Death Dance

16

"Maybe we just ought to go downstairs to the Booth Theater and convene a grand jury, Coop? All the world's a stage and we've got most of the players right here. Mr. Vicci, who's the talent?"

Vicci got to his feet and stammered an answer. "Lucy, meet Detective Chapman. This is Lucy DeVore. Ms. Cooper. That's Ms. Berk, in the doorway, Mr. Kehoe behind her. Your meeting's with them."

"All of them?" The showgirl seemed surprised. "I thought you said-"

"No, no, only Berk and Kehoe. You go on in the office with them and-"

"This could be kind of interesting for me," Mike said. "Just a minute, Ms. DeVore. How long have you been working with Mr. Vicci?"

She looked at Vicci and shook her head. "Maybe a-"

"I don't represent the young lady, detective, if that's what you're thinking. I'm doing a favor for a friend. Lucy, bella-go on inside with Ms. Berk."

Lucy DeVore walked with the grace and attitude of a runway model. Ross Kehoe closed the door behind her so that she and Mona Berk were alone in the office, and he took hold of Vicci's elbow to steer him in the same direction.

"From what I hear, you no longer represented Ms. Galinova either," Mike said. "So it's a bit odd that you were at the Met the night she died."

"You don't know many prima donnas, then, do you?" Vicci said, wiping the sweat off his nose with a monogrammed handkerchief.

"Only one. I take her with me everywhere I go. Keeps me humble."

"Hire, fire-fire, hire-threaten to fire, rehire-rehire, prepare to be fired," the chubby Italian trilled, as if it were a diction lesson. "Talya was famous for it, detective. Of course she wanted me with her that night. She had nobody else to represent her interests."

"How about her patron? How come nobody told us about Hubert Alden?"

"Alden? That whole thing is just a gimmick. The company uses it to raise money."

"How much did Alden contribute to be Talya's patron?" I asked.

"You want to sponsor one of the children in the second row who spends half her life in-how you call it?-a mazurka costume, it's cheap. Primas go for the big bucks," Vicci said. "Five hundred thousand."

"What the hell kind of privileges did that buy him?" Mike asked.

"Prestige-in the dance world, anyway."

"I mean with Galinova. How far did that get him?"

"You're asking me if it was a romance?"

"The hell with romance. For half a million, it must have gotten him under the tutu, no?"

Vicci blotted his forehead and shook loose of Ross Kehoe's grip. "Look, I managed her business, not her social life."

"So if you were doing such a bang-up job as her agent, how come you weren't backing her for the Evelyn Nesbit role in Platinum?"

Vicci looked at Kehoe for help, but there was no response.

"Mr. Kehoe, how well did you know Ms. Galinova? Why does Mr. Vicci think you've got the answer?" Mike asked.

"I never met the lady." Kehoe threw up his hands in the air. His voice was raspy, as though if he were able to clear his throat the harsh edge might disappear.

"Ball's back in your court, Mr. Vicci."

"Look, detective. This wasn't any part for Talya. Maybe Mary Martin could play Peter Pan till she was a hundred and fifty years old, but this is a blockbuster part for new talent. It could put a kid like Lucy into the stratosphere."

"Help me, Coop," Mike said. "Isn't this what they call a conflict of interest?"

Vicci's eyes moved back and forth between us like he was watching a tennis match.

"Could be exactly that. Depends on how Mr. Vicci was dealing with his two clients."

"I told you, Lucy isn't my-"

"Who's got the rights to the show? That's what I want to know," I asked. "If Mona and her uncle have two separate development companies, which one has the property?"

Vicci started to answer but Ross Kehoe cut him off. "That's still being negotiated, Ms. Cooper. Nobody has therights yet. Have you met Mona's cousin?"

"Briggs? No, we haven't."

"They'd like to join forces with each other on this project. Maybe repair some family rifts. Now if you'll let us get on with our meeting," Kehoe said, nudging Rinaldo Vicci, "maybe we'll all have the answers you want."

We made our way back downstairs and around the corner to the car. The sidewalks were as crowded with pedestrians-working, walking, or gawking-as the roadways were with cars, trucks, and buses.

I called Laura while Mike took Broadway north to Lincoln Center. "What's it like down there. Anybody looking for me?"

"Relatively quiet day so far."

"Mike and I are headed for the Met to check on how the interviews are going. Beep if you need me."

The NYPD had taken over the elegant boardrooms above the atrium in the main lobby of the opera house. Normally curtained off from the grand staircase, it was an odd sight to see through the glass walls to the staging area now occupied by the task force, shoulder holsters and cardboard coffee cups replacing evening bags and champagne glasses. Long conference tables had been put together end by end and were loaded with packing boxes that held everything from lists of employees to the growing files of completed interviews. Against the tables leaned blown-up floor plans of the immense complex.

At the far end of the room, six detectives were seated at makeshift desks. Each was talking one-on-one to men we assumed were part of the permanent Met crew. The auditorium doors were open and Prokofiev's music from the late-morning rehearsal drifted up as soothing background for the serious conversations about observations, alibis, and incriminating evidence.

Lieutenant Peterson greeted us and told us to claim some empty piece of tabletop as our own. "Don't get too comfortable, either. Rule is we got to clear out of here by six o'clock. Everything gone from the room, ashtrays empty, soda cans and Krispy Kremes carted along with us. Doors open at six and curtain's up at eight. All cops and other forms of lowlife have to be out of sight."

"What, loo, you surprised? The show must go on. Guess all that gilt and crystal and marble must distract people. Make them forget someone was murdered right under their noses."

"You still got your contacts up at the Botanical Garden, Alex?" Peterson asked.

The last case we had worked together had taken us to the most exquisite land in the five boroughs, a piece of the city with a pristine native forest, acres of cultured gardens, and a river with a deceptively deadly waterfall. New York's Botanical Garden was renowned for its spectacular conservatory filled with rare plants from all over the world, seasonal displays of orchids and exotic flowers, and a scholarly staff dedicated to the understanding and conservation of the plant kingdom.

"I'm sure they haven't forgotten us."

"The head of the police lab called me an hour ago. They're stumped. You know that odor of mint you both smelled on the two ribbons from Galinova's shoe? It's not from floss like you thought, Alex. Crime Scene picked up a couple of crushed leaves with the same scent from the hallway she was thrown from. She must have stepped on them during the struggle. They're thinking maybe someone at the garden can identify the greens, give us a source for the kind of plant it is."

"The research department there is first-rate. You tell the guys at the lab to transport a sample to the Bronx," I said. "I'll find you a botanist."

"How's the talk going?" Mike said, gesturing at the interviewers.

Peterson picked up his clipboard. "So far, we've gotten through eighty-six guys. Fourteen with criminal records-minor stuff-a few driving intox, a couple of petty thefts and harassments, some drug possession. Nothing to get excited about."

"You find the masseur who was rubbing the swan's feathers when Joe Berk showed up in her dressing room? I imagine he's got some upper body strength," Mike said.

"He's covered," Peterson said, flipping to the page of notes for that interview. "No shortage of dancers waiting for him when he left Galinova's room. I got one sugarplum fairy and two bluebirds who swear he was working on them, one after another, the rest of the evening."

"Did he tell you what Berk fought with her about?" I asked.

"Says she starting cursing at him for being late-then went off on a tirade in Russian. The masseur didn't get a word of it-just the volume and tone of voice. Berk told him to get lost so he folded up his table and slipped away while the temperamental duo went on shouting at each other."

I was impressed at the progress Peterson's men were making. "Did anyone have a chance to speak with the ballet mistress? Sandra-I think it's Sandra Braun. She came in when we were talking with Chet Dobbis," I reminded the lieutenant. "She didn't show up Friday night. That leaves both of them without an alibi."

Peterson thumbed back through the pages of notes. "Bad for him, good for her. Twenty-four-hour pharmacy around the corner from her house confirms delivery of antibiotics that she signed for at eight thirty-seven. We got a Xerox of the slip she signed."

"You're really moving on this, loo."

"That's not counting the walk-ins, Alex."

"Who?

"Like one of the girls from New York City Ballet," he said, referring to the legendary company founded by George Balanchine and Lincoln Kirstein, housed in the adjacent State Theater, which shared the Lincoln Center plaza. "She came in this morning to file a complaint about a stagehand who tried to molest her on her way home one night last year. Never reported it to the precinct."

"She I.D. him?"

"Yeah. He was fired six months ago. Bad cocaine habit led to a sloppy attendance record. It's the no-shows that got him kicked out. We'll run him down."

"If she'd reported the damn thing when it happened," Mike said, "we'd have had a lead on him by this time. You fingerprinting?"

"Every damn one. Fingers and palms, photographs, buccal swabs." The last technique, putting each man's saliva on a Q-tip, would give us DNA for every employee.

"Anybody balk yet?"

"Most of 'em are really decent guys, very cooperative. There are a few who don't want to go the whole route. One guy's got a paternity case pending and doesn't want anybody to have his DNA. And then there's some of the crew that haven't even been back here since Friday night, 'cause of shift changes and all that. So we don't know if people are avoiding us or just out of the loop till they show up for work."

"So this could take-"

"Don't even think days. You could be vested by the time we're through here. I could be in my retirement home in Key West, sucking margaritas through my IV tube before we even finish with the house crew."

I stood at the glass partition, looking at the carpeted staircase that wound down to the lobby. There was a surreal air to this investigation, cops on one side of the glass talking murder and autopsy, palm prints, and genetic profiles, while below me, Sleeping Beauty's father-dressed in his crown, robe, and tights-was strolling out of the theater into the sunshine to grab a soda with the witch whose knitting needle felled the young princess.

"Has Chet Dobbis been any help?" Mike asked.

"The artistic director? All he cares about is keeping us out of the way of the people who give him money. I'm telling you, every damn one of these ballets and operas is about somebody getting killed. In every single one of them somebody dies," Peterson said. "But the minute life imitates art, nobody wants to know about it."

"You need me here?"

"You and Alex do what you gotta do. When we narrow this down to some viable suspects, you'll get the first crack at them."

Mike was a skilled interrogator. He had exacted admissions to murders in which there was no physical evidence, building solid cases with little more than his exquisite understanding of the criminal mind and his ability to elicit confessions that would have impressed the most accomplished priests.

We took the elevator up to the executive wing and found Chet Dobbis's office. There was no one with him and his assistant waited until he got off the phone before she showed us in.

"Anything wrong, Mr. Chapman? Or should I expect to see you every day till you've put this matter to bed?"

"What do you call all those extras in the opera?"

"Supernumeraries, detective. Supers."

"Well, think of me as a super-whatever. I'll be in and out all the time till we close a noose around the bastard who killed Galinova. Hope it doesn't rattle your nerves."

Dobbis's suite held an assortment of Met treasures. A framed poster of the very first performance-Leontyne Price and Justino Diaz in Antony and Cleopatra-dominated one wall, surrounded by signed photographs from many of the divas who had sung here over the years. There were grateful inscriptions from Placido Domingo and Renee Fleming, and a triumphant photograph of the brilliant Beverly Sills in her Met debut as Pamira, in the 1975 production of The Siege of Corinth, which won her an eighteen-minute ovation.

"The lieutenant seems to have everything he needs downstairs."

"So far. But I'm hoping you'll help us behind the scenes," Mike said.

"What do you mean?" Dobbis asked, as I studied the costumes he had hung on wall displays and in shadow boxes.

"You're likely to hear things because of your position. I'm talking about things no one will tell us. Workers who may be reluctant to give up their colleagues or supervisors who may try to protect one of their own might not spill the beans to the police. It happens in whatever setting we're looking at. Museum staff, hospital employees, teachers-you're far more likely to hear the rumors and gossip about the internal goings-on that we may never get wind of."

"Surely, Mr. Chapman, you're not going to operate from rumors and gossip to solve a murder?"

"I'm not going to ignore them, either. Sometimes they just lead us the right way, sometimes they're dead-on accurate. Not all gossip is unfounded."

Chet Dobbis seemed to flinch at Mike's statement, as though he was taking it personally. He turned to me and changed the subject.

"You're interested in my collection?" he asked, smoothing the front of his suit jacket. "That's the outfit Grace Bumbry wore when she did the dance of the seven veils. Salome. Do you know it?"

I nodded my head. "And this one?"

"Turandot. The emperor's costume," Dobbis said, stepping over to finger the elaborately woven silk kimono that hung from the wall. "Zeffirelli may be the most brilliant director we've ever had at the Met, but he cost us a fortune in costumes and scenery for every production."

"Why are these particular things here, rather than on display downstairs?"

"Naturally, everything in the collection is archived. It's one of my perks to choose some of the more colorful items, some of my personal favorites, to decorate my office. It's a good hook when I'm'trying to raise money from people who come in for meetings."

Mike pointed to a long pole across the near edge of Dobbis's desk, too shiny and modern to be part of a traditional costume. "That looks lethal. Where did that come from?"

"It has nothing to do with the Met, I assure you. I'm a rock climber, Mr. Chapman. And a spelunker-you know, caves and that sort of thing. That pole is for trekking. It's got a precision steel tip at the point, to help get a foothold in the ice or between rocks, and it probably is pretty deadly. I live across the river, near the Palisades, and I was setting out to climb on Saturday morning when I was called back here because of Talya. I never leave my equipment in the car-it's an easy target for thieves and quite expensive to replace, so I carried it in when I parked."

I was staring at the assortment of wigs that were mounted on shelves next to the door.

"Tell me about these."

"We make everything in-house, Ms. Cooper. Every single piece of clothing, even the wigs. You've got wonderful examples there," he said, pointing at the variety of styles, "from Dr. Faust's receding hair-line to Madame Butterfly's thick upsweep."

"This one? The one on the top shelf with the long white hair?"

"Falstaff. I'm quite sure that's Falstaff."

Mike picked up my cue. "Pretty natural looking. What are they made of?"

"Human hair, of course," Dobbis said, lifting the closest wig from its stand. "Very costly, but that's still the way we do it here. Manon Lescaut, this, with all the curls and pompadours of eighteenth-century France. You see? There's a very fine mesh, which is actually glued to the singer's forehead during the performance. The hairs are knotted through that mesh. It takes three or four days to make each one of these."

"Besides you, Mr. Dobbis, who else has costumes and props available to them?" I asked.

He thought for a minute. "I'm not really sure. I don't suppose they're easily accessed. Occasionally, when they're worn-out and need to be replaced, I guess the employees get to keep some of them. The ones in better shape are auctioned off at our annual gala, along with the used pointe shoes of the dancers, as you probably know."

"These wigs," I asked, "where are they normally kept?"

Dobbis handed the one he was holding to Mike. "In the wig shop, upstairs, under lock and key, I'm sure. They're all made from human hair except for these white ones," he said, pointing at the one he had just given to Mike.

Mike rubbed the strands between his fingers. "Could have fooled me. These don't feel artificial at all."

"Nothing here is artificial, detective. It's just that human hair that's white," Dobbis said, "well, it tends to turn yellow under the stage lights. We like to keep everything natural, everything real-so all the white wigs that are used at the Met are made from animal hair. It keeps its color better. The hair in every one of the white wigs comes from albino yaks, actually. Tibetan yaks."

Mike's raised eyebrows gave away his surprise. "Have I startled you, Mr. Chapman?" Dobbis asked, smugly strutting back to his desk as though he had scored a point in a sporting competition.

"You got that right. I'm thinking blondie here, with all her peroxide, is no match for an albino yak. I got my niece's first holy communion coming up in two weeks and I just about freaked thinking Coop is such a stickler for detail that she's likely to send me on an extradition to the Himalayas for a live yak."

Dobbis couldn't figure whether Mike was trying to be fanny or not. "This matter about the hair-the wigs-is it serious?"

"Nothing that the Dalai Lama and I can't figure out," Mike said, walking to the door of Dobbis's room. "Excuse me. I meant the Dalai Lama, Richard Gere, and I."