“Chicken?”

She grinned. “I know when I’m outclassed.”

“Never outclassed,” he said, and squeezed her hand.

On the dance floor, Lara executed another perfect lift, spiraling down her partner’s body in perfect unity with the music.

There was a tap on Shannon’s shoulder. At first, she paid no attention to it. The crowd was massive, including students, teachers, amateurs, professionals, press and those who just liked to watch. A jostle meant nothing as everyone vied for space from which to watch the spectacle.

The tap came again. Frowning, Shannon half turned. The sides of the stage were dark, cast in shadow by the spotlights on the floor. She couldn’t see the person summoning her, but it might have been the waiter behind her, a man dressed in tails. Strange, tonight the wait staff, some of the judges and many of the contenders were dressed almost alike.

“Yes?” she murmured, puzzled.

“You’re next,” he said.

“Next?” she queried. But the man, whose face she hadn’t really seen, was already gone. He must have been mistaken. She wasn’t competing.

“Ooh!” Jane said. “She’s unbelievable!”

Shannon looked quickly back to the floor, forgetting the man who had been trying to reach her in a case of mistaken identity. She wasn’t particularly concerned. Whoever was up next would know. They would already be waiting on the sidelines.

Waiting in a nerve-wracking situation. Following Lara would never be easy.

“Excellent,” Ben admitted. “Every step perfectly executed.”

From the crowd, a collective “Ahh!” arose.

And then, suddenly, Lara Trudeau went poetically still. Her hands, so elegant with their long, tapered fingers and polished nails, flew dramatically to her left breast. There was a moment of stillness, with the music still playing a Viennese waltz as sweet and lilting as the cool air.

Then, still graceful, she dropped.

Her fall was as elegant as any dance movement, a melting into the ground, a dip that was slow, supple….

Until her head fell to the dance floor in perfect complement to the length of her body and she did not move again.

“That wasn’t in her routine,” Gordon whispered to Shannon.

“No,” Shannon murmured back, frowning. “Do you think it’s something she added at the last minute for dramatic effect?”

“If so, she’s milking it too far,” Gordon replied, frowning as he stared at the floor.

At first, there was a hushed, expectant silence from the crowd. Then, as Jim Burke remained standing at her side, the room began to fill with the thunder of applause.

It ebbed awkwardly to a hollow clap here and there, then faded altogether, as those who knew dance and knew Lara began to frown, realizing that they hadn’t witnessed a dramatic finale but that something was wrong.

A collective “What…?” rose from the crowd.

Shannon started to move forward, frowning, wondering if Lara hadn’t decided to make use of a new ploy.

Gordon caught her arm.

“Something’s wrong,” he said. “I think she needs medical help.”

That must have been apparent, because the first person to rush forward was Dr. Richard Long, a handsome young surgeon, as well as a student at Moonlight Sonata. He fell to his knees at Lara’s side, felt deftly for a pulse. He raised his head, looking around stunned for a split second, then yelled out hoarsely, “Call an ambulance!” He quickly looked down again and began performing CPR.

The room was still for a second, as if the hundreds of people in it had become collectively paralyzed with shock. Then dozens of cell phones were suddenly whipped out from pockets and purses.

Whispers and murmurs rose from all around the dance floor, then went still.

Richard valiantly continued his efforts.

“My God, what on earth happened to her?” Gordon said, the tension in his eyes showing his inner debate on whether to rush up himself or not.

“Drugs?” Ben suggested.

“Lara? Never,” Jane said vehemently.

“No,” Shannon murmured, shaking her head.

“Yeah, right, no, never,” Ben said with a sniff. “Let’s see, drugs on South Beach? In Miami, Florida, gateway to South America? Right, never.”

“Never for Lara Trudeau,” Shannon snapped.

“There are different drugs,” Justin said.

“Maybe,” Gordon agreed ruefully. “She’s been known to swallow a few Xanax when she’s nervous.”

“Or maybe alcohol?” Justin said worriedly.

“When she’s dancing?” Rhianna protested, shaking her head.

“She truly considers her body a temple,” Sam informed them with complete assurance. “But sometimes the temple needs a few offerings, she says,” he added. “She must have taken something. I mean, look at her.”

“I hope she’s going to be all right. She’s got to be all right!” Shannon said, sharing Gordon’s concern regarding whether or not she should step forward.

Gordon set his hand on Shannon’s shoulders. “No,” he said softly.

She stared at him, puzzled.

“It’s too late,” he told her.

“What?” Shannon said, disbelieving.

Yet even as she asked the question, Richard Long rose. “Clear the floor, please. I’m afraid it’s too late,” he said quietly.

“Too late?” came a shout.

“She’s…gone,” Richard said awkwardly, as if sorry that his words gave the final ring of reality to the unbelievable.

“Dead?” Someone in the crowd said.

Richard sighed, dismayed that he couldn’t get his words to sink through the collective head of those surrounding him. “I’m afraid…yes.”

The sound of sirens filled the night.

Seconds later the crowd parted and medical techs swept into the room. They added emergency equipment and a desperately administered injection to the CPR efforts.

But in the end, no matter how hard they tried, it was over. Those watching kept their distance but could not turn away.

Shannon stared at the uniformed men, frozen in disbelief, along with the others. And as she watched, unbidden, a strange whisper filtered back into her mind.

You’re next.

Insane. Silly. Someone had mistaken her for the next dancer to compete, that was all. Everything was a mess, Lara had fallen, but would be all right in the end. The CPR would work. She would suddenly inhale and stand up, and soon they would all be talking about her again, saying that she would do anything to create the biggest impression of the evening. She meant to be remembered, to be immortal.

But no one lived forever.

As the crowd left the floor at last, still stunned, there were murmurs everywhere.

Lara Trudeau. Gone. Impossible. And yet, she had died as she had lived. Glorious, beautiful, graceful, and now…dead.

Dead on the dance floor.

CHAPTER 2

“Hey, Quinn, someone to see you.”

Quinn O’Casey was startled to see Amber Larkin standing at the top of the ladder as he crawled his way up. He was in full dive gear, having spent the past forty-five minutes scraping barnacles from the hull of the Twisted Time, his boat.

To the best of his knowledge, Amber had been in Key Largo, at work at the office, where she should have been. He was on vacation. She wasn’t.

He arched a brow, indicating that she should step back so he could come aboard. She did so, ignoring the look that also questioned her arrival when he should have been left the hell alone. So much for chasing a man down.

She backed up, giving him room, and when he stepped on deck, tossing down his flippers, pulling off his dive mask, he saw the reason she had come. His brother was standing behind her.

“Hey, Doug,” he said, frowning at them both.

“You might have mentioned you were coming up. I wouldn’t have had to drive down to Key Largo just to make Amber drive back up to Miami with me.”

Maybe he should have mentioned his vacation time to his brother, but why drag him down? Doug had gone through the police academy less than a year ago. An enthusiastic and ambitious patrolman, he was a younger brother to be proud of, having survived his teen years and young adulthood without the growing pains that had plagued Quinn’s younger years—and a few of his older ones, for that matter. But hell, that was why he was back in South Florida, despite the gut-wrenching work he’d found instead of the easy slide he’d expected at the beginning.

Quinn shook his head. He was glad to be back home in South Florida. It could be one hell of a great place to live.

It could also showcase the most blatant forms of man’s inhumanity to his fellow man.

And thus, the vacation. It wasn’t as if he felt shattered or anything like that. Hell, he knew he couldn’t control the evils of the world, or even those of a single man. But who the hell had ever expected what had happened to Nell Durken? He should be glad that the scum who had killed her was under arrest and would either be put away for life or meet a date with death. Still, whatever Art Durken’s sentence, Nell was gone. And maybe he did blame himself a little, wonder if he shouldn’t have told her to get away from the man immediately. But she had just come in to hire Quinn for routine surveillance, so who the hell knew until it was too late just what kind of a hornet’s nest they’d stirred up. Eventually he had suggested that she part from her husband, and he had assumed she meant to do so, armed with the information regarding the man that Quinn had been able to give her.

But she hadn’t left fast enough. Art hadn’t been abusive, not physically, though he had been sexually demanding of Nell while spending his own time in a number of places outside his own home—and with a number of women who had not been his wife.

Who the hell could have known the guy would suddenly become homicidal?

He should have—he should have suspected Nell could be in danger.

Today he felt something like the boat—his time on that particular case had caused a growth of barnacles over his skin. Some time off might help scrape off the festering scabs of surprise and bitterness.

Vacation. From work, from family, from friends.

Maybe especially family. Doug didn’t deserve any of his foul mood or foul temper.

And also, he hadn’t actually been up to spending time with Doug. His brother could be a royal pain in the ass, a nonstop barrage of questions and inquiries. Like an intern in an emergency room, ready to diagnose a malady in any tic of the body, Doug was ready to find evil in every off-the-wall movement in the people around him.

A tough way to be in Miami-Dade County, where more than half the inhabitants could be considered a bit off-the-wall.

Quinn didn’t know whether to groan or be concerned. Doug wouldn’t have hunted him down to ask hypothetical questions. A tinge of unease hit him suddenly.

“Mom?” Quinn said worriedly.

“Heart ticking like an industrial clock,” Doug assured him quickly. “However, she did mention that you hadn’t been by lately, and she enjoys it when you come around to dinner once a week. You might want to give her a call.”

“I left her a message that I was fine, just kind of busy.”

“Yeah, but she’s a smart woman, you know. She reads the newspapers.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Quinn demanded, arching a brow.

“I have a case for you,” Doug said, moving around his brother to grab the dive tank Quinn had just unbuckled.

“Guess what, baby bro? I don’t need you to find cases for me. The agency does that very well—too well. Besides, I’m on vacation.”

“Yeah, Amber told me. That’s why I thought it would be a great time for you to take on something private I’ve been thinking about.”

Quinn went ahead and groaned. “Dammit, Doug. You mean you want me to do a bunch of prying around for free.” He glared at Amber.

“Hey, he’s your brother,” she said defensively. “And you know what? Now that we’ve found you, I think I’ll let you two talk. I’m going over to Nick’s for a hamburger.” Tossing her long blond hair over her shoulder, she started off the boat, casting back a single glance so she could try to read Quinn’s scowl and figure out just how annoyed he was with her.

Doug wore a rueful grin on his face. “Hey, I’ll rinse your equipment for you,” he said, as if offering some kind of an apology.

“Good. Go ahead. I’ll be in the cabin.”

Quinn took the two steps down to the Twisted Time’s head, stripped and stepped beneath a spray of fresh water for a moment, then wrapped a towel around his waist and dug a clean pair of cutoffs out of the wicker laundry basket on the bed of the main cabin. Barefoot and still damp, he returned to the main cabin area, pulled a Miller from the fridge in the galley and sat on the sofa just beyond it, waiting, fingers drumming, scowl still in place.

Doug came down the steps, nimble and quick, a grimace on his face as he, too, went to the fridge, helped himself to a beer and sat on the port-side sofa, facing Quinn.

“You want me to do something for free, right?” Quinn said, scowling.

“Well…sort of. Actually, it’s going to cost you.”

“What?”

“I need you to take dance lessons.”

Quinn stared at his younger brother, stunned speechless for several seconds. “You’re out of your mind,” he told Doug.

“No, no, I’m not, and you’ll understand in a few minutes.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Yes, you will. It’s about a death.”

“Do you know how many people die everyday, Doug? Hey, you’re the cop. If this was suspicious death, it was—or will be—investigated. And even if it was deemed natural or accidental, you must know someone in the department who can look into it.”

Quinn shook his head. Looking at Doug was almost like seeing himself a number of years ago. There was an eight-year age gap between them. They looked something alike, identical in height at six-two, but Doug still had the lean, lanky strength of a young man in his early twenties, while Quinn himself had broadened out. Quinn’s hair was dark, while Doug’s was a wheaten color, but they both had their father’s deep blue, wide-set eyes and hard-angled face. Sometimes they moved alike, using their hands when they spoke, as if words weren’t quite enough, and folding them prayer fashion or tapping them against their chins when they were in deep thought. For a moment Quinn reflected on his irritation at being interrupted here, but Doug had always been a damned good brother, looking up to him, being there for him, never losing faith, even when Quinn had gone through his own rough times.

“I can’t get anyone in the department interested in this,” Doug admitted. “There’s been too much going on in the county lately. They’re hunting a serial rapist who’s getting more violent with each victim, a guard was killed at a recent robbery…trust me, homicide is occupied. Too busy to get involved when it looks like an accidental death. There’s no one who’s free right now.”

“No one?”

Doug made a face. “All right, there were a few suspicious factors, so there is a guy assigned to follow up. But he’s an asshole, Quinn, really.”

“Who?”

Sometimes guys just didn’t like each other, so rumors went around about their capabilities. The metro department had endured its share of troubles through the years with a few bad cops, but for the most part, the officers were good men, underpaid and overworked.

Then again, sometimes they were just assholes.

“Pete Dixon.”

Quinn frowned. “Old Pete’s not that bad.”

“Hell no. Give him a smoking gun in a guy’s hand, and he can catch the perp every time.”

“That from a rookie,” Quinn muttered.

“Look, Dixon’s not a ball of fire. And he’s just following up on what the M.E. has ruled as an accidental death. He isn’t going to go around looking under any carpets. He’s not interested. He’ll just do some desk work by rote. He doesn’t care.”

“And therefore I should? To the point of taking dance lessons? Like I said, bro, I think you’ve lost your mind,” Quinn said flatly.

Doug smiled, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans. He pulled out his wallet and, from it, a carefully folded newspaper clipping. That was just like Doug. He was one of the most orderly human beings Quinn had ever come across. The clipping hadn’t been ripped out but cut, then folded meticulously. He shook his head at the thought, knowing that his own organizational skills were lacking in comparison.

“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.”

“You don’t think that’s even possible?”

“No.”

“The prescription was in her name. Her doctor was contacted. According to him, she’d been taking a few pills before performances for the past several years. It’s in the article.”

“That’s right,” Doug agreed calmly.

“Doug, unless you’ve got more to go on…I can’t even understand what you think I can do for you.”

“I’ve got more to go on. A hunch. A feeling. A certainty, actually,” his brother said firmly. Quinn knew Doug. He was capable of being as steadfast as an oak. That was what had gotten him through school and into the academy, where he had graduated with honors. The kid was going to make a fine detective one day.

“There are times to hold and times to fold, you know,” Quinn said quietly.

Doug suddenly looked as if he was about to lose it. “I’ll pay you.”

“We charge way too much,” Quinn told him brusquely.

“Give me two weeks,” Doug said. “Quinn, dammit, I need your help! Just come into the studio and see if you don’t think people are behaving strangely, that people besides me believe she was murdered.”

“They’ve told you this?”

“Not in so many words. In fact, those who knew her well all admit she took pills now and then. She had a drink here and there, too. And yeah, she was getting up there for a woman determined on maintaining her championships in both the smooth and rhythm categories, and in cabaret.”

“Doug, you might as well be speaking a foreign language,” Quinn said irritably.

“Rhythm is the faster dances, rumba, cha-cha, swing, hustle, merengue, West Coast swing, polka. Smooth is the fox-trot, waltz, tango. And cabaret is for partners and combines different things.”

“All right, all right, never mind. I get the picture.”

“So?”

“Doug…”

“Dammit, Quinn, there were plenty of people who hated her. Plenty of suspects. But if I push any further, someone will start investigating me. Will they ever be able to prove I caused her death? No, because I didn’t. Can my career be ruined? Can people look at me with suspicion for the rest of my life? You bet, and you know it. Quinn, I’m not asking a lot. Just go and take a few dance lessons. It won’t kill you.”

It won’t kill you. An odd sensation trickled down Quinn’s spine. He wondered if he wouldn’t come to remember those words.

“Doug, no one will believe I’ve come in for dance lessons. I can’t dance to save my life.”

“Why do you think guys take lessons?” Doug demanded.

“To pick up women at the salsa clubs on the beach,” he said flatly.

“See? A side benefit. What are you going to do—hole up like a hermit for the rest of your life?”

“I haven’t holed up like a hermit at all.” Did he actually sound defensive?

His brother just stared at him. Quinn sat back and said, “Wait a minute—is this how you got into the whole thing to begin with? Dance lessons.” He couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d heard that Doug had taken up knitting. Doug had nearly gone the route of a pro athlete. He remained an exceptional golfer and once a week coached a Little League team.

“Yeah, I was taking lessons,” Doug said.

“I see.” He paused thoughtfully. “No, I don’t see at all. Why did you decide to take dance lessons?”

Doug grinned sheepishly. “Randy Torres is getting married. I agreed to be his best man. He and his fiancée, Sheila, started taking lessons for the wedding. I figured, what the hell? I’d go with him a few times and be a good best man. There aren’t nearly as many guys taking lessons as females. The place seemed to be a gold mine of really great looking women. The studio is on South Beach, right above one of the hottest salsa clubs out there. Nice place to go after classes and make use of what you’ve learned. So I started taking lessons.”

“And wound up…dating an older diva?”

“That’s the way it went. She wasn’t actually a teacher there—she got paid big bucks to come in and coach now and then. So she wasn’t really in on the teacher rules.”

“What are the teacher rules?”

“Teachers aren’t supposed to fraternize with students. A loose rule there, because everyone goes down to the salsa club now and then. Let me tell you, Moonlight Sonata has the best location in history for a dance studio. Sometimes couples come in, and they can dance with each other. But for singles…well, they’re still nervous at first. So if you can go to a club and have a few drinks and have a teacher there to dance with you, make you look good—well, it’s a nice setup. And hey, South Beach, you know. It’s one of those places where rockers and movie stars stop in sometimes.”

“So there are a lot of players hanging around. And, I imagine, drugs up the wazoo. What’s the name of the club?”

“Suede.”

Quinn arched a brow. “I know the name, and I never hang out on South Beach. I hate South Beach,” he added. And he meant it. The place was plastic, at best. People never doing anything—just coming out to be seen. Trying to make the society pages by being in the right club when Madonna came by. Proving their worth by getting a doorman to let them into one of the new hot spots when the line was down the street.

The only good thing in his opinion was Lincoln Road, where some good foreign and independent films occasionally made it to the theater, a few of the restaurants were authentic and reasonable, and every canine maniac in the city felt free to walk a dog.

“Come on, the beach isn’t really that bad. Okay, it’s not as laid-back as your precious Keys, but still…And as for Suede, there was an investigation not long ago. A runaway-turned-prostitute was found about a block away, just lying on the sidewalk. Heroin overdose. So Narcotics did a sweep, but Suede came out clean. Hell, maybe the girl did get her drugs from someone at the bar. You know as well as I do that dealers don’t have to look like bums. And there’s money on the beach. Big money people pop in at Suede. But as for the management and the club itself, everything came out squeaky clean. In fact, they’re known for enforcing the twenty-one-and-over law on drinking, and there was a big thing in the paper a few months ago when one of the bartenders threw out a rock star, said he wasn’t serving him any more alcohol. It’s a good club, and like I said, students and teachers see one another and dance, maybe have a drink or two—it gives the school a real edge, because people can use what they learn. But outside of that, teachers and students really aren’t supposed to hang around together.”

“Why?”

Doug sighed as if his brother had gotten old and dense. “Favoritism. Dance classes are expensive. Someone could get pissed if their teacher was seeing someone outside the studio and maybe giving that student extra attention. Still, it’s a rule that gets broken. You need to come down there, Quinn. Could it really hurt you to take a few lessons, ask a few questions, make a few inquiries—get into it in a way I can’t?” Doug asked.

Quinn winced. “Doug, one day, I’d like to take up skydiving. I’d like to up my scuba certification to a higher level. I’d like to speak Spanish better, and I kind of always wanted to go on safari in Africa. Never in my life have I wanted to take dance lessons.”

“You might be surprised,” Doug said. “Quinn, please.”

Quinn looked down at his hands. He’d thought he would clean up the boat and head out to the Bahamas. Spend two weeks with nothing but fish, sea, sun and sand. Listening to calypso music and maybe some reggae. Listening to it. Not dancing to it.

But this seemed to matter to Doug. Really matter. And maybe something had been going on. Doug wouldn’t be here if he didn’t have a real feeling about it. Better he find it out before the police, because Doug would be a natural suspect.

He looked up at Doug, ready to agree that it wouldn’t kill him just to check the place out and ask a few questions. Then he hesitated. “I need a break,” he said honestly. “I’m not even sure you want me handling a case that means so much to you.”

Doug shook his head angrily. “Quinn, you know better than to blame yourself for anything that’s happened—lately. You do your best with what you’ve learned and what you know. And sometimes knowledge and laws work, and sometimes they don’t. I still have faith in you—even if you’ve lost it in yourself.”

“I haven’t lost faith in myself,” Quinn said. Shit. Beyond a doubt, he was sounding defensive.

“No?” Doug asked. “Good. Because I’ve got some news for you that I think will change your mind about this case—among other things.”

Quinn looked at him questioningly.

“Your girl took lessons at the Moonlight Sonata studios. Right up until last November.”

Quinn frowned. “My girl? My girl who?”

“Nell Durken. I managed to sneak a look in the file cabinet at Moonlight Sonata, and Nell Durken’s name is there, right in the record books.”

Quinn hadn’t known a damn thing about Nell Durken’s dance lessons. But then again, he hadn’t known all that much about her, really. She had just hired him to find out what her husband spent his time doing.

So he had found out.

And the bastard had killed her.

“Actually,” Doug continued, “Nell was one of their advanced students. Then, last November, she just quit going. Never mentioned it to you, I guess. Curious, though. The records indicate that she was gung ho—and then just gone. Makes you wonder, huh?”

“Fine,” Quinn said flatly. “I’ll do some checking. I’ll take a few fucking dance lessons.”

CHAPTER 3

“Hey, how’s it going?”

Ella Rodriguez tapped on Shannon’s half-open door, then walked the few feet to the desk and perched on the corner of it. Shannon sat back in her desk chair, contemplating a reply to her receptionist.

“I don’t know. How do you think it’s going? Personally, I think we should have shut down for the week,” Shannon said.

“We shut down for three days,” Ella reminded her. “That’s about what most corporations are willing to give for members of the immediate family when someone has passed away.”

“Her pictures are all over the walls,” Shannon reminded Ella.

“Right. And teachers and really serious students are going to miss her—one way or another—for a long time. But you have some students who aren’t all that serious, who never want to see a competition floor, and who are getting married in a matter of weeks, left feet and all. They need the studio open, Shannon.” Ella had short, almost platinum hair, cut stylishly. She had a gamine’s face, with incredible dark eyes and one of the world’s best smiles. She considered herself the least talented employee in the studio, but whether she was right about that or not, her warmth and easy charm surely accounted for many of their students.

Except that now Ella made a face that was hardly warm or charming. “Shannon, I’m well aware you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead. But truth be told, I didn’t like Lara. And I’m not the only one. There are even people who think that her dropping dead on the dance floor was a piece of poetic justice.”

“Ella!”

“I know that sounds terrible, and I’m really sorry. I certainly didn’t want anything to happen to her,” Ella said. She stared at Shannon. “Come on, you’ve got admit it—she couldn’t possibly have been your favorite person.”

“Whether she was or wasn’t, she was a dynamic force in our industry, and she started here. So this was her home, so to speak,” Shannon said.

“We’re all sorry, we know she was a professional wonder, and I don’t think there’s a soul out there who didn’t respect her talent.” Ella met Shannon’s eyes. “Hey, I even said all that when the detective talked to me.”

“You told him that you hadn’t liked Lara?” Shannon asked.

“I was dead honest. Sorry, no pun intended. Oh, come on, he was just questioning us because he had to. You know—when someone dies that way, they have to do an autopsy, and they had to question a bunch of people, too, but hell, everyone saw what happened.” Ella arched a brow. “Did you tell them you had adored her?”

“I was dead honest, as well—no pun intended,” Shannon said dryly. “Well, for all of the four and a half minutes he questioned me.”

Ella shook her head. “What did you expect? There’s no trick here. Her dance is on tape—her death is on tape.” Ella shivered. “Creepy. Except Lara probably would have loved it. Even her demise was as dramatic as possible, captured on film for all eternity. She got carried away, and she died. A foolish waste. There’s nothing anyone can do now. But you closed the studio in her honor. Now we’re open again. And you’ve got a new student arriving in fifteen minutes.”

“I have a new student?”

“Yeah, you.”

Shannon frowned and said, “Wait, wait, wait, I’m not taking on any of the new students. Me being the studio manager and all? I have too much paperwork and too many administration duties, plus planning for the Gator Gala. Remember what we decided at the last meeting?”

“Of course I remember. But as I’m sure you’ve noticed, Jane isn’t in yet. She has a dental appointment—which she announced at the same meeting. Rhianna couldn’t change her weekly two-o’clock, because we don’t open until then and her guy works nights. And this new guy is coming in because Doug bought him a guest pass. Actually, it’s Doug’s brother. Personally, I can’t wait to see him.”

“I keep telling you that you should go ahead and get your certification to teach,” Shannon said. Ella had the natural ability to become an excellent teacher. But she had come to the studio two years ago looking for a clerical position and still shied away from anything else.

As for herself, at this particular time, Shannon just didn’t want to teach, which was odd, because watching the growth of a student was something she truly enjoyed.

Everything, however, had seemed off-kilter since Lara had dropped dead. Naturally it had shaken the entire dance world. Sudden death was always traumatic.

But it was true as well that Lara Trudeau hadn’t been her favorite person.

Championships—no matter how many—didn’t guarantee a decent living, not in the States. Lara had coached to supplement her income. Gordon Henson had been her first ballroom instructor. He had maintained his pride in his prize student, and, to her credit, Lara had come to the Moonlight Sonata studio whenever he asked her, within reason. But after he had begun to groom Shannon to take over management of the studio, he had left the hiring of coaches to her.

And because Lara was excellent and a real draw for the students, Shannon had continued to bring her in. But unlike a number of the other coaches they hired, Lara was not averse to making fun of the students—or the teachers—after a coaching session.

Shannon also had other, more personal, reasons for disliking Lara. Even so, it still bothered her deeply that Lara had died. It might have been the simple fact that no one so young should perish. Or perhaps it was impossible to see anyone who was so much a part of one’s life—liked or disliked—go so abruptly from it without feeling a sense of mourning and loss. Part of it was a sense of confusion, or of disbelief, that remained. Whatever the reasons, Shannon simply felt off, and it was difficult enough to maintain a working mentality to deal with the needs of the upcoming Gator Gala, much less consider teaching a beginner with a smile and the enthusiasm necessary to bring them into the family fold of the studio.

“She hasn’t even been dead a week yet,” Shannon said. “She hasn’t even been buried yet.” Because Lara’s death had to be investigated, she had been taken to the county morgue until her body could be released by the medical examiner. But once his findings had been complete, Ben, Lara’s ex, along with Gordon, had gotten together to make the arrangements. Lara had come to Miami for college almost twenty years ago, and sometime during the next few years, her parents had passed away. She’d never had children, and if she had any close relatives, they hadn’t appeared in all the years. Because she was a celebrity, even after her death had officially been declared accidental, the two men had opted for a Saturday morning funeral.

“Shannon, she breezed through here to dance now and then, and yes, we knew her. She wasn’t like a sister. We need to get past this,” Ella insisted. “Honestly, if anyone really knew her, it was Gordon, and he’s moving on.”

Yes, their boss was definitely moving on, Shannon thought. He had spent yesterday in his office, giving great concern to swatches of fabric he had acquired, trying to determine which he liked best for the new drapes he was putting in his living room.

“I don’t know about you,” Ella said, shaking her head. “You were all upset when Nell Durken died, and she hadn’t been in here in a year.”

“Nell Durken didn’t just die. Her husband killed her. He probably realized he was about to lose his meal ticket,” Shannon said bitterly. Nell Durken had been one of the most amazing students to come through the door. Bubbly, beautiful and always full of life, she had been a ray of sunshine. She’d been friendly with all the students, wry about the fact that she couldn’t drag her husband in, but determined to learn on her own. Hearing that the man had killed her had been horribly distressing.

“Jeez,” Shannon breathed suddenly.

“What?” Ella said.

“It’s just strange…isn’t it?”

“What’s strange?” Ella asked, shaking her head.

“Nell Durken died because her husband forced an overdose of sleeping pills down her throat.”

“Yes? The guy was a bastard—we all thought that,” Ella said. “No one realized he was a lethal bastard, but…anyway, the cops got him. He was having an affair, but Nell was the one with the trust fund. He probably thought he’d get away with forcing all those pills down her throat. It would look like an accident, and he’d get to keep the money,” Ella said. “But they’ve got him. He could even get the death penalty—his motive was evident and his fingerprints were all over the bottle of pills.”

“Have you been watching too many cop shows?” came a query from the open door. A look of amusement on his face, Gordon was staring in at the two women.

“No, Gordon,” Ella said. “I’m just pointing out what happened to Nell Durken. And hoping the bastard will fry.”

“Fry?” Gordon said.

“Okay, so now it’s usually lethal injection. He was so mean to her, long before he killed her,” Ella said, shaking her head.

Gordon frowned. “What brought up Nell Durken?”

“Talking about Lara,” Ella said.

Gordon didn’t seem to see the correlation. “We’ve lost Lara. That’s that. She was kind of like Icarus, I guess, trying to fly too high. As to Nell…hell, we all knew she needed to leave that bastard. It’s too bad she didn’t. I wish she’d kept dancing.”

“She stopped coming in when he planned that Caribbean vacation for her, remember?” Shannon said thoughtfully. “They were going on a second honeymoon. He was going to make everything up to her.”

“And we all figured they got on great and things were lovey-dovey again, because she called in afterward saying that she wasn’t going to schedule any more lessons for a while because they were going to be traveling. And, of course,” Ella added pointedly, since Gordon was staring at her, his mouth open as if he were about to speak, “like a good receptionist, I followed up with calls, but I always got her answering machine, and then, I guess, after about six months, she kind of slipped off the ‘things to do’ list.”

“It’s horrible, though, isn’t it?” Shannon murmured. “I hope we’re not bad luck. I mean, an ex-student is murdered by her husband, and then…then Lara drops dead.”

“You think we’re jinxed?”

Shannon looked past Gordon’s shoulder. Sam Railey was right behind Gordon, staring in.

“Jinxed?” Gordon protested. “Don’t even suggest such a thing. Nell was long gone from here when she was murdered. And Lara…Lara is simply a tragedy.” He held up three fingers. “The Broward studio lost two students and an instructor last year.”

Shannon hid a smile, her brow quirking upward. “Gordon, the students were Mr. and Mrs. Hallsly, ninety and ninety three, respectively. It wasn’t such a shock that they died with a few months of one another. And,” she added softly, since she had been very fond of Dick Graft, the instructor who had died, “Dick had an aneurism.”

“I’m pointing out the fact that people die and we’re not jinxed,” Gordon said.

“Man, I hope not,” Sam said. “Because that would be two for us. And you know, things happen in threes.”

“Sam!” Gordon said.

“Oh, man, sorry. Hey, don’t worry, I’d never say anything like that in front of the students.”

“I should hope not,” Gordon admonished.

Gordon might have given the management over to Shannon, but if he were to decide that an instructor was detrimental to the studio, that teacher would be out in seconds flat.

“Hey,” another voice chimed in. Justin Garcia, five-eight tops, slim, with an ability to move with perfect rhythm, was on his toes, trying to look over the shoulders of the others gathered at Shannon’s door. “Psst.” He stared at Ella, still perched on the desk. “New student out front. I’d try to start the lesson myself, but he’s one big guy, and I think he’d cream me if I gave it a try.”

“Doug’s brother,” Ella said, jumping up.

Doug was definitely one of their favorite new students. He’d come in to learn salsa for a friend’s wedding and started out as stiff as a board, but within a week, he’d fallen in love with Cuban motion and wanted to learn everything.

He was a cop and he would laugh about the fact that his fellow officers teased him.

He was definitely appreciated by the studio’s many female students—not to mention his teacher, Jane Ulrich. Jane loved the dramatic. With Doug, she could leap, spin and almost literally fly. She was an excellent dancer, and he had the strength to allow her to do any lift she wanted to do. He was tall, blond, blue eyed and ready to go, everything one could want in a student.

Ella pushed past the men, hurrying toward the front of the studio, where she could greet their new student and get him started on paperwork.

Shannon, rising, was startled when Ella burst her way back in almost instantly, her eyes wide. “Damn, is Jane going to be sorry she had that dental appointment. Get up! You gotta see this guy.” Ella flew out again.

“Makes mincemeat out of me,” Justin told Shannon with a shrug.

Curious, Shannon followed the group on out. By then, Ella was greeting the man politely, and the others were standing around, waiting to meet him.

They didn’t usually circle around to greet their new clients.

Doug’s brother. Yes, the resemblance was there. They were of a similar height. But where Doug had nice shoulders and a lithe build, this guy looked like he’d walked out of a barbarian movie. His hair was dark, his eyes a penetrating blue. Nice face, hard, but even lines. In a cartoon, he might have been labeled Joe, the truck driver.

Just before she could step forward, Sam placed his hands on her shoulders, pulling her back against him. He whispered teasingly to her, “Too bad it’s against policy to fraternize with our students, huh?”

“Sam,” she chastised with a soft, weary sigh. It was policy, yes, though Gordon had always preferred not to know what he didn’t have to. She had maintained the same Don’t tell me what I don’t need to know attitude.

As she stepped away from him, she heard Justin whisper, “Policy? Like hell. For some of us, maybe, but not for others.”

Even as she extended a hand to the Atlas standing before her, Shannon wondered just what his words meant.

Who, exactly, had been fraternizing with whom?

And why the hell did this simple question suddenly make her feel so uneasy?

She forced a smile. “So you’re Doug’s brother. We’re delighted to have you. Doug is something of a special guy around here, you know.” She hesitated slightly. “Did he drag you in by the ears?”

The man smiled. Dimple in his left cheek. “Something like that,” he said. “He has a knack for coming up with just the right come-on.” His handshake was firm. “I’m Quinn. Quinn O’Casey. I’m afraid that you’re going to find me to be the brother with two left feet. You’ve got one hell of a challenge before you.”

Her smile stayed in place, though the uneasy sense swept through her again.

One hell of a challenge.

She had a feeling that he was right. On more than one level.

What the hell was he really doing here? she wondered.

“Ella, could I get a chart for Mr. O’Casey, please?” she said aloud. “Come into our conference room, and we’ll see what we can do for you.”

The conference room wasn’t really much of a room, just a little eight-by-eight enclosure. There was a round table in the middle that seated five at most, surrounded by a few shelves and a few displays. Some of the teachers’ trophies were there, along with a few she had acquired herself, and several indicating that they had won in the division of best independent studio for the past two years.

Ella handed Shannon a chart, and the others, rather than discreetly going about their business, stared. Shannon arched a brow, which sent them scurrying off. Then she closed the door and indicated a chair to Quinn O’Casey.

“Have a seat.”

“You learn to dance at a table?” he queried lightly as he sat.

“I learn a little bit about what sort of dancing you’re interested in,” she replied. Obviously, they were interested in selling dance lessons, and the conference room was sometimes referred to—jokingly—as the shark-attack haven; however, she’d never felt as if she were actually going into a hostile environment herself. She prided herself on offering the best and never forcing anyone into anything. Students didn’t return if they didn’t feel that they were getting the most for their money. And the students who came into it for the long haul were the ones who went into competition and kept them all afloat.

“So, Mr. O’Casey, just which dances do you want to learn?”

“Which dances?”

The dark-haired hunk across from Shannon lifted his brows, as if she had asked a dangerous question and was ready to suck him right in.

“We teach a lot of dances here, including country and western and polka. People usually have some kind of a plan in mind when they come in.”

“Right, well, sorry, no real plan. Doug talked me into this. Um, which dances. Well, I…I can’t dance at all,” he said. “So…uh, Doug said something about smooth, so that’s what I want, I guess,” he said.

“So you’d like a concentration on waltz, fox-trot and tango.”

“Tango?”

“Yes, tango.”

“That’s what you call a smooth dance?”

“There are quick movements, yes, and sharpness of motion is an important characteristic, but it’s considered a smooth dance. Do you want to skip the tango?”

He shrugged. “No, I haven’t a thing in the world against tango.” They might have been discussing a person. He flashed a dry smile, and she was startled by his electric appeal. He wasn’t just built. He had strong, attractive facial features, and that dimple. His eyes appealed, too, the color very deep, his stare direct. Despite herself, she felt a little flush of heat surge through her. Simple chemistry. He was something. She was professional and mature and quite able to keep any reaction under control—but she wasn’t dead.

He leaned forward suddenly. “I think I’d love to tango,” he said, as if he’d given it serious thought.

And probably every woman out there would love to tango with you, too, buddy, she thought.

She had to smile suddenly. “Are you sure you really want to take dance lessons?” she asked him.

“Yes. No.” He shrugged. “Doug really wanted me to get into it.”

Shannon suddenly felt hesitant about him. She didn’t know why—he was so physically impressive that any teacher should be glad to have him, as a challenge, at the least.

A challenge. That was it exactly. Just as he appealed to her, he created a sense of wariness in her, as well. She didn’t understand it.

She sat back, smiling, tapping her pencil idly against the table as she looked at him. She spoke casually. “Your brother is a police officer. Are you in the same line of work, Mr. O’Casey?”

“Quinn. Please, call me Quinn. And no, I’m not a cop. Although I was a cop once.”

He didn’t offer any further details.

“So, what do you do?”

“I’m with a charter service down in the Keys.”

“Fishing? Diving?”

He smiled slowly. “Yes, both. Why? Are only certain men involved in certain lines of work supposed to take dance lessons?”

She shook her head, annoyed to know that her cheeks were reddening. She stared down at the paper. “No, of course not, and I’m sorry. We just try to tailor a program toward what an individual really wants.”

“Well, I guess I just want to be able to dance socially. And I’m not kidding when I say that I can’t dance.”

Those words were earnest. The dimple in his cheek flashed.

She smiled. “Doug came in with the movement ability of a deeply rooted tree…Quinn.” His name rolled strangely on her tongue. “He’s made incredible progress.”

“Well, he just kind of fell in love with it, huh?”

Her smile deepened, and she nodded. “You don’t think you’re going to fall in love with it, do you?”

He shrugged, lifting his hands. Large hands, long fingered. Clean and neat, though. Of course. Fishing and diving. He was in the water constantly. Face deeply bronzed, making the blue of his eyes a sharp contrast. “What about you?”

“Pardon?” she said, startled that they had suddenly changed course.

“When did you fall in love with it?”

“When I could walk,” she admitted.

“Ah, so you’re one of those big competitors,” he said.

She shook her head. “No. I’m an instructor.”

He arched a brow, and she felt another moment’s slight unease as she realized he was assessing her appearance.

“I bet you would make a great competitor.”

She shrugged. “I really like what I do.”

“I guess competition can be dangerous.”

His words sounded casual enough. She felt herself stiffen. “Dangerous? Dancing?”

He shrugged again. “Doug told me someone had a heart attack and died at the last big competition.”

She shook her head. “What happened was tragic. But it was an isolated incident. I’ve certainly never seen anything like it before. We’re all shattered, of course…but, no, competition isn’t usually dangerous.” She was tempted to say more but pulled back, telling herself not to be an absolute idiot. She certainly wasn’t going to spill out her own discomfort before a man she’d just met, even if he was Doug’s brother. Doug was a student, a promising one, but even he was far from a confident. “I would assume, Mr. O’Casey, that boating and diving are far more dangerous than dancing.”

“I wasn’t worried,” he said. “Just…well, sorry about the loss, of course. And curious.”

Obviously, people would be upset. And yes, curious. In the world of dance, Lara had reigned as a queen. Though most people might not have known her name—any more than Shannon might have known that of the leading Nascar racer—such a death still made the newspapers and even a number of news broadcasts. Several stations had been there filming when she had died.

Sure, people were going to be curious.

Gordon had given a speech to her; she had given one to the teachers, and she’d also written up a little notice for the students. She didn’t know why she felt annoyed at explaining the situation to this particular man.

“We were all curious,” she said evenly. “Lara Trudeau was amazing. She wasn’t into alcohol or drugs, prescription or otherwise. None of us knows what happened that day. She was brilliant, and she, and her talent, will be missed. But dancing is hardly dangerous. Obviously, it’s a physical activity. But we’ve had a number of heart patients here for therapy. It’s dangerous to sit still and become a couch potato, too.” She was suddenly angry, feeling as if she was personally under attack, and didn’t understand why. She was about to get up and assure him that she would return Doug’s money for the guest pass, but then he spoke.

“Rhythm,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“I think I said the wrong thing. I’d like to be able to go to a club like Suede, the one right below you, and not look like a total horse’s a—idiot. Salsa, right?”

“They do a lot of salsa. Mambo, samba, merengue…Tuesday nights they have a swing party.”

“But they waltz at weddings, right?” He gave the appearance of seriously considering his options.

“Yes.”

“Do I have to pick certain dances?”

“No, but it would be nice to know where you’d like to start.”

“Where do you generally start?”

She rose. “At the beginning. Come on. If you’ve no real preferences, we’ll do it my way.”

“You’re going to be my instructor?” He was surprised, but she didn’t think he was pleased.

“Yes. Is there a problem?”

“No, I just…Doug said you didn’t take new students.”

“I don’t usually. But the way it works is, unless there’s a problem, the teacher to sign on a new student becomes their regular instructor.” She hadn’t meant to actually take him as her student, but now…she meant to keep him. There was just something about him that…

A voice in her ear whispered that he was the most arresting man she’d met in a long time. Best-looking, definitely most sensual, man.

Yes, yes, all acknowledged from the start.

But that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t his appearance, which was, admittedly, imposing.

There was something else.

It was ridiculous that she was feeling so paranoid.

But the man bore watching. That feeling of wariness would not go away.

Maybe.

That was her thought thirty minutes later.

Maybe she hadn’t been teaching enough lately. Maybe she couldn’t teach and keep an eye on him at the same time. Her patience just wasn’t where it should be. There was no chance of anyone stepping in and actually leading him—placing a hand on his arm had assured her of that. It was like setting her fingers on a solid wall. It didn’t help that he was stiff, no matter how much she tried to get him to relax.

He actually seemed to be confused between left and right.

They were doing a box step, for God’s sake. A simple box step.

“No, Quinn, your left foot goes forward first. The same foot we’ve used the last twenty-five times.” Was her voice showing strain? Once upon a time, she’d been known for her patience.

He hadn’t lied when he said he had two left feet.

“We’re just making a square—a box. Left foot forward, right side…a box.”

“Yeah, right. A box. So how many teachers are there here, actually?”

“Are you afraid that I can’t teach you, Mr. O’Casey?”

“No, no, I just wondered. You’re doing fine. I was just curious as to how many teachers you have.”

“Ben Trudeau is teaching full time now.”

“Trudeau?” he said.

“He used to be married to Lara. They’ve been divorced for several years. He was mainly doing competitions and coaching, but he decided a few months ago that he wanted to take up residence on the beach. He’s an excellent teacher.”

“He must be devastated.”

“We’re all devastated, Mr. O’Casey.”

“Sorry. I can imagine. She must have been something. So accomplished, and such a friend to everyone here, huh? Doug told me she taught here sometimes.”

“She coached,” Shannon told him.

“Must be hard for all of you to have the studio open and be teaching already.”

“Work goes on.”

“So all the teachers have come back?”

“Yes.”

“Who are the rest of them?”

“Justin Garcia and Sam Railey, and Jane Ulrich, who teaches your brother, and another woman, Rhianna Markham.”

His foot landed hard on hers once again.

“Sorry—I told you I had two left feet,” he apologized.

Shannon drew a deep breath. “We do want to get you to where you can converse while you’re on the floor, but maybe if you didn’t ask so many questions while we were working, it might be better.”

“Sorry. Just want to get to know the place, feel a little more comfortable here.”

“That’s what the practice sessions and parties are for,” she murmured.

“Parties?”

“And practice sessions,” she said firmly. “Beginners come on Monday, Tuesday and Friday nights, sometimes even the other weeknights if we get busy, and learn more steps in groups. Then you hone those steps with your teacher.”

“Do students have to come?”

“Of course not. But individual sessions are expensive. The group sessions are open to all enrolled students. You learn a lot faster and make a lot better use of your money by attending the group classes.”

“And the parties? When are they? Are they for all the students?”

“Wednesday nights, eight to ten, and yes, beginners are welcome. You should come.”

“I will.”

His foot crunched down on hers once again. Hard. She choked back a scream. How much longer? Fifteen more minutes. She wasn’t sure she could take it.

She looked around. Jane still hadn’t returned from her appointment. Rhianna was working with David Mercutio, husband of Katarina Mercutio, the designer who shared the second floor of the building with them. She was wonderful—specializing in weddings, with one-of-a-kind dresses for both brides and wedding parties. She had also learned the special requirements for ballroom-competition gowns, and had made some truly spectacular dresses. Just as it was great for the studio to be right on top of the club, it was a boon to have Katarina right next to them.

David was a regular who came twice a week to work with Rhianna. He had also known and worked with Lara. He and Rhianna were deep in conversation as they twirled around, working on a tango. She knew they were probably discussing Lara. Sam Railey, however, didn’t have a student at the moment. He was putting his CDs in order.

Quinn O’Casey’s really large left foot landed on her toe once again.

“Sam!” she called suddenly, breaking away from her partner.

“Yeah?” he looked up.

“Can I borrow you for a minute?”

“Sure.”

Shannon headed toward the stereo, waiting for the tango to play out, removed the CD and replaced it with an old classic—Peggy Lee singing “Fever.” Sam walked over to partner her as she spoke to her new student. “Right now, you’re just trying to get the basic box. But if you think of the steps to the music, it might help you.”

Sam led her in the basic steps while she looked at Quinn. She was not at all convinced he was trying very hard.

To her surprise, Sam spoke up. “It looks like a boring dance,” he said to Quinn. “But it can be a lot of fun.”

The next thing Shannon knew, Sam had taken the initiative. They moved into a grapevine, an underarm spin and a series of pivots. Steps far advanced from anything their new student could begin to accomplish.

“Okay, Sam,” she said softly. “We don’t want to scare him off.”

“Well…he should see what he can learn,” Sam replied.

She couldn’t argue. They did lots of demonstrations to show their students what they could learn. She just wondered about this particular student.

But Quinn was nodding and looking as if he had suddenly figured something out. He stepped in to take his position with her again. The guy had a great dance hold; he also wore some kind of really great aftershave. He should be a pleasure to teach.

Except that he was always watching.

But weren’t students supposed to watch?

Not the way he did, with those piercing blue eyes.

She looked back up into them, reminding herself that she was a teacher, and a good one.

“Listen, feel it, and move your feet. Remember that you’re just making a square.”

To her amazement, he had it. He finally had it. A box. A simple box. It felt like a miracle.

“Head up,” she said softly, almost afraid to push her luck. “Don’t look at your feet. It will only mess you up.”

His eyes met hers, and he maintained the step and the rhythm. His dimple showed as he smiled, pleased. His hold was just right. There was distance between them, but she was still aware of hot little jolts sweeping through her, despite the lack of real body contact. Not good.

Dance teachers needed to be friendly. Accustomed to contact. The more advanced a student, the closer that contact. She was accustomed to that.

But it had never been like this.

She suddenly wanted the lesson to be over for reasons other than her sore feet.

When they were done, he seemed actually enthused.

“When do I come again?” he asked.

“Whenever you schedule.”

“Tomorrow?” he asked.

“You’ll have to see Ella, our receptionist.”

They were standing near the little elevated office. Ella had already heard. “He can have a two-o’clock.”

“I thought I had an appointment with the hotel about blocking out rooms for the Gator Gala?” Shannon said frowning. “And I know I have Dr. Long coming in for his regular class.”

“The hotel pushed the meeting to Wednesday,” Ella said cheerfully. “And they want you to call them back. Dr. Long isn’t in until five-fifteen.”

“Two o’clock, then,” Shannon said.

“Thanks. I’ll see you then.”

Their new student departed, and Shannon stared after him.

Jane, returning from the dentist, passed him at the door. “Who the hell was that?” she demanded when she reached Shannon.

“Doug’s brother.”

“Doug’s brother…wow. Look what a few more years are going to do for that guy. Of course, the eyes…shit! Who taught him?”

“I did,” Shannon said.

“Oh. And you’re keeping him?” She tried to sound light.

Shannon hesitated. “Yes.”

Sam went dancing by, practicing a Viennese waltz on his own. “Hey,” he teased Jane. “You’ve already got the one brother.”

Jane gave him a serious glare. “Yeah, and I also have nasty old Mr. Clinton, ninety-eight, and decaying with each move we make.” She looked at Shannon. “I thought you weren’t going to take on any new students.”

“I wasn’t. But you know how it goes.”

“You’re the manager,” Jane reminded her. “You don’t have to keep him.”

“I know, but that forty-five-minute investment of time felt like ten hours. The guy is a challenge I don’t think I can refuse. Hey,” she added quickly, teasingly, “careful—your old-timer just walked in.”

Jane glanced at her white-haired, smiling student.

Ben had already walked forward to shake his hand. That was studio policy—all employees greeted all students when not otherwise occupied. Courtesy and charm to all students, regardless of sex, age, color, creed or ability.

They were a regular United Nations.

And more. Being in South Florida, gateway to Latin America, they were also a very huggy bunch. People hugged hello and hugged goodbye. Cheek kissing went on continually. It was nice; it was warm, and it was normal behavior for most people who had grown up here.

Mr. Clinton was actually a dear. They all kissed and hugged him hello all the time. He wasn’t really decaying, and he wasn’t nasty. He was just a little hard-of-hearing, so it sounded as if he was yelling sometimes.

Jane sighed. “Yep, here’s my old-timer.”

“Jane, he brings you gourmet coffee,” Shannon reminded her.

“He’s a sweetie, all right.”

Jane stared at her. She didn’t say anything more. They both knew what she was thinking.

Sure, the old guy was a sweetie. He just wasn’t Quinn O’Casey.

Jane forced a smile.

“You are the boss,” she murmured lightly, and moved away. “Mr. Clinton, how good to see you. What did you say you wanted to do today. A samba? You’re sure you’re up to it?”

“You bet, Janie,” he assured her with a broad grin. “I got the best pacemaker ever made helping this old ticker. Let’s get some action going.”

Watching them, Shannon smiled. No, Mr. Clinton wasn’t a Quinn O’Casey, but then again…

Just what did Quinn expect to get from the studio?

Suddenly, for no reason that she could explain, she felt a shiver trickle down her spine.

CHAPTER 4

In the afternoon, the beach wasn’t so bad, Quinn thought. It was slower. Weekends, it was crazy. If he suddenly heard there had been a run of cab drivers committing suicide on a Friday or Saturday night at the beach, it wouldn’t be shocking in the least. Traffic sometimes snarled so badly that a lifetime could pass before a vehicle made it down a block.

But in the afternoon…

Though they were moving into fall, temperatures were still high, but there was a nice breeze coming off the ocean, making the air almost cool. Walking from the studio, which sat between Alton Road and Washington, he passed some of the old Deco buildings and houses that had undergone little or no restoration, appreciating their charm. There were also a number of small businesses, including a coffeehouse that wasn’t part of a big chain, a pretty little flower shop, some duplexes, small apartment houses and a few single dwellings. The beach itself was barely three blocks away, and he was tempted to take a quick stroll on the boardwalk and get a real feel for the area.

The stretch of sand facing the bay was dotted with sun worshipers. A volleyball game was going on, and down a bit, a mother was helping two toddlers build a sand castle. The little girl wore a white eyelet cap, protecting her delicate skin, while just a few feet away, a young couple, both bronzed and beautiful, applied great gobs of something from a tube labeled Mega-Tan to each other’s skin. During the week, the beach could be great. He had to admit, the Keys didn’t offer huge expanses of beach. Just more privacy.

On the stretch in front of a chic Deco hotel, the bronzed and beautiful were joined by the more mundane. A huge woman wearing a skimpy suit that was totally unsuitable for her ample physique was strolling along with a scrawny man in a Speedo. They were smiling happily, and nodded as they passed him. Quinn offered them a hello and decided that the mind’s perception of the self was really what created happiness. The couple looked completely content. More power to them. Who the hell was he to judge? He was walking the beach in dress shoes, chinos and a tailored shirt.

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.

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.”

“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.

“Like you’re a vegetarian or something,” Pete muttered.

Quinn grinned. “No, I think I’ll have a cheeseburger, too. But just one.”

“You brought him here,” Pete said to Jake. “Make sure his food goes on your bill.”

“I’ll even pick up your bill,” Jake said. “Quinn has a few questions for you.”

Pete groaned aloud. He was a big man. His belly jiggled as the sound escaped him. “Hope Nick has some Rolaids back there. Shit. I’m off duty. You had to bring a P.I. here to bug me?”

“Hey, I’ve got my boat up here,” Quinn protested. “This is the most convenient place for me to eat.”

“What do you want?” Pete asked him flatly. Before Quinn could answer, he looked at Jake again. “You really picking up my tab? If so, you can order me another beer.”

“Sure thing,” Jake said, grimacing at Quinn. He looked around and saw one of the waitresses at the next table. “Debbie, when you get a minute…”

The girl turned to him, scratching on her pad. “Pete—another cheeseburger?”

“Funny,” Pete said.

“No, but two for Quinn and me, and three Millers,” Jake said.

“Coming up.” Debbie was young and cheerful, bronzed and wearing tiny white shorts. Pete watched as she walked away.

“Pete, pay attention over here. What’s the story on Lara Trudeau?” Quinn asked.

Dixon frowned. “Trudeau? You’re here to ask me about that?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I closed it up today.”

“You closed the case already?” Quinn said.

“What case? There is no case. You want to see what happened yourself, the tape is in my office. Come by anytime. She went out on the dance floor smiling like a little lark. Moments later, she drops. A doctor is right there and tries to revive her. The ambulance arrives, and the med techs try to revive her. She gets to the hospital, and she’s pronounced dead on arrival. She’s turned over to the M.E., who discovers that she did herself in with booze and pills. Or her heart gave in ’cuz of the booze and pills. She ordered a drink at the bar herself—a dozen witnesses will tell you so. And the pills were a prescription from a physician with a flawless reputation. No prints on the vial. Our lady was wearing gloves. Of course, we checked anyway. We questioned waiters and waitresses, judges, dancers and the audience. Dozens of people talked to her. No one saw her argue with anyone. Hell yes, I closed the case. There was no damned case.”

Debbie arrived with the three beers as he finished. They thanked her, and she nodded, moving on quickly. It was casual at Nick’s, but the place was getting busy, and Debbie seemed to be working the patio area alone.

When she was gone, Quinn asked, “You don’t think her death was odd?”

“Odd? You should see my caseload. It’s odd that a man shoots his own kid, his wife, and then himself. It’s odd that out of the clear blue, a shot rings out in North Miami and a kid in all honors classes falls down dead. Hell, there’s odd out there. You bet. But as far as this Trudeau thing goes, what the hell do you want? There’s nothing there. So it’s odd. So what? Everyone down here is frigging odd. And guess what? It ain’t illegal to be odd.”

“If I understand the situation,” Quinn said evenly, “there were lots of people out there who hated Lara Trudeau.”

Pete Dixon stared at him, lifted his beer bottle and took a long swig. “Maybe lots of people hate you, Quinn. It’s America. It’s allowed.”

“I’m not dead,” Quinn reminded him.

“Yeah, well, hell, you’re not in the position we’re in at the force, either. People hire you, pay you by the case, and you’ve got the luxury of lots of time to investigate ‘odd’ and nasty things. My plate is full with stuff that definitely has murder written all over it. You feel free to spend your time chasing ‘odd.’ I can’t do it.”

“Hey, we’re all on the same side here,” Jake reminded him. “You know, fighting crime. That’s the idea.”

“Yeah, that’s right, and our big man Quinn here comes straight from the FBI. How was it, then, Quinn? What the hell made you leave, anyway? Or did being with the Feds just make you think you could come back and be better than anyone else?”

Quinn might not have expected a lot of help from Dixon, but he hadn’t expected total animosity, either. He watched his fingers curl too tightly around his beer bottle, and he forced himself to control his temper.

“You’re right, Pete. You’ve got lots of cases. Right now, I’ve just got one. If you do think of anything that can help me, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know.”

Maybe he should have spent a little more time with the Bureau shrink—the control thing seemed to work. To his amazement, Pete flushed. Being such a big man, he went very red.

“Yeah, sure.” He swallowed more of his beer. “Hell, the whole damned thing was odd, you’re right. The oddest thing is, how the hell did she down all that stuff and get out on the floor and dance so damned well, then…drop? She must have been totally oblivious to what she was doing beforehand. Come by and get the tape. Maybe that will help you. Who the hell knows? I looked at it over and over again, and it didn’t give me a thing. I gotta go. My brother’s kid is playing the saxophone at some dumb school thing.” He stood. “Thanks for the meal, Dilessio.”

“Sure thing,” Jake said.

“He gets discounts here anyway, you know?” Pete said to Quinn. “Married the proprietor’s niece. When’s that kid due, Dilessio?”

“Soon.”

“Hope you have a boy.”

“Oh, why?” Jake said.

“’Cause women are trouble. Right from the get-go.”

The both stared after him as he walked away toward the parking lot. Then Jake laughed out loud. “Quinn, you’ve come a long way.”

“Oh yeah?”

“For a minute there, I thought you were going to get up and deck him.”

Quinn shrugged. “Psychology one-oh-one,” he said lightly, except that he had a feeling Jake knew better. “You know, I think he believes there’s more there than meets the eye, but he’s got the same problem as everyone else.”

“And what’s that?”

“Figuring out just how ‘odd’ fits in with illegal. And murder.”

“Well, if you need help, I’m around,” Jake told him.

“What, you’ve got a small caseload?”

Jake shook his head, scratching the paper off the beer bottle. “Nope. Murder is murder, though. Whether it’s obvious or not. You find something, I’ll step on a few toes for you.”

“Great. Thanks.”

“We’re playing poker later, out back in Nick’s house, if you want to join us.”

“I think I’m going clubbing.”

“You’re going club hopping?”

“Not hopping. Just clubbing.”

“Heading down to Suede?”

“Yep. Want to blow off the poker thing and come with me?”

Jake shook his head. “Someone down there might know me.”

“How come?”

“I got called in when a dead hooker was found not far from the place.”

“Was that one ever solved?”

“No.” Jake looked up at him. “The kid had no track lines, but she managed to overdose.”

“So it was, or wasn’t, a homicide?”

“I haven’t closed the case,” Jake said flatly. “Haven’t found anything, but I haven’t closed the case. I haven’t put it into cold cases yet, either. Sometimes, the drug cases are the easiest. The perps are known to the narcotics guys. Not in this instance. They ran the ropes for me on it, checking into every club with a name. No one has come up with anything. She had a name, Sally Grant, and she picked up tricks on the street, no known regular johns. There were no witnesses, no one who could be found who admitted to seeing her in days, just a dead girl with a needle next to her.”

“Prints on it?” Quinn asked.

“Her own—but that could have been staged.”

“Hell of a lot overdoses going on,” Quinn commented.

“The M.E.s will tell you their tables are full of them. Legal substances, illegal substances. But it sure does add up to ‘odd,’ doesn’t it? Two dance students, too much Xanax. One dead hooker, too much heroin. They shouldn’t connect. But maybe they do. Hell, maybe dancing is dangerous for your health.”

“The prostitute was a dancer?”

“Not that I know of. She was just found not too far from the studio. Not that that necessarily means a damn thing.”

“Did they question anyone at the studio, find out if she had ever been in?”

“Yep. None of the teachers had ever seen her.”

“Thanks again for the dinner, Jake.”

“Keep me informed.”

“Will do.”

Quinn left Jake at the table and headed for his boat to change. It had been one hell of a long time since he’d been to a club on the beach.

What the hell were people wearing to clubs these days?

CHAPTER 5

“Want to make me look good?”

“Pardon?” Shannon said.

She was definitely off today. First there had been the strange lesson with Quinn O’Casey, which she had wanted to scream through, her patience nonexistent.

Now Richard.

She didn’t need to scream when she danced with Richard. He was good. Excellent. A doctor, he had found that dance took his mind off the strain of his day. He wasn’t performing brain surgery on a daily basis, but something far more demanding—at least in the eyes of his customers, he had once told her humorously. He was a plastic surgeon. Trusted with looks—the most important thing in the world, to the players in the area. He’d “fixed” or repaired the old, the young, the famous, the rich. He was written up constantly in magazines and had even been touted as the “Botox king of the western world” by one popular publication.

Shannon wasn’t sure about his age but assumed he was around forty. He was in great shape, a golf enthusiast when he wasn’t in the studio or working. He maintained a great tan, had a full head of almost platinum blond hair and fine gray eyes. He was married, and his wife, a pediatrician, came in now and then, as well, but she wasn’t as enamored of dancing as Richard was. She preferred diving and spent most of her free time out on a boat. They seemed to have a perfect relationship. When they could be together, they were. When one had an opportunity that didn’t work for the other, they just went their separate ways. Mina Long was petite and, like her husband, fortyish, platinum blond, bronzed and in great shape. The only difference was that she had brown eyes. After all their years of marriage, Shannon thought with some humor, they almost resembled each other.

He was a nice guy, and she enjoyed teaching him. He learned quickly, and in the year since he had been coming to the studio, he had advanced rapidly. But then again, he could afford all the private lessons he wanted. Most people, with more moderate incomes, took one or two private lessons a week and attended group lessons whenever they could.

“Earth to Shannon.”

“Oh, sorry. Make you look good? You don’t need anyone to make you look good, Richard. In fact, you’ve gotten so good, I have to admit, I did just drift off in thought. Forgive me. That’s not at all a good thing for a teacher to admit.”

He smiled. “You’re still upset about Lara.”

“Of course,” she admitted.

“You do know I did everything that I could,” he said quietly. “I may be a plastic surgeon, but I was top of my class at med school and spent plenty of time interning in the emergency room.”

“Oh, Richard, of course, I know you did everything. It’s just still so…sad.”

“Yes. We’ll all miss her tremendously. I mean, you will miss her, right?”

“Of course.” Shannon frowned. “Why do you say that?”

“No reason.”

They had been waltzing. She stopped near the stereo, frowning as she looked at him.

“Richard, why did you say that?”

“Oh, Lord, now I’m really sorry.”

“Richard.”

“A little bird told me once—a while ago—that you and Ben Trudeau had been partners and a very hot duo—before Ben married Lara.”

“I see.”

“You were partners, right? I hear you stormed the floor in competitions, that no one even came close to being as good.”

“We won a few competitions, but that was ages ago. And I do mean ages.”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Who told you about it?”

“Now, I swear, my lips are sealed.”

“It doesn’t matter, Richard. It’s not like it was a deep, dark secret or anything. I was just curious.”

“I told you, my lips are sealed. And hey, you didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?”

He sighed with a pretense of mock impatience. “Do you want to help me look good?”

“I did answer your question. You do look good.”

He shook his head, smiling. “There are some hotshots down from the board. I’m bringing them out to Suede tonight. Would you show up for a few minutes?”

“Richard, I was going to try to head home early. Someone will be down there, though. Rhianna or Jane.”

He shook his head. “You’re my teacher. We both know that even the top professionals work with their partner over and over again. I look best with you. Show up for one dance and one drink? I’ll get you out of there by ten-thirty, I swear it. Please?”

“Richard, don’t beg.”

“I am begging.”

“All right—you tell me what little bird told you about Ben and me, and maybe I’ll come.”

“That’s bribery!”

“You bet,” she said, smiling.

“I can’t tell you. And I don’t fold easy.”

“If you want me to show up…”

“Gordon,” Richard said.

“Gordon?”

“Yes, I said Gordon, didn’t I?”

“Yes…and quickly. You folded like a bad poker hand,” she said, laughing.

“Right. So now you have to show up.”

“I will, I will,” she told him. “Right after I strangle Gordon.”

“Why? You just said that it wasn’t a deep, dark secret or anything.”

“But still…we’re not supposed to bring our personal lives into the studio.”

Richard let out a snort. “That gets ridiculous, you know.”

“It’s only professional.”

“Not professional—silly,” Richard said. “And you’re getting that prim look on your face again. I’ll let it go, but let’s concentrate on something wild and sexy. I want to be known as the salsa king of Miami, not the reigning Botox monarch, okay?”

She laughed.

“We’ll give them a show,” she promised.

“And, Shannon?”

“What?”

“What happened was terrible. But it wasn’t your fault in any way. We’re all stunned, and so sorry, but…please. It’s okay to grieve. Lara was tremendously talented, a force…. We’ll all miss her, maybe forever. But…well, you’ve got to move on. It hurts to see you so unhappy.”

“I’m fine. It’s just…the whole thing was so absurd. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe Lara would drink on top of drugs before a performance.”

“You’ve got to accept it. It happened. You can’t keep questioning fate—you have to let it go, however much you don’t want to.”

“Thanks. Moving into psychiatry, are you?” she teased.

He put up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, I quit. Come on, let’s play some salsa, huh? I really want to wow ’em tonight.”

She walked over to the stereo system. “Salsa it is.”

What did they wear to clubs these days?

Next to nothing, it seemed.

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.

Then there was Lara’s partner, Jim Burke. Not a full time teacher at the studio but a coach, as well. Again, a tall, striking man of thirty, lucky to be chosen to be Lara’s partner. Now alone. With Lara, he flew like an eagle. Without her…he had no partner. He was back to square one. No matter what his talent, Lara had been the driving force of the pairs, the true prima donna of the dance floor. Jim Burke seemed an unlikely candidate as a murderer.

Gordon Henson?

Quinn shook his head. It wasn’t difficult finding motives for most of Lara’s acquaintances and associates. Gordon had gotten Lara started; he gave her space, taught her to move. Had she spurned him, rejected him, made fun of him…threatened him?

He looked across the street again. He had only glanced through the files on the teachers and he had half a dozen scenarios already. He hadn’t even begun to study the student lists.

It was now beginning to get busier over at Suede. He checked his watch. After ten. He was surprised to realize that the waiter at the little café had politely let him sit here, nursing a water, for so long. He started to rise, then paused, watching.

Shannon Mackay was coming down the steps from the side entry to the studio. She had apparently left in a hurry and rushed halfway down, looking behind her as she did so.

Then she stopped, took a deep breath and squared her soldiers.

For a minute she simply stood there. At last she turned and slowly walked back up. She took out a set of keys and made quick work of locking the door, then started down the steps again.

She walked slowly at first. Then, as she neared the bottom, she began rushing again. She reached the sidewalk and took another deep breath. She stared back up the steps, then shook her head.

The doorman at Suede saw her as she stood on the sidewalk. He called out a greeting, and she swung around, greeting him in turn.

Then she disappeared into the club as he opened the door for her.

Very curious behavior, Quinn thought.

He left the café, making sure to leave a generous tip. He would undoubtedly be wanting his table back in the days to come. He stopped by his car long enough to toss in the files he’d been reading, then headed across the street.

The doorman at Suede was jet-black, a good six-three, and pure muscle. He looked at Quinn, frowned, sized him up and down, and decided to let him pass.

Inside, the music was loud.

The bar was to the rear of the building, the dance floor about ten feet from the entrance. The place advertised live music and lived up to the advertising. The room was handsomely appointed, with the walls painted to imitate a sunset. Floor lighting gave the place just enough illumination to make the tables navigable, while spotlights gave a burst of life to the polished dance floor. A Latin trio was playing, and the beat was fast. Tables surrounded the floor on either side, and despite it being a weeknight, most of the tables were filled, though the place wasn’t overcrowded. Scantily clad women on the dance floor gyrated at shocking speeds, some looking good and some not.

Toward the rear of the place, to the left of the bar, he caught sight of Gordon Henson. The thick thatch of white hair on his head was caught in the light, drawing attention to him. Skirting around the dance floor, Quinn saw that his brother was in attendance, along with Bobby Yarborough, one of his classmates from the academy, and Bobby’s new wife, or at least, Quinn assumed it was his wife. He’d never met her. Shannon Mackay was next to Doug, on her other side a tall man in a white tailored shirt and sport jacket, who, in turn, was next to a small woman of about forty, perfectly elegant, but with features so taut they screamed plastic surgery.

Doug, looking across the floor, saw him and, with some surprise, called his name. “Quinn!”

Quinn continued across the room, excusing himself with a quick smile when he nearly collided with a waitress.

“My brother with the two left feet,” Doug teased, rising to greet him with a handshake.

“Hey, now, that’s not really true,” Shannon said, defending him. The words, however, seemed to be a natural reaction; she smiled, but she seemed distracted.

“That’s right. You had your first lesson today, so you’ve met Shannon and Gordon, and of course, you know Bobby.”

Quinn nodded, reaching out to shake Bobby’s hand. Bobby grinned broadly. “Hey, Quinn. You haven’t met my wife, Giselle.”

“Giselle, nice to meet you. Congratulations on your wedding.”

Giselle smiled. “Thank you. It’s amazing. I thought it would never come. Now, I feel as if we’ve been married forever.”

“Ouch,” Bobby said.

She squeezed his arm. “I meant that in the best possible way.”

“Hmm,” Bobby mused, feigning a frown.

“Quinn, these are the doctors Long,” Doug continued. “Richard and Mina.”

He shook hands with the couple. “How nice. Do you work together?”

The petite blonde laughed. “Good heavens, no. Richard is a dermatologist and plastic surgeon. I’m a lowly, hardworking pediatrician.”

“She’s far more noble,” Richard said, grinning.

“You’re the artist,” his wife teased back.

His arm, casually around her shoulders as they sat in the expansive booth, tightened affectionately. “We simply thank God we don’t work together. That way, we get to enjoy the time we do share.”

“Great,” Quinn said.

“Here, please, sit,” Mina Long said, inching closer to her husband.

“I don’t want to crowd you.”

“Oh, please, don’t worry,” Richard said. “We’re only here for a few minutes longer. We have to join some other friends across the room. In fact…we were about to dance?” He wasn’t looking at his wife but across the table at Shannon.

“That’s the music you want?” she asked.

“That’s it,” he told her.

“Excuse me, then…?”

Bobby and Giselle moved out, allowing Shannon to slip from the booth. She brushed past Quinn, who excused himself, moving backward again to allow her more room.

“Sit, bro,” Doug said, as the others slid back in. “So how did you like your lesson?”

“It was…great,” Quinn said. He watched as Shannon took the floor with Richard Long. A moment later, they were moving with astonishing grace, taking up the floor, entwined in seemingly impossible ways, and doing it so well that many of the people on the floor moved back, cheering.

“That’s salsa?” Quinn said.

“Samba,” Gordon told him.

He looked across the table at Mina. “And do you dance, too, Dr. Long?”

“Oh, yes.” She laughed pleasantly. “But not like Shannon.” She grinned. “Richard and I dance together at social functions, of course. But frankly, he prefers Shannon—and I prefer Sam. Sam Railey. He’s my teacher. Two amateurs naturally dance better with two professionals.” She leaned closer across the table. “I’m afraid Richard is showing off tonight. We have to join a few of his professional associates in a minute.”

“Ah, I see,” Quinn said.

She smiled again. It would have been a great smile—if it hadn’t appeared that her entire face might shatter. “You will see. Wait until you get into it more. Hey, have you seen your brother dance?”

“Believe it or not, I haven’t.”

Mina Long looked at Doug. “I’m not exactly Jane or Shannon, but we can give your big brother a bit of show, if you like?”

“Absolutely,” Doug agreed. “Sorry,” he said apologetically to the others again.

“Hey, we might as well dance, too,” Bobby told his bride.

“Might as well?” Giselle said with a groan. “See, Bobby, it is as if we’ve been married forever.”

Bobby laughed. “Sorry. My beloved wife, would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

“Good save,” Doug muttered, and they all laughed.

“Pretty darned good, yes,” Mina agreed, and she took his hand, heading for the dance floor.

“How did you enjoy your lesson?” Gordon Henson asked Quinn.

“You know, quite frankly, I went because Doug bought me the guest passes and he was so into it himself. But I was surprised. I did enjoy it,” Quinn said, his eyes on his brother and Mina.

His brother, he noted, was good. Bobby and Giselle, both beginners, weren’t as smooth but obviously enjoyed themselves.

“Those two only came in to take some classes before their wedding. They keep coming back,” Gordon told him. Then he leaned against the table. “So, what do you do, Mr. O’Casey?”

Quinn didn’t have a chance to answer him. A man approached the table, calling out cheerfully, “Gordon! I’ll be damned. They actually got you in here?”

The man was tall, dark, good-looking, casually dressed in an open-neck black silk shirt, tan trousers and a dark jacket. His eyes were dark, too, his face deeply bronzed.

“Yeah, they dragged me down,” Gordon said, half rising to shake the newcomer’s hand.

“Gabe, this is Quinn O’Casey, Doug’s brother, a new student. Quinn, meet Gabriel Lopez, entrepreneur extraordinaire! Suede is his club.”

“How do you do?” Quinn said, shaking hands with Lopez.

“Great, thanks. And welcome. You ever been in here before?”

Quinn shook his head. “Never. I’m a total novice.”

“You’ll like it. I get the best musicians, even during the week. We keep up the floor, and our kitchen turns out amazing food.”

“So far, so good,” Quinn said.

“You haven’t been on the dance floor yet?”

Quinn grinned. “No. And you won’t see me on it for a very long time, I assure you.”

Lopez had slid into the booth next to him. “My friend, you’ll be surprised, don’t you think, Gordon?”

Gordon nodded. “Dancing gets in your blood. You hear the music, you have to move.” He shrugged, staring at the floor. “Maybe you don’t get to be a Shannon Mackay right away, but look at Doug. Six months, and he’s quite impressive. Most importantly, he’s having fun.”

“Yeah, he really enjoys it. And hey, what a setup you two have here,” Quinn said, including Lopez. “You learn upstairs, you dance downstairs. Couldn’t have been planned better.”

“True,” Gordon agreed. “And it wasn’t even planned.”

“This wasn’t a club before?”

“It’s always been a restaurant—with an excuse for a dance floor,” Lopez said. He shrugged. “When I came down, a year or so ago now, I saw the potential in the place. The other owners weren’t making use of the gold mine they had.”

“We have a great relationship,” Gordon explained. “We have the same people come in to take care of the floors, and we both get a deal that way.”

“They send me their students all the time,” Lopez said.

“And we have a place to send our students, so that they have a good time and want to take more lessons,” Gordon said, then pointed toward the ceiling. “The other tenant in the building is a designer and costumer. She’s great, too. Katarina. When someone is looking for a dress—for a night out on the town, or for a competition—they just go right across the hall. You couldn’t get a better setup.”

Lopez nodded and stood. “Well, back to business. Welcome, Mr. O’Casey.” He cocked his head, smiling. “Are you a cop, too? With your brother and his friends around now, we feel safe all the time.”

Quinn shook his head. “No, sorry, I’m not a cop. I’m into boats. Charters, diving, fishing,” Quinn said. Absolutely true, just not the whole story.

“Ah, I see. Well, then, you’re a lucky man, too. There’s nothing in the world like the sea.”

“Nothing like it,” Quinn agreed.

“Enjoy your night,” Lopez said.

“See you, Gabe,” Gordon said.

Lopez walked away, toward the kitchen.

“He’s a great guy,” Gordon said.

“Seems to be,” Quinn agreed.

“Hey, you want to see your brother really look good?” Gordon asked. There was a note of pride in his voice.

Quinn looked back to the floor. The couples had all switched around. Doug was dancing with Shannon Mackay, and there were only a few people on the floor now. The music had changed, as had the dance. It was sweeping and incredibly graceful.

“Bolero,” Gordon told him briefly.

The dance was beautiful. And Doug was good, made all the better by the elegance of his partner.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone move so…”

“You mean your brother?” Gordon teased.

Quinn shook his head, grinning. “Ms. Mackay.”

“She’s the best,” Gordon said.

“Hey, Quinn, can we slip back in?”

His head jerked up. Bobby and Giselle had returned. Panting. Quinn hadn’t realized he had been almost transfixed, watching the dancers.

“You’re not doing the bolero?” he asked the pair.

Bobby snorted. “Every time we try it together, we trip each other. I’m actually kind of hopeless.”

“You’re not!” Giselle protested.

Bobby made a face at Quinn. “You should see her in group class. She subtly—lovingly—tries to make sure she’s in front of some other guy all the time.”

“I do not. I would never.” She shrugged sheepishly at Quinn. “We change partners every few minutes anyway. What good would it do?”

Doug came up to the table, drawing Shannon by the hand. “Well?” he asked Quinn. It was strange. Doug had been totally serious about his suspicions regarding Lara Trudeau’s death, but right now, he was like the anxious little kid brother Quinn had known all his life, wanting his approval.

“You two blew me away,” he said.

Doug was pleased. “Now it’s your turn.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Quinn said, laughing.

“No, no, you’ll be fine,” Bobby encouraged. “It’s a merengue. You can’t mess it up.”

“Trust me, I can.”

“Come on, Mr. O’Casey,” Shannon said to him. “It’s step, step, step. March, march, march. I know you can do it.”

She was extending her elegant hand to him, those eyes of hers directly on his, challenging. It was as if she didn’t believe for a second that he had really come for dance lessons.

He shrugged. “All right. If you’re all absolutely determined to make me look like a fool…”

“You’ll never look like a fool—not with Shannon,” Gordon said.

“Doesn’t look like they’re just doing march, march, march to me,” he told her ruefully as they stepped onto the dance floor.

“They are—they’re just adding turns.”

She was in his arms, showing him the hold. “Just follow my movements. Men always—always—lead in dance,” she told him, “but since you haven’t done this yet…left, right, left, right…feel the beat?”

He did feel the beat. And more. The searing touch of her eyes, probing his. The subtle movement of her body, erotic along with the music.

“March, march,” he said.

“You’re doing fine.”

“Thanks. And how about you?”

Her brows hiked. “I’m impressed. You really do have a sense of rhythm. We can try some of those arm movements if you want. Just lift them…and I’ll turn, then you turn. Merengue is a favorite, because no matter what, it’s march, march.”

“I’m not wiggling like those guys.”

“Because you don’t have your Cuban motion yet. You’ll get it.”

Cuban motion, huh? She certainly had it. The way her hips moved was unbelievable.

He lifted his arms as she had instructed. He was a little too jerky, but she could deal with it.

“Now you,” she told him, and he repeated her motion.

Step, step, march, march. Okay…

“Was something wrong earlier tonight?” he asked her.

“What?” She frowned.

“I saw you coming down the steps. You looked…uneasy,” he said.

“You saw me? You were watching me?” Her tone was level, but he heard a note of outrage. “Are you following me or something, Mr. O’Casey?”

He laughed, keeping the sound light. “No, sorry, and I didn’t mean to imply such a thing. I went over to the place across the street for a hamburger before coming here,” he said. Okay, so the hamburger was a lie.

“Oh.” She flushed. “Sorry. I just…It’s an uncomfortable feeling, to think you’re being watched.”

“No, no…sorry. It’s just that…you looked scared.”

Maybe women weren’t supposed to lead, but she pressed his arms up and moved herself into a turn, shielding her eyes from his for a moment. Facing him again, she said, “Gordon was already down here. I was locking up alone. One of the books fell or something right before I walked out. It startled me.”

His hamburger story was a lie, and her falling book story was a lie, as well. Something much bigger had definitely frightened her.

“Unfortunately, Miami deserves its reputation for crime. You do need to be careful if you’re locking up alone,” he told her.

“The club is open every night. There’s a doorman on Thursday through Sunday. We park in the lot in the back, but it’s right across from a convenience store. There probably couldn’t be a safer place. And there are only three of us in the building—the club, the studio and the design shop. I know everyone.”

“But you can’t know everyone who comes into the club,” he said.

“No, of course not. But still I’ve always felt safe. Not only that, but I’m tougher than I look.”

“Really?” He had to smile.

“Don’t doubt it,” she told him, and there was definitely a warning in her voice. “Trust me. I can be tough.”

“A tough dancer,” he mused.

“That’s right. I love the studio—and I hate lies.”

“Do you, now?” he demanded. He thought that he saw the slightest hint of a flush touch her cheeks before she drew away from him.

“The music has changed. You’re not ready for a mambo,” she told him.

And turning, she walked away, leaving him on the floor.

CHAPTER 6

Shannon made a point of getting to the studio by nine the following morning. She had agreed to coach Sam and Jane at ten, and at eleven, Gordon wanted to go over more of the Gator Gala figures and plans.

Reaching the studio wasn’t difficult—she walked fifty percent of the time. Her house was just a few blocks away—thanks to Gordon.

Years ago, he had found the old place for sale. At that time, the block had been very run-down, and her house had come with horrible plumbing, no central air and the ugliest wallpaper known to man. The carpet could actually cause one to gag.

But the house had been the deal of the century. Small—there were only two bedrooms, and the yard was the size of a postage stamp—but she lived three blocks from the beach, and in the years since she had owned the house, the value had quadrupled. And it was hers. There weren’t that many private homes in the area, and she knew she was very lucky to have the space. And she wouldn’t have it, if it weren’t for Gordon. He’d loaned her the down payment.

Sometimes, when she realized that she’d been in the studio for probably eighty hours in one week, she liked to tell him that he’d gotten his investment back from her in blood and sweat. He told her that of course he had, he wasn’t a stupid man.

This morning, though, she was anxious to be in the studio—by the light of day. She was determined to convince herself that she was either overwrought or a little bit crazy—or both.

She climbed the stairs to the front door and waited, then inserted the key in the lock. Hesitantly she pushed the door open, then paused, listening.

Not a thing.

She entered the studio slowly, scoping out the polished wood floor and gazing around the room. Two sides were composed of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Facing the street, giant picture windows looked out on the day. The “conference room” was to the front, while the reception area and offices lined part of the wall nearest the door. Toward the rear were four doors, the first opening to the instructors’ room, the next opening to the men’s room, the third to the ladies’, and the fourth—with a counter section next to it—leading to the mini-kitchen. A small hallway between the bathrooms led to the rear door, where, just outside, there was a little patio shared by both upstairs establishments. To the left of the rear door was an expanse of wall with a door that led to the storage space. There was also access from the outside, since originally the storage space hadn’t come with the studio. Now, all of them had keys to it. Katarina kept a few costume dummies and supplies there, the dance studio kept records and various other items at different times, and while the club actually had much greater space downstairs, they sometimes needed a little extra now and then. There had never been any problems over sharing.

Across the patio were stairs leading up to a newly revamped third floor. Previously, it had pretty much been wasted space, but Gabriel Lopez had gotten permission from the corporate owners of the property to finish it and create an apartment. He and Gordon joked about it all the time—the apartment was terrific, and Gordon was jealous. He wished he’d come up with the idea. He had a great condo farther up on the beach—he just hated driving.

Shannon knew the studio and the building like the back of her hand. And that was why she had been so unnerved the night before.

With everyone else gone and the stereo silent, she had been in her own office, glancing over the student records. They all did their best to keep their students coming. The students were their livelihood. She had an excellent staff—dedicated professionals who were determined to really teach dance and give the clients their money’s worth for every minute on the floor—and everyone took responsibility for keeping the students happy. Still, when a student with a regular schedule suddenly became a no-show, something was wrong, and as manager, it was her responsibility to call that person, chat with them and make sure they hadn’t been offended in some way.

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