Quickstep to Murder Page 8

  I clung to that thought as the very polite policeman who had cuffed me led me to a small room with a square white table, three plastic chairs, and bare tan walls. He removed the handcuffs and left, ignoring me when I said, “Don’t I get one phone call?” As the sound of his footsteps faded, I rushed to the door and tried it. Locked.

  My brain refused to focus, dwelling on depressing images of life as an inmate and speculating about how the world would be changed when I got out of prison as an octogenarian. I stewed for half an hour before the door opened. Scrambling nervously out of the uncomfortable chair I sat in, ready to leave, I sank back down as detectives Lissy and Troy came in.

  “Thank you for making time to talk to us, Miss Graysin,” Detective Lissy said. He pulled out the chair across from me and sat the way my great-aunt Laurinda did, feet flat on the floor, knees together, spine erect. Troy stayed near the door, shoulders propped against the wall.

  “It didn’t seem like I had much choice,” I said. “Am I under arrest?”

  “We found this yesterday, in the sewer near your house,” Lissy said, thunking a plastic bag with a gun in it onto the table. He aligned it so the bag’s edges paralleled the table’s sides and slid it over to me. “Look familiar?”

  I studied the gun through the gallon-sized baggie. “It looks kind of like mine,” I said cautiously. “Mine was silver on top like that, and black on the bottom.” I pulled the bag closer to me with one wary finger. “And mine had that P22 stamped on it, too.”

  Troy choked on what sounded like a laugh, then hammered his chest with a fist. “Getting a cold,” he explained.

  Lissy didn’t even glance at his partner. “It’s a Walther P22,” he told me. “They all have that stamped on them. Nice little semiautomatic pistol. Ballistics tells us it’s the gun that killed Rafael Acosta. Guess whose fingerprints are on it.”

  “Um, the murderer’s?” I asked hopefully.

  He smiled, an unpleasant, tight-lipped smile. “Exactly, Miss Graysin. Yours.”

  I gasped.

  “So why don’t we go over that evening again, hmm? We’ve learned a lot about your fiancé in a couple of days, Miss Graysin, and frankly, I’m sure you had good reason to shoot him. What happened? Did you argue about the business or about his girlfriends? Did he want to get back together? Attack you? If you tell us the truth now, you’ll likely get a lighter sentence. Maybe it was even self-defense?”

  “No!”

  “No, it wasn’t self-defense? Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “No is just no. It wasn’t self-defense because it wasn’t anything. I didn’t kill Rafe.”

  Someone knocked on the door and Troy opened it a crack. A brief, whispered conversation followed before Troy swung the door wider with a rueful look at his partner. “Her lawyer,” he said.

  “My lawyer?” It was news to me that I had a lawyer. I turned to the door and saw a huge grizzly of a man with a full beard, vest stretched taut by a heavy paunch, and graying hair brushed back and wavy to his shoulders like in pictures I’d seen of General Custer. He looked to be in his late sixties and carried a slim leather case.

  “Phineas Drake,” he announced in a rumbling voice, not offering to shake anyone’s hand. He didn’t even glance at me as he told Lissy, “Ms. Graysin has nothing further to say at this time.”

  Lissy rose, at a distinct physical disadvantage before the ursine Drake. “Perhaps you’re unaware that the murder weapon has her fingerprints on it. We have enough to arrest her.”

  I wasn’t under arrest? That was news, too-good news. Phineas Drake laughed, a sound like rolling timpani. “She owns the gun. Of course it has her fingerprints on it. Are hers the only prints on the gun?”

  “Acosta’s were on there, too, but since this clearly wasn’t a suicide, that’s not germane.”

  “Any others?”

  Lissy squirmed. The lawyer seemed to enjoy the detective’s discomfort.

  “I am not obligated to share details of an ongoing investigation with you.”

  “I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’ ” Drake said good-humoredly. “Clearly, the gun was stolen and someone else used it to murder the unfortunate Mr. Acosta. Even a first-year law student could trump that argument, Detective. She had no GSR on her hands that night and no motive for killing Mr. Acosta.”

  “No motive?” Lissy laughed a slight heh-heh. “I’d call becoming sole owner of the business a fine motive.”

  “But I didn’t,” I said, glad for the first time that Rafe had changed his will. All three men looked at me. “His… A relative gets Rafe’s half of Graysin Motion.”

  Lissy flushed an ugly puce shade. “You gave us a copy of his will, Miss Graysin, that named you as the beneficiary.”

  “It was an old one,” I said airily.

  “There you have it,” Phineas Drake said with an approving nod at me. “Let’s go, Ms. Graysin.”

  “Jenkins was checking to make sure the will was the most current one,” Troy told Lissy. From the look on Lissy’s face, I felt sorry for Jenkins for not coming up with the more recent will.

  “His name is Octavio Acosta,” I supplied helpfully. “He said he talked to you.”

  “He didn’t mention inheriting the dance studio,” Troy put in as Lissy’s color deepened.

  “Perhaps you forgot to ask,” I said sweetly, rising with as much self-possession as was possible in the tangerine leggings and sweaty tank top I’d worn to dance with Vitaly.

  Phineas Drake held out a peremptory hand and escorted me from the room before I could antagonize the detectives further. He said nothing as he ushered me through the police department and out the doors into a day that had clouded over and was sticky with humidity. A white limo idled at the curb and he gestured me to it, climbing in after me.

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Drake,” I said as he settled his bulk on the rear seat and reached for a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket. The limo was so big I was surprised it didn’t come with a steward. Drake popped the cork silently, releasing a faint aroma of pear to mix with the scent of expensive leather perfuming the limo’s interior. I accepted the glass he handed me, watching the bubbles ascend through the cut crystal.

  “Thank your uncle.”

  “Uncle Nico?” I stared at him in astonishment. “How did he know I was here?”

  “As I understand it, a Mr. Maurice Goldberg called your mother and she called Mr. Papadakis at his vacation home in Spain. He asked me to wander over and liberate you.”

  “Do you work for Uncle Nico?” I asked.

  The big man smiled. “From time to time.”

  “You look expensive,” I said frankly, taking a gulp of champagne. The beverage might be meant for sipping, but I’d had a morning that required swigging. “I probably can’t afford you.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Your uncle is taking care of my fees. As a favor.” He smiled, crinkling his cheeks below his eyes.

  I knew what that meant. Uncle Nico was all about tit for tat. I’d owe him one. A big one. The thought gave me a moment of unease, but I was so glad Phineas Drake had gotten me out of the police station that I let it drift away. Time enough to worry when Uncle Nico showed up to claim his favor.

  Phineas Drake’s face turned serious. “This morning was all about frightening a confession out of you, Ms. Graysin.”

  “Stacy,” I said, finishing my champagne. “And they certainly succeeded with the ‘frightening’ part of their agenda. I was good and scared. Still am. What’s a GSR and how did you know about it?”

  “A gunshot residue test. Did they swab your hands the night of the murder?” At my nod, he said, “Standard procedure. I knew the results were negative or I’d’ve been rescuing you from the city lockup, not a cozy interview room.”

  His definition of “cozy” was a long ways away from mine, but I didn’t argue the point. “What do we do now?”

  Drake set his champagne flute on the burled wood table beside him. “We give the police another suspe
ct, someone besides you.”

  I crinkled my brow. “You mean we find the real murderer?”

  “In the best of all possible worlds. Failing that, we make sure they see the value in focusing on someone else. Who would you like to see go down for it?”

  His tone was casual, but the look in his eyes gave me pause. Was it possible he was talking about framing someone else for the murder? Surely not. Some of the rumors and family whispers I’d heard about Uncle Nico popped into my head and I decided to play it cautiously. Even though part of me longed to give him Solange’s name, I said, “The only person I want to have arrested is the real murderer.”

  Chuckling, Drake poured the last of the champagne into his glass and downed it. “Mr. Papadakis told me you were a sweet girl-‘not a vicious bone in her body,’ he said. Don’t worry, Stacy. When Mr. Papadakis wants something fixed, it gets fixed.” He settled back against the seat, arms spread across the top of it, an inscrutable smile on his face. If Mona Lisa had been a bear, this is what she’d have looked like.

  Calls to Maurice and Mom thanked them for their part in springing me from Lissy’s clutches and let them know I was home again. A shower washed the imaginary stink of the police department off me, and two aspirin put a dent in the champagne headache. In my steamy little bathroom, I flipped my head over to blow-dry my long, blond hair and thought about Rafe’s murder, Tav’s appearance, and Phineas Drake’s jovial assurances. Even though all I wanted to do was concentrate on my dancing, the students, and the upcoming Capitol Festival, I reluctantly accepted the fact that I was going to have to see if I could figure out who killed Rafe. If I didn’t, either I was going to end up in prison (not an acceptable outcome), or some random bystander set up by Uncle Nico and his legal eagle was going to take the fall (also unacceptable, especially if it was someone I liked, such as Maurice or one of my students).

  I stood, flinging my hair back, and watched in the foggy mirror as it settled in a golden cloud on my shoulders. I decided to leave it loose and quickly donned a pair of striped capris and a slim-fitting teal shirt that made the most of my assets. I’d never been much of one for mystery novels or TV cop shows, but it seemed to me like I should start my investigation by talking to a few people: Taryn Hall and/or her dad, Tav Acosta, and Solange for starters. As I was mentally flipping a coin to decide who to start with, the phone rang.

  “Have you got it?” Sherry Indrebo asked when I said hello.

  I started guiltily. So much had happened, I’d completely forgotten about returning the thumb drive to Sherry.

  “Sorry I didn’t get back to you,” I said. “Yes, I’ve got it.”

  Her sigh of relief wafted through the phone. “Thank goodness. Look, I’m tied up today, but I’ll stop by this evening to get it from you.” Her tone grew sharper. “We also need to talk about my partner situation. I already gave Rafe a check for the Capitol Festival and I expect you to find me an equally accomplished partner to compete with. And no excuses about it being too last minute.”

  “I already lined someone up,” I said, thinking that her gratitude hadn’t lasted long.

  When she hung up, I started to dial Taryn Hall’s number, hoping to catch the girl while her parents were still at work, but put the phone down before it connected. I’d probably learn more from her in person. I dug her address out of our computer files, Mapquested it, and was on the road within ten minutes.

  The Halls’ house wasn’t far-a few miles south on Route 1 on the other side of I-495. Probably built in the 1950s or ’60s, the house had pale blue aluminum siding, small windows, and a beautifully landscaped yard brimming with salmon-, white- and fuchsia-colored azaleas and spring bulbs by the dozen. Leaving my car at the curb, I strode up the pebbled walkway and knocked on the front door.

  Taryn answered so quickly she must have been standing in the front hall. “I’ve been waiting-Oh! Miss Stacy.” She peered over my shoulder. “What-? I mean, I-What are you doing here?”

  “I thought we should talk,” I said, noting the purse slung over her shoulder and her flustered manner. Clearly, she was on her way out and I was an inconvenience. “Were you expecting someone?”

  “No. No! Well, I mean, yes. Just Sawyer.”

  “May I come in?”

  “No. That is-My dad doesn’t let me have anyone over when he’s not home,” she said, running her hand through her black hair. It fell silkily to the pale shoulders bared by layered cotton camis in lime and lavender. “This isn’t really a good-”

  “Why don’t you come out, then?” I interrupted her. With my nascent detecting skill I had figured out this wasn’t a good time, but it struck me that talking to her while she was a bit off-balance might be a good thing.

  “Oh. Okay.” She joined me on the concrete stoop and closed the door.

  “You heard about Rafe?”

  Tears sprang to her eyes. “Oh, yes. It’s just horrible. And now my dad says I can’t come back to the studio.”

  “Because Rafe was murdered there or because of the pregnancy?”

  Her brown eyes widened until she looked like a startled fawn. “I’m not-How did you know?”

  “Your father came by the studio,” I said. “Didn’t he tell you?”

  She shook her head.

  “He seemed to think Rafe was the father.” I eyed her sternly. “I find that hard to believe, Taryn.”

  “I didn’t mean for it to happen,” the girl said in a trembling voice. “He was so nice to me. I didn’t mean to tell-It just came out and my dad was so mad. And-” Sobs overpowered her words. Not that it made much difference-I couldn’t piece together her half sentences into a sensible narrative.

  Questions sparked by her incoherence tumbled in my head. She didn’t mean to have sex? To get pregnant? To tell her parents she was expecting? Rafe was nice to her and so they had sex? She told Rafe something-that she was having a baby?-and he was nice to her? The only part that made sense was her dad’s anger, and I already knew about that. Before I could probe further, a car door slammed, jerking both our heads toward the street.

  Sawyer Iverson strode toward us, baggy jeans riding low on his pelvic bones, cheap black T-shirt outlining his thin frame, hair gelled and spiky. Not exactly the look he sported on the dance floor. “Whassup?” he asked as he drew nearer. His gaze was on Taryn, who had jumped to her feet at his approach. “How’re you doing?”

  “Okay,” Taryn whispered. Their gazes met and something passed between them.

  “Hi, Sawyer,” I said, wondering what was going on.

  “Uh, hi, Miss Stacy.” He shuffled his feet, glanced at me for a second, then turned his gaze back to Taryn’s flushed face.

  “She knows,” Taryn said, “about-”

  “What! You told her?”

  “About the pregnancy.”

  Taryn’s emphasis on the last word shut Sawyer up and I again wondered what I was missing. Somehow, they were carrying on a whole conversation I wasn’t in on, despite standing practically between them.

  “My dad told her.”

  “When he came to beat up Rafe,” I added helpfully.

  Sawyer paled. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry, Taryn.” He reached for her hand and held it tightly. “It’s all because-Does he have a good lawyer?”

  Taryn wrinkled her brow; then understanding hit her and she pulled her hand away. “My dad didn’t kill Rafe!”

  Sawyer looked from her to me. “I thought you said-”

  “Mr. Hall came yesterday morning, after Rafe was already dead. He was looking for Rafe, having somehow gotten the idea that Rafe was the father of Taryn’s baby.” I looked pointedly from Sawyer to Taryn and back again, having my own thoughts about who had fathered the baby.

  Neither teen met my eyes. Taryn inched closer to Sawyer, who threw a comforting arm around her shoulders. “We’ve gotta go,” he told me. “C’mon, Taryn, or we’ll be late.”

  With an apologetic look at me, Taryn let Sawyer steer her toward his Honda Accord. I watched as he opened the doo
r for her-not too many of the grown men I knew bothered with that courtesy-and clunked it shut once she had pulled her legs in. I had a vague feeling that I should stop them, but I had no right. And no real reason, either. Maybe they were meeting friends at Starbucks or going to a movie. Just because the tension between them was tighter than a piano wire didn’t mean anything ominous. I hoped.

  Chapter 8

  Tav Acosta was sitting in my office when I returned from Taryn’s house. I stopped on the threshold and stared at him where he sat on the love seat, tapping away on a laptop. “What are you doing here?”

  He looked up, an expression of mild surprise on his face. “Waiting for you.” He closed the laptop and rose. “Mr. Goldberg told me I could wait here.”

  Music sounded from the ballroom and I heard the faint shufflings that indicated a dance class was taking place. “Oh. Well-”

  “Perhaps I could buy you lunch to make up for running out on our breakfast earlier?” he said with a smile.

  I suddenly realized I was famished. What with meeting Vitaly, getting hauled off to the police station, and tracking down Taryn, I hadn’t eaten anything today since the yogurt and English muffin I’d had for breakfast. “Lunch would be good,” I said. “Give me just a moment.” I crossed the hall to tell Maurice I’d be out for a while, but that we needed to talk about the Capitol Festival when I got back. He nodded his understanding in time with the music, never taking his eyes off the couples circling the floor. “Absolutely, Anastasia,” he said. “I trust you sorted things out with the police?”

  “For the moment,” I said, hoping it was true. Ducking into the powder room, I washed my hands, ran a brush through my hair, and rubbed some sunblock on my arms. Rejoining Tav, I led him down the stairs and east toward the Potomac River. “Have you seen much of this area?” I asked him.