Death Dance (35 page)

Lieutenant Peterson was waiting for us when we arrived at the
opera house. The task force members were still sprawled out across the
elegant boardroom, their cardboard cartons seeming to have spawned
dozens of offspring since my last visit. We grabbed two folding chairs
from a pile against the wall and sat down to talk about the latest
developments.

"What does Joe Berk's DNA give you?" Peterson asked.

"A reason to look at him again. May be the first step in
developing probable cause."

"We can't use that hit, Mike," I said. "We'll have to get back
to that square some other way."

"So I'll get him to spit at me. It probably wouldn't take much
.
But now Chet Dobbis looks as good as Berk does."

"Slow down, Chapman," the lieutenant said, standing up to
reach for a box of index cards. "When you called me with the news about
that rare mint plant an hour ago, I sifted through
these—we've made one for each of the four hundred permanent
employees here. Forget the per diems. At least sixty men who work on
the staff live in north Jersey, and another fifty live on Staten
Island."

"And how many of those guys are in the pool that still haven't
been excluded, who were supposed to be in the opera house on Friday
night?"

"Roughly? About thirty of them live out in Jersey or on Staten
Island. But now we've got to go back and double-check the residential
locations of all the others, comparing them to Clay Pit Ponds State
Park and the Watchung Mountains. That's in addition to the people in
Galinova's personal life that you're looking at."

"How many famous killers—I mean, sort of household
name killers—were fat guys?" Mike asked.

Peterson and I looked at him quizzically.

"Like David Berkowitz—Son of Sam—he was
chubby. Bluebeard, in drawings, they always make him look hefty. Fatty
Arbuckle—I guess the name says all you need to know. Think
about it, though. Most killers are lean and mean."

Peterson ignored Mike and went back to reviewing pedigree
information on index cards while I tried to figure out where his non
sequitur was going.

"Malvo and Mohammed—the D.C. snipers—they
were lean. The Menendez brothers—skinny. O.J.—well
built but trim. Ma Barker— no fat there. I can't think of a
lot of fat murderers."

"You never watched
The Sopranos
?"
Peterson asked. "Tony S., Big Pussy—they had a ton of
overweight perps."

"That's television. Dillinger—thin as a rail.
Manson—malnowr-ished. Bundy, Dahmer, that fertilizer salesman
from Modesto who gave your namesakes a bad rep—all lean."

"Maybe if you told me why you want to—" I started to
ask.

"'Cause over your shoulder, Coop," Mike said, pointing to the
glass door, "is a porky little liar who looks like a homicidal maniac,
and I think he's after you."

I turned my head to see Rinaldo Vicci, still swathed in the
lavender scarf, standing outside the fancy room that had been
commandeered for the investigation. We were on the level of the
parterre boxes of the empty theater, so there could be no other purpose
for which he was lurking. I smiled at him and waved him in, but he
shook his head from side to side.

"Throw him a crumb, Coop. Go see what he wants."

I got up from the table and let myself out into the carpeted
hallway. The auditorium doors were open now, and the orchestra
rehearsal of the triumphal march from
Aida
filled
the lobby with the rich sounds of its music

Vicci walked ahead of me to the floor-length window that
overlooked the plaza and fountain. "Thank you, Signora Cooper. I saw
you come in earlier, and I had a few questions to ask you."

He was one of those people who had trouble making eye contact.
He looked at my face when he talked to me, but his eyes focused on a
spot inches away from mine, giving them a bizarre cast and making it
hard to gauge his credibility.

"Why are you here today, Mr. Vicci? I mean, why at the Met?"

He motioned in the direction of the stage with the tail of the
scarf. "A young tenor I represent. He's going to understudy the role of
Radames. Signore Dobbis has been gracious enough to let me sit in on
rehearsals."

Vicci took a few steps closer to the window and gazed out at
the pedestrians who were enjoying the spring morning. "The girl, Ms.
Cooper, I feel so badly about the girl. I've been calling the hospital,
but they won't tell me nothing because—"

"Lucy DeVore?"

"Yes, of course. Miss Lucy. Her condition, they won't tell me
since I am not a relative of hers. Is she going to live?"

"The doctors expect she will, Mr. Vicci. Personally, I hope
they'll bring her out of the coma in the next week or so. The test of
you are so uncooperative, I expect she'll be able to give us some
useful information," I said. "She's not going to die, if that's what
you and your cohorts were hoping. They're just trying to control the
pain levels this way."

Vicci coughed and spent seconds clearing his throat. It seemed
to me he was stalling, as he reached for something in his pocket and
seemed unable to speak. When he resumed the conversation, his accent
seemed to have thickened dramatically and he clutched at the scarf. "Of
course I don't want her to die. What a shocking thought. A lozenge?"

"No, thanks. You were supposed to call me about Lucy after you
checked in your office. Tell me what your file said about how she got
to you."

Vicci closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead between his
thumb and forefinger. "I'm in a very precarious situation, signora. I'm
so afraid that if I gossip about things, someone will be angry with me."

"What you tell me in the course of this investigation is
confidential. Nobody will know the information comes from you." We were
standing in the most open, visible space within the opera house, but
there didn't seem to be anyone in a position to notice. "I understand
from some of the other witnesses that it was you who invited Hubert
Alden to be at the audition the other day. In fact, we know that Ms.
Galinova—Talya—was supposed to be the person on
that broken swing. Not Lucy DeVore."

He stopped twisting the fringed edge of his scarf and almost
choked on his lozenge. My comment had the desired effect. I wanted him
to know other witnesses were talking to us, even though none had said
as much as I would have liked.

Again, Vicci cleared his throat. "This is a very—how
you say—a very unforgiving business, Ms. Cooper. Actors,
singers, dancers— both the men and the women—every
day of their life is an audition.

Everybody they speak to, every appearance they make, somebody
is judging them for the next leading role, maybe the next bit part."

"Galinova wanted to try out in front of Mona Berk?"

Vicci made the sign of the cross as he bit his lip. "Joe Berk
would kill me if he knew I arranged for her to do this. That's why
Talya and I made up the story that she fired me. It was Talya who
called Mona. Mona's fiance, actually—Ross Kehoe."

"How did Talya know Kehoe?"

"From years ago, I think, when he worked for Joe Berk."

"Ross Kehoe was an employee of Joe's, and now he's engaged to
Mona Berk? I bet Uncle Joe isn't happy about that. What kind of job did
he have?"

Vicci didn't seem to know. "In the theater, he did things for
Joe. I saw him around, but I can't tell you his title. Was nothing very
serious, I can assure you."

Hadn't Kehoe told us that he'd never met Natalya Galinova?
Mike would know if that's what he said in our first meeting with him.

"And Lucy DeVore? Please, Mr. Vicci, I need to know how she
fits in with these people. I need to know who brought her to you."

Again the coughing fit, the hand covering the mouth to delay
the answer—maybe to filter it. Again the throat lozenge.
"I—uh—I told you I didn't represent her, that I was
doing a favor for a friend, no?"

"You did. Now who's the friend?"

"It was Joe himself, Joe Berk who told me to take the girl
around. Get her a job, get her on her feet. Most of all to find her a
rich man she could—shall I tell you Joe's word? A rich man
she could hustle."

"A man like Hubert Alden?"

"Exactly, signora."

"Because Joe Berk was involved with her?"

"No, no. I believe Joe when he tells me this. I know his taste
in women, and is not this girl. But he was very unhappy with Lucy,"
Vicci said, crushing the candy in his teeth. "Miss Lucy was making a
play for Joe's son—the baby one."

"Briggs?"

"Yes, Briggs, Ms. Cooper. Joe found out about it and thought
she was trash—you call in English a gold digger. He tried to
buy her off himself—give her money, threaten to keep her away
from the boy."

"Threaten Lucy with what? Threaten to hurt her, like what
happened to her on Tuesday?"

"No, no. I'm sure he meant only to hurt her career, not the
girl herself," Vicci said, protesting the inference I'd made. "Joe
didn't need to do something that extreme. You know, he only had to tell
Briggs he'd disinherit him if he stayed with the cheap showgirl. The
boy isn't
pazzo
, Ms. Cooper. He's not so crazy
he'd give up the Berk fortune for a hillbilly who can sing and dance."

The music had stopped now and someone was calling out
directions for a scenery change.

"What about the money, Mr. Vicci? She was living in the Elk
Hotel. It doesn't look like anyone paid her off for anything."

He raised his head back and put his forefinger above his lip,
sniffing as he did. "Up her nose, Ms. Cooper. Briggs, too. Most of the
money was spent on cocaine. That's how come the boy dropped his foolish
lawsuit. He wouldn't make it without his father's money, not at the
rate he snorts white powder. He had to come back into the fold."

"And Lucy's family. Do you—"

"Honestly, I tell you the truth. This I don't know. And I
don't think
she
wanted anyone to know who she was
or where she came from. She had a little talent, Ms. Cooper, a nice
voice and quite an able dancer. Mostly what she had to sell were her
looks—and her body."

"Let's hope there's something left to that when she starts to
recover."

A shrill scream blasted off the stage and rang out across the
tiered lobby. I could make out the voices and sounds of men fighting
with each other and hear the low rumble of something mechanical moving
behind the scrim. "He's a lying bastard," were the only words shouted
out clearly enough for me to understand.

I ran to the glass-doored boardroom and pounded on it to get
Mike's attention. As I grabbed the banister to fly down the winding
staircase, the flat metal curtain suspended behind the elegant velvet
swag slammed to the floor to cut off the auditorium from the violent
encounter taking place backstage.

Mike overtook me and pushed past the security guard to open
the door that led to stage right behind the curtain.