Death Dance (11 page)

"You want to try and hit Dobbis with this right now?" Mercer
asked.

I looked at my watch. "If we can get to him before the
performance starts."

Mike was less than enthusiastic. "Odds are we got a repeat of
the first murder at the Met. Somebody who works backstage, maybe even
with a rap sheet. Probably intercepted Galinova in a corridor or
elevator. She was steaming mad from whatever Joe Berk did to blow her
off. Blue-collar guy comes on to her, she freaks out, and so on. The
lieutenant will flood the Met with guys from every squad in Manhattan
North and he'll have a suspect by the middle of the week."

"You're willing to wait that out, it's okay with me," Mercer
said.

"Yeah, we may have latents. Maybe some DNA by then."

"Hey, I understand. You're tired and not ready for the whole
routine yet. You go on home. Alex and I'll put in a few more hours."

Mike combed his fingers through his dark hair. He knew Mercer
was goading him to get back in the game. "You two'll feed me when we're
done?"

"Wine and dine."

Mike had left the car in a "no standing" zone half a block
down from the theater. We circled around the one-way streets, passing
through the swelling crowds in Times Square, and drove up Tenth Avenue
to park behind the Met at 65th Street.

This time we entered the building through the stage door in
the rear of the parking garage. Carloads of patrons were beginning to
stream in, some to keep their dinner reservations at the Grand Tier
restaurant, below one of the colorful Chagalls, others to enjoy the
mild spring evening on the plaza with a glass of wine.

The security guard now had the company of two uniformed cops,
one of whom recognized Mercer and waved us in.

At a second checkpoint, Mike asked the man inspecting
identifications to call Chet Dobbis for us. We were told he wasn't in
his office.

"Page him, will you? It's urgent we see him before the show
starts."

When the call had not been returned in ten minutes, we became
impatient and decided to try to find him in the area around the stage.

Now the hallways were teeming with people. Musicians dressed
completely in black so nothing in the orchestra pit distracted from the
stage action, carrying instruments of every shape and size, squeezed
between the costume trunks and workmen pressing ahead in the opposite
direction.

Dancers in the obligatory leg warmers and turned-out foot
positions, most carrying bottles of water, practiced their variations
or sat along the wall stretching their legs and backs. Carpenters and
electricians carried pieces of scenery and props, dangling drills and
hammers as they maneuvered the turns of the endless gray walkways.

Mike approached a man who seemed to be a supervisor, calling
out instructions to other workmen. "Dobbis. I'm looking for Chet
Dobbis."

"Last I saw him he was at the rear wagon." The man pointed in
the direction we were headed. "Keep going that way."

"Did you see any wagons this afternoon?" I asked. "Where do
you think he means?"

"Must be some part of tonight's show. Let's just get over to
the stage and someone will show us."

We rounded the last corner and found ourselves in the
cavernous opening of the Metropolitan's stage. The curtain separating
us from the six tiers of seats was closed, and at least a dozen men
were readying sets for the performance that was due to start in about
an hour. One woman was dabbing paint on the scratched surface of a fake
boulder, making details perfect for the evening event. If anyone had
concerns about the murder of one of last night's artists in an air
shaft several hundred feet away, nobody showed it.

"Hold it up right there," a voice shouted at us, although I
couldn't see the speaker.

"We're looking for—" Mike said.

"I don't care what you're doing. It'll have to wait until
after the show." A lanky man with wire-rimmed glasses stepped out from
behind a control panel on stage right. "You mind stepping back? We've
got a big move to make."

"Look, I'm a detective. Mike—"

"Nice to know. And I'm Biff Owens. Stage manager. I got an
audience to please tonight, you three want to step out of the way?"

"Sure. I'm looking for Chet Dobbis. Where's the wagon?"

We stepped around the wires on the floor and he motioned us
into what seemed to be his workspace, an area with four television
monitors and more switches than the controls of a space shuttle.

"I got four wagons, and if you stay perfectly still, you won't
wind up underneath one of them while we check this out. Harry?" Owens
called out to someone farther upstage. "Let's roll out the main and
bring in the turntable."

With the sound of a low rumble, the entire main stage of the
Met began to sink out of sight, dropping almost ten feet. From the rear
of the building, another enormous platform, sixty by sixty feet, rolled
forward into place.

Biff Owens clapped his hands in approval and then studied the
second hand of his watch to time the movement as the entire surface
rotated in a giant sweep of a circle, making a full rotation in two
minutes.

"Okay, Harry. Swing it back," Owens said, turning to Mike.
"Those are my wagons. Why'd you ask?"

"I'm looking for Chet Dobbis. Somebody told us he was near the
wagon."

"This is one of the things that makes the Met unique,
detective. We have four separate stages here, each one full size. That
area off stage right is one, off stage left is the second, the rear
stage with the turntable is the third, and this here's the main," Owens
said, as the solid floor crept back up into place. "Stagehands call
them wagons."

"Hydraulic?"

"Nope. They're on an electrical system. When the main one
lowers, the others are attached by cables that supply the electricity
and pulleys that move them into place. They move 'em like wagons."

"Must be noisy, no?"

"During performances, you mean? There's soundproofed doors
between each of the stages. Nobody can hear a peep."

Owens confirmed the acoustical needs that made the musical
experience so pleasurable for the audience and treacherous for a woman
in peril behind the scene.

"None of you ever saw
Boheme
here?" he
asked, walking back to his monitors. "You got the Bohemian house on
stage left, dragged right in on top of the main stage for the opening.
Takes a minute to slip it off—bingo—you got the
Parisian street scene. Over on stage right the cafe is all set up, and
on the back wagon you got the whole thing gradually elevated so when
Mimi's dying, back in her garret, you'd think you were up on the
heights of Montmartre."

"During last night's performance, what kept you busy?"

"Me? Think of it like I'm the air traffic controller,
detective. If I leave my post for even a minute during the performance,
there's likely to be a disaster. I'm responsible for giving all the
cues to the principals, making sure the scenery gets moved when it has
to, and knowing when every scrim and curtain needs to be lowered or
raised. That's several hundred commands per hour. The show don't go on
without me."

"These monitors," Mike said, sweeping a finger across the
small television screens, "what do they tell you?"

"This one lets me see the conductor, down below stage center.
The second one—that's dark during the ballet. Don't use it
when nobody needs lyrics. Usually it's my window on the prompter, who
is giving all the lines to the opera singers. Third is the lighting
controls, and the fourth one shows me the full stage, so I can follow
how the production is going."

"And Mr. Dobbis, where was he during last night's performance?"

"In the director's booth."

"Where's that?"

"Very back of the orchestra. He'll be there again when the
show starts tonight."

"Hey, Biff," a man called from high above the stage. "You
ready for me to drop the trees?"

"Who's that?" Mercer asked.

"One of the flymen," Owens said, before clearing the stage
with a loud bark. "Everybody out of the way. Let 'er rip, Jimmy."

I craned my neck and looked up to the blackened interior,
almost ten floors above. With lightning speed and incredible precision,
an enormous painted forest fell from the heights and stopped a quarter
of an inch above the floorboards. If someone had been beneath it, he
would have been sliced in half.

"What's up there?"

"The fly system. Ninety-seven pipes, each one the width of the
stage, and each one capable of holding half a ton of scenery. We can
fit an entire show up there, dropping the pieces in a flash."

The network above me was ringed with catwalks and galleries,
painted black pipes against a painted black background. Three or four
figures in dark clothing moved on opposite sides of the grating.

"Looks like an accident waiting to happen," said Mike.

"Dangerous stuff. That's why we're so meticulous about
rehearsing the timing of it."

"Who calls the shots?"

"I do," said Owens. "I need a scrim down, the hands have the
number that corresponds to what pipe it's hanging from in their script.
I yell out 'Go' to the head flyman, and he calls out to the others to
move. Takes eight, ten guys to man the bigger shows."

"So, if a man took a hike before the act ended—"

"Couldn't happen with my crew. They work in pairs, both sides
coordinating with each other. Anybody slipped off, there wouldn't have
been a close to the second act or a scene change to start the third.
One guy can't manage it alone."

"And Dobbis," Mike said, "you could see him in that booth last
night?"

"You got that backwards, mister. His equipment can see me, and
he can talk to me by phone. But I can't see him. He gave me the signal
to raise the curtain at eight fifteen, and when we were striking the
sets at the end, he came by to say good night. Everything in between,
that's his business."

"Can we get out into the theater from here?" I asked.

Owens led us away from his post and pointed to another series
of doors. The three of us continued on our way, practically pinning
ourselves against the wall from time to time as we went against the
flow of ticket holders trying to claim their seats.

I asked the usher for the director's booth, and he led us to a
narrow doorway, midway between the elongated bar and the rear entrance
to the orchestra. I turned the handle but it was locked, so I knocked.

Chet Dobbis opened the door, seeming rather startled to see
us. "Let me call you back later. I've got company," he said into the
phone receiver before hanging up.

"May we come in?"

Dobbis had changed into a business suit and his mien had
become as formal as his dress. "This isn't a particularly good time.
We're ready to get the program started here," he said, stepping back as
he reluctantly let us into his small room.

The glass-fronted booth was about ten feet wide, furnished
with two stools and several monitors. "The ballet mistress will be
along any minute. We watch the performances together."

On one monitor I could see the conductor's baton waving from
the orchestra pit as he seemed to be rehearsing the tempo of a piece.
Another had a frozen shot of the great curtain while the third
displayed the lighting devices high above the back of the auditorium.

"Would you prefer to step out for a few minutes? There are
some questions we need to ask you before the story of Natalya's death
hits the morning papers."

He parked himself on one of the stools, fidgeting with
something in his left hand that made me think of Captain Queeg and his
marbles. "If you don't mind holding off until the end of the
performance, we can certainly talk again."

Three hours was longer than I was willing to wait. If Dobbis
and Galinova had been involved in a relationship, both my boss and
Chapman's needed to know. "I'd rather get the answers—"

I was interrupted by the opening of the door. "Sandra, come
in, of course," Dobbis said, rising to make room for the woman he
introduced to us as the ballet mistress.

"Sorry," she said, kissing Dobbis on both cheeks before
stepping in front of me to perch on the second stool. "I just couldn't
shake whatever was bothering me yesterday. Some kind of
twenty-four-hour thing. I didn't mean to leave you alone last night,
and then— oh, then with this dreadful thing about Talya."

"In or out, Ms. Cooper. I can't let you open that door once
the performance begins. The light draws the dancers' attention from the
stage."

There really wasn't room for the three of us to stand in the
booth behind both of them, and I nodded to Mercer to open the door. The
three thousand lightbulbs in the theater started to dim and the crystal
chandeliers circling the parterre boxes began to lift up out of sight.

Dobbis thanked us and said he'd see us later. He stopped
playing with the small object in his fingers and placed it on the ledge
in front of him.

The booth was almost dark but the light that glowed from the
monitors settled on the thing that Chet Dobbis had carried in his hand.
It was a two-inch-long black nail—the kind the stagehands
called a bent twenty.