Death Dance (52 page)

I looked down toward the stage, but even in the darkness, the
height from these narrow steps and the incredibly steep rake of the
upper balcony made the view dizzying. I grabbed the brass railing and
held on to it.

Dobbis pointed to the steel trap of a curtain that had cut me
off from Mercer and Mike. "The idea here was to be able to transform
the stage—in the case of fire—into a chimney, to
separate it completely from the seats in order to protect the audience.
The flames would be confined to the stage and shoot straight up, while
the people in the audience would be safe. They'd have time to escape."

I steadied myself and continued to look for any sign of life
below. Dobbis went on. "The curtain was made of asbestos originally.
Replaced by steel." He stopped talking and closed his eyes. "This
firewall is impenetrable."

Kehoe prodded me to walk again. I clutched the railing so that
I wouldn't lose my footing and fall, as we made our way against the red
velvet drapes behind the last row of seats. Not far above my head was
the ornate ceiling, with elaborate Arabic designs outlined in brilliant
gold leaf that seemed to glow in the dark, like the perforated stars
that sat recessed into the ceiling beside the unlit chandeliers.

I had to turn sideways to shimmy between the heavy drapery and
the last row of seats. "What does that have to do with—"

Dobbis was clutching the seatback of a chair, slowly putting
one foot ahead of the other, since he barely fit in the narrow space.
"It means that when we redesigned the theater, in order to fireproof
the building against an accident or an electrical fire backstage, we
did it so that with a single button, the manager could isolate the
stage completely. The steel curtain drops in three seconds
flat—"

"I think she caught that, didn't she?" Kehoe said, mocking
Dobbis.

"There's only another five seconds for anyone onstage to get
off when that happens. But then the steel sides and rear
drop—and if you don't know they're coming—you get
caught in there, just the way your cops did. It's like a giant steel
trap."

"But
he
got out." I was referring to
Ross Kehoe, as I grasped the seatbacks and followed Dobbis's baby
steps, coming to an abrupt stop behind him as he reached a cement
setback in the middle of the row.

"You remember the way, Chet, don't you? Take those stairs."

"I can't see anything, damn it. You should go ahead of me."

Kehoe laughed. "You could probably scale your way up the side
of the Grand Canyon or the top of Everest and you're telling me you
can't climb up there? Four more steps, Chet. Feel your way."

Chet Dobbis leaned over the opening and crawled. Kehoe
squeezed behind me as I followed Dobbis, still hearing no noise, no
sign of rescuers, coming from below.

Kehoe padded like a panther in the darkness, familiar with his
surroundings and secure in his footing.

"They'll get out, too," I said, sounding no more confident
than I felt. "Soon."

Chet Dobbis was at the top, reaching out a hand for me to
stand up in the dusty confines of a storeroom full of antiquated stage
lighting equipment. "It won't be that easy for them, Miss Cooper. If I
had to make an educated guess, I'd say Ross has sealed the whole place
off. Killed all the electricity down there. In half an hour, it has an
automatic disengage system built in, but thirty minutes is a long time
to wait."

Kehoe pushed me aside and lined up behind us. There was a
slice of a footpath between stacks of plywood scenery that had been
left leaning against walls and cardboard cartons that were labeled with
show titles, costumes and props abandoned on top of them.

"They've got cell phones," I said, remembering that Laura had
not gotten one to replace mine before I left the office this afternoon.

"Easier to get through from outer space than from inside that
metal enclosure," Dobbis said. "Nobody knows that better than Ross."

"Why?" I asked. "Why does Ross know?"

"'Cause that was my job, girl," Kehoe said, sneering at me,
the same irritating noise coming from his lips. "You kept asking me
what I did for Joe, didn't you? You think I'm some kind of jerk, don't
you?"

Another door for Dobbis to open. Another step into a black
chamber, like the poor man's equivalent of entering Tut's tomb. Once
again my eyes gradually became accustomed to the greater darkness; the
room was piled from top to bottom with theatrical treasures, if not the
golden objects of a boy king.

Dobbis was feeling his way through the mess, his movement
slowed by the overflow of old sets that were in his way.

"You didn't give me credit for being so smart, did you, Alex?"
Again Kehoe clutched my neck with his bare hand, trying to shake an
answer out of me. I could feel the calloused skin, the strong grip of a
man who had labored as a stagehand for years before being rescued by
Mona Berk from his working-class surroundings.

Kehoe squeezed tighter.

I had nothing to say. I hadn't seen a moment's chance to break
away on this trek, and now I seemed to have lost the ability to resist
against his brute force.

"Joe did. Joe Berk did. Saw me working backstage when I was
just getting started. Still a teenager, brought in by my uncle, trying
to get into the carpenters' union. Move it, Chet. One more door there,
then up a flight. Don't you remember?"

"I've never come this far. Nobody's been there since this
place was built."

"Been where?" I asked, the words catching in my throat.

"Forget fucking carpentry. I figured that one out feist. I
watched my old man's thumb get ripped to shreds by a saw while he was
building a set for some bullshit play that didn't even stay open for
two weeks. Tore the bone off down to the joint. Too much back-breaking
work, and you're sucking in the sawdust all day long. It was the lights
I liked. I liked controlling the whole operation with the flick of one
switch. All the juice was in my hands and even old Joe Berk thought I
was a genius."

Another pitch-black chamber, this one hung with row upon row
of faded costumes.

Royal robes and ballgowns, tutus and tulle skirts of every
length, outfits for soldiers and cowboys and chorus girls and cancan
dancers.

Dobbis leaned over and half crawled up another set of stairs.
"Joe Berk's jack-of-all-trades. You did all his dirty work for him."

"You don't know half of what that old bastard was up to,"
Kehoe said, waiting for me to follow Dobbis.

"Is this it?" Dobbis asked.

"Open the door."

Chet Dobbis turned his shoulder to the black steel frame and
pushed but nothing moved.

Kehoe removed a small silver gadget, the size of a can opener,
from his left pocket. He pressed a button on it and the door slid to
the side, allowing a slice of light from within to streak down the
painted black cement steps.

"It's the dome of the old mosque, Alex. We're going into the
dome."

One more long wooden staircase, its steps embedded with a row
of tiny lights like the pathways that illuminate on airplanes to show
the way to the exits in case of emergency.

At the top of the flight, awaiting our arrival, stood Mona
Berk.

"Shit," she said to Kehoe. "What are you doing with her, too?"

"I didn't expect the cops to show up in the middle of this. I
had to think fast."

"Not your strong suit. Let's figure this out."

Dobbis went first, and despite the danger to both of us,
seemed to stand in place and look all around the room, taking in
everything he could see.

Ross ordered him to move and when I reached the top of the
landing, I understood what had stopped Dobbis in his tracks.

Overhead, in the center of the massive circular structure, was
a large skylight. Through it streaked moonbeams from the cloudless
April night. Adjacent buildings—large hotels, offices, and
high-priced apartments that overlooked the vast space of the mosque
dome— also cast down an eerie neon night-light.

And high above me, suspended from the rounded ceiling on
lengths of shiny brass chain links, was a red velvet
swing—the kind that sixteen-year-old Evelyn Nesbit swung on
naked to amuse her paramour, the great Stanford White, and the kind of
swing from which Lucy DeVore dropped, likely to die, the day Ross Kehoe
walked her backstage for her audition.

"Over there, Chet," Kehoe said, directing him to a sofa in a
corner of the great dome that had been furnished to look like a hidden
bordello.

When Dobbis took his seat, Ross passed the gun to Mona and
told her to keep it on me while he tied Dobbis's hands behind his back
with some strips of cloth that looked ready-made for the occasion.

I studied him now, out from behind me for the first time since
he'd accosted me. He was edgier still, pushing Dobbis's limbs when the
captive director didn't comply fast enough, licking his lips constantly
and sucking in more air.

I tried to scope the rest of the room, not wanting to take my
eyes off the handgun for many seconds. There was a bed, to the side of
the swing, that was dressed in the lavish style of the linens in Joe
Berk's room and had the same crest and monogrammed initials; an antique
brass clothing stand from which hung a variety of lingerie and robes; a
well-stocked bar with liquors, wines, and crystal glasses of every
shape and size.

I started to walk back the cat. "Where's the camera?"

"What?" Mona asked.

"That's what you did for Joe, isn't it?" I said to Kehoe,
ignoring Mona Berk. "You wired up places for Joe Berk. You're the
electrical specialist—that's what you did in theaters, isn't
it? You built him an entertainment system that let him watch anybody he
wanted—women in dressing rooms, bedrooms,
showers—and whatever the hell was going on here, in
this… this playground you created for him."

"Whatever turned him on, Alex. That's what he paid me for. Got
to the age where Joe wasn't always able to do an evening performance
after his matinee. Sometimes he just liked to watch."

Kehoe walked toward me and motioned me back to an area with
chairs and a sofa. "You're next, Ms. DA. Pick a seat. Make yourself
comfortable."

I didn't move.

"The bitch is so used to telling people what they're supposed
to do, I don't think she takes orders well," Mona said. "Ross told you
to get over there."

I didn't know whether fear or exhaustion had the tighter hold
on me. I was sweating and breathing heavily, but chilled as well and
shivering from that. My head throbbed and my neck ached from Kehoe's
angry grip.

As I sat on a straight-backed chair, Kehoe looked around the
room for something with which to restrain me. Near the seat of the
swing was a length of thick rope, wrapped in a coil, like a cobra
waiting to strike. It reminded me of the cables used to hold weights
attached to the fly gallery that dropped the scenery onto the stage.