Dancing with the Dead (27 page)

“Romance Studio’s over at table number twelve,” he told her, pointing. “C’mon so we can talk, then we’ll get in a little practice.”

Mary nodded numbly.

She followed Mel to one of the many pink-clothed tables surrounding the dance floor. There was a square of white cloth fastened with safety pins to the back of his shirt, on which 799 was printed in black. On the other side of the floor was a raised platform on some sort of scissorslike jack mechanism with a professional-looking, bulky TV camera mounted on it. It was the sort of camera that might zoom in on David Letterman, but that Mary didn’t want aimed her way. Juliet Prowse would be here to hostess the Saturday night professional competition and showcase dances, for later viewing on television. Mary assured herself the TV camera was for Juliet, and for the ballroom dance world’s top performers, not for her. Anything to make the knot in her stomach less painful. She felt as if she’d gulped down a baseball.

Mel dropped into a chair and she sat down next to him, her body trembling. He peered at her face and smiled. “The bruises might just be okay,” he said. “And the dress is perfect, Mary.”

Was he sincere? Or simply trying to buoy her confidence? Mustn’t her fear show in her face? She passed her fingertips over the tablecloth; the rough texture of the material made them tingle.

“Now, remember how we get on and off the floor,” Mel told her. “Once the music starts, don’t get in a rush. And concentrate on the basics. Now and then, when I know the judges aren’t watching, I might say something to you or straighten something out in your dancing; don’t let that throw you.”

“Anything else?” Mary asked.

“Oh, yeah. We’re number one-ninety-nine. When you hear the announcer say it, listen close for instructions.”

“Anything else?” She knew she was repeating herself like an idiot.

“Yeah. Have fun.” He stood up and extended his hand for her to take. “Let’s do some tango to get you warmed up and accustomed to the floor.”

Despite the fact that there were at least a dozen couples practicing on the desert of a dance floor, Mary was sure everyone in the ballroom was watching her through binoculars.

Mel stepped close and raised her hands to dance position. As they began to dance, a measure of confidence took root in her. Mel’s right hand was almost on the bruise, causing occasional flashes of agony, but she said nothing and maintained her posture. They were moving well and must look good together. She drew comfort from his lithe body, absorbing his youth like a vampire. As they practiced pivots she arched her spine and tilted back her head to look up and to her left. Above her the glittering chandeliers and colorful arches of balloons whirled dizzyingly as she floated with Mel’s lead, leaning away from the pivot and using centrifugal force to gain velocity. She knew she was doing everything right; it was like flying. She and Mel were cutting through the air like a single aerodynamic creature, something out of mythology.

“Aw
right
!” he said, stopping and twirling her with a flourish. “Dance like that during competition and we got it made!”

Hundreds of people had filtered into the ballroom while they’d been talking and practicing, and were milling around or sitting at the tables. The balcony was lined with spectators, and the platform with the rows of video cameras was being tended by a man and four women. Mary had used her extra money to pay to have her performances taped so she could study them later. Now, staring out at all the bright movement and pale faces in the ballroom, her confidence ebbed again and she regretted paying to have her embarrassment recorded.

“So how you feel?” Mel asked.

“Scared.”

“That’s okay. Convert that to energy when we dance. And try to relax. The crowd here doesn’t use live ammunition.”

Dance officials were seated on the judges’ dais now. An announcer with silver hair spoke into a microphone and asked that the floor be cleared for competition.

When the floor was vacant and the ballroom hushed, the announcer said, “American Rhythm will be first, Ladies’ A Newcomer. Dancers please line up at the far end, down by Mrs. Kellerman.” A woman in a blue dress raised her hand, smiling. Mrs. Kellerman, drawing scattered applause. Well, the audience was friendly; Mrs. Kellerman hadn’t even danced.

Mary’s heart skipped and pounded as she took Mel’s arm and he led her toward the far corner of the ballroom, where dancers in glittering, feathered outfits were queuing up with their partners. The announcer introduced the judges, some of whom were now standing at the corners of the dance floor, then he called the numbers of the dancers for the first heat.

When she heard “One-ninety-nine,” Mary stopped breathing for a moment.

She felt Mel tug at her arm. Her mind was somewhere up there with the arches of balloons and the glittering chandeliers. Her legs were numb but she knew she was walking. She swallowed and moved like an automaton, letting instinct and training take over.

And found herself in the center of the dance floor.

The music began.

M
ORRISY SLUMPED DOWN
heavily behind his desk and sighed. He didn’t like the way things were shaping up. He could smell trouble the way a sailor smelled a storm.

Three dead dancers were one—and in retrospect, two—too many to be coincidental. He’d had the wrong idea about how large dancing had loomed in the lives of the dead women. He’d thought they’d simply learned how to dance, taken goddamn lessons, maybe even entered contests sometimes. But mainly he’d assumed they went out dancing the way millions of women did, the way his former wife Bonita had. He wondered if maybe his personal view of Bonita had anything to do with the way he’d been blindsided on this one.

To the media, Morrisy was still playing down the importance of the ballroom dance connection, but he knew it might very well become the crux of the case, the angle that tied the victims to the weirdo who’d killed them.

Waxman wandered in and stood near the window, stared out at hazy blue sky for a moment, then said, “We got Verlane possibly in New Orleans when his wife died, possibly in Seattle when the Roundner woman was killed, definitely in Kansas City for the Vivian Ferris murder.”

Tell me something I don’t know, Morrisy thought. He said, “Quirk’s been on my ass like bargain underwear.”

Waxman moved away from the window and stood close to the desk. He’d left the door open and sounds from out in the squad room drifted in. A dot matrix printer going
Gzzzzzzing!
over and over at irregular intervals. Nyak the desk sergeant patiently arguing with a drunk. “I
never
walk a shtraight line!” the drunk was protesting.

Gzzzzzzzing! Gzzzzzzzzing!

Irritating sound, Morrisy thought. Japanese-made piece of crap sitting out there spitting paper like they’d won the fucking war or something. Well, maybe they had.

“We collar Verlane and search the house,” Waxman said, “we might come up with what we need to nail him down tight.”

“Might,” Morrisy said, actually doubting it. Verlane had proved out tough and smart. Too smart to leave incriminating evidence lying around like ashtrays. Still, to have done what he’d done a man had to be in and out mentally. And Morrisy had seen plenty of tough ones all of a sudden cave in when the cuffs were clicked on their wrists, when they were finally grabbed by the balls. The desire to purge guilt and confess could be as overwhelming as the need for sex. Or the need to kill. Morrisy knew that.

“Verlane home now?” he asked.

Gzzzzzing!

“Jansen’s on him and called in a few minutes ago. Says Verlane hasn’t left his house.”

Gzzzzzzzing!

Morrisy stood up behind the desk and tucked in his shirt. Twisted his bulky body and snatched his suitcoat from its hook. “Time to move on the bastard,” he said. “Let’s stuff him in the bag.”

Verlane didn’t answer when they rang his doorbell. And when they forced the door and went inside they found the large, quiet house unoccupied. A couple of lamps were switched on, even though sunlight streamed through the sheer drapes. The air smelled stale, and everything was neat but looked dusty. It had been some time since the maid had been there. The maid or anyone else.

They had their legal ducks in a row, so Morrisy ordered a search of the premises. He wasn’t surprised that Verlane had slipped away on Jensen. Verlane, too, must have sensed the weight of the evidence settling on him and figured arrest was imminent.

Morrisy nosed around the place himself for a while, finding nothing of interest. Verlane had expensive tastes, expensive clothes, furniture, jewelry. On a fancy dresser in the French Provincial bedroom was a framed photograph of the dead wife. Danielle Verlane was smiling, wearing a midnight blue dress and standing before some kind of white latticework, her head tilted to the side so her hair was highlighted. The dress was cut low, and the light that made her hair glow lent a three-dimensional roundness to the eager swell of her breasts. She’d been a beautiful piece, all right. Wasted now. In her grave. Morrisy found himself disliking Verlane even more, working up to the curious rage he’d felt before in the course of this investigation.

In one of the closets were half a dozen fancy ballgowns and sexy Latin dance outfits. Morrisy stared at the array of silky bright fabric and feathers. He could imagine how Danielle must have looked in the skimpy Latin costumes.

“Bastard musta been nuts, killing a woman like that,” Waxman said. He was standing next to Morrisy and gazing at the dance outfits. “And now he’s rabbited out on us when we weren’t looking.”

Morrisy extended a powerful hand and ran rough, tentative fingers along a red silk dress sleeve.

He said, “Could be I know where to find him.”

O
NCE SHE BEGAN DANCING,
it was easier than she’d imagined. The syncopated beat carried her as if she were an electrically charged marionette, her body automatically following Mel’s lead. They did basic steps, then cross-overs and an underarm turn. In the corners of her vision, the other dancers moving in unison were blurred and unreal. Or maybe
she
was unreal.

Before she fully realized what had happened, the music stopped and applause thundered into the silence. The dance was over.

The announcer’s voice was echoing like God’s around the ballroom as Mary laced her arm through Mel’s and he led her off the floor.

“Good,” he said, when they’d reached the staging area. “You did good, Mary.” She couldn’t tell from his tone of voice if he really meant it.

The mambo competition passed the same way, everything like an illusion set to music.

During her next dance, a rumba, the reality of where she was, what she was doing, how she was being watched and judged, caught hold in her. Cold panic hit and she rushed an underarm turn. Her bruised ribs ached as she stretched her stride to catch up with the beat.

“You okay?” Mel asked without moving his lips.

She had to stop herself from nodding and losing head position. Instead of answering, she concentrated on her dancing. Spectators were screaming contestants’ numbers. Mel danced her close to the Romance Studio table and several voices she recognized shouted, “One-nine-nine!” Okay,
everyone
out there wasn’t being critical of her. Mary felt a rush of energy and bore down with the inner edges of her feet on each step, pressuring the floor to emphasize hip roll, doing arm styling in perfect synchronization with Mel’s.

Practice had paid; it was all happening almost on its own.

Then it was over.

At least for Mary, for the Friday competition.

About twenty couples danced swing, and it was time to bestow awards in the Ladies’ A Newcomer division.

Mary stood next to Mel in the semicircle of dancers who were waiting for their names and numbers to be called, so they could walk forward, accept their prize medallions, and pose proudly for photographs. Time to reap whatever had been sown.

Her name wasn’t called, but she wasn’t disappointed. The purpose of today’s competition was to get her used to dancing under competitive stress. Tomorrow was to be her day, the smooth dance competition in Newcomer and Bronze divisions, including tango. Tango was her dance. Tango was her hope. Everything she did today was to build toward tomorrow, and in that respect, today had been a success.

The rest of the morning she sat at the table and rooted for the other Romance Studio contestants, shouting out entry numbers, sipping diet Pepsi through a straw, and discussing other dancers. She was having a grand time, feeling a part of all this. Why had she ever considered
not
coming here?

Helen didn’t place in any of her heats, either, but lean Lisa surprised everyone by dancing a near-perfect mambo and finishing third.

After changing out of her Latin dress, Mary had a lunch of salad and pasta in the hotel restaurant with Helen and an ecstatic Lisa. Then they returned to the ballroom and watched with increasing awe as the higher divisions competed.

That night, after dinner with the other Romance Studio people, Mary watched the professionals do their routines. It was an impressive show, though nothing like what was scheduled for tomorrow night. That was when television crews would be taping and all the stops would be pulled.

Between performances there was general dancing. A blond man Mary remembered doing a stylish rumba in Bronze competition walked over to the Romance table and asked her to waltz.

After a few sweeping change steps and a pivot, as if he were trying to impress her with his expertise, they settled into lazy box steps and he smiled down at her. It was a smile that went well with his regular features and razor-styled hair. He might have been a TV news anchor. Would he do bad comedy and speak in sound bites?

“My name’s Benson,” he said.

“First or last?”

“First, I’m afraid. Amberbrake’s my last name. Sounds like a butler, doesn’t it?”

Benson Amberbrake. “It does,” Mary said honestly. “Or maybe somebody who’d hire a butler. I’m Mary Arlington.”

“I know. I was watching you dance rhythm this morning. You looked great.”