Quickstep to Murder (14 page)

“The limo’s license plates started with DPR,” I said, “which means it belongs to a diplomat.”

“From Argentina,” Tav said, setting his knife down slowly, his attention caught. “PR is the country code for Argentina.”

“How do you know that?”

“I was at the embassy earlier today, dealing with issues related to shipping Rafael’s body back to Argentina. The cars all had plates starting with SPR or DPR.”

“S for staff, D for diplomat,” I said. “See, it proves that limo had something to do with Rafe.”

“I must return to the embassy tomorrow,” Tav said. “Perhaps I can ask around and find out why someone from the embassy might be meeting with Rafael.”

“That’d be great.” Our food arrived then and we ate our meals—sole for me, crab cakes for Tav—in silence for a few minutes. I broke it to ask, “So what happened between you and Rafe that you didn’t keep in touch?”

Tav looked up from his plate, his dark eyes serious. He seemed to be looking at something past me, but after a moment, his expression lightened and he focused on me. “It wasn’t so much what happened between me and Rafael as what happened between our parents. My father took up with Rafael’s mother, Suzette, when I was only three. She was in Argentina to study tango—she was a dancer, too—and it was love at first sight for her and my father.” His grimace betrayed what he thought of that. “He divorced my mother to marry her. I split my time between the two households, spending the school year with my mother and my summers with my father, Suzette, and Rafael. When I was nineteen and Rafael was sixteen, my father and mother decided that they were meant to be together after all and he divorced Suzette to remarry my mother. You can see that Rafael came by his womanizing honestly,” Tav said with a wry smile.

“What a plate of emotional spaghetti,” I said.

He gave me a puzzled look.

“Everything all tangled up and stuck together.”

“That’s exactly how it was. Suzette returned to America—she was from Texas—and took Rafael with her. He was angry, so angry, with my mother and his anger leaked over onto me.” Tav said. “I do not know if Suzette forbade him to keep in touch, or if he was not inclined to do so, but I did not hear from him for several years. Not until after Suzette died. Breast cancer.”

“Rafe never told me any of this,” I said, saddened by this evidence of our lack of true intimacy. “I mean, I knew he was semi-estranged from his dad and I knew his mom was dead, but I didn’t know the details.”

“Did he talk about me?”

I hesitated a moment, on the brink of a comforting lie, then said, “Never.”

“Ah, well.” He scooped some crab cake onto his fork and fell silent.

I half reached out a hand to him, but drew it back, glad he hadn’t seen it. I felt like I knew him because he was so like Rafe in some ways; I had to keep reminding myself that I didn’t know him at all.

“And you?” Tav interrupted my thoughts. He was smiling at me over the rim of his wineglass.

“Me?”

“Family? Siblings?”

“My parents divorced when I was fifteen. They both live in the area and I see them pretty often. My dad’s remarried. Two sibs—a brother and a sister. No half siblings, stepsiblings, or ex-husbands. Rafe’s as close as I ever got to marrying.” On the verge of asking if he was married, I became aware that our conversation had shifted from investigating Rafe’s murder to first date sorts of topics. Uncomfortable with the segue, I finished with, “So when do you think you can get hold of your embassy contact?”

“Monday.” Signaling for the check, he pulled out his wallet.

I pushed a twenty across the table to cover my share and was slightly surprised when he accepted it without comment. Did that mean he needed help financially? Or was he an enlightened man who accepted women as equals? Rafe had always insisted on paying when we went out, even though we made roughly the same amount. It had seemed charming at first, gallant, but then had grown irksome.

Tav and I walked back toward the condo and my car in near silence, each absorbed by our own thoughts. We said good night on the sidewalk and I was halfway home when I realized we hadn’t discussed Graysin Motion at all. I hadn’t asked him to let me have a say if he decided to sell his half of the studio. I didn’t want to end up with Mark Downey as a partner, or any other well-off student with more money than talent (and we had a lot of those), or a stranger who didn’t know a foxtrot from a fox hunt. I banged the steering wheel and vowed to make it our first topic of conversation the next time we met.

 

As I turned onto my block, I slowed the car to a crawl, looking for Rafe’s—Sherry’s?—black Lexus. Traffic was relatively light this late in the evening and no one seemed too perturbed that I was creeping along at five miles an hour. In a three-block radius, I spotted a silver Lexus and a green one, and several black luxury cars, but no black Lexus.
Hmm
. I knew Rafe used to park his Camry on the street, but maybe he was more cautious with the Lexus? I made my way to the parking garage two blocks down from my house and parked on the curb across from it, unwilling to pay a fee to spend a few minutes in the garage looking for the Lexus.

Enough passersby strolled the streets at ten o’clock on a Friday that I didn’t feel too isolated. I crossed the street and slid around the moveable arm blocking the garage’s driveway. No attendant. The garage was a dark cave lit by strips of fluorescent lights and my footsteps echoed weirdly off the cement floors. With my arms crossed over my chest, Rafe’s car keys clutched in one hand, I methodically walked up and down the aisles on the ground level. More than half the spaces were empty and I didn’t spot the Lexus. I felt fairly stupid and vaguely criminal to be scoping out people’s cars, and I wondered if the chance of finding Sherry’s flash drive was worth it. It wasn’t really about the flash drive, I realized; it was about the hunt. I’d already invested so much time in looking for the stupid thing that I hated to give up now. I’d give it ten more minutes, I decided, reaching the stairs.

The stairwell door screeched as I opened it and I surprised a couple in their fifties making out on the landing as I climbed to the second level. The gray-haired woman giggled and pressed her face into the man’s chest. He smiled and waved, seemingly unaware that his other hand was cupping the woman’s rear end. The smell of alcohol hung around them as I hurried past. I’d have to be dead drunk before I’d think it was fun or romantic to play kissy-face in a garage stairwell that stank of urine and cigarettes. On the second level, I began marching up the rows again, staying in the center of the driveway, as far as possible from the shadowed spaces between the cars. Coming around a massive concrete post, I spotted a black Lexus in the farthest corner. Finally! I broke into a trot, aiming the clicker at the car.

My heart beat a bit faster as I halted beside the car. I punched the remote buttons again without getting a flash of headlights or the beeping sound that signaled the car was happy to see its owner. Maybe the battery was dead. Making a visor of my hand, I peered into the side window. I could make out nothing but vague shapes at first, but then I recognized the bulky object on the backseat as a child’s safety chair.
Oops
. I jumped back as if stung just as someone yelled, “Hey! What are you doing? Get away from our car!”

I whirled to see a young couple, him dark and scowling, her blond and obviously pregnant, jogging toward me. Their attire suggested they’d been at a semiformal dinner or reception.

Holding up Rafe’s keys, I stammered, “I thought it was mine. So sorry! I must have left mine on the next level.” I hoped the dimness hid the blush I could feel warming my cheeks.

The scowling man inspected the keys in my hand, walked all the way around his car suspiciously, and then escorted his wife to the passenger seat, giving me a wide berth.

“Drinking and driving is very irresponsible,” the wife murmured as she passed me.

“I’m not—I haven’t been—” I shut up. It didn’t seem worth it. Turning on my heel, I headed back to the stairwell and up to the top level, my breaths coming faster than usual.

With little hope of success, I emerged on the third floor, held my arm out at shoulder height and clicked the remote. Nothing. I turned forty-five degrees and tried it again. A flash of brake lights in the row just to my right rewarded me. Hallelujah. My shoes
tap-tap
ped on the cement as I hurried toward the Lexus. It gleamed a dull black in the stingy light and the door opened smoothly when I pulled up on the handle. I hesitated, running my gaze over the interior, and glints from the passenger seat and footwell caught my eye. Leaning in, I saw that the sparkles came from glass bits strewn over the seat. I looked up, squinting, and realized the passenger side window had a hole stove in it, big enough to admit a hand.

The sight was unexpected and creeped me out. I jerked upright, banging the back of my head against the door frame, conscious of my mother’s admonition to always check the backseat before getting into a parked car. I backed away two steps, rubbing my head. Could there be someone—The ding of the elevator interrupted my thoughts and I turned, expecting to see another couple looking for their car postmovie or postdinner. Instead, a uniformed police officer came toward me, face stiff with suspicion, flashlight describing an arc in front of her.

“I was just about to call you,” I said, intensely relieved.

“Oh, really?” Her tone held polite disbelief and her eyes studied me, lingering on my hands as she said, “We had a report of a suspicious person casing vehicles in this garage.”

I was indignant that the couple with the other Lexus had apparently called the cops on me over a perfectly innocent mistake.

“Is this your car, ma’am?”

“Umm.” I winced inwardly, foreseeing an awkward explanation. I dove in. “Well, not exactly. It’s my ex-fiancé’s, my business partner’s. He—”

The flashlight beam raked the broken window. “Mad at him, were you?”

“I didn’t do that! It was like that. He was killed last week and—”

“Step away from the car and keep your hands where I can see them.” At the word “killed” her voice went all stern and coplike and I sighed, raising my hands, palm out, and dangling the Lexus’s remote between a thumb and forefinger. The cop’s hand went to her holster and she spoke softly into the radio affixed near her shoulder, never taking her eyes off me.

I sighed, anticipating a late night. “Do you know Detective Lissy?”

It was indeed a long night. By the time backup cops arrived and someone called Detective Lissy, and I explained how I came to have Rafe’s keys and Lissy called Tav to verify my story, it was after midnight. Lissy, not surprisingly, wanted to know why I was searching Rafe’s car. I’d had plenty of time to realize the question would come up, and I told him Rafe had some files related to studio business and I thought they might be in the car since Tav had looked for them in the condo and not found them. I blinked at him with great innocence when I finished my explanation. Lissy looked like he didn’t believe me—why was I getting that response so much lately?—but said I could go.

I hesitated, then asked if he thought the murderer had broken into the car, searching for something. I didn’t suggest the “something” might be a flash drive.

“The car’s apparently been sitting here since the day Acosta died,” Lissy said. “A target of opportunity for any petty thief. The stereo system’s missing, so this is probably a random break-in, not connected to Acosta’s death. Unless you know otherwise?” The lift of his brows said he’d be happy to take down my confession.

“You might want to give Sherry Indrebo a call about the car,” I said casually, happy to supply him with a course of action that might distract him from poking around in my affairs. “She leased it for Rafe.”

Lissy sucked his lips in and eyed me wearily. “What a good idea,” he said. “I might not have thought of it on my own, what with having only twenty-seven years on the job.”

“Just trying to help,” I muttered as I moved toward the stairs, avoiding the forensics team who were now going over the Lexus with swabs and little vacuums.

“Well, stop it,” Lissy said, getting the last word for the night.

 

I didn’t spend too much time over the weekend dwelling on the car. Vitaly and I met to practice on both Saturday and Sunday and then spent two hours practicing Monday morning. I began to have a faint hope that we might not utterly disgrace ourselves at the Capitol Festival, which started Friday. The rest of the morning dissolved in back-to-back private sessions with two other students who were competing with me in the pro-am divisions. One was an older gentleman who had no illusions about his ability but loved to dance and had the money to pay for private lessons, coaching, and trips to competitions. The other was a thirty-something Department of Energy employee who danced, I thought privately, to inject some glamour and excitement into his cubicle-bound life. The Capitol Festival was his first competition. He’d either love it, or find the hours of waiting in a chilly ballroom interspersed by ten minutes on the dance floor a grind and give it up. Vitaly observed the sessions and offered some useful comments, managing to critique the other men without offending or embarrassing them. He was going to be an asset, I decided happily, going downstairs at noon to shower and change.