Death Dance (21 page)

"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."

Mike stopped to tell Peterson the news about the animal hair.
"Let's see if we can get a fix on the wig shop upstairs. See what kind
of inventory they keep. Maybe there's something missing from last week.
That stuff must be expensive to make so they've got to keep careful
track of it. Maybe we can get a photo or duplicate. If the killer who
intercepted Galinova was wearing a white wig, it would change his
entire appearance."

Employees were being questioned not only about their own
activities on Friday night, but about strangers they saw in the
hallways and backstage area before and after the performance. These
descriptions might have less use to us if the perp had altered his
appearance during the course of the evening.

Peterson asked about Dobbis's collection. "You think he had
access?"

"I could kick myself for letting him see how thrown off I was
by his answer. Anyway, the wigs he's got on display are period
costumes. He'd draw a little attention to himself walking around like
he's the French king, but who knows what he's got in his drawers? A wig
with a contemporary cut—well, whoever was wearing it might
just look like a distinguished gentleman. A diversion, a strong feature
you'd be sure to remember if you passed him in a hallway or rode up
with him in an elevator."

"Or maybe," I said, "the killer wanted someone to think he was
Joe Berk. See a shock of white hair—or even better, just
plant a few on the floor to throw us off base—knowing Berk
was having some kind of liaison with Talya. Create an
illusion—that's what costumes are all about. Launch a red
herring to send us in Berk's direction."

"So who knew that about Berk and Galinova?" Peterson asked.

"Dobbis, of course. Rinaldo Vicci, her agent. I can't imagine
it was a secret from some of the crew who worked backstage with her the
past few days, and at rehearsals the week before. Talya was very
visible, and Berk picked her up from the Met a few times."