Dead On The Dance Floor. Heather Graham

“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