Death Dance (12 page)

"Dewar's on the rocks for the blonde. No fruit. You have Grey
Goose?"

The bartender set up the glasses and took Mike's drink orders.
We three were alone in the lobby of the Met, at the foot of the grand
staircase, while all the balletomanes were in their seats for the
performance.

The added police presence at entrances and doorways leading
behind the stage hadn't seemed off-putting to most spectators, who
would not know about Natalya Galinova's death until they heard the late
news or read the morning paper.

We sipped our drinks and talked through the forty-minute first
act of
Coppelia
, Mercer and I both trying
unsuccessfully to draw out Mike. It was clear to me that he wasn't
ready to expose the emotional upheaval he had suffered after Val's
death, and he didn't even bother to feign interest in Mercer's stories
about Vickee and their baby boy.

When the doors from the auditorium swung open and the crowd
emptied the rows for the intermission, Mike stepped around the corner
and fought his way to the director's booth. As I followed behind him, I
could see that his instinct had been right. Chet Dobbis was walking
briskly toward the front of the house, against the flow of the people,
as though he was trying to distance himself from us.

Mike called out to him, but Dobbis didn't turn his head. I was
zigzagging through the lines of annoyed patrons, as I slowed their
efforts to get their plastic glasses of champagne or stand on the
endless lines for the restrooms.

Mercer was more direct. He scooted across a row of seats that
was empty but for one elderly couple, and then he vaulted over the
chairs in front, beating Dobbis to the exit that was closest to the
backstage door.

"You know how this one ends or you just trying to catch an
early train?" Mike asked.

The angled nail was again twisting between the director's
thumb and forefinger. "I've got to talk to the stage manager,
detective. Our lead dancer has missed half of his cues and his
performance is entirely off."

"Why don't you let the ballet mistress take care of that?"
Mike said, backing out the door with his hand on Dobbis's elbow. "This
will only cost you a few minutes."

The usher saw Dobbis coming toward him and opened the door to
the backstage area that said no entrance. Once inside, the three of us
stopped, surrounding the director before he could go any farther.

"Am I making you nervous, buddy?" Mike asked.

"Not at all. I'm sure you don't like being interrupted when
you're doing something important at a crime scene, and I'm asking the
same respect for the business at hand tonight. I'm in the middle of a
major production."

"What a coincidence. This
is
the middle
of my crime scene, Mr. Dobbis. You wanna watch out for that nail you
got? I'd hate to lose you to a bad case of tetanus before we even get
to talk."

Dobbis opened his palm and looked down, as though he'd
surprised even himself by the discovery that he was holding something.
"This? Not nerves at all, detective. Just for good luck," he said,
pocketing the black nail.

"How so?"

"Something I picked up in the days Pavarotti sang here.
Luciano Pavarotti?"

"Yeah. The fat man."

"Hardly a distinction among tenors, detective. Pavarotti was
wildly superstitious, did you know that, Ms. Cooper?"

"Why does everybody ask
her
the culture
questions? She didn't know it—trust me on that—and
neither did Mercer. What about it?"

"It got so Luciano wouldn't go onstage until he picked up a
bent twenty. He found one, just by chance, the very first time he did
Tosca
here
.
A tremendous ovation and sixty
Toscas
later it remained his personal good luck charm. They actually had to
have a pocket sewn into every one of his costumes to conceal a nail.
He'd spend the last few seconds before his entrance scouring the floor
for these," Dobbis said, showing it off to us again. "I got in the
habit of carrying one around just so that I could hand it to him if he
couldn't find any."

"Some habits die hard," Mike said. "Didn't he retire a few
years back?"

"His superstition must have rubbed off on me. I still think
it's a charm."

"Not so lucky last night, was it? Or maybe you dropped it?"

"They're all over the place, Mr. Chapman, as I'm sure you've
seen. Are you here to talk hardware or something more serious? There's
a second act to stage."

Mercer had walked a few feet away and turned his back to
us
,
making it seem as though Dobbis could reveal any secrets he had only to
Mike and me.

"Ms. Cooper and I are easily confused, Mr. Dobbis, so maybe
you could straighten this out for us. You were quick to point the
finger at Joe Berk and his relationship with Talya, and in the
meantime, Berk says that you've been scoring with her, too."

"Such a way with words, detective. But Joe Berk is wrong."

"I'm gonna let you be the guy to tell him that. Do you know
who he is, Mr. Dobbis?"

Dobbis didn't appreciate Mike's effort at humor. "Who he is,
or who he thinks he is?"

He adjusted his tie and the collar of his shirt before
speaking again. "Talya and I had an affair ten years ago, maybe more.
Long before either one of us was married. Neither she nor I had any
reason to hide it. It drained me of a fortune in yellow roses every
time she curtsied to the crowd and caused an ulcer I'm still nursing
today. When Talya decided to end the whole thing, it was actually a
blessing."

"Never got the urge to revisit the territory?"

"Not even to look at the map, detective."

"Artistic differences? Anything to squabble about?"

"Of course we had those. She wanted things to be all Talya all
the time. She liked a good fight, and the older she got, the more
unwelcoming she was to the young dancers who were getting the starred
reviews. I spend an inordinate amount of time juggling personalities
instead of directing talent."

Dobbis tried to walk around me, but Mike didn't give up. "Last
night, did you see Talya after Joe Berk left the dressing room?"

"I had a third act to worry about, Mr. Chapman. The scene with
the golden idol from
Bayadere
. Major set changes
with the destruction of the temple, two primas and two male leads
onstage as well. It wouldn't have mattered to me if Talya had decided
to dance naked in the fountain on the plaza. I had to be in my booth
making every second of that performance look seamless. May I?"

I stepped back to let Dobbis pass through and walk away.

"I'm beginning to agree with Mike," I said to Mercer. "Let's
knock it off for the night. Maybe we'll have some preliminary findings
from the autopsy tomorrow that will jumpstart the conversation."

"You up to going?" Mercer asked Mike. It was part of his duty
as the homicide detective who caught the case to attend the autopsy.
This would be the first time he'd have to view one since Val's accident.

"You two are spending way too much time psychoanalyzing me. I
didn't know this Talya broad. Sorry she's dead but I'm not about to
throw myself on top of her grave. The way you look at me, you act like
I should be in a transfer to the Auto Theft Squad. C'mon. I haven't had
a decent meal in weeks."

"Now that's what I like to hear. Any cravings?"

"Nothing that you could satisfy, Coop. I'm thinking pasta."

"I can't tell you how lonely it's been without your insults.
Here you go, putting me down, and I'm smiling about it like you just
asked me to the prom," I said, looping my arm in Mike's. "I'll call
Primola."

We had to make our way to the front of the opera house and
walk around the entire complex to get to where we'd left the car. We
drove through the transverse in Central Park and across 65 th Street to
one of our favorite watering holes on Second Avenue.

Giuliano hadn't seen Mike in two months. He embraced him
enthusiastically and led us to the first table in the corner, ignoring
all the couples with nine o'clock reservations who were piled deep at
the bar.

Adolfo took the drink order and uncorked a bottle of
Tignanello that Giuliano sent over with his compliments. Each of us was
familiar with the sophisticated menu that was the restaurant's famous
fare but opted for the delicious comfort food that was Primola's
Saturday-night special—an appetizer portion of fried zucchini
along with three orders of spaghetti and meatballs.

No matter how tired I was from the work of the last
twenty-four hours, I could feel myself come alive again in the
reuniting of our trio. Family and close friends have provided my
emotional sanctuary during years of prosecuting intimate violence for
which no formal education could have prepared me. The women I had lived
with at Wellesley, my study group from law school at the University of
Virginia, and the colleagues with whom I stood shoulder to shoulder in
the trenches of the criminal courthouse at 100 Centre Street all played
a role in maintaining my faith in the goodness of humankind.

But no professional relationship had been forged that compared
to my friendship with Mike and Mercer. They had seen the darkest side
of man's nature, regularly witnessing the taking of lives by killers
motivated by greed, lust, and every other deadly sin. They had helped
nourish victims back to stability after the trauma of the most
personally invasive violence imaginable. And they understood the
meaning of loyalty in ways I had trouble expressing to people who
couldn't fathom why each one of us derived such satisfaction in
restoring dignity to those who'd been attacked or to their survivors.

Mercer's beeper went off while we were gnawing on thin strips
of zucchini and enjoying our wine. He stepped out on the sidewalk to
return the call.

"If you're gonna try to ruin my dinner with new business,"
Mike said when he sat down again, "get yourselves another table for
two."

Mercer smiled at me and lifted his glass. "We're one step
closer to nailing the Riverside rapist."

"Another attack?"

Joggers who ran the pathway in the slice of parkland along
Riverside Drive had been battling an assailant who hid himself in the
thick bushes that had started to bloom in March, lying in wait for
women who exercised alone. Police expected that the man had some kind
of sexual dysfunction, since he had not ejaculated in any of the cases.
Lacking a ANA profile of the attacker, we had been unable to search
databanks for convicted offenders or links to other unsolved crimes.

"Not quite," Mercer said. "This one was running with her dog,
a small mixed-breed special she rescued from the pound. The perp
tackled her to the ground and started to tear off her shorts but the
mutt wrapped his mouth around the guy's wrist till he pulled free. I've
got to go over to the hospital to interview her."

"You want me to come with you?"

"Stay here with Mike. This one will be easy."

"Your man get away again?"

Mercer smiled. "For the moment. But they've got the dog down
at the ME's office. Docs are swabbing his teeth. There's still enough
of the perp's blood on his canines for a DNA profile this time."