Dead on the Dance Floor (19 page)

Shannon listened intently, but the closed door buffered a lot of sound. After finding the shirt she'd been wearing, she slipped into it, did up the remaining buttons, and went to the door, cracking it just a hair.

“No, I was up most of the night, but knowing what was going on with you, I thought you'd like to hear about it.” There was another man in the cabin. Tall, nice looking, well built. He was wearing dockers, a cotton shirt open at the neck and a casual jacket.

Definitely not a uniform, but…

Something about him, his manner, maybe his air of confidence, of intensity, seemed to scream
cop.

“Of course, and thanks,” Quinn said. “Can I meet you on the patio in a few minutes?”

“Yeah.”

The visitor left. Quinn turned back toward the cabin, and she opened the door.

“Just a friend of mine. I need to meet with him. You all right?” He smiled, pulling her into his arms. “You looked like the cat who ate the canary. Not all that sorry about eating the canary, either, but scared as hell about getting caught.”

She smiled, but she felt uneasy. For some reason, his unknown visitor bothered her more than if it had been Gordon knocking at the door.

“I'm fine. Bright light, daytime.”

“And you're glad you stayed?” he queried.

“I told you, I wasn't drunk.”

He was tender, cupping her chin, brushing her lips. He was also anxious and in a hurry; she could feel it. Odd. She'd expected him to tell her that since it was Sunday and they'd already been fraternizing…well, she didn't work on Sundays, so…

But he didn't say any such thing.

“I'm not sure how long I'll be. Can I call you later?”

“Sure.”

“I have to hop in the shower.” He turned toward the tiny head.

“Your friend is a cop, isn't he?” she asked.

He turned slowly, frowning as he looked at her.

“Yes, he is. How did you know?”

“You can just tell.”

“He won't be happy to hear he's that obvious.”

“Tell him to slump some. His posture is too good.”

“You think that will help?”

“Um, no. He just looks like a cop.”

Quinn grinned. “Maybe that
is
good.”

He slipped into the head and closed the door. She heard the water running and walked back to the other head, wondering if what she was doing was, boatwise, correct. Would she run out of hot water?

Apparently not. She was able to shower. When she stepped out, wrapped in a towel, he was already dressed in jeans and a deep blue polo shirt. He was sliding his wallet into his back pocket.

“I'll talk to you later, right?” he said. He sounded anxious. Either to get going, or he honestly wanted to see her later.

He paused before leaving, hands on her shoulders, eyes doing a sweep of her in the towel.

“You really are beautiful,” he said, and his tone was husky. Deep. A grating that touched a lot of newly aroused instincts inside her.

He lingered, as if he honestly would have liked to stay. But then he broke away. “You're all right here alone, right?”

“Of course. I'll be heading home in a few minutes.”

He nodded. “I'll talk to you later.” He started up the steps, then turned back. “Make yourself at home in the galley, if you want to have coffee before you leave. And hit the lower lock on the cabin door.”

“Right.” She waved to him, and he went out.

To find out about something important.

Without him there, she felt uncomfortable, standing in his cabin in a towel. She dressed quickly and was about to head out when she hesitated.

It actually felt strangely pleasant to be trusted alone in his personal space. She had been wondering if she should berate herself, feel some strange sense of having given in to something she shouldn't have. But she couldn't begin to remember a night that had felt so good. She'd probably never had one before.

And as for Quinn…

The more she was with him, the more she wanted to be with him. She liked his grin, his laugh, and he wasn't at all bad on the eyes. She liked the feel of his hands, and, most of all, she liked his quick sense of humor and the dimple when he smiled, the way that he talked.

She also rather liked the feel of being in his personal space, trusted to be alone. She hesitated, then decided that since it was Sunday, and she didn't have to be anywhere, maybe she
would
make some coffee before she left.

The pot and coffee were visible on the counter in the galley. Shannon measured some out and reminded herself that there was something going on with him. All he ever did was ask questions, and yet he denied being a cop. It was illegal, of course, to lie and say that you
were
a cop when you
weren't,
but undercover cops had to lie all the time about their jobs.

But him being an undercover cop didn't make any sense. Surely, she wasn't the only one who thought the circumstances of Lara's death had been suspicious. The police had openly questioned everyone. There had been an autopsy, a case file.

A case file that was now closed. Why not close it? One of the county's best forensic physicians had done the autopsy, they had been told. Human remains didn't lie. Lara's blood had been saturated with prescription drugs and alcohol. There was no denying it.

So…he couldn't be a cop, because the cops had no further interest in the case.

The coffee perked, and she found herself a cup. It was easy to find a small container of milk in the refrigerator, but a search through the cabinets didn't produce any sugar or its substitute, blue or pink, or even off-brand yellow.

“Have some balls, drink it black,” she said aloud, as Gordon often did, especially when he had forgotten to buy sugar or cream for the studio.

She made a face. She liked what Rhianna called “evil chemical substitution” in her coffee. Maybe in one of the drawers?

She opened a drawer and found silverware, while another had some kitchen towels. A third drawer held knives and serving pieces. She moved on to the last kitchen drawer.

She didn't find sugar substitute.

She found papers.

Manila files lay atop a stack of receipts and other bits of paper. She hesitated, brows knit, as she stared into the drawer.

She should have closed the drawer, not having found what she wanted.

Except that she just might have found some answers to the mystery of Quinn O'Casey.

And it would have taken a better man—or woman—than she to turn away from what she saw.

Reaching into the drawer, she pulled out the folders. One was labeled Lara Trudeau. The other held the name Nell Durken.

Stunned, she stared at the names for several seconds. Then she set the second folder down to go through Lara's. There was a police report in the front of the folder. Behind it, numerous statements. An autopsy report. Everything.

She set the folder down and picked up the other. It was organized in the same fashion, but the faces and names were different. Police report, autopsy, pages of statements…the arrest record of Nell's husband.

She heard someone whistling, then footsteps on the pier nearby. She started to shove the folders back into the drawer. They wouldn't go. There was something else in there. She pulled the drawer all the way out and discovered that a videotape was keeping her from stuffing the folders back in and closing the drawer. The tape was labelled with the name of the competition, Lara's name—and “Property of Miami-Dade, Homicide Department.”

She adjusted the tape, then the papers, hurriedly putting everything back. She froze and waited, torn between guilt at prying and fury that the man was such a liar.

Fury took precedence.

Along with the fall of her ego, and a geyser of hurt.

Right. She was beautiful. And fascinating.

Humiliation held her at a dead standstill. Yes, she'd come here. Yes, she'd come straight to him. But a man who was pretending an interest in her because he was a lying son of a bitch who was
investigating
her had no right whatsoever to fall so willingly into that kind of intimacy with the person under investigation!

She hoped he was a cop.

She wished fervently that she could get his ass fired!

The sound of the footsteps, and the whistling, went right on by the boat. Whoever was walking by wasn't Quinn O'Casey.

He might come back any minute.

He might not come back for hours.

She gritted her teeth, longing to go through every single thing on the boat—to trash it, as a matter of fact.

A ringing sound stopped her. She paused, listening, then realized with a groan that it was her own cell phone, ringing from her purse.

She quickly dragged it out and surveyed the caller ID.

Justin.

She punched in, feeling absurdly guilty over the night before—yes, this had certainly been fraternizing. And now, on top of having done something she should never, ever have done, she had been used. Pathetically.

Because she basically had no life, other than dance.

“Yes?”

She was breathless as she answered the phone.

“Shannon?” Justin said.

“Yes, of course.”

“You sound funny.”

“Do I? Sorry. I couldn't find the phone at first. Lost it down in the jungle of my purse, you know.”

She heard his laughter on the other end. “That's a jungle, all right.”

“Mmm. Right. Funny. So, what's up?”

“We were going to go to the beach. Right down the street from your place. We wanted to know if you wanted to come.”

“We—who?”

“Just me, Sam, Jane and Rhianna. We've called Ella and Ben but haven't gotten a hold of them yet. Gordon answered the phone half-asleep and said something really nasty to me, like ‘eat shit and die,' because I woke him on a Sunday. But you're usually up…so…hey, how about it? Come join your staff for a day of cleansing sun and sand, huh?”

“Oh, wow, Justin, I don't know…it's been a long week.”

“So you don't want to see us, uh? I understand.”

“No, I'm happy to see you. But—”

“Come on, please? We'll come by and hound your house until you do.”

“No!”

“We will. You'll have to call the cops, and then the studio will suffer. There will be more horrible publicity, and your teachers will be in jail.”

“Don't come to the house! Give me an hour and I'll join you.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“You swear? This isn't just to blow me off or anything? 'Cause we will come to the house. We're feeling like a lonely group of kids, you know? In need of our fearless leader so we can have some fun with our lives.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” she said dryly. “Fun. I'll come—I promise. Just don't come and haunt my house. We can come back…here, if you want, just give me some time right now.”

“Sure, cool. We'll be on the public side of the hotel, straight down the street from your place.”

“I'll be there.”

Shannon clicked off and slowly put the phone back into her purse.

She should go. Because she was far too mature and sane to trash his residence.

Besides, she had discovered what she needed to know.

She had been right all along.

He wasn't what he purported to be.

So just what exactly was he? He'd taken his wallet, so she couldn't check his ID. She could, of course, search his desk, even see if she could get on the computer.

She shook her head, wanting to get out of Nick's parking lot before her car was discovered there. But then she hesitated and turned around, going back to check the desk drawer beneath the computer.

Pens, pencils, erasers, disks, paper…

She opened another drawer, a file drawer. All she needed to see was the header on the first piece of paper.

“Whitelaw and O'Casey, Private Investigations”

There followed an address in Key Largo, phone number, e-mail, and a state of Florida licensing number.

“That son of a bitch!” she said out loud.

She slammed the drawer, burning.

Oh, yeah, the man sure as hell knew how to investigate.

She started to turn away, wondering if she could actually drive with the rage she was feeling.

Then she hesitated, curious, and turned back to the desk. Picking up the phone behind the computer, she dialed the number for the agency. It rang and rang.