Dead On The Dance Floor. Heather Graham

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