nodding, solemnly. “For this exercise I want you to move with whatever emotion inspires you. No partners. Walk around the room in the line of dance, counterclockwise, everyone, remember? Don’t worry about steps, the idea is to get used to feeling the music and transmitting it through your bodies.”
Antonia started the track, savoring the instrumental opening. When Sosa finally started to sing the yearning in his voice punctured her heart as it never failed to do. The class shuffled around the room, some self-consciously, others with more abandon. One of the Emory students seemed to be channeling Martha Graham, in a good way.
Something out of the corner of her eye caught her attention: a stranger, not that much taller than she was, standing in the doorway. His military bearing, neatly trimmed mustache, and close-cropped sandy hair would have conveyed unyielding strength if it hadn’t been for the fact that his eyes were pale blue and his nose had been broken at least once. He would have been just her type if she were interested in a relationship.
It wasn’t unusual to have people wander in off the streets, curious to see what tango was about, emotions from embarrassment to titillation writ large on their faces. But this man seemed strangely unfazed. And he was wearing a coat and tie so he probably wasn’t a prospective student. Too bad: the women would have loved him. She went over to find out what he wanted.
“Name’s Morrow, ma’am. Atlanta police.”
Oh swell. Another of our city’s finest. She summoned up her best professional voice, “What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for Roland Guest. His assistant said I could find him here.”
What’s the Charming Child been up to? Her initial defensiveness immediately gave way to curiosity.
Roland drifted into range. Antonia caught his eye and tipped her head towards the detective. Roland abandoned the exercise and sauntered over.
“Mr. Guest?” Detective Morrow asked.
“Guilty as charged.” Roland appeared perfectly guilt free, but then again he always did.
The detective politely introduced himself and said, “Miles Rothenberg. Your business partner. When’s the last time you saw him?”
Roland hesitated. “Miles? Why, has he run off with the silver?”
The detective didn’t smile.
Antonia felt her stomach seize up.
CHAPTER 3
Rank Offense
CLOSELY WATCHING ROLAND GUEST’S body language, Morrow explained how a kayaker, ignoring the danger from e coli and looking to shoot the “Hootch,” had spotted Miles Rothenberg’s corpse spit up by the Chattahoochee River onto its rocky shoals. Not that he’d put it that baldly to a civilian.
“Jesus!” Guest glanced away.
Morrow was holding back the fact that a second 9-1-1 had been placed that same morning. This one from New York City. According to the dispatcher a distraught Lauren Weiss Rothenberg reported her ex-husband had left a drunk-dial message on her answering machine rambling about his business partner Roland Guest engaging in some shameful activity and, apparently, saying goodbye for keeps.
It wasn’t clear, yet, how Miles Rothenberg had met his maker and what role Roland Guest might have played. The antiques dealer had gone in fully clothed from his Hermes tie down to his handmade leather-soled shoes, slick in both senses of the word. His body showed effects from being batted about in the river but no obvious signs of an attack. Suicide, accident, or murder—all options were technically still on the table—but in the end, regardless of who was responsible, it would come down to the same cause of death. Stupidity.
Roland Guest clearly came from money. The country club tan gave him away. Six feet tall, about one ninety, mostly health club muscle. Could easily have taken Rothenberg in a fight.
“Poor Miles.” Guest lowered his voice, downshifting from shock to sorrow, although neither emotion seemed genuine. “I can’t believe it.”
Interestingly, Guest
Antonia started the track, savoring the instrumental opening. When Sosa finally started to sing the yearning in his voice punctured her heart as it never failed to do. The class shuffled around the room, some self-consciously, others with more abandon. One of the Emory students seemed to be channeling Martha Graham, in a good way.
Something out of the corner of her eye caught her attention: a stranger, not that much taller than she was, standing in the doorway. His military bearing, neatly trimmed mustache, and close-cropped sandy hair would have conveyed unyielding strength if it hadn’t been for the fact that his eyes were pale blue and his nose had been broken at least once. He would have been just her type if she were interested in a relationship.
It wasn’t unusual to have people wander in off the streets, curious to see what tango was about, emotions from embarrassment to titillation writ large on their faces. But this man seemed strangely unfazed. And he was wearing a coat and tie so he probably wasn’t a prospective student. Too bad: the women would have loved him. She went over to find out what he wanted.
“Name’s Morrow, ma’am. Atlanta police.”
Oh swell. Another of our city’s finest. She summoned up her best professional voice, “What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for Roland Guest. His assistant said I could find him here.”
What’s the Charming Child been up to? Her initial defensiveness immediately gave way to curiosity.
Roland drifted into range. Antonia caught his eye and tipped her head towards the detective. Roland abandoned the exercise and sauntered over.
“Mr. Guest?” Detective Morrow asked.
“Guilty as charged.” Roland appeared perfectly guilt free, but then again he always did.
The detective politely introduced himself and said, “Miles Rothenberg. Your business partner. When’s the last time you saw him?”
Roland hesitated. “Miles? Why, has he run off with the silver?”
The detective didn’t smile.
Antonia felt her stomach seize up.
CHAPTER 3
Rank Offense
CLOSELY WATCHING ROLAND GUEST’S body language, Morrow explained how a kayaker, ignoring the danger from e coli and looking to shoot the “Hootch,” had spotted Miles Rothenberg’s corpse spit up by the Chattahoochee River onto its rocky shoals. Not that he’d put it that baldly to a civilian.
“Jesus!” Guest glanced away.
Morrow was holding back the fact that a second 9-1-1 had been placed that same morning. This one from New York City. According to the dispatcher a distraught Lauren Weiss Rothenberg reported her ex-husband had left a drunk-dial message on her answering machine rambling about his business partner Roland Guest engaging in some shameful activity and, apparently, saying goodbye for keeps.
It wasn’t clear, yet, how Miles Rothenberg had met his maker and what role Roland Guest might have played. The antiques dealer had gone in fully clothed from his Hermes tie down to his handmade leather-soled shoes, slick in both senses of the word. His body showed effects from being batted about in the river but no obvious signs of an attack. Suicide, accident, or murder—all options were technically still on the table—but in the end, regardless of who was responsible, it would come down to the same cause of death. Stupidity.
Roland Guest clearly came from money. The country club tan gave him away. Six feet tall, about one ninety, mostly health club muscle. Could easily have taken Rothenberg in a fight.
“Poor Miles.” Guest lowered his voice, downshifting from shock to sorrow, although neither emotion seemed genuine. “I can’t believe it.”
Interestingly, Guest
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