She followed Mel to one of the many pink-clothed tables surrounding the dance floor. There was a square of white cloth fastened with safety pins to the back of his shirt, on which 799 was printed in black. On the other side of the floor was a raised platform on some sort of scissorslike jack mechanism with a professional-looking, bulky TV camera mounted on it. It was the sort of camera that might zoom in on David Letterman, but that Mary didn’t want aimed her way. Juliet Prowse would be here to hostess the Saturday night professional competition and showcase dances, for later viewing on television. Mary assured herself the TV camera was for Juliet, and for the ballroom dance world’s top performers, not for her. Anything to make the knot in her stomach less painful. She felt as if she’d gulped down a baseball.
Mel dropped into a chair and she sat down next to him, her body trembling. He peered at her face and smiled. “The bruises might just be okay,” he said. “And the dress is perfect, Mary.”
Was he sincere? Or simply trying to buoy her confidence? Mustn’t her fear show in her face? She passed her fingertips over the tablecloth; the rough texture of the material made them tingle.
“Now, remember how we get on and off the floor,” Mel told her. “Once the music starts, don’t get in a rush. And concentrate on the basics. Now and then, when I know the judges aren’t watching, I might say something to you or straighten something out in your dancing; don’t let that throw you.”
“Anything else?” Mary asked.
“Oh, yeah. We’re number one-ninety-nine. When you hear the announcer say it, listen close for instructions.”
“Anything else?” She knew she was repeating herself like an idiot.
“Yeah. Have fun.” He stood up and extended his hand for her to take. “Let’s do some tango to get you warmed up and accustomed to the floor.”
Despite the fact that there were at least a dozen couples practicing on the desert of a dance floor, Mary was sure everyone in the ballroom was watching her through binoculars.
Mel stepped close and raised her hands to dance position. As they began to dance, a measure of confidence took root in her. Mel’s right hand was almost on the bruise, causing occasional flashes of agony, but she said nothing and maintained her posture. They were moving well and must look good together. She drew comfort from his lithe body, absorbing his youth like a vampire. As they practiced pivots she arched her spine and tilted back her head to look up and to her left. Above her the glittering chandeliers and colorful arches of balloons whirled dizzyingly as she floated with Mel’s lead, leaning away from the pivot and using centrifugal force to gain velocity. She knew she was doing everything right; it was like flying. She and Mel were cutting through the air like a single aerodynamic creature, something out of mythology.
“Awright!” he said, stopping and twirling her with a flourish. “Dance like that during competition and we got it made!”
Hundreds of people had filtered into the ballroom while they’d been talking and practicing, and were milling around or sitting at the tables. The balcony was lined with spectators, and the platform with the rows of video cameras was being tended by a man and four women. Mary had used her extra money to pay to have her performances taped so she could study them later. Now, staring out at all the bright movement and pale faces in the ballroom, her confidence ebbed again and she regretted paying to have her embarrassment recorded.
“So how you feel?” Mel asked.
“Scared.”
“That’s okay. Convert that to energy when we dance. And try to relax. The crowd here doesn’t use live ammunition.”
Dance officials were seated on the judges’ dais now. An announcer with silver hair spoke into a microphone and asked that the floor be cleared for competition.
When the floor was vacant and the ballroom hushed, the announcer said, “American Rhythm will be first, Ladies’ A Newcomer. Dancers please line up at the far end, down by Mrs. Kellerman.” A woman in a blue dress raised her hand, smiling. Mrs. Kellerman, drawing scattered applause. Well, the audience was friendly; Mrs. Kellerman hadn’t even danced.
Mary’s heart skipped and pounded as she took Mel’s arm and he led her toward the far corner of the ballroom, where dancers in glittering, feathered outfits were queuing up with their partners. The announcer introduced the judges, some of whom were now standing at the corners of the dance floor, then he called the numbers of the dancers for the first heat.
When she heard “One-ninety-nine,” Mary stopped breathing for a moment.
She felt Mel tug at her arm. Her mind was somewhere up there with the arches of balloons and the glittering chandeliers. Her legs were numb but she knew she was walking. She swallowed and moved like an automaton, letting instinct and training take over.
And found herself in the center of the dance floor.
The music began.
41
Morrisy slumped down heavily behind his desk and sighed. He didn’t like the way things were shaping up. He could smell trouble the way a sailor smelled a storm.
Three dead dancers were one-and in retrospect, two-too many to be coincidental. He’d had the wrong idea about how large dancing had loomed in the lives of the dead women. He’d thought they’d simply learned how to dance, taken goddamn lessons, maybe even entered contests sometimes. But mainly he’d assumed they went out dancing the way millions of women did, the way his former wife Bonita had. He wondered if maybe his personal view of Bonita had anything to do with the way he’d been blindsided on this one.
To the media, Morrisy was still playing down the importance of the ballroom dance connection, but he knew it might very well become the crux of the case, the angle that tied the victims to the weirdo who’d killed them.
Waxman wandered in and stood near the window, stared out at hazy blue sky for a moment, then said, “We got Verlane possibly in New Orleans when his wife died, possibly in Seattle when the Roundner woman was killed, definitely in Kansas City for the Vivian Ferris murder.”
Tell me something I don’t know, Morrisy thought. He said, “Quirk’s been on my ass like bargain underwear.”
Waxman moved away from the window and stood close to the desk. He’d left the door open and sounds from out in the squad room drifted in. A dot matrix printer going Gzzzzzzing! over and over at irregular intervals. Nyak the desk sergeant patiently arguing with a drunk. “I never walk a shtraight line!” the drunk was protesting.
Gzzzzzzzing! Gzzzzzzzzing!
Irritating sound, Morrisy thought. Japanese-made piece of crap sitting out there spitting paper like they’d won the fucking war or something. Well, maybe they had.
“We collar Verlane and search the house,” Waxman said, “we might come up with what we need to nail him down tight.”
“Might,” Morrisy said, actually doubting it. Verlane had proved out tough and smart. Too smart to leave incriminating evidence lying around like ashtrays. Still, to have done what he’d done a man had to be in and out mentally. And Morrisy had seen plenty of tough ones all of a sudden cave in when the cuffs were clicked on their wrists, when they were finally grabbed by the balls. The desire to purge guilt and confess could be as overwhelming as the need for sex. Or the need to kill. Morrisy knew that.
“Verlane home now?” he asked.
Gzzzzzing!
“Jansen’s on him and called in a few minutes ago. Says Verlane hasn’t left his house.”
Gzzzzzzzing!
Morrisy stood up behind the desk and tucked in his shirt. Twisted his bulky body and snatched his suitcoat from its hook. “Time to move on the bastard,” he said. “Let’s stuff him in the bag.”
Verlane didn’t answer when they rang his doorbell. And when they forced the door and went inside they found the large, quiet house unoccupied. A couple of lamps were switched on, even though sunlight streamed through the sheer drapes. The air smelled stale, and everything was neat but looked dusty. It had been some time
