I hesitated, unsure whether it would help or hinder my investigation to have him poking around, too. I decided it couldn’t hurt. “I’m just wondering if there’s any tie between Rafe Acosta’s murder and your story.”
His thick brows climbed, wrinkling his forehead like a bloodhound’s. “Why would you think that? What’s the connection?”
He seemed genuinely intrigued and I began to wonder if Rafe had, in fact, gone to him with the thumb drive. Maybe I had added two and two and come up with five. Math never was my strong suit. Surely a seasoned reporter like McDill would’ve recognized his source’s name when it popped up in a murder story? “You don’t think it’s a bit coincidental that Rafe was murdered a couple days after giving you the political story of the year?”
“If-and I say ‘if’-I had interviewed Mr. Acosta, the fact that he was killed shortly thereafter could be nothing but coincidence. And, believe me, sweets, the Indrebo scandal will be superseded within a month by a politico selling influence some way he shouldn’t or sleeping with someone she shouldn’t. It’s just the same old, same old.”
I rose, tired of craning my neck to look up at him. We were the same height. “She left-” The connection suddenly hit me and I almost dropped into the chair again. When Rafe found Sherry’s thumb drive stuck in his computer, was his immediate thought “reporter”? No. Much as I hated to think he would stoop so low, he must have tried to sell it back to Sherry, perhaps after looking at the contents so he knew what it was worth to her. She’d refused to buy it-why?-and he’d looked for another market. I wasn’t sure if legitimate news reporters could ethically pay for source information, but I knew Sherry’s opponent would have no such restrictions. Rafe had taken the flash drive to the enemy camp, so to speak, and the contender for Sherry’s seat, or someone on his staff, had bought the drive and then turned it over to the Washington Post. It all tumbled into place as neatly as three cherries lining up on a slot machine.
“I’m sorry I bothered you, Mr. McDill,” I said. “Thanks for your time.”
His reporter’s instincts now thoroughly aroused, he blocked my path. “I’m missing something, aren’t I?” His eyes searched my face. The world-weary air had dropped from him and I could feel the energy vibrating off him, like a Thoroughbred loaded into the starting gate.
I moved around him with a forced smile. “Nothing important.” I hurried toward the door, not even stopping for an egg and potato burrito to appease my growling stomach.
“I’m going to find the connection, you know,” he called after me.
I didn’t doubt it.
The Metro car sped into a curve and I gripped the underside of the molded plastic seat to keep from leaning into the woman on my right. My brain chewed on the idea that had come to me while talking to McDill and I barely noticed the trees leafing out in spring green as they flashed past the window, or the silver-blue of the Potomac surging under the Metro rail. If I was right, and Rafe had tried to sell the flash drive back to Sherry Indrebo, then why hadn’t she paid him off? Constitutional dislike of being blackmailed? Confidence that she could get the drive another way? Conviction that he was bluffing about selling it elsewhere? Had she threatened him? Confronted him at the studio Monday night, pointed a gun at him-my gun-and told him to hand it over, not knowing it was already too late and he’d sold it to her opponent? Had he laughed at her or jumped her, and gotten shot?
I shook my head. Sherry had been at the studio that day; she could, conceivably, have snuck down to my bedroom and stolen my gun. Where had she been Wednesday night? She’d said she was going to a dinner, but had the police checked to see if she was really there? As the train slowed for my stop, I let go of the murder puzzle momentarily and wished sadly that Rafe had confided in me. I knew he’d needed money, but I hadn’t known how badly. What could possibly have been so important to him? I couldn’t ever recall him talking about a dream or a passion that he was saving money to finance. Dancing was his passion. The studio. Once upon a time, me. I was ninety-nine percent convinced that his need for money had sprung up recently, most likely about a month ago when he started hounding me to expand Graysin Motion’s offerings, turn the studio into a recital mill. Maybe he owed someone money-like a gambling debt-and they killed him when he didn’t pay up. That sounded good until I remembered that the murderer had used my gun. I found it hard to believe that a bookie’s enforcer would go looking for a gun in my bedroom.
I muttered, “Damn,” and the woman beside me inched as far away as she could on the narrow seat. If Rafe hadn’t confided in me, and he hadn’t confided in Tav, who might he have told about his money woes? Why, his main squeeze. Solange. It was time to have a heart-to-heart with the Samba Queen.
Chapter 11
Solange wasn’t at the studio when I got back, so I called her. She was surprised to hear from me, but when I told her I needed to talk about her teaching schedule for Graysin Motion, she agreed to meet me. Her notion of twenty minutes was considerably longer than mine and I had given up on her and was pushing the dust mop around the ballroom, working up a gritty sweat, when she finally showed. Doing the cleaning ourselves to save the cost of janitorial services had been one of Rafe’s cost-cutting ideas. In a gold lamé halter top and cream linen shorts, Solange looked like a model ready to saunter down the runway and I looked like Cinderella, prefairy godmother.
The comparison put me in a crabby mood, but I refrained from griping about her lateness. You catch more lions with zebra meat, Great-aunt Laurinda always said. Whatever that meant. “Thanks for coming,” I said. “I appreciate your being willing to help with the classes.”
“It’s what Rafe would have wanted me to do,” she said.
Gag me. I went over the schedule with her, assigning her the Tuesday-afternoon youth class and the Thursday-evening ballroom cardio, an exercise class that drew a mostly female crowd. Solange slanted me a sideways glance out of her long-lashed blue eyes. “Making sure I don’t have a chance to steal any of your competitive clients?” she asked acidly.
“Absolutely,” I said. I wasn’t about to set her up with Mark Downey or the other men who competed with me in pro-am competitions. Talented, well-off male amateurs were rarer than blue diamonds and twice as valuable to the studio.
My candidness surprised a wry smile out of her. “That’s honest, at least.” She tossed her auburn mane over her shoulder. “You know I could walk out of here with any man I wanted to.”
“I remember.”
That threw her off balance and while she stuttered for an answer, I said, “You were close to Rafe these last few months, Solange. Do you know what was worrying him, why he needed money?” Walking ahead of her to the bathroom, I grabbed a bottled water from the fridge, pushing aside Vitaly’s six-pack of bottled grapefruit juice. “Want one?”
“Diet Coke?”
I handed her a cold can. We stood awkwardly in the hall, not moving to the office or back into the ballroom.
“You know,” she said, “I might be willing to teach here on a more permanent basis.” One long nail tapped against the aluminum can: ting, ting, ting.
Was she offering to trade information for a job? I’d give her a permanent job when a donkey won the Kentucky Derby. Having Solange around all the time would be like Han Solo asking Darth Vader to be first mate of the Millennium Falcon. “We’ll have to wait and see how things settle out,” I hedged. “I don’t know what Tav’s plans are and I don’t know how stable our client base will be now that Rafe’s not here. But I’ll certainly keep you in mind.”