Chapter Thirty-Four Sloane
Chapter Thirty-Four
Sloane
“You look troubled.”
Grant’s comment rose above the din of the restaurant crowd. “What do I look like when I’m troubled?”
“More intense. Like you’re ready to break into a house or steal something to relieve the pressure.”
That prompted a nod. “I should smile more.”
He looked amused, as if he expected a punch line. “What does it feel like when you smile?”
“Nothing,” I said. “It feels like nothing. But I recognize that it’s effective. People tend to relax when I smile.”
“You were smiling when you spoke at CrimeCon.”
“Conference Sloane smiles because people react well.”
He sipped his coffee. “When we were alone in your room, were you pretending then?”
Sexual satisfaction was a connection I didn’t have to fake. “No.”
Grant nodded, setting down his mug. “Why do you break into houses?”
“What do you mean?”
“Does bending or breaking the rules really ease the pressure?”
The question hit close to home. He’d been a cop. He’d interviewed people like me who’d crossed the legal lines much further than I ever had. He had a good sense of who I was. “It can. And it can also be an effective way of gathering information.”
“It’s not legal.”
I grinned. “Trackers fall in a gray area.”
He grimaced. “Stick to the stoic face.”
I liked him. He didn’t judge me or try to change me.
“Why would Brian Fletcher report his daughter as missing if she wasn’t?” he asked.
“Taggart remembered Tristan at the festival. She wasn’t the prim and proper dancer in Brian’s images. She was darker and wilder. He chalked that up to kids and stupid choices. He never expressed any doubts about Brian Fletcher’s story in his notes.”
“Do you think Colton knew that Tristan was alive?”
“Very good question.”
“I’ll have Colton’s complete visitor logs tomorrow.”
“The pictures on Brian’s family room wall suggest he knows she’s alive.” Frustration tinted my words.
“You sound very convinced.”
“Even carrying such a terrible secret, Brian Fletcher couldn’t resist displaying both his daughters’ images.”
“The truth finds a way to leak out.” He studied me with sharp hawk eyes.
“Did Brian Fletcher have an insurance policy on Tristan?”
“I can check.”
I leaned forward a fraction. “I bet he did not. If he lied, he didn’t do it for money. His house is a memorial to his family.”
“Why lie?”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
“I’ll join you.”
I almost rejected the idea but considered his connections might be of help. “You’ll have to hold back. People tend to talk more when I don’t have a cop standing beside me.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not a cop anymore.”
I shook my head. “Yeah, but you still look like one. That’s all that matters.” I was anxious to get on the road.
“You’re the boss.”
The drive took three hours. Grant drove and I scrolled my phone, searching for any trace of Susan Westbrook or Lannie Fletcher.
Lannie didn’t hide herself from the world.
But other than the one picture I’d seen of Susan at a fundraiser, she had no profile.
Susan had owned the Dance Studio in Northern Virginia for nearly twenty years.
Her studio had an excellent reputation and always had a waitlist. The publicity photo of Susan featured her lithe body dressed in a ballet skirt.
Her blond hair was fashioned in a tight bun, and she stood straight and graceful in pointe shoes.
But her face was turned from the camera, so anyone who looked at the image wouldn’t recognize Tristan Fletcher.
It was late afternoon when we arrived in Northern Virginia. Grant wound his way off the beltway toward the side street in Falls Church. He parked in front of the Dance Studio.
The white brick building had tall windows reflecting the outside world. The facade created an illusion of light and brightness while it blocked out the world. Smoke and mirrors.
A couple of vans parked out front, and two moms helped little girls dressed in pink leotards and tulle skirts.
Each wore sneakers, and they all carried little matching bags.
One of the mothers opened the front door, and both moms watched as the girls scurried toward the door.
They were giggling, laughing at each other’s jokes.
They vanished inside. For a moment, I saw shiny wood floors, a mirror, and barres. The door closed.
The girls’ joy was a curiosity to me. I’d felt accomplishment and sometimes contentment, but joy had always eluded me.
“Did you ever take dance classes?” Grant asked.
“Sara, my grandmother, enrolled me in a tap-dancing class when I was six. But I lasted two lessons.”
He shook his head. “Why?”
“One of the girls, Daphne, was the best dancer. And she was good. I was impressed.”
“But?”
“She bullied another slower, awkward girl. Everyone acted as if it was a regular thing. It made me mad to watch that little kid doing her best not to cry. So I bodychecked Daphne.”
“Good for you.”
I shrugged. “That bully lost her balance and hit the floor. Her face smacked the wood hard. The impact bloodied her nose. All the girls freaked out. The teacher was appalled. I was not invited back.”
“Did that bother you?”
“No. She had no right to be cruel to that other girl.”
“Is there a soft spot in that dark heart of yours?”
I shrugged. “Sara wasn’t surprised, but she also wasn’t happy. She lost her deposit.” The cramp in my chest reappeared. Looking back, I realized how hard it had been for her to scrape together the money for those lessons.
“Would you have hit her if you’d known Sara would lose her money?”
“I’d have been more careful.” I couldn’t picture any of these little dancers getting into a fistfight. Laughing, smiling, and giggling, they were the picture of happy children.
“If you’d been my kid, I’d have taken you out for ice cream.”
Six-year-old me could have used an ice cream that day. I didn’t understand how I’d been painted as the bad guy. I’d stopped a bully. Another van pulled up in front of the studio. Another mom and tiny dancer hurried toward the door.
“Time for me to ask a few questions,” I said.
“In the studio?”
“To that mother. Stay here.”
I rose out of the car, combed my fingers through my hair, and tucked in my shirt. I crossed the street and reached the van as the mother approached. She was short, muscular, and had tied back her blond hair into a dancer’s bun. She looked a lot like the other two mothers.
“Excuse me,” I said, smiling.
The woman faced me, her gaze wary as she studied me. I smiled and downshifted my demeanor to relaxed. “Sorry to bother you. I’m curious about the Dance Studio. I have a six-year-old, and she’s determined to learn ballet. Do you have a moment to tell me about the Dance Studio?”
The woman didn’t look convinced. Her fingers tightened around her keys. “It’s great. We’ve been here for a couple of years.”
“I hear Susan Westbrook is good.”
“She’s strict, and she expects perfection from the girls. But she gets amazing results.”
“Strict is good. My little girl has lots of energy.” If I had a little girl, I couldn’t imagine her lasting more than a few lessons.
“She’ll learn to channel her energy into dance. Miss Susan runs a tight ship.”
Miss Susan sounded a little authoritarian. “That’s great. Do you think I could slip inside and watch the class for a moment?”
“They don’t like outsiders. The receptionist is a pit bull.”
“Good to know.” I found my warmest smile. “Thanks.”
Some of the woman’s wariness eased. “Sure. We’ll see you around.”
I entered the building and crossed to the reception desk.
Beyond it was a large studio populated by a collection of little girls all dressed the same and standing in the center of the room.
A woman appeared from the back, and she clapped her hands.
Her delicate frame was wrapped in a leotard and a gauzy skirt that skimmed above her knees.
There wasn’t an ounce of extra fat on her body.
The girls stopped talking and giggling. Susan Westbrook.
Susan was petite and lean and secured her blond hair in a smooth ponytail. She lined up the girls in a straight line and walked along the row, seeming to inspect their outfits. She paused to straighten a hair clip or adjust a tutu that had gone askew.
The girls appeared to enjoy her attention, and when she moved to the front of the room and struck a pose, they all mimicked her.
“Can I help you?” The question came from a thin, middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair.
“I’ve heard a lot of good things about this studio. I have a six-year-old who loves dance.” The trick to lying was to keep it simple.
“We have a waiting list. But I can give you an application. We’ll add your daughter to the list once we have your deposit.”
“Great.” I looked at the application as if I cared. “Do you mind if I watch the class? I’ll stay back here.”
“Just be very quiet. And don’t move beyond this desk.”
“Of course.” For the next thirty minutes Susan led the girls in a series of dances. The tiny dancers’ movements were rigid in a Stepford Wives kind of way.
A poster advertised a recital scheduled for Saturday. This must be the last big practice session before the show. The receptionist glanced at me several times. In the last thirty minutes, she’d determined that I didn’t fit in this suburban world.
I watched for a few more minutes but saw nothing of real interest. As I turned to leave, I remembered manners helped. “Thanks,” I whispered.
I left the studio and walked across the street, aware that the receptionist was watching me. I slid into the passenger seat. “Susan Westbrook is leading the class.”
He fired the engine. “The place looks legit.”
I glanced at the Dance Studio brochure. “It says she trained and danced in Seattle. Thirty-one years ago, it would’ve been easier to re-create herself across the country. She opened this studio twenty years ago. The kids and mothers seem to love her.”