Dead on the Dance Floor by Heather Graham Page A

beautiful, applied great gobs of something from a tube labeled Mega-Tan to each other’s skin. During the week, the beach could be great. He had to admit, the Keys didn’t offer huge expanses of beach. Just more privacy.
    On the stretch in front of a chic Deco hotel, the bronzed and beautiful were joined by the more mundane. A huge woman wearing a skimpy suit that was totally unsuitable for her ample physique was strolling along with a scrawny man in a Speedo. They were smiling happily, and nodded as they passed him. Quinn offered them a hello and decided that the mind’s perception of the self was really what created happiness. The couple looked completely content. More power to them. Who the hell was he to judge? He was walking the beach in dress shoes, chinos and a tailored shirt.
    A bit farther down, a group of kids seemed to be dispersing. Gathering towels, chairs and lotion bottles, they were calling out to one another, saying their goodbyes. He kept walking, watching as one by one they all disappeared—except for one little waif who was tall when she stood but slim to the point of boniness. Beyond model slim. She had long brown hair and huge eyes, and as she watched her friends disappear, she suddenly wore a look of loneliness and pain. She looked so lost he was tempted to talk to her, but hell, this was South Beach—she could be anyone, including an undercover cop.
    Not old enough.
    She heard his footsteps in the sand and swung around, looking straight at him. She sized him up and down, and swallowed.
    â€œHey, mister, you got a dollar?”
    â€œYou a runaway?”
    She flushed but said, “Not exactly. I’m eighteen. Honest.”
    â€œBut you ran away?”
    â€œI left. I’ve graduated high school. I just haven’t been able to find a job. A real job.”
    â€œSo you’re living on the streets.”
    She actually grinned. “The beach isn’t as bad as the streets. Really. If you’re going to be homeless, this is the place to be.”
    â€œBut you’ve got a home?”
    â€œWhat are you, a cop?”
    â€œNo, just a concerned citizen who doesn’t want to see your face in the news. ‘Does anyone know this girl? Her body was discovered Saturday night.’”
    The girl shook her head vehemently. “I’m careful. You got a dollar or not? I don’t need a third degree.”
    â€œHey, wait.” He pulled out his wallet and found a five.
    She blinked and walked toward him. “What do you want?” she asked uneasily. “I’m not a cheap hooker.”
    He shook his head. “I just want you to tell me that you’re going to buy food, and that you’re not a junkie, either.”
    â€œHey, you see any punctures in these arms?” She was wearing a tank top over cutoff jeans, and she spoke with pride as well as conviction.
    â€œGet yourself something to eat, then. And hey, listen. If you do need help, you can get it, you know. Find a cop. The guys on the beach are pretty damned decent, and if not, head for the South Miami station. There’s a woman there who is a victims’ advocate, and she’s an absolute gem. Wait, I’ll give you her card.”
    She looked as if she was going to run with the five at first, but then she waited and even took the card.
    â€œI thought you said you weren’t a cop.”
    â€œI’m not.”
    â€œKind of overdressed for the beach, aren’t you?”
    He started to shrug. Her eyes widened. “I’ll bet you were at that dance studio.”
    He didn’t answer, and she laughed. “Hey, I’d be there, too, if I had the bucks. God, I love to dance.” She flushed again, then wiggled the five in her hand. “Thanks.”
    â€œBe careful, huh?”
    â€œHey, don’t I know? Don’t worry, I’m tougher than I look. And I know that you can get into a lot more out here than just sea and sand.”
    She turned