Death Dance (20 page)

Mona Berk glared at Mike. "That lawsuit is nobody else's
business but ours. We're a very private family and we intend to stay
that way. Stick to dead bodies, Mr. Chapman. Maybe you know something
about them that'll keep you occupied in your spare time and out of my
hair."

The intercom buzzed and Mona Berk stabbed the button with her
forefinger. "Yeah?"

"Your nine thirty's here, Mona."

"You want more of my time, detective, make an appointment."

She walked around the desk to usher us out. She picked up a
bound manuscript from the table next to the door. It was entitled
Platinum
,
and beneath that had the words "The Girl on the Red Velvet Swing."

The first person I saw in the reception area was a
six-foot-tall blonde, half the age of Natalya Galinova with twice her
measurements in all the significant places. Behind the young woman,
seated in a chair and flipping through what appeared to be a copy of
the same manuscript that Berk had picked up, was Rinaldo Vicci, the
agent Talya had fired just before her tragic death.

"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.

"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."