Duarte shrugged. “I guess it’s one of the reasons the cops kept looking. She was famous and apparently not all that nice, so…there might have been any number of people who wanted her dead. Trouble is, they just haven’t got anything. There were hundreds of people there. She went out to dance with a smile on her face. No apparent argument with anyone there…well, I’m assuming you’ve read the report.” He stared at Quinn. “She’s still here. Want to see her yourself?”
“I thought you’d released her body.”
“I did. The funeral home won’t be here until sometime tonight. Come on. I’ll have her brought out.”
They walked down halls that, no matter how clean, still somehow reeked of death. Duarte called an assistant and led Quinn to a small room for the viewing. Loved ones weren’t necessarily brought in to see their dearly departed. A camera allowed for them to remain in the more natural atmosphere of the lobby to view the deceased.
She was brought in. Duarte lowered the sheet.
Lara Trudeau had been a beautiful woman. Even in death, her bone structure conveyed a strange elegance. She truly gave the appearance of sleep—until the eye wandered down to the autopsy scars.
Quinn stared at her, circling the gurney on which she lay. Other than the sewn Y incision that marred her chest, there was no sign of any violence. She hadn’t even bruised herself when she’d gone down.
“I couldn’t find anything but the prescription pills and alcohol. She’d barely eaten, which surely added to the pressure on her heart. That’s what killed her—the heart’s reaction to drugs and alcohol.”
“Like Nell.”
Frowning, Duarte stared at him. “Not exactly. No alcohol in Nell. Why, what do you think you’re seeing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is that why you’re on this?”
“Maybe. I found out that Nell Durken had been an amateur dancer and took lessons at the same studio where Lara Trudeau sometimes practiced and coached.”
“But the police arrested Nell’s husband. And his fingerprints were all over the pill bottle. You were the one who followed the guy, right, and gave the police your records on the investigation?”
“Yep.”
“Art Durken has been in jail, pending trial, for over a week. He sure as hell wasn’t at that competition.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“So?”
“I don’t know. There’s just…something. That’s all.”
“Durken still denying that he murdered his wife?”
“Yes.” Quinn met Anthony Duarte’s eyes. “Admits he was a womanizing bastard, but swears he didn’t kill her.”
“You think a dancer is the killer?” Duarte shook his head. “Quinn, the circumstances were odd enough for the police to investigate, but you’ve got to think about the facts again. Lara Trudeau didn’t argue with anyone at that competition, and she walked out on the floor to dance without the least sign of distress. When she fell, she did so in front of a huge audience. The pills she took were prescription, the vial had no prints, and the prescription was written by a physician she’d been seeing for over ten years—and to the best of my knowledge, he wasn’t a ballroom dancer.”
“Yeah, I know. I read the report. I’m going to pay a visit to Dr. Williams, though I know he was already interviewed and cleared of any wrongdoing.”
Duarte grimaced. “If the cops blamed a physician every time a patient abused a prescription, the jails would be spilling over worse than they are now. This is a tough one, Quinn. Strange, and tough. I just don’t see where you can go. There’s simply no forensic evidence to lead you in any direction. If it is a crime, it’s just about the perfect one.”
“No crime is perfect.”
“We both know a lot of them go unpunished.”
“Yeah. And this time, I agree, there’s nothing solid to go on. Unless I can find someone who knows something—and that person has to be out there.”
“Wish I could be more helpful,” Duarte said.
Quinn nodded. “Nell Durken hadn’t taken a lesson in the sixth months before she died. With Nell…there was nothing else, either, right? No…grass, speed…anything like that?”
“No, sorry. There were no illegal substances in either woman. Just massive overdoses of prescription medications and, in the Trudeau case, alcohol.”
“Well, thanks,” Quinn said. “Sorry to take up your time.”
Duarte offered him a rueful smile. “You never take up my time. I really believe in the things you read and see on television. The dead can’t speak anymore. We have to do their talking for them, but sometimes we’re not as good at interpreting as we want to be. If I’ve missed something, or if I haven’t thought to look for something, hell, I want to know.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“You going back to the Keys tonight?” Duarte asked.
“No. I have my boat up at the marina by Nick’s, doing some work. I’m still there.”
“Maybe I’ll see you later. I’m starving—it was a long day. I got busy and forgot to eat. I’m dying for a hamburger.”
Quinn nodded, but at the moment, he didn’t feel the slightest twinge of hunger. He’d stood through a number of autopsies and he’d never gotten sick or fainted—as some of the biggest, toughest guys he knew had done—but he’d never gotten over a certain abdominal clenching in the presence of a corpse. Time and experience didn’t change some things.
Duarte was one of the best of the best. But he could chow down with body parts on the same table. Survival, Quinn thought, in a place where the houses of the dead were as big as they were in Miami-Dade County.
“You’ll be around later?” Duarte said.
“Sure,” Quinn agreed. It would be a lot later, he knew.
Lara was covered and rolled away by the assistant as the two men started out the door and back down the hall.
A trip to the main station on Kendall was pretty much as worthless as Quinn had suspected. Detective Pete Dixon worked nine to five.
No overtime for Dixon these days.
He said a quick hello to a few old friends and started out. In the parking lot, he ran into Jake Dilessio, with whom he’d worked prior to leaving for Quantico. He wished that Dilessio had been assigned to the Trudeau investigation. He was certain he wouldn’t be taking dance lessons if the chips had fallen that way.
“Hey, stranger, haven’t seen much of you,” Dilessio greeted
