Dilessio arched a brow. “Sounds familiar.”
“The dancer who died.”
“I thought that was ruled accidental. Last I heard, Dixon was just tying up the reports to close the case.”
“It was ruled accidental.”
“But someone thinks it wasn’t?”
“Something like that.”
“So who are you working for?”
“The word ‘work’ would imply pay.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. They’re calling your brother twinkle-toes on the beat. Not without some envy, I might add. I hear the kid is really good.”
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen him dance yet.”
“No?”
“I didn’t even know he was dancing until this all came up.”
Jake shrugged and nodded. “I saw him not too long ago. He said you’d been really wrapped up in work. Congratulations, by the way. I hear your surveillance reports on Art Durken gave the cops what they needed to arrest him and enough for the D.A.’s office to charge him.”
“Not really. If I’d been good enough, she wouldn’t be dead.”
“How long have you been in this business? You can’t blame yourself for all the bad shit that goes down.”
“Yeah, I know. But I can’t stop it from bugging me, either.”
Jake shrugged and said, “That’s true. But at least it’s better than the shit that goes unpunished.”
“I guess you’re right. Anyway, the dancer who died was connected with Doug’s studio. I’m doing a little follow-up of my own.”
“Well, Dixon is known to show up at Nick’s in the evening. No wife, no kids, no kitchen. He eats a hamburger there almost every night. I’m heading home now. In fact, if you’re free, I’ll buy you dinner.”
“If you’re buying me dinner, I’m not exactly free, but at least, at Nick’s, I’ll be cheap. Sounds good to me. Where’s your wife? Is she joining us? I saw her when I tied up the other day. That baby’s due awful soon, isn’t it?”
“Too soon. Three weeks. And she went up to Jacksonville anyway, with a special dispensation from the airline. They wanted her to do some sketches of a homicide suspect.”
“I thought that she left forensics and graduated from the academy.”
“She did graduate from the academy, but she stayed in forensics. She’s one of the best sketch artists in the state, in the country, maybe. They asked her to go, and she thought she could help, so she went.”
“You know, you marry a cop, and that’s what happens,” Quinn said lightly.
“Yeah, I know.”
They arrived at Nick’s right before six.
It was a great time of the day at the marina. Darkness was falling, coming fast, but the sky over the ocean was in the midst of its last majestic frenzy of color. Magenta, oranges, trails of gold, all sweeping together across the heavens over the shadowed ocean. The breeze at night was cool, pleasant after the heat of the day.
As Jake had suspected, Pete Dixon was there, already on his second cheeseburger, it appeared, since one empty basket was pushed behind the one in front of him.
Quinn pulled out a chair at Dixon’s table without being asked, turning it backward and straddling the seat. “Jeez, Pete, you might want to opt for something green now and then, watch out for the fat and cholesterol once a week, maybe,” he said.
Dixon wiped his mouth, looking at Quinn as if he’d just been joined by a barracuda. His eyes, small in the folds of his face, fell on Jake Dilessio next, riddled with pure accusation. “Sit down, Quinn, Jake. Come on, join me. And while you’re at it, give me grief about my eating habits.”
“Thanks,” Jake said, sitting.
“You’re close to retirement. You might want to live to enjoy a little of it,” Quinn said.
“Like you’re a vegetarian or something,” Pete muttered.
Quinn grinned. “No, I think I’ll have a cheeseburger, too. But just one.”
“You brought him here,” Pete said to Jake. “Make sure his food goes on your bill.”
“I’ll even pick up your bill,” Jake said. “Quinn has a few questions for you.”
Pete groaned aloud. He was a big man. His belly jiggled as the sound escaped him. “Hope Nick has some Rolaids back there. Shit. I’m off duty. You had to bring a P.I. here to bug me?”
“Hey, I’ve got my boat up here,” Quinn protested. “This is the most convenient place for me to eat.”
“What do you want?” Pete asked him flatly. Before Quinn could answer, he looked at Jake again. “You really picking up my tab? If so, you can order me another beer.”
“Sure thing,” Jake said, grimacing at Quinn. He looked around and saw one of the waitresses at the next table. “Debbie, when you get a minute…”
The girl turned to him, scratching on her pad. “Pete—another cheeseburger?”
“Funny,” Pete said.
“No, but two for Quinn and me, and three Millers,” Jake said.
“Coming up.” Debbie was young and cheerful, bronzed and wearing tiny white shorts. Pete watched as she walked away.
“Pete, pay attention over here. What’s the story on Lara Trudeau?” Quinn asked.
Dixon frowned. “Trudeau? You’re here to ask me about that?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I closed it up today.”
“You closed the case already?” Quinn said.
“What case? There is no case. You want to see what happened yourself, the tape is in my office. Come by anytime. She went out on the dance floor smiling like a little lark. Moments later, she drops. A doctor is right there and tries to revive her. The ambulance arrives, and the med techs try to revive her. She gets to the hospital, and she’s pronounced dead on arrival. She’s turned over to the M.E., who discovers that she did herself in with booze and pills. Or her heart gave in ’cuz of the booze and 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
