Free Dead on the Dance Floor by Heather Graham Page B

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?”
    â€œOdd? 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.”
    â€œIf 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.”
    â€œI’m not dead,” Quinn reminded him.
    â€œYeah, 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.”
    â€œHey, we’re all on the same side here,” Jake reminded him. “You know, fighting crime. That’s the idea.”
    â€œYeah, 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.
    â€œYou’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.
    â€œYeah, 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.”
    â€œSure thing,” Jake said.
    â€œHe gets discounts here anyway, you know?” Pete said to Quinn. “Married the proprietor’s niece. When’s that kid due, Dilessio?”
    â€œSoon.”
    â€œHope you have a boy.”
    â€œOh, why?” Jake said.
    â€œâ€™Cause women are trouble. Right from the get-go.”
    The both stared after him as he walked away toward the parking lot. Then