Quickstep to Murder Read online

  “So the killer really could have been a thief that Rafe walked in on,” Danielle said, “and not someone he knew at all.”

  “I suppose that’s possible,” I said slowly. She’d hit on the one possibility I hadn’t thought of last night. “But it doesn’t seem likely. What thief would want to rob a dance studio? There’s nothing worth stealing. He’d be better off knocking over a convenience store or even a fast-food joint. No, I still think it was someone Rafe knew, someone he planned to meet, or someone who knew he’d turn up at the studio eventually.”

  “You need to tell that Detective Lissy about Rafe having the gun,” Danielle urged. She pushed aside her empty plate and drew her coffee cup closer. “Maybe then he’ll stop considering you Public Enemy Number One.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “As soon as-”

  “Hey, Stacy, are you ready to rumba?” Alert and smiling, Mark Downey approached with a cup of coffee, seating himself at our table without asking. His form-fitting Latin costume had lime green accents to match my dress and his sandy hair flopped rakishly across his forehead. “Hi, Danielle,” he added. “Good to see you again.”

  “Hi, Mark. Good luck today.”

  “Thanks. I’m thinking this may be my last competition as an amateur.”

  I smiled at him. Amateurs who won out in the gold division frequently made the jump to professional status, assuming they wanted a career of teaching and competing. “Let’s do it,” I said, giving Danielle a look that said we’d continue our conversation later. She accompanied us to the ballroom and took a seat at the studio table, chatting with a tense-looking Sherry Indrebo. She was husbandless this morning. She and Vitaly would be competing against Mark and me, and I knew that regardless of who won, we’d have a very unhappy loser on our hands.

  I found myself looking at the older woman with her wiry muscles and tight body, clad now in an orange costume, wondering if she had it in her to shoot Rafe. She’d told me politics was her life; if she knew Rafe had sold her out to her opponent in the House race, just how mad would she have been? Livid, I imagined. If she and Rafe had met that night and Rafe had told her what he’d done, she could have snapped. Before I could work out the scenario any further, the announcer called us onto the floor and Sherry rose with a flutter of feathers and took Vitaly’s arm with a practiced smile. Mark offered his arm to me and the competition got under way.

  Mark and I won. Which is to say, we won the “Overall” title for the Pro/Am Scholarship-International Latin-Gold Division. The uninitiated would need the Rosetta stone or a code-breaking book to read ballroom dancing score sheets; suffice it to say that Mark and I were ranked number one in three of the five dances and no lower than third in any of them. Sherry and Vitaly took a second and a third and landed as low as fifth in the cha-cha. That really wasn’t surprising considering they’d had only a couple of practices while Mark and I and several of the other pro-am couples had danced together for years. At any rate, Mark was ecstatic and I was pleased; our success might (hopefully!) attract more students to Graysin Motion.

  Mark grabbed me around the waist and twirled me around, pressing a fast kiss onto my lips. “We did it!” He set me down and accepted congratulations from various other dancers, including Sherry, who looked like her cheeks ached from the effort of maintaining her smile. She disappeared immediately after congratulating Mark, not staying for the celebratory bottle of champagne Vitaly graciously purchased.

  After a few minutes, Mark bounded over to where I sat at the studio’s table, watching the Pro/Am Scholarship Open Nite-Club competition in which Graysin Motion had no entries. As couples demonstrated their West Coast Swing, Mark leaned close. “I won out in gold,” he exulted.

  “I guess you’ll be competing against me next year,” I said, smiling.

  The excitement drained slowly from his face. “Against you?”

  “Why, yes. Didn’t you say you were going to compete as a pro if you won out? I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding a partner… You’re really good, Mark. It must have been because you had such a good teacher.” I smiled again, although Mark’s reaction didn’t feel right.

  “I thought that you… that you and I-I figured that when I was good enough, we would team up, be partners.” His expression mixed disbelief and pleading.

  Ouch. I should have forced myself to have that talk about boundaries earlier. I silently apologized to Danielle for getting on her about not confronting her boss when I hadn’t even had the gumption to have a similar talk with a student. Vitaly, sensing something was wrong, discreetly led the others at the table away under the pretext of watching the dancers from another angle. I was liking him more every minute. Even though his English was iffy, he could read gestures and expressions in a way that let him understand more than some people who’d been speaking English since the cradle. Mark for instance. He reclaimed my attention by grabbing my wrist where it lay on the table.

  “Stacy! I knew that while you and Rafe were dancing together there was no hope for me. You’d built a professional reputation together-I understood that. But with Rafe out of the picture-”

  “He’s dead!” I said, pulling my wrist away.

  “I know. I didn’t mean to disrespect your grief or imply that his murder wasn’t a terrible thing. I’m not doing this well.” He looked miserable.

  “Mark, I don’t want to take anything away from your achievement today, but you need to look for someone at your level to partner with.”

  “You’re too good for me, is that it?” Anger was replacing his hangdog look.

  “I’ve got several years’ experience as a professional,” I said as diplomatically as possible. “I’m at a different place in my career. I own a studio. I’ve got to dance with someone who can bring students into the studio, who I can win important competitions with to boost the studio’s reputation. That’s Vitaly.”

  “But you just started with him! It’s not like you’ve had years, or even months, of training together. He’d understand if you wanted to give me a tryout-”

  “No.” I spoke the word forcefully.

  Mark scraped his chair back, rocking the table as he jumped up. I grabbed for the champagne bottle before it could fall. People at the tables on either side watched us with open curiosity and the nearest judge turned around to glare at us. With an obvious effort, Mark controlled his temper. “I could work at Graysin Motion, then, and we could see how it goes. Maybe in a couple months-”

  “No.” I tried to soften the harsh word. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Mark. Look, this is your big day. Let’s get back to celebrating-”

  “Screw you, Stacy,” he spat, turning on his heel and hurrying out of the ballroom.

  I let out a long breath. Mark’s anger, his lack of control, the way he said Rafe was out of the picture… I wondered if Mark could’ve had a hand in Rafe’s death. Was his obsession with me, his fantasy that we would be professional partners, strong enough to lead to murder? If Mark had come to the studio that night, maybe looking for me, and run into Rafe and they’d had words… I almost jumped when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Vitaly, tracking Mark as he banged out the door. “He is one gigantic prickle,” Vitaly announced, squeezing my shoulder.

  “That’s one way to put it,” I agreed.

  Chapter 15

  I have never been so happy to see my house as I was Sunday night when I got home from the competition. The usual euphoria I had after competing had leaked out of me like helium from a three-day-old party balloon. The dancing itself, combined with the sprint and grapple with Hall, had left my body worn out, my feet throbbing. I was mentally worn out, too, from the emotional ups and downs of the weekend, including Victoria’s appearing/disappearing act, the brouhaha with Taryn and Sawyer, dancing with a new partner-Vitaly and I hadn’t won an overall title, but we’d won some of the individual dances, which was good enough for our first competition together-and Mark Downey’s tantrum. After his blow-up Saturday, Mark had returned to dance his Inter
national Standard heats with me, but he was cold and uncommunicative and we didn’t do nearly as well. If anything else had been needed to convince me not even to consider him as a professional partner, that did it. A pro’s got to be able to divorce his or her personal life from the dancing. You’ve got to be able to smile and look like you’re enjoying yourself, or be tender and romantic-whatever suits the character of the dance-even if you recently caught your lying son-of-a-bitch partner cheating on you.

  Despite my weariness, I forced myself to lug all my costumes into the house; I couldn’t afford to have them stolen-they each cost upward of $2,500. Holding the hangers high above my head to keep the garment bags from dragging on the ground, I plodded from my car to the back door and fumbled with my key in the lock. As the door eased open with a squeak, an impression of motion to my left had me half turning in that direction. Before I could spot anything, a hard forearm pressed against my throat and the man’s other hand clamped over my mouth and nose.

  “Quietly,” a gruff voice whispered into my ear. “Let’s go inside quietly.” He bumped me forward with a rude knee to the back of my thigh.

  For a split second, I was most worried about the dresses, still gripped awkwardly in my upraised hand, their weight making my arm go numb. Then common sense reordered my priorities and my mind seized up with images from news stories of horrific home invasions where whole families were beaten and/or shot; the serial rapist who was supposed to be operating on jogging routes in Arlington, but who might have changed his hunting grounds; and of Rafe, bloody and dead, in the ballroom upstairs. The man pulled his arm painfully tight against my throat, cutting off my airway, and I reluctantly stepped into the house. I automatically reached for the light switch with the hand not holding the dresses, but the man knocked my arm down with his elbow. “No lights.”

  Once inside, the arm across my throat eased up and he nudged me toward a chair. “Sit.”

  My arm trembling with fatigue, I asked in a disgustingly shaky voice, “May I put the dresses down?” Some part of me hoped that with two free hands, I might be able to escape my attacker. My gaze flitted to where I knew my knives sat in a block on the counter, even though I couldn’t see them in the dark. And on the end of the counter nearest me was Great-aunt Laurinda’s ugly ceramic rooster that I hadn’t been able to bring myself to trash or donate; given the opportunity, I could grab it and smash it into my assailant’s skull.

  “On the table.”

  I laid the dresses gently across the kitchen table and wondered if I should lunge for the knives. As if reading my mind, my assailant, dressed entirely in black I realized now that my eyes were adjusting, stepped between the counter and me. “Sit.”

  I sat. Every muscle tensed. I would go down fighting. Instead of ripping my clothes off, though, or demanding that I hand over my valuables, the man turned away. I heard a faint click, then the whirr of the vent fan, a muffled “Damn,” and then the light in the stove vent came on.

  “Just a little light so I can see if you’re lying to me,” Héctor Bazán said, moving back toward the table. “But not enough to attract attention from your neighbors.” He prodded a chair away from the table with his foot and sat adjacent to me, crossing his legs with one ankle on his knee.

  Knowing my attacker’s identity both relieved me-it wasn’t the serial rapist-and made me more nervous. Hadn’t I heard somewhere-maybe a movie?-that if a kidnapper let you see him it meant he was going to kill you? Not that this was a kidnapping, exactly, but maybe the same principle applied. I stared into Bazán’s dark, expressionless eyes, easily believing now that he had killed a migrant worker on his ranch and maybe dozens of other people. He wasn’t brandishing a weapon, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have one.

  “Where is my wife?” Bazán asked conversationally.

  I stared at him.

  “Victoria. Where is she?”

  “I don’t-”

  He slammed his hand on the table, making me jump. “I’m not in the mood for game-playing or lies. I know she was at the dance competition. I’ve had men watching Acosta’s condo and this studio for two weeks now; one of them showed initiative in checking out the competition, thinking she might try to link up with Acosta there if she hadn’t heard about his untimely demise. So where is she?”

  “How would I know?” My voice squeaked. I cleared my throat and said more forcefully, “If she came looking for Rafe, she would’ve found out he was dead and left, right?”

  Bazán studied my face, his gaze drilling into first my right eye and then my left. I tried to keep from fidgeting.

  “You’re lying,” he said. “Just tell me. It’ll be easier on both of us. And you’ll be doing Victoria a favor.”

  I raised my brows and made a skeptical sound.

  “Really. My wife is a sick woman, Miss Graysin.”

  I stopped myself from saying, “She didn’t look ill to me.”

  “What story did she tell you?” His eyes scanned my face. “That I’m involved in mysterious criminal activities and won’t let her leave because she knows too much? Or was it the one about me institutionalizing our child because of birth defects? We’ve never had a baby. Or-”

  “She showed me the bruises,” I said.

  “On her stomach?” When I nodded, he said, “She was in a car accident two weeks ago and her stomach and chest got badly bruised when the air bag drove her purse into her torso. She had it on her lap, looking for a lip gloss, I believe.” Mingled sadness and weariness pulled his mouth down. He didn’t look threatening at the moment.

  Not sure what to believe, I said, “I really don’t know where she is.”

  “But you talked?” His eyes lit up.

  Reluctantly, I nodded.

  He grabbed my left hand with both of his. “Please. Tell me what she said.”

  His hands were callused and hard. “Not much. We were going to talk after I danced, but she was gone from my room by the time I finished. She stole my wallet.”

  “I will reimburse you,” Bazán said instantly. “Unfortunately, it is not the first time something like this has happened. I need to find her before she gets herself in serious trouble, or ends up hurt.”

  “I wish I could help,” I lied. I wasn’t sure I believed anything Victoria had told me, but her husband hadn’t exactly won my trust by breaking into my house.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Surely she said something.”

  “Nope.

  He slapped my face with his open palm, not hard, but it stung.

  Surprise, as much as pain, made me cry out. No man had ever struck me. Even my father had never spanked me. I put my hand to my cheek.

  “I don’t have time for your flippancy. Tell me what Victoria said and where she went. It’s for her own good.”

  “Go to hell.”

  The next slap was harder, almost knocking me from my chair. “She didn’t say anything!” I yelled through incipient tears. “She was staying at Rafe’s cabin, in West Virginia. Maybe she went back there.” I was darned sure Victoria hadn’t returned to Rafe’s isolated man cave. “And before you ask, I don’t know where it is. Somewhere outside a town called Canon-something.”

  “If you are lying…”

  “I’m not.” I stared at him defiantly. “Although I wouldn’t tell you where she was, even if I knew.”

  “Then you’d be doing her a great disservice,” he said, standing. “Victoria is a menace to herself.”

  “Not as big a menace as you.”

  “Acosta knew what he was doing when he dumped you,” Bazán observed. “No man wants to live with a sharp-tongued wife. If you were my wife, I’d be tempted to cut it out.”

  He said it with so little emotion that it froze me to stillness. He crossed to the door. “I’ll be back if I find out you’ve lied to me.”

  Scrambling to my feet, I lifted my chair and held it in front of me, not sure if I meant it as a weapon or a shield. “The police might have something to say about that.”

  He laug
hed, genuinely amused. “I’ve got two words for you: diplomatic immunity. Besides which, it’s your word against mine. I don’t think I need to worry very much about the police. You, on the other hand, have a lot to worry about.” He opened the door, looked both ways, and stepped out, pulling the door closed behind him.

  The chair dropped with a clatter, landing on my toe. I dropped cross-legged to the floor, massaging my toe and bawling my eyes out. I cried for at least ten minutes, knowing the tears were more about fear and tension release than pain. Shoving myself upward, I hobbled to the fridge and pulled a chunk of ice out, wrapping it in a dish towel and holding it against my toe. I followed that up with an aspirin and a call to the police.

  Monday morning found me trotting awkwardly after Detective Lissy as he inspected the exterior of my house, peering at windows and doors. My toe hurt like the dickens and the nail was a lurid purple that told me it would fall off eventually. Dancing would be excruciating for a few days, at least. I thought evil thoughts about what I’d do to Bazán if the opportunity presented itself.

  “But I told you he didn’t break in,” I said for the third time. “He waited until I unlocked the door and then pounced.” The uniformed officers who came by last night had apparently misreported what I’d said, or Lissy was deliberately misinterpreting it.

  “I’m not looking for evidence of a break-in,” Lissy said damply. “I’m looking for proof someone waited out here. Cigarette butts, beer can, candy wrapper.”

  “He threatened me and you’re looking for proof he’s a litterbug?”

  Lissy eyed me, his pale gray eyes assessing. “It’d be nice to have something to corroborate your story.”

  I held out my bare foot. “What about this?”

  “You said you dropped a chair on it.”

  “Yes, but only because I picked it up to protect myself.”

  Lissy nodded, somehow managing to convey that he thought I was either an accomplished liar or a delusional conspiracy theorist who would shortly be accusing Bazán of being behind the Gulf oil leak and the subprime mortgage fiasco.