but she’s a smart woman, you know. She reads the newspapers.”
“Is that why you’re here?” Quinn demanded, arching a brow.
“I have a case for you,” Doug said, moving around his brother to grab the dive tank Quinn had just unbuckled.
“Guess what, baby bro? I don’t need you to find cases for me. The agency does that very well—too well. Besides, I’m on vacation.”
“Yeah, Amber told me. That’s why I thought it would be a great time for you to take on something private I’ve been thinking about.”
Quinn went ahead and groaned. “Dammit, Doug. You mean you want me to do a bunch of prying around for free.” He glared at Amber.
“Hey, he’s your brother,” she said defensively. “And you know what? Now that we’ve found you, I think I’ll let you two talk. I’m going over to Nick’s for a hamburger.” Tossing her long blond hair over her shoulder, she started off the boat, casting back a single glance so she could try to read Quinn’s scowl and figure out just how annoyed he was with her.
Doug wore a rueful grin on his face. “Hey, I’ll rinse your equipment for you,” he said, as if offering some kind of an apology.
“Good. Go ahead. I’ll be in the cabin.”
Quinn took the two steps down to the Twisted Time’s head, stripped and stepped beneath a spray of fresh water for a moment, then wrapped a towel around his waist and dug a clean pair of cutoffs out of the wicker laundry basket on the bed of the main cabin. Barefoot and still damp, he returned to the main cabin area, pulled a Miller from the fridge in the galley and sat on the sofa just beyond it, waiting, fingers drumming, scowl still in place.
Doug came down the steps, nimble and quick, a grimace on his face as he, too, went to the fridge, helped himself to a beer and sat on the port-side sofa, facing Quinn.
“You want me to do something for free, right?” Quinn said, scowling.
“Well…sort of. Actually, it’s going to cost you.”
“What?”
“I need you to take dance lessons.”
Quinn stared at his younger brother, stunned speechless for several seconds. “You’re out of your mind,” he told Doug.
“No, no, I’m not, and you’ll understand in a few minutes.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Yes, you will. It’s about a death.”
“Do you know how many people die everyday, Doug? Hey, you’re the cop. If this was suspicious death, it was—or will be—investigated. And even if it was deemed natural or accidental, you must know someone in the department who can look into it.”
Quinn shook his head. Looking at Doug was almost like seeing himself a number of years ago. There was an eight-year age gap between them. They looked something alike, identical in height at six-two, but Doug still had the lean, lanky strength of a young man in his early twenties, while Quinn himself had broadened out. Quinn’s hair was dark, while Doug’s was a wheaten color, but they both had their father’s deep blue, wide-set eyes and hard-angled face. Sometimes they moved alike, using their hands when they spoke, as if words weren’t quite enough, and folding them prayer fashion or tapping them against their chins when they were in deep thought. For a moment Quinn reflected on his irritation at being interrupted here, but Doug had always been a damned good brother, looking up to him, being there for him, never losing faith, even when Quinn had gone through his own rough times.
“I can’t get anyone in the department interested in this,” Doug admitted. “There’s been too much going on in the county lately. They’re hunting a serial rapist who’s getting more violent with each victim, a guard was killed at a recent robbery…trust me, homicide is occupied. Too busy to get involved when it looks like an accidental death. There’s no one who’s free right now.”
“No one?”
Doug made a face. “All right, there were a few suspicious factors, so there is a guy assigned to follow up. But he’s an asshole, Quinn, really.”
“Who?”
Sometimes guys just didn’t like each other, so rumors went around about their capabilities. The metro department had endured its share of troubles through the years with a few bad cops, but for the most part, the officers were good men, underpaid and overworked.
Then again, sometimes they were just assholes.
“Pete Dixon.”
Quinn frowned. “Old Pete’s not that bad.”
“Hell no. Give him a smoking gun in a guy’s hand, and he can catch the perp every time.”
“That from a rookie,” Quinn muttered.
“Look, Dixon’s not a ball of fire. And he’s just following up on what the M.E. has ruled as an accidental death. He isn’t going to go around looking under any carpets. He’s not interested. He’ll just do some desk work by rote. He doesn’t care.”
“And therefore I should? To the point of taking dance lessons? Like I said, bro, I think you’ve lost your mind,” Quinn said flatly.
Doug smiled, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans. He pulled out his wallet and, from it, a carefully folded newspaper clipping. That was just like Doug. He was one of the most orderly human beings Quinn had ever come across. The clipping hadn’t been ripped out but cut, then folded meticulously. He shook his head at the thought, knowing that his own organizational skills were lacking in comparison.
“What is it?” Quinn asked, taking the paper.
“Read.”
Quinn unfolded it and looked at the headline. “‘Diva Lara Trudeau Dead on the Dance Floor at Thirty-eight.’” He cocked his head toward his brother.
“Keep reading.”
Quinn scanned the article. He’d never heard of Lara Trudeau, but that didn’t mean anything. He wouldn’t have recognized the name of any dancer, ballroom or otherwise. He could free-dive to nearly four hundred feet, bench-press nearly four hundred pounds and rock climb with the best of them. But in a salsa club, hell, he was best as a bar support.
Puzzled, he scanned the article. Lara Trudeau, thirty-eight, winner of countless dance championships, had died as she had lived—on the dance floor. A combination of tranquilizers and alcohol had caused a cardiac arrest. Those closest to the dancer were distraught, and apparently stunned that, despite her accomplishments, she had felt the need for artificial calm.
Quinn looked back at his brother and shook his head. “I don’t get it. An aging beauty got nervous and took too many pills. Tragic. But hardly diabolical.”
“You’re not reading between the lines,” Doug said with dismay.
Quinn suppressed a grin. “And I take it no one in the homicide division ‘read between the lines,’ either?”
Doug smacked the article. “Quinn, a woman
