Quickstep to Murder Page 18

  We had made our way around to the front of the house, not spotting a single thing that helped prove Bazán had forced his way into my kitchen last night and threatened me. The sun shone brightly from a cloudless sky and already my skin prickled with sweat. It was going to be a scorcher. Lissy flipped a page on his steno pad. “So you say Mrs. Bazán forced her way into your hotel room and then Mr. Bazán”-he consulted his notes-“ ‘pounced’ on you here?”

  “She didn’t force her way in,” I said, frustrated. “I invited her in. But then she stole my wallet, which I already reported to my credit card company.”

  “But not to the police.” Lissy’s inflection made my omission sound suspicious.

  In truth, I hadn’t called them because I couldn’t spare the time from the competition to hassle with the paperwork and I didn’t think they had a prayer of recovering it. Some part of me, too, felt I deserved what I’d gotten for being so foolish as to leave a stranger alone in my hotel room. In hindsight, I should have taken the time to report the theft, if only to the hotel management. “I didn’t want to bother the police,” I said lamely.

  “Mm.”

  We stood on the shallow brick portico outside my front door, which I noticed needed repainting. Its glossy forest green had dulled and was flaking near the bottom. One more expense. Maybe if I went at the knocker with some brass polish, that would spiff up the door. I pushed the thought aside.

  “What is it, exactly, you want me to do, Ms. Graysin?” Lissy asked, finger-combing his dishwater-colored hair from left to right.

  “Arrest Héctor Bazán! At least talk to him, not just about last night, but about Rafe’s murder. Now that we know that Rafe was helping Victoria Bazán-”

  “We don’t know this,” Detective Lissy said. “You say that Victoria Bazán said… You see where I’m going with this?”

  I ignored his interruption. “-it makes sense to think that her husband might have gone after him.”

  “With your gun?”

  “Yes! I told you that Rafe told Victoria he could get her a gun. It’s obvious that he stole my gun, intending to give it to her. Whoever killed him got the gun away from him somehow and shot him.”

  “Ms. Graysin, in policing we like to rely on a little thing called ‘evidence.’ And you don’t have any.” He held up a thin hand to forestall my protests. “I’m going to talk to Héctor Bazán and see what he has to say.”

  “What about his story? About his wife having mental problems and being in a car accident. He said it was just a couple of weeks ago, so you can look that up, can’t you? See if he’s lying?”

  “As I might have mentioned before, I’ve been doing this job for twenty-seven years.”

  With that not-so-subtle reminder that he didn’t need my help, he clomped down the steps and headed for his car.

  I hurried after him. “Just one more thing, Detective,” I said, my eyes pleading with him. “Did you check on Sherry Indrebo’s whereabouts the night Rafe was shot?”

  Lissy eyed me with something like fascination. “A diplomat’s not enough for you? Now you want to accuse a congresswoman?”

  “I’m not accusing-”

  “Who next? The Pope?”

  “Was she-”

  “Ms. Indrebo was at a fund-raiser at the Corcoran, in full view of assorted Republican movers and shakers and a photographer who has dozens of photos of her from when the party kicked off until they turned off the lights. Satisfied?” He yanked open the car door, rubbing at a smudge on the mirror.

  Frustrated was more like it, but I thanked him and watched him drive away. Then I went inside and called Phineas Drake.

  I spent the morning restoring order to my life and house after the competition weekend. I sorted through my costumes and put aside those that needed a trip to the dry cleaner, stowed my makeup and hair accessories, and cleaned the bathrooms and kitchen. With only minutes to spare before Drake arrived, I polished the knocker, kick plate, and doorknob on the front door with a crusty bottle of brass polish I found under the kitchen sink. I stepped back to admire the gleaming brass when I was done, liking the way they shone in the sunlight, but disappointed that their brightness actually made the door’s paint look shabbier in contrast. Drat.

  Drake’s limo nosed up to the curb as I stood there and I hastily tucked the brass polish and rag into the house and gave my hands a quick sniff. They smelled a bit chemically from the polish, but not too bad. I hurried down the walkway as the chauffeur opened the door. Drake’s secretary had said he could spare me only fifteen minutes on his drive to the courthouse and I didn’t want to waste a second. I slid onto the slick leather seat and found Phineas Drake gazing at me, a tall glass foaming with a tan concoction in his hand.

  “Protein drink,” he greeted me, hoisting the glass a couple of inches. “Doctor says I have to lose a few pounds or I’m going to keel over before I’m sixty.” He laughed and patted his hefty paunch covered by a tartan vest of blues and greens with a thin yellow stripe.

  Since I’d already pegged him for past sixty, I didn’t comment.

  Running his huge hand down his beard when he finished drinking, he fixed his sharp eyes on me. “You said you discovered something about Acosta’s murder this weekend?”

  “Yes, and the police aren’t taking me seriously, so I thought you… that you might be able to look into it.”

  “Tell me.”

  I gave him the unedited version of the weekend, from Leon Hall’s attack on Sawyer, to bumping into Victoria in the hall and our conversation followed by her disappearance, to Bazán’s attack at my house, to my theory about Rafe stealing the gun. I looked at Drake anxiously when I finished, trying to read his expression. The luxuriant facial hair made it tough, especially in the dimly lit limo.

  “That’s good-the bit about Acosta having your gun with him. That’s the kind of creative thinking that makes a good criminal defense lawyer. Any interest in giving up ballroom dancing for the law?” He chuckled.

  Was he saying he didn’t believe me? “It’s not ‘creative thinking’-it’s what must have happened,” I said indignantly. “And, no, I can’t see myself as a lawyer.” Working in an office all day, wearing rigid suits, responding to someone’s beck and call. I shuddered.

  “You’re more the creative type,” he said indulgently. “My wife’s that way, too-scrapbooking is her thing. That and eBay.”

  Great. He clearly dismissed my career as a hobby on par with his wife’s interest in scissors that cut wavy patterns and colored cardstock. I held on to my temper. “Do you have a way to check out Bazán’s story?” I asked. “And maybe find out more about Leon Hall?”

  “A diplomat, huh?” Drake said, looking thoughtful, calculating the angles. “If the police were convinced he did it, they’d stop looking at you, and they wouldn’t have to worry about enough evidence for ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’ because the case would never see the inside of a courtroom. The State Department might PNG Bazán if the cops built a good enough case, but that’s about it.”

  “PNG?”

  “Make him persona non grata-boot him out of the country.”

  “That’s not right,” I said, appalled. “If he killed Rafe he should go to prison for the rest of his slimy life.”

  Drake shrugged, dismissing my outrage as too naive to bother with. The limo glided to a stop at the courthouse curb and Drake shifted his bulk toward the door. “I think it’d be useful to locate this Victoria gal again. She sounds like a wily one.” His tone was admiring.

  A shaft of sunlight penetrated the car as the chauffeur swung the door open. Drake got out, then bent over to peer in at me. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about anything. Since the police haven’t moved on you yet, chances are they won’t, at least not without new evidence. I’ll be in touch.” Giving orders to his driver to take me back to the town house, he strode up the courthouse steps, fending off reporters as he went.

  Halfway back to the house, my cell phone rang. Tav Acosta.


  “How did the competition go this weekend?” he asked.

  His voice, rich and dark and lightly accented, sent a little tingle through me. I stomped it down. Business. This was only business.

  I shrugged, even though he couldn’t see me. “Some wins, some losses. Better than I thought it would, actually, without Rafe.”

  We were silent for a moment, thinking about Rafe; then Tav said, “The police have released his body. I can take him back to Argentina.”

  “Oh.” I was surprised by how sad I felt at the thought of him leaving. “When?”

  “As soon as I can make arrangements with the airlines-probably two or three days.”

  “Oh. Well, it was nice meeting you. I hope you have a good trip back.” The inanities were a defense against the surprisingly strong stab of disappointment I felt at the news he was leaving.

  “That’s not why I’m calling.”

  “Oh?” If I said “oh” one more time, I was going to slap myself. The limo jolted into a pothole and I bobbled the phone, missing what Tav was saying. “Sorry,” I said. “What did you say?”

  “I said I have had a couple offers for my share of Graysin Motion and I need to talk to you about them.”

  “Oh!” I slapped my face lightly and the chauffeur eyed me doubtfully in the rearview mirror. “Who from?”

  “I’d rather talk about it in person. Do you have plans for this afternoon?”

  “Nothing that can’t wait.”

  “Good. Would you mind if I played tourist while we talked? I have not had the chance to see anything of your nation’s capital-too busy working. I would really like to see the Air and Space Museum before I go back.”

  His tone was half-sheepish, as if wanting to visit one of the world’s great museums was embarrassing in some way. With rare exceptions, every man I knew preferred the Air and Space Museum to any other museum on the Mall. I laughed. “You shouldn’t miss it. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

  Chapter 16

  A flowered halter top, denim shorts, low-heeled espadrilles, my yellow sunhat, and copious quantities of sunblock and I was ready to play tourist in downtown D.C. Yes, the Air and Space Museum was inside, but I bet Tav would want to stroll down the Mall and see a couple of the monuments while we were down there and since today was forecast to be record-breaking hot, I didn’t want to end up sunburned.

  Tav stood near the museum entrance, long, muscled legs displayed by olive-colored shorts. A sprinkling of crisp black hair curled from the open neck of his white polo shirt, and sunglasses hung around his neck. He greeted me with a kiss on the cheek and a smile. “Thanks for humoring me, Stacy. I know this is not the standard venue for a business meeting.”

  I returned his smile. “Much better than a stuffy office or conference room.” We moved into the air-conditioned building with its megahigh ceilings hung with planes, and joined the clumps of people looking upward. I’d visited the museum several times over the years-no schoolchild in the greater D.C. area graduates without at least one field trip to the Air and Space Museum-but I had to admit that the history of flight and space travel pretty much left me cold. Planes were transportation, pure and simple, and I couldn’t get excited about a Pratt & Whitney engine the size of my car, even though Tav seemed fascinated. His enthusiasm was engaging and it kept a long afternoon of studying the Wright Flyer, an Apollo capsule, and various other artifacts of flight from being tedious. The museum wasn’t too crowded on a Monday afternoon in April, which made it possible to move freely and linger as long as we wanted-or longer-in front of exhibits.

  “I wanted to be a pilot,” Tav confided as we stood beside a plane labeled MESSERSCHMITT ME 262.

  “Why aren’t you?”

  “I have always admired the American idea that you can be whatever you want to be,” he said, studying the plaque that described the plane. “It is not always that simple. Family expectations, financial realities… sometimes dreams take a backseat. Besides”-he looked at me and grinned-“I wanted to be a professional football player, too, but so far La Selección has not come calling.”

  “My dad wanted me to study accounting,” I said. “He thought it would be a more stable career than ballroom dancing. I’m sure he was right, but I don’t regret being a dancer. It makes me happy-most of the time.”

  Tav touched my elbow to move me toward another gallery and a group gathered around a docent giving a talk about an Apollo capsule. “I cannot see you as an accountant, Stacy. Such a job would quench your joie de vivre.”

  His smile warmed me and I was pleased that he saw me as a happy person because I was, basically, except when my ex-fiancé got murdered in my dance studio and the police thought I did it. “It’s funny you should say that,” I said. “Just today someone suggested I should be a lawyer.” I went on to tell him about meeting with Phineas Drake and the weekend’s many surprises.

  “Héctor Bazán attacked you in your home?” His eyes narrowed with a cold rage I hadn’t seen in him before.

  “‘Attacked’ is maybe too strong,” I said, pleased by his reaction. Finally someone was taking me seriously. “He didn’t have a gun, although he slapped me a couple of times.”

  Tav cupped my chin in his hand and turned my face from side to side to see what injuries I’d suffered. I’d inspected my face closely this morning, but there was no hint of bruising. He ran a finger down my cheek, stopping at the corner of my mouth.

  “I’ll live.” I laughed it off, disconcerted by the flush of heat that shot through me at his touch.

  “I will pay a call on Bazán before I leave,” Tav promised grimly.

  “Detective Lissy said he’d question him, but I can tell he thinks I made the whole thing up.”

  From the set of Tav’s mouth, I thought his approach was going to be more physical in nature. He confirmed that by saying, “If Bazán is responsible for my brother’s murder-” He cut himself off, forced a smile on his face, and said, “Come on. You have had enough of things with wings. Do you mind if we walk to the World War II memorial? My grandfather flew Hawker Typhoons with the RAF’s 164th Squadron and was part of the Normandy invasion.”

  “Really? I didn’t know Argentina fought in World War II.”

  Tav ushered me out the door into the brutal heat and humidity outside. Who sucked all the oxygen out of the air and replaced it with water? It was way too early in the year for me to feel like I needed a scuba tank to breathe outside. Grateful for my hat, I led Tav down the wide, pebbly path toward the World War II memorial. It was past five now and most of the tourists had drifted off to refreshing hotel pools or cocktail lounges, while D.C. workers clogged the outbound roads with their air-conditioned cars. I was just as happy to spend a little more time on the Mall and not have to get on a crowded Metro car during rush hour.

  “About four thousand Argentine volunteers fought in the war, some with British, Canadian, and South African air forces. Our government at the time was a bunch of cowardly fence-sitters, but eventually they declared war on the Axis, sometime in the spring of 1945, I think. Volunteers, though, joined the fighting much earlier. My grandfather-my mother’s father-still had family in the UK, cousins and such, so it was natural that he would go there. He didn’t come back from the war, which is one of the reasons my mother did not want me to join the air force.”

  “Who can blame her?”

  He shrugged, stepping between me and a gardener letting his leaf blower drift off target as he eyed a couple of attractive joggers. I appreciated Tav’s instinctive courtesy. Rafe had not been so sensitive to his environment, to those around him. I needed to stop comparing the two men. Almost brusquely, I asked, “So you’ve had some offers for Rafe’s half of the studio?”

  “Feelers, let us say. It is too soon to have formal offers. Until we are able to assess the value of-”

  “From who?” I wanted to cut to the quick.

  “From a Solange Dubonnet-”

  “Damn!”

  “-and a Nicolaos Papadakis.” />
  “Uncle Nico?” Double damn. I nibbled on my lower lip. I wasn’t sure which prospect disturbed me more-working with Solange or with Uncle Nico. Solange would undoubtedly want to be involved in the day-today operations and compete with me for the male amateur dancers. Uncle Nico’s motives were a little murkier. Maybe he was just trying to be helpful to his niece? Not likely.

  “I can’t believe Solange made you an offer without even talking to me first. When did she first contact you?”

  “Yesterday,” Tav said with a lifted brow. “And she sounded very interested. Who is she?”

  I explained about Solange, leaving out the part about finding her in bed with Rafe. I didn’t want to tarnish Tav’s memories of his brother. “And Uncle Nico-” How did I explain about Uncle Nico? “Uncle Nico’s an operator,” I said weakly. “He has many business interests. I’m not sure where a ballroom dance studio fits into his business empire.”

  “So you don’t want me to accept either of the offers?” Tav asked.

  I was silent, realizing it was totally unreasonable of me to ask him not to sell Rafe’s share-his share-of Graysin Motion to either of two qualified buyers. At least, I assumed Solange could afford it, and I knew Uncle Nico could. We had reached the World War II memorial and stayed silent as we walked through the Atlantic Pavilion and into the huge granite oval surrounded by columns. Even though the memorial was rigidly symmetrical, something about the stone pillars set in semicircles at either end made me think of Stonehenge. Fountains splashed in the central pool and a little girl escaped from her parents’ grip to dash into the water, shoes and all. Tav laughed at the sight, but sobered as he read some of the plaques on the wall. Heat radiated from the granite, even as dusk laid long shadows across the ground. As we made our way counterclockwise around the memorial, I said, “I hope someone else wants to buy your share. I have to say that neither Solange nor Uncle Nico would be my first choice of partners.”