Death of a Chorus Girl (The Delacroix Series Book 1) (5 page)

We drive the forty minutes from Manhattan to my home in Brooklyn.  “You mind if I stay, Rich?” Frisco asks after she pulls the charger into my garage.

“Nah,” I answer.  “Extra toiletries are under the sink.  You need a shirt or something?”

“That would be nice, thanks.”

We settle into our separate rooms and I crawl into bed after a hot shower.  Em appears behind my eyelids the second they close.  I’m not surprised to see her haunting my dreams.  The idea of kisses and caresses brings a smile to my face.  There is one residing on hers as well, but it doesn’t touch her eyes.  Every time I reach for her, she frolics away, laughing the whole time.  And it isn’t one of those “laughing with me” type laughs.  This is more like “laughing at me.”  This goes on all night long.  The headache that greets me the next morning isn’t just from the bourbon.

Empathy Delacroix: Follow-Ups

W
eeks have passed since Annie’s murder.  We are back working in the theatre.  The investors were soothed into not allowing a tragic homicide keep them from financing a potential Tony contender. Tom’s words, not mine.  The stage has been cleaned up and repaired.  A new lighting rig is in place with the installer’s complete assurance that it is secure.  The theatre director reevaluated the inspection process by the technicians after they found multiple loose screws in some of the equipment hanging over the stage.

I have been contacted a few times for follow-up questions during that time, just by the wrong detective.  The questions center on Annie’s life outside of the show and Steve asked in a halfhearted manner. I don’t have many helpful answers.  Richard knows I prefer interacting with him over his partner, at least I think he does.  I can only assume he avoids me because of the unexpected connection from two years ago.  It is disappointing not to hear his deep voice, but I try to convince myself that it is his loss, not mine.  I’m not successful.

“Em, there’s something wrong with that sequence,” Tom whispers in my ear.  “I know the idea is to be different from the original arrangement, but every other aspect of the show is able to invoke the tone and emotions of the original, which is what we want our audience to connect with.”

We are sitting in the house watching the first of our full dress rehearsals.  The investors are scheduled to preview the show in the next couple of days.

I have already made the same observation and show Tom my notepad.  “We’ll discuss it later.  I already have some ideas.”  The director and writers join us after the performance is completed.  The producer normally sits with them during this viewing, but Tom always sits with just him and me when I’m involved.  It isn’t unheard of for him to invite me to preview his other shows for this reason.

Tom brings up the problem sequence after everyone else has a chance to voice their opinions.  “It doesn’t work.”

“What do you know about romance, Tom?” the director, Sam Nelson, scoffs before Tom can say anything more.  “It didn’t work for you because you have no heart.  You don’t love; you lust.”

Whoa! 
Tom’s reputation isn’t a secret but typically, no one holds it against him.  He may not be boyfriend material, but he is an outstanding producer who has given a lot of us breaks when no one else would,
including
Sam.

“We’ve discussed this before, Sam,” I interject.  “They shouldn’t be the ones dancing.  It’s not how it was in the original …”

“We aren’t trying to be like the original,
Em.
”  This will probably be the first and last time Tom works with Sam.  It most definitely is for me.  He is a pompous little prig who only likes his own ideas.  While this is a makeover and re-imagination of
Singin’ in the
Rain
, we all agree that our revival,
Singin’,
needs to invoke and honor the emotion from the original.  The story is great on its own.  All we want is to give it a fresh face.

Tom ignores Sam and turns to me.  “How soon can you have something to show me?”

“Tomorrow morning.  Release the rest of the cast but Lucy, Dale, Avery, and Houston.  I’ll work with them this afternoon and get it fixed.”

Which is how I find myself onstage with the four cast members.  I hope to appease both parties by reducing and simplifying the amount of dancing Lucy and Dale do so their acting and singing can shine.  That leaves Avery and Houston free for my creative mind.  I start by teaching both couples the same routine.  Our leads will perform downstage and the other couple up-stage.  If we can build a platform to lift Avery and Houston, my vision will be complete.  I make a mental note to bring it up to Tom.  It doesn’t have to be anything fancy, just sturdy.

I have all the notes I need for the moment after the third run through and I move upstage to give them to the dancers.  “Ms. Delacroix,” I freeze in my tracks, “do you have a minute?”  I recognize that voice.

I quickly issue my critique and instructions to practice before turning around.  Then I excuse myself and motion to the technicians to cue the music on the dancers mark. I walk to the stairs to meet Detective Beauregard.

“Of course, detective, what can I do … for … you?”  My words trail off at the end because he isn’t alone.  Richard is standing right next to him, looking as surprised to be there as I am to see him.  My eyes openly stare at him, as if he’s water in the middle of a vast desert.  Nothing can pull them away.  He does not disappoint on the second viewing.

“You done ogling my partner?” Beauregard’s annoyed voice disrupts my musings.

“What?  Oh, yes.” 
Shoot!
  Not only have I been caught red handed but I also inadvertently confessed.  I hope the dim lighting in the house hides my blush.  “You have questions?” I quickly ask to cover my slip.  A devilish twinkle shines out of Richard’s eyes.

Beauregard opens his mouth but Richard’s voice fills the space.  “How about you let me take it from here, Steve?”

Beauregard double checks, what is clearly an alteration to the plan, before asking if he can question the techs.  I escort him backstage and introduce him to the guys who are there.  When I turn to go back to Richard, I run smack into his broad chest and rebound off it.  One of his hands snatches my elbow with lightning quick speed while the other grips my waist to keep me from falling.  The electric current that surges through my body weakens my knees.  “Easy there, Ms. Delacroix,” Richard purrs.

“Em,” I insist.  I didn’t hear him behind me.  Although, I guess I should expect stealth from a cop.  I’m already off balance, both physically and mentally, so I let myself experience every aspect of the handsome detective.  His eyes are twinkling roguishly.  His smell envelopes me in nature and reminds me of Central Park after a spring rain.  His smile falters, and the grip of his hands is firm yet gentle as he steadies me.  I haven’t moved a millimeter since he caught me and I can live happily if I never move again.

He caresses my name on a whispered exhale and pulls me towards him.

“Em!” Houston shouts from the stage. I jump backward and Richard stumbles forward in response.  Houston is upon us in the blink of an eye and eyes Richard suspiciously.  I can’t help but giggle at the irony of one of the potential suspects in Annie’s murder looking upon the detective overseeing the case with suspicion.  “Hey, can you take a break and come help Avery?  She’s not getting the footing right again for that lift you want done.”

I ask for permission and after Richard grants it, the three of us walk out onto the stage.  They run through the sixteen beats before the lift, which never happens because Avery isn’t planting her foot correctly.  Just like Houston said.

The resulting fall makes Richard step forward, but I throw a hand out to stop him.  “They’re fine.  We have the crash pads out for that reason.”  I approach them and Richard follows.  I try talking Avery through the simple changes she needs to make. But after multiple unsuccessful attempts, I place a hand on her shoulder to stop her from trying again.  “Go stand over there by the detective, and pay attention.”

I step behind Houston, and we do the lift slowly while I point out Avery’s errors.  “You have to plant your foot on his calf, not on his ankle, not in his knee, and not on the floor.  He’s a strong man, he can take it.”  A hop gets my hips on his shoulder then I lean forward to grasp his arms while extending my legs, one pointing straight up and the other down his back.  This lets me secure myself by pinning his shoulder, chest, and back, between my pelvis and thigh.  Once in the air, I flip over his shoulder, using his arms for balance until my feet hit the floor.  “Alright, now Houston, how about we do the lift full speed.”  We cue the music and run through the steps.

The music ends, and we stop moving. I turn my attention to Avery, but Richard catches my eye.  His are wide with astonishment and fixed on me, with his jaw marginally gaping.  I blush at his open appreciation before instructing Avery to try again as I turn my back to him.

“Push harder off that foot, Avery!”  She finally nails it on the second attempt.  With that calamity resolved, I tell them to go back to running the full routine and motion towards the stairs for Richard to follow me into the house for his questions.

We take a seat, but he doesn’t say anything immediately.  He just sits there watching one full run through.  “You designed all of that?” Richard asks, the words dripping with awe.

“Yes, that’s what they pay me to do.  Thank you, by the way, for letting me help,” I state matter-of-factly as I look back at the dancers.  “I’m supposed to have a completed routine to show everyone tomorrow morning, so every minute is precious.”

“No need.  You have a job to do.  I get that.”  His probing eyes turn to me, pulling my gaze.

I am stunned when his hand takes mine.  “What happened to keeping things professional?” I tease with an arched eyebrow.  His hand drops mine as if it burned him and the rose in his cheeks deepens.  It occurs to me that he moved without conscious thought.

“Please forgive me, Ms. Delacroix.”  The hand that had taken mine is now scrubbing at his face before he crosses his arms over his chest.

“I’m assuming you have more questions for me, detective?”

“Richard.”  My heart flutters at his request.  He isn’t looking at me, his gaze still transfixed on the stage.  “And yes, I have more questions, Em.”  I try not to focus on the palpable tension resonating between us.  “What are you doing Sunday evening?”

I’m sorry, what?!  Did he just ask me out?
  “Surely, you misspoke,
detective
.”

Blinking, Richard tears his eyes from the stage and trains them on me.  “No,
Ms. Delacroix
, I did not.  My partner is done with your techs and your dancers sidetracked us.  I was hoping to make an appointment with you to go over the rest of my questions, uninterrupted.”

Stupid!  Of course, he isn’t asking you out.
  “Oh, yes, um, of course.  Whatever you need.  Should I come down to the precinct?”

“Thank you, but no.  I don’t want there to be an impression you’re a suspect.  Can I meet you somewhere?”  Richard becomes rigid like stone and sits there stoically regarding me.

Dinner at my place?  No, something more professional.
  “My office address is on the card I gave you.  Do you still have it?” 
Or did you toss it the minute I left the precinct?

“I do,” Richard answers with an easy smile.  “How does five o’clock sound?”  I nod.  Maybe if it takes a while, it will be appropriate to offer to buy him dinner. Or maybe I should just have it brought in?  “Then I’ll see you on Sunday, Ms. Delacroix.”

We stand and I plan not to say anything.  But as I shake his proffered hand, I confess, “I look forward to it, Detective Giordano.”  It is an idiotic thing to say.  Who looks forward to being questioned about a homicide investigation by a cop?  But when the cop looks like Richard and looks at you the way he looks at me, you truly do.

Richard Giordano: Broadway

This woman is going to cost me this case and my career!  I have to get away from
her!
  “Steve, you ready?” I ask, my voice cracking a little.  He comes bounding down the steps, announcing he is.  I can’t let her ensnare me again with her enchanting eyes so I have to walk past Em with no other farewell.

“What did you learn backstage?” I ask him the second we get in the charger.

He props his elbow on the edge of the door by the window and leans his head into his fist.  “The lighting rig wasn’t the only piece of faulty equipment.”  The rats told us last week that the rig fell because all the screws on one side of the harness were tampered with.  When the side finally gave, the weight of it stripped the opposing end, sending it crashing to the stage on top of our victim.  “Their people found loose screws on some of the set rigs and awnings that surround the stage.  It’s amazing that no one else was hurt or that it didn’t happen sooner.”

“So basically, the whole theater was tampered with?” I ask.  He gives a short nod in agreement.  “Do you think it was intentional then?”

Steve chews his cheek before answering.  “I don’t know how else an entire theater of equipment ends up faulty.”

The idea makes a pit fall into my stomach.  An image of Em, lying beneath one of those contraptions, bleeding to death, fills my mind.  I swallow the bile that crawls up my throat.  “We didn’t get any evidence off all that other equipment, did we?”

“I don’t think anyone even thought about it,” he confirms with a shake of his head, “not after cause of death was confirmed.  I doubt it would have mattered, though.”

“Why?”

“We’ve got two sets of DNA on file already and the busted rig. 
And not a single match in CODIS!”
he blew, which is unexpected for Steve.  He typically keeps a level head on cases.
  “
Sure the semen samples match the epithelial trace on her neck and under her nails but none of that proves anything.  We don’t even know if they are from the killer.  All of it could easily be from her extracurricular activities!”