Dead On The Dance Floor. Heather Graham
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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