The Homicide Hustle (20 page)

We stopped an hour in for a water break, and Vitaly bounced into the ballroom, towing
Calista, to consult with me on a tricky bit of choreography. While we worked it out,
Nigel came forward, beckoning Larry closer. “So, Stace,” he said, his grin tighter
than usual and I knew he was still royally pissed, “why don’t you tell the viewers
about finding Tessa’s car yesterday? That’s a big break in your case, right, luv?”

I felt everyone’s heads whip toward me and I wanted to slap Nigel, although he’d given
me the opportunity I was looking for.

“You know, Nige, I didn’t find the car. The rental car company called
you
when they found it at the airport because it was rented in your name. And it’s not
my case. The detective told me to steer clear and I plan to do that. The police know
what they’re doing, and I’m sure they’re going to make an arrest soon.” I smiled sweetly
into the camera.

“Cut,” Nigel said irritably. When Larry lowered the camera, he said, “What the hell?”

“I’m done investigating. Through. Finished. Finito. I’m here to dance and that’s where
I plan to put my efforts.” I nodded my head emphatically so my ponytail swished.

“What game are you playing now?” Nigel narrowed his eyes.

“For God’s sake, Nigel, leave her alone.” Calista paused in her texting to glare at
Nigel. “She’s shaken up from the car crash. Anyone would be. Give her a break.”

“She’s right,” Zane said. I didn’t know if he meant me or Calista. “We have no business
mucking about in a police investigation. We should stick to dancing.”

“We are dancers, not Remington Steeles,” Vitaly added.

Nigel gave the four of us a disgusted look and stomped out of the room. Larry followed
him.

“Did you mean it?” Zane asked when they were gone. The four of us clustered in a little
conspiratorial circle.

“Yes.” I met each of their gazes in turn. “Detective Lissy really tore into me yesterday.
Threatened obstruction of justice.” Okay, he’d threatened Nigel with obstruction,
but I was sure he’d be happy to sling the same charge at me, although maybe I’d earned
a few brownie points by telling him about Tessa’s computer. “I’m ready to concentrate
on winning the Crystal Slipper.”

“Let’s do it,” Zane said, striking a
Saturday Night Fever
pose.

Chapter 27

Maurice greeted me in my office when we were through for the morning and the others
had left to get lunch. “I overheard your conversation,” he said. “Did you mean any
of it?”

I hesitated just long enough to make him sigh. “I didn’t think so.”

“Tav and I thought it would be smart to make the killer think I was off the case so
I don’t have any more ‘accidents.’ Tav also suggested I get someone to stay with me,
so I’m going to ask Danielle if she’ll camp out at my place for a couple nights.”

“Tav, eh?” Maurice gave me a knowing look and, to my fury, I blushed. He didn’t say
anything more. “What’s your next step?”

Reading his question as acceptance, if not approval, I said, “I thought I’d go to
the hospital.”

“Are you feeling worse?”

“No, no. I want to talk to the hit-and-run victim. I know his name and the hospital
he’s in.” His name had been in the paper and I’d overheard Lissy’s partner mention
the hospital. “He might be able to tell us something. According to the evidence technicians
who were at the airport yesterday, Tessa’s car hit him. I want to see what he remembers.
Detective Lissy said something about him being hit by a Dodge, but Tessa’s car is
a Mercedes.”

A line appeared between Maurice’s brows. “Puzzling. Look, Anastasia, why don’t you
stop investigating for real?” He forestalled my protest by raising a hand. “Not because
it’s distasteful, but because it’s gotten too dangerous.”

“We’re supposed to be filming this show for six more weeks,” I said. “I can’t spend
the next forty-two days watching my back, wondering if the killer’s still out there.
We can use the reward money, too. And,” I grinned ruefully, “you know I’m not good
at letting go of something once I’ve sunk my teeth into it.”

“Don’t I just.” Maurice smiled.

Mindful of Tav’s instruction not to go anywhere alone, I asked, “Want to go to the
hospital with me?”

Maurice shook his head. “Can’t. I’ve got students coming in this afternoon, now that
you TV stars are out of the way for the day.”

On the words, the outside door opened and a woman trilled, “Maurrrice, I’m here.”

Maurice left to work with his student, and I twirled the ends of my ponytail around
my finger. I wanted to go to the hospital now, but it looked like I was going to have
to wait. Maybe Danielle would go with me later. The thought reminded me that I needed
to see if she would stay at my place for a couple of nights. I called her at work.
When I explained what I wanted, she agreed immediately.

“I’d just as soon not be home tonight, anyway,” she said. “Coop’s supposed to come
over and pick up his stuff.”

“You could toss it out the window.”

“That wouldn’t be fair. He didn’t really do anything wrong, except fall out of love
with me.” She sniffled.

I was tempted to say, “Who cares about fair?” but let it drop. “We’ll have fun this
evening,” I promised, “after we go to the hospital.” I hung up without explaining.

* * *

Finding Figueroa’s room number was as simple as asking at the information desk. He’d
been moved out of intensive care a couple of days earlier, a helpful geriatric volunteer
said, and could be found on the fourth floor. “Take those elevators and follow the
yellow arrows,” he said.

“Why are we here again?” Danielle asked as we whisked down wide halls with their helpful
color-coded arrows painted on the linoleum.

“If Tessa’s car was involved in a hit-and-run the night she was killed, it’s got to
have something to do with her death, don’t you think? This man might be able to help
us figure it out.”

Danielle wore a dubious expression but helped me look for room numbers on the doors.
When we came to the right one, I took a deep breath and knocked lightly on the half-open
door. An orderly pushed a dinner cart past us, trailing the odors of steamed peas
and gravy. Ick. Danielle and I planned to stop off for Chinese takeout on our way
home. My tummy rumbled at the thought.

“Mr. Figueroa?” I called.

“Sí?”

We entered the room. It was small, but private. I’d read that more and more hospitals
were going to private rooms to cut down on the risk of infection. A bed with metal
rails was parked in the back left corner by a window that looked down onto an open
space between wings. It let in light, but no one could say it had a healing view.
Metal rails surrounded the bed where a small man sat in a half-raised position, watching
the television bracketed into the corner.

He was awake, alert, and seemed pleased to see me and Danielle, I noted with relief.
An arm and a leg were in casts, but he wasn’t hooked up to any tubes or monitors.
Then I realized he was watching a Spanish language station and my heart sank. He looked
at us with bright brown eyes from a seamed face the color of Tav’s new sofa.

“Buenas tardes.”

“Hola.”
My schoolgirl Spanish had never been good and I hadn’t used it since passing Spanish
2 as a high school sophomore. But I gave it a go. Too bad I hadn’t brought Tav instead
of Danielle.
“Nosotros”
—I pointed to Danielle and myself—“
estan . . . er, estamos
Stacy
y
Danielle.”

The man looked slightly puzzled, but said,
“Soy Esteban. Mucho gusta.”

I thought he’d said something like “Please to meet you,” so I responded with “
Gracias
.”

“El pelo rojo—muy hermoso.”
Esteban stared at Danielle’s hair admiringly. She smiled at him.

“Quiero”
—I want—“
decir a tí about la accidente.”
I had no idea what the word for accident was, so I made one up and mimed driving
a car and crashing it into Danielle. She giggled. I was about to frown her down when
I realized how silly I must seem. To Esteban, I must sound as incoherent as Vitaly
sometimes sounded to me. Worse, even.

“No lo recuerdo.”

“Por el río?”
I hoped he translated that as something like “Were you by the river?”

“No recuerdo. Solamente Dakota.”

“Only Dakota?” I looked at Danielle. “Isn’t that a Dodge truck?” The police were right,
after all. But that didn’t explain the missing glass from Tessa’s Mercedes matching
the glass found at the hit-and-run site. Maybe the crime scene technicians were confused?

“Yeah, it’s a truck,” Danielle said. “Coop’s brother has one.”

Esteban looked from me to Danielle and nodded.
“Si, Dakota. Dakota vino.”
He flung himself back against the pillows, as if to reenact the accident, then winced
when his cast nicked the swing-arm tray.

For a moment, I thought he was talking about wine, but then the verb
“venir”
surfaced from some long-unused part of my brain and I realized he was saying a Dakota
came. “It hit you?”

Esteban nodded rapidly.
“Sí, sí. Dakota.”

A scrubs-clad nurse came in, pushing a mobile blood pressure machine. “I need to take
Mr. Figueroa’s vitals,” he said, “and then the patient needs to eat. You can come
back after dinner, if you want.”

“Thanks. We’ll get out of your way.” Danielle and I headed for the door as the nurse
wrapped the cuff around Esteban’s upper arm.

“Are you with the police?” The nurse eyed my lavender leggings doubtfully. Danielle
looked more like a cop in her greige suit and his gaze lingered on her, as if expecting
her to produce a badge. “I thought you’d already talked with Mr. Figueroa. Did you
find out who hit him?”

“We’re not cops—just friends.
Amigos
,” I said. “
Adíos
, Esteban.” I waved to the man who waved back with his uninjured arm.

Danielle and I scurried into the hall before the nurse could ask any more uncomfortable
questions. I didn’t see how the hospital could object to us visiting Esteban if the
patient himself didn’t mind, but I didn’t need the nurse mentioning our visit to Detective
Lissy. I could envision his reaction to the news that I’d been interviewing his hit-and-run
victim.

“Well, that only muddied the water,” Danielle pointed out as we crossed the parking
lot to my rental car. “He says he was hit by a truck, but the CSI crew says he was
hit by Tessa’s car. He clearly doesn’t remember the accident, so maybe he’s confused
about the car. Maybe he saw a Dakota earlier that day, or he used to own one, and
it’s gotten mixed up with his memory of the accident. He must have banged his head
when the car hit him—maybe it jarred a few connections loose and reattached them incorrectly.”

My sister, the brain surgeon. “Could be,” I said, pointing the car toward my favorite
Chinese restaurant. “What if,” I said slowly, “he’s saying Dakota like the name? I
have a student named Dakota in my ballroom aerobics class. I also have a Montana.”

“Esteban knew the person who ran into him?” Danielle sounded doubtful. “That doesn’t
sound likely. How do you work Tessa into that scenario? Someone named Dakota runs
him down, and Tessa stops to help but accidentally hits him again so the crime scene
dudes think her car was involved? Or, Tessa hits him and Dakota stops to help; in
which case, why wouldn’t he have called nine one one?”

“You’re right,” I said. “Assuming Esteban’s confused and the evidence experts are
right, it still doesn’t clear anything up. Tessa hits Esteban and then—what?”

“Gets out to help him,” Danielle said. “Or, she panics and drives away.”

I considered that. “Okay,” I said slowly, thinking hard. “She panics. She’s smart
enough to know that her car will show damage, have Esteban’s blood on it—whatever—and
so she decides to dump it at the airport. Hm.” This was a new way of thinking about
the case. “Tessa hides the car at the airport and then catches the Metro or takes
a cab back to her apartment.”

“Didn’t you say she was with someone?”

“The drug dealer said that. Suppose she and her companion split up. He’s someone she
met at the club and he’s not interested in being mixed up in a hit-and-run case. He
goes his way, she goes hers. The murderer abducts her while she’s waiting for a cab.”

“Or she calls a friend for a lift and he or she kills her for some reason,” Danielle
said. “That makes more sense than a stranger abduction since the attacks on you prove
it’s someone involved with
Blisters
.”

I smacked the steering wheel. “I hate this.”

“Murder. What’s not to hate?”

Chapter 28

Saturday finally arrived. Tonight was the second round of competition. At the top
of the show, Zane and I would find out if we’d survived the first round. Even if the
viewers had eliminated us by not voting for us, the judges had a chance to save us.
They could vote unanimously to retain a couple the viewers had voted off, but they
could do that only once per season. I was surprised by how anxious I was about the
whole thing. In fact, everyone seemed tenser than usual at Graysin Motion that morning.

“People really dressed like this in the eighties?” Calista asked, emerging from the
studio, which the wardrobe people had commandeered again. She wore a gold lamé, disco-inspired
jumpsuit. It had cutouts in strategic spots and skintight pants that belled out from
the knee. A stylist had crimped her hair and pulled it back with a glittery headband
so it frizzed past her shoulders, framing her face. “No wonder people say ‘Disco is
dead.’”

“I look just as goofy,” I told her, gesturing the length of my turquoise halter dress
and its handkerchief hem, with rhinestones sparkling on the bodice.

Vitaly emerged from the temporary dressing room, wearing a costume that matched Calista’s.
His gold shirt was open to the waist and displayed a lot of white, hairless chest.
Nigel winced and bellowed, “Ariel! Spray tan!”

“Nyet.”
Vitaly shook his head. “I am allergics.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Nigel scrubbed both hands over his bristly head.

Ariel appeared, twisting an elastic around her hair, and said, “I’ve got a self-tanner
for sensitive skin,” she said, appraising Vitaly.

Tav walked in on the chaos and cast a comprehensive glance around. He wore jeans and
a blue Oxford shirt, sleeves rolled up, a casual weekend look that was even more handsome
on him than his weekday suits. Ariel gave him a flirtatious smile, but he missed it
because his eyes were on me, the warmth in them making me curl my toes inside my dance
shoes. I felt Zane stiffen beside me. “All ready for the big night?” Tav asked.

“Calista and I are moving up the leader boards tonight,” Vitaly announced, doing some
pliés to keep his muscles warm. “They”—he pointed to me and Zane—“are going down with
flames.”

“
In
flames,” I said. “And you’re full of it. Zane and I are taking home the Crystal Slipper.
You and Calista may come in second,” I graciously allowed.

“Good, good,” Nigel murmured as we sparred good-naturedly. He twirled a finger so
Larry would keep the camera rolling. His appraising gaze fell on Tav. “You, Acosta.
Tonight . . . what do you say to a small argument with Savage over Stacy here? No
real violence—we can’t risk marks on Savage’s pretty face. I’m thinking some pushing
and shoving, a little display of testosterone. Before the show . . . no, backstage,
after they do their number. It can look like you were riled up by their closeness
on the dance floor, like you’ve come backstage to reclaim your woman.” He sped up
as he talked, clearly enthused by the idea.

Tav arched his brows and shot me an “Is this guy for real?” look. “I do not think
so, Whiteman. Stacy is her own woman.”

I smiled at him.

Zane gave a disgusted head shake. “Hell, Nigel, can’t the show just be about the dancing?”

Shooting him an incredulous look, Nigel stalked into the ballroom, pulling out his
cell phone and murmuring something about “Kim will do it.”

I wondered uneasily what Kim would do, but put it out of my mind and let the wardrobe
mistress help me out of my costume. When I came out, ready to dance, only Zane was
left. Nigel had hustled Vitaly away for a prearranged, one-on-one interview with Kristen
somewhere, and Ariel and the wardrobe people had packed up and headed for Club Nitro.
I didn’t know where Tav had gone; he might be in the office. Before I could check,
Zane popped out of the bathroom, wiping his nose, and said, “Ready for some last-minute
practice?”

“Absolutely.” We moved into the ballroom and spent an hour putting the finishing touches
on our routine. The hardest part of the choreography was the overhead lift and Zane
finally got it, setting me down lightly so we were pressed together from chest to
thigh.

He looked down at me, his hazel eyes searching mine. “I’m not blind, you know.”

I eased myself away, so I could answer him honestly. “I’m sorry.”

“I thought we had something going.”

I cocked my head so my ponytail fell over my shoulder and gave him a look. “Zane,
we’ve never even been on a date. You took me dancing so other women wouldn’t hit on
you and so you could ask questions about your old girlfriend’s death. We’ve hung out
at the Laundromat and strolled the scene of a murder. We’ve spent a lot of time cooped
up in this ballroom, dancing, but that’s not real life. You’re beyond hot and I’ll
admit you can get me going, but Tav and I . . .” I didn’t need to share my complicated
feelings about Tav with Zane. I wasn’t sure I could explain them to myself.

Shifting his jaw from side to side, he said, “So that’s it? You’re really into this
Tav guy?”

I nodded. “I am.”

He forced a smile and moved away to root out his water bottle from his gym bag. He
found it, took a long swallow, recapped it, and said in a deliberately jaunty way,
“Well, that’s that, then. You win some, you lose some.” He slid me a sly smile. “What’s
Danielle up to after the show tonight?”

I was taken aback for a moment, but then I laughed with him. “As a matter of fact . . .”
I told him about Danielle and Coop breaking up. “She could use a little cheering up.”

“I am well known for my cheering up abilities,” Zane said.

As we resumed dancing with only a little awkwardness between us, I pondered whether
or not to warn Danielle not to take Zane too seriously, but finally decided there
was little danger of that. She was a big girl. She wasn’t going to leap into a rebound
relationship with a former child star trying to reestablish his acting career. She
knew Zane was headed back to Hollywood the moment
Blisters
wrapped, or we got kicked off, whichever happened first. I let myself enjoy the rest
of our practice and went downstairs to shower before noon, crossing my fingers that
we would survive the kickoff and get the chance to perform our dance on live television.

* * *

One o’clock brought the return of Kristen Lee and Larry to film our interview. It
was supposed to be a “day in the life of” format, and Kristen listed the activities
that supposedly made up my daily life, ticking them off on her slim figures. “We’ll
get a few shots of you at the gym, lifting weights,” she said, “and then we’ll talk
while you pick out wine at the cutest little wine store that’s advertising on
Blisters
for the first time this season. It’s on Fayette Street. We’ll finish up near the
waterfront—Nigel likes the visuals—with you getting your nails done at a darling little
salon—”

“Let me guess: that’s advertising on the show.”

“You catch on quick,” Kristen said with a curt nod. She seemed frostier than the last
time we’d met and I wondered why. “It’s a lot to fit into one afternoon, so let’s
get going. We need to be at Club Nitro no later than four for makeup.” She led the
way to the van and I followed.

At the gym, Kristen wanted to film me on the thigh machine, but I refused to be seen
forcing my legs wide and squeezing them shut on national television. We compromised
with me doing bent over rows in a racerback bra top, which gave Larry the chance to
film a lot of cleavage, but was better than the alternative. Kristen asked a flow
of mostly innocuous questions about what a dancer’s life was like, what I liked best
about it—using my body to create art—and what I liked least—the business side of running
a studio. She asked about my family and my routine. I gave her brief answers, knowing
from watching Solange’s segment on last week’s show, that the whole afternoon’s work
would be edited to little more than three minutes for the broadcast.

The wine store was a pleasant space decorated with barrels and swags of grape clusters,
and lined with racks of wine. It smelled vaguely musty, bringing to mind images of
wine cellars beneath ancient Loire Valley châteaux. Not that I’d ever been in one,
but I’d seen a Travel Channel special. Kristen lobbed a question at me as I dutifully
examined the bottle of Cabernet the wine shop owner had put in my hands. “Is it true,”
she asked in her brittle voice, “that your mother abandoned your family when you were
a teenager? How did you react to that?”

I almost dropped the bottle, and satisfaction slid across her eyes before she blinked
them to give me—and the camera—her usual innocent gaze. “My mom’s a champion equestrienne.
She competes internationally so she has to travel frequently. It was tough on us kids,
I’ll admit, but my dad picked up the slack.” It was toughest on Danielle, I knew,
and a recent vacation together on Jekyll Island—me, Danielle, and Mom—had only partly
healed the wounds.

“So you didn’t mind that she abandoned you in favor of horses?”

I wished she’d quit using the “A” word. I said through gritted teeth, “I can understand
her choices, especially since dance is my life, like horses are hers.”

“That’s very enlightened of you,” Kristen said in a voice that implied I was either
lying or an idiot. “But what about—”

I thrust the Cabernet at her and she took it reflexively. “Would this go good with
steak?” I asked. “Or would this be better?” I grabbed the nearest bottle from a rack
and put it in her hands. “This Pinot Noir looks tasty.” I added a third bottle and
she clasped them to her enhanced bosom, looking frustrated, before saying, “Cut.”

As soon as Larry lowered the camera, I leaned in and whispered. “We are through talking
about my mother and my family.”

Letting the anxious shop owner take the bottles from her, Kristen flipped back her
straight hair and turned away. “We’re done here, Larry. Let’s move on to the salon
so we can wrap this up and get downtown.”

Fine by me. I followed her out to the van, let the makeup guy—not Ariel—powder my
nose again, and alighted a few blocks away in front of a salon that had tubs of pansies,
petunias, marigolds, and geraniums sitting on either side of the door. They let out
a spicy scent that was immediately canceled out by the stink of nail polish remover
when we walked in. The place was small—six stations—and almost deserted, ready for
us to take over and film. Fluorescent lights glared from overhead and a countertop
fountain splashed near the cash register.

“Chelsea Irving!” the shop’s sole customer exclaimed as Kristen walked in. The middle-aged
woman dropped her credit card and fumbled to retrieve it, having a tough time of it
since she wouldn’t take her eyes off Kristen.

Kristen barely glanced at the fan, conferring with Larry until the salon owner hustled
her out and turned over the C
LOSED
sign.

“What about you, Kristen?” I asked as Larry tested the light, wanting to make amends
for my harshness. “Where did you grow up? What was your family like?”

The smiling salon owner gestured for me to seat myself at a narrow table and choose
a polish. I pointed at one at random.

“Battery problem,” Larry announced, and exited, probably to search for a replacement
battery in the van.

“Me?” Kristen gave me a suspicious look. “My people are from Dallas. My daddy was
in oil. My brothers both played football for UT, but I went to SMU. I majored in theater
and entered a beauty pageant my junior year on a bet with my Gamma Phi sisters. I
didn’t win, but I got a commercial out of it. One thing led to another and I ended
up in Hollywood.
Irving Crescent
was my big break.”

“You played Chelsea for ten years,” I said. “I met a man the other night who remembered—”
I cut myself off, realizing in the nick of time that Kristen wouldn’t be pleased to
hear that a drug dealer remembered her performance on the nighttime soap.

Her long eyes narrowed. Waving the manicurist away, she leaned in and I could smell
her late afternoon breath. “I know who you talked to,” she said softly. “Ever since
Tessa died, you’ve been nosing around in other people’s business. I know Nigel talked
to you about replacing me.”

Ah, so that explained her new hostility. She gave a satisfied nod with her pointy
chin at my surprised look. “I’ve got sources and I know more than most people realize.
If you think I’m going to let some small-time
dancer
—”

She made it sound like I used a pole in a strip club.

“—steal my place on this show, you can damn well think again. I like this gig and
I’m going to hold on to it, age be damned. If Vanna White can be a spokesmodel coming
up on sixty, I can stick with
Blisters
until it folds. Tessa tried to get rid of me, too, and look what happened to her.”

Larry and the manicurist returned simultaneously and Kristen drew back, sending home
her point with a long look at me. Almost immediately, she pasted on the faux smile
and launched into more fluffy questions—Who was my favorite singer? What movies had
I watched recently?—and ended the interview abruptly when only three of my nails were
painted.

“We’ve got enough,” she said. “Let’s pack it in, Larry.” She marched out of the salon,
her back straight as a knife in her red sheath dress.

I took the remover-soaked cotton ball the manicurist handed me and wiped the three
orange nails clean. “Thanks,” I told her.

She smiled conspiratorially. “That Chelsea’s a bit uptight, isn’t she? What can you
expect from a girl who would steal her stepfather away from her own mother?”

“She’s not really—” It wasn’t worth trying to explain that Kristen Lee hadn’t really
done the things her character had done. An amazing number of people, it seemed, had
trouble separating TV fiction from real life. “Vote for me and Zane tonight,” I said
instead.

As I gathered my purse and traipsed out to the van, a thought punched me so hard I
stopped, causing a woman pushing a stroller to run the wheels over my feet. When we
had exchanged apologies and I had climbed into the van, I sat across from Kristen
with Larry and the makeup guy a couple of rows back, both texting. I was tense, almost
bursting with the significance of my idea, but I waited until the van slid into traffic
to ask in what I hoped was a nonchalant voice, “Kristen, did you ever play a character
named Dakota?”