"Even Sundays?"

"Often. There are usually practice sessions, even if the house is dark. And then you've got charity benefits and special events that we put on quite frequently."

Another left turn and we were at a door marked dressing rooms. Dobbis entered and the string of us followed him in. A small wall unit held a series of locked boxes. "This is where the principals keep their valuables while they're dancing. Talya's wallet and hotel key are still there," Vicci said. "I've got her spare."

Mike took the key from the agent, unlocked the box, and removed the items. "Hold on to these," he said to me. "I'll voucher them if she doesn't show up for dinner tonight."

Straight ahead was a T-shaped intersection. "The corps has lockers in another part of the building. This area is just for the stars," Dobbis said. "There's even a pecking order in here. In opera season, the soprano and the tenor have the center rooms. The baritone, the mezzo, and the bass are off to the side. So Natalya had this room, of course."

He ushered us into a private suite, bare of any personal items except an index card tacked to the door with Natalya's name in black marker, and her clothes hanging on a rack inside. I checked the bath-room and stall shower, but saw nothing. Dobbis offered me the chair in front of the mirrored dressing table.

There was a piano against the opposite wall, where Vicci seated himself. Dobbis perched on the edge of a sofa, while Mike and Mercer remained standing.

"There aren't many windows in this joint," Mike said. "What are we looking out at?"

Except for the five glass arches that faced the plaza, the Met seemed completely encased in its marble skin.

"That's Amsterdam Avenue behind me," Dobbis said. "It's actually the only window that opens in the entire building. Rudolf Bing was the general manager when the company moved to Lincoln Center back in 1966. His favorite diva was Renata Tebaldi, and she wanted fresh air whenever she sang. So, voila, a window."

Dobbis thought Mike was interested in the history of the house, but I knew he was only studying means of entering or exiting the building.

"You mind getting up off that sofa?" Mike said, motioning to the director and then speaking to Mercer. "Let's get this sill dusted and see if there are any footprints on the couch."

Mike picked up the phone on the wall next to the piano.

"That's just an intercom, detective. You can't ring out," Dobbis said. "The stage manager calls in to give the artist her cue. It's a three-minute walk to the wings from this room, almost six to get to stage left for an entrance."

Mercer turned to the door and called back to Mike. "You want the guys from the Crime Scene Unit to come down and process this next?"

"Yeah."

"Easier for me to see what they're up to."

"So what's the story with this guy Joe Berk?" Mike asked as Mercer walked out. "How'd you know he was in here with her last night?"

"The Wizard? He'd be hard to miss."

"Wizard of what?"

"That's what he likes to call himself. The Wizard of the Great White Way."

"More like a lizard," Rinaldo Vicci said. "The venomous kind."

"What does Berk do?" Mike asked. "He's a producer?"

Chet Dobbis laughed. "Joe Berk owns Broadway. That's what he really does. Everything else flows from that."

"You gotta explain that to me. How does somebody own Broadway?"

"The theaters themselves, detective. There are four families in New York that control every single one of the legitimate theaters."

"You mean, like the Shuberts?" I asked.

"Exactly. The Shuberts, the Nederlanders, the Jujamcyns, and the Berks. There are thirty-five Broadway theaters. You want to bring a show to town? You got the next Cats or Phantom in your back pocket? Nothing happens unless you get through to the head hon-cho of one of these families. There are nice guys and smart guys and decent guys in this business, and then there's Joe Berk."

"What's his relationship with Ms. Galinova?" Mike asked.

Vicci wanted to do the spin on this. "Joe has been courting my client, but strictly in the professional sense," he said, rolling his r's for what he must have thought was dramatic effect. "He's got an idea for a project that she might be able to star in."

Dobbis interrupted him. "Rinaldo, you're talking to the police. Try telling the truth, for a change."

"Why don't you give him a hand?"

"The fact is that it's Talya who's been chasing after Joe Berk, Mr. Chapman. She's gotten to the age when most dancers have to give some thought to the next phase of their careers. By the time these ladies reach forty, it becomes harder and harder to convince an audience they're a fourteen-year-old Juliet or an adolescent sleeping beauty. And the injuries-the injuries really take their toll on their feet and knees and hips."

"Broadway?"

"That's what she's been exploring," Dobbis said. "Talya is as stunning an actress as she is a ballerina. The Russian accent's a bit thick for a lot of roles, but that hasn't stopped her from trying to develop ideas. She's ready for a star turn that would introduce her to millions more people who don't have the first clue about ballet. Popular culture for the masses, rather than an elite crowd."

"And Berk?" Mike asked.

"The way I see it," Dobbis said, "she thought seduction was the best way to audition."

Vicci was unhappy. "You've got no business saying that, Chet. I know everything that goes on in Talya's life and there's nothing at all to that gossip."

"How old is Berk?" Mike asked.

"Seventy-four."

"Vigorous?"

"Overweight, but as strong as he is tough. He's got a stranglehold on Broadway real estate," said Dobbis. "No reason he couldn't have one on a human being."

"And you say he was here last night?"

"Not in the house. Not in the audience, I mean."

"Wasn't he coming to see Talya?"

"He was late for the second act," Rinaldo Vicci said. "The Met's policy-maybe you know it-is you can't be seated once the performance has started. They've got-how you call it?-a little auditorium offstage right where you can watch it on a big screen. Berk had a fit."

"Why?" I asked.

"He doesn't like crowds. It's not in his nature to sit there with the tardy bridge-and-tunnel folk, looking at the action on a monitor," Dobbis said. "That's how I found out he was in the dressing room. Bullied his way in past the ushers-made a scene doing it-and waited for Talya to get offstage."

"The fight?"

"She was peeved that he hadn't bothered to get there in time to watch her dance."

"He likes ballet?" Mike asked.

"Berk doesn't like anything until it makes the cash jingle in his pocket. I think he's used to something with catchy lyrics to keep him awake during the show."

"His antics with the ushers," I said to Dobbis, "and then the argument with a diva, didn't they get everyone's attention?"

"The staff expects a few nasty latecomers most evenings, Ms. Cooper. Once they realized he wasn't an autograph hound, Berk's tiff with them blew over. And any arguments between Talya and Berk-or anyone else who crossed her-well, the acoustics in this building are extraordinary, maybe the best in the world. There's not a corner, not a ninety-degree angle inside the Opera House. The ceiling and wall panels are rounded so that sound bounces off and back into the theater."

"But I'm talking about outside the auditorium."

"The rest of the building is made up of scores of soundproofed compartments. It has to be, if you think about it. Stagehands are moving around enormous pieces of scenery and equipment-even in the middle of a performance-while singers and musicians are rehearsing in studios throughout the building, and other artists are practicing," he said, tapping the top of the piano, "often until the moment they walk to the stage. You aren't supposed to be able to hear anything else from anywhere else behind the scenes."