Dead On The Dance Floor. Heather Graham
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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.