Mermaid Doe [6/??]
Second fic update of the week! Bit short but I wanted to showcase more dynamic between them, both as partners and how they react to places that are out their comfort zone (or at least for El).
Unlike Shreya’s little studio in Kensington, the Marigold Thatcher Dance Studio was definitely one built to a clientele that could afford making their living as a dancer, or get enough scholarships to participate. “Damn, purdy place t’ twirl aroun’ fer a few hours,” El pointed out with a whistle while Nick blinked. “It’s more than just twirling, Hayseed. They practically break their feet just to have that perfect pose and step. Not to mention they have to consume 20% more energy intake all the while keeping their shape as close to Russian svelte,” the older detective pointed out, remembering all those times he had seen dancers ask his mother to give them a break to recover, “Professional dancers, particularly ballet, are just as competitive as big-league sports, and twice as catty. To get to this level, it’s not always about talent and I can assure you, McKannan, people will do anything to reach the top.”
Inside the spacious contrasting walls, they could see lines of legs outstretched and bodies straight for every step, the all-too-familiar hard tap-tap-TAP echoing along with the select piece of music their routines were constructing upon. Ellis wanted to say he was staring at the eye-candy before him, women in form-fitting leotards and tights but he was far too respectful of these ladies, whose sweat only seemed to accentuate each plie, en passe, and most impressing, the en pointe. He understood what Nick meant with feet breaking beyond repair, cringing when one of the dancers tripped. Her ankle had gone on an angle that he was damn sure would’ve made Keith shriek in pain, she simply rubbed it a bit and kept going.
Madame Marigold Thatcher wasn’t quite as defined as her students, her rather plump figure still had some routines left in her yet. It was a testament for her to not even recognize the son of one of her competing studios, though she had to admire the sight before her; wasn’t every day that two handsome men came in through her doors. “Yes how may I help you?” she asked in a curt, controlled voice, placing the paperwork on her desk. “NYPD, 103rd Precinct, my name is Det. Nicholas Luce and and this is my partner, Ellis McKannan. We’re asking about a case that may involve one of your dancers,” Nick started off, ever the professional though it was hard for El not to smile: after so many months working together, the senior detective finally recognized him as his partner. It had been a rocky road to this point and any delight had to be privately enjoyed.
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Thatcher was intrigued or at least acted like it, lips scrunched to the side, just as Nick remembered her the only time he came with his mother to the International. A creature of habit, definitely looks the type to keep records, the gambling cop figured out, spotting with his eyes a particular folder: Attendance and Maintenance. Either one could hold a person of interest within the sheets. The studio office smelled of a light lavender smell; if the murder had taken place here, the evidence had been destroyed by a janitor’s mop. “We believe one o’ yer girls went missin’ last night, one Valerie Summers?” Ellis continued the interview, presenting Marigold Valerie’s mug shot from the file. He lacked street experience but he knew he could read people’s emotions. Body language was everything at this stage though there was a risk of heresay.
Thatcher slumped a little in her chair as she examined the photo, “Yes, Valerie; had a future in this industry, she had a good memory for her routines, her poses were on par with some of the best I’ve sent. Though it pains me to see her in the system. Why are you asking me this?” McKannnan was silent when he switched the pictures to the one in autopsy. The head of studio gasped at the image, closed eyes that would never see the stage. In her mind, she could see Valerie perform a quick runabout that terminated in a repose. “Sh-she’s…” “Yes, an’ right now, we really need yer help findin’ who did this t’ her,” Ellis concluded with a nod. “We need to know who were closest to her and who last saw her before she died. Any ideas?” Nick picked up where his partner left off. “Well, you can ask those two over there: they’re Valerie’s corps-mates: Alisha Morrow and Mirelle Guevermont,” Marigold answered in that quiet sort of despair an again queen would show to the public at the loss of one of her own. “Valerie had promise. She wasn’t quite a prodigy but she worked hard. She wanted to go to the International, and get the nutcracker.” “Nutcracker? Wha’s tha’ mean?” Ellis asked, a bit perplexed at the term. “The Nutcracker is an exclusive invitation to the Tchaikovsky Dance Company. They host their annual gala and select five new dancers from the International. Those five dancers are set, generating a steady income of $90,000 a year,” Thatcher explained, handing them a flier to each of the detectives, “If I were to guess, this is probably why Valerie was murdered.” Another possible lead? Perhaps but Nick stood up and handed the director his card, “Should you have any more information, don’t hesitate to contact us.”
As soon as they exited the room, McKannan dusted his hat for a moment, “So whaddya think? Motive?” “Too soon to tell but it might fit the degree of personal involvement in the assault. This person knew the victim intimately and felt a lot of rage to crack her skull, not to mention doing it over and over until it caved,” Luce pointed out, “We first have to find any person of interest before we can ask her for the records from last night. Plus there’s that van the eyewitnesses saw circling the park, near the dump site. We follow through with each lead, but,” Nick said he straightened his suit lapels and put on a charm that to this day still caught his partner off guard, “Now, let’s hope to God these two find your accent cute.”
