"My secretary said you wanted to see me about a missing person. Who's that?" he said, picking up a cigarette holder, sticking a Gauloise in the tip and searching for his lighter. Berk moved behind his desk and offered us three chairs that were arrayed in front of it. "Who'd you lose?"

It was easier to get people to cooperate with investigators- especially if they could be linked to the crime in any way-by asking for help with someone who's gone missing rather than invoke the word murder.

"Natalya Galinova," Mike said.

"You're a little behind the breaking news, aren't you, boys?" Berk looked back and forth between Mercer and Mike. "Who're you kidding here? Joe Berk? Talya is dead. You think I'm an idiot?"

"Seems to me that half an hour ago you didn't have a clue where she-" Mike said before being interrupted by the buzz of an intercom.

Four of the buttons on Berk's large phone console showed flickering red lights and he pushed the one closest to him, holding a finger up in Mike's direction. "Yeah, babe? Tell that rat bastard when his check clears, then I'll take his call. And release all my house tickets for tonight. Anyone on your list. It looks like I'm going to be with these comedians for a while." He disconnected the call. "Gentlemen?"

"Who told you about Ms. Galinova?" Mike asked.

"Told me what?"

"That she's dead."

"It's some kind of secret?"

"It was until-"

"Yeah, I heard you. Half an hour ago. You know how many people call Joe Berk every thirty minutes?" he said, sweeping his hand over the blinking dials on the console.

"Nathan Lane comes down with a sore throat, my phone rings. Bernadette Peters gets indigestion, somebody rings me. The Lion King has diarrhea, I'm the first to know."

"Miss Galinova didn't work for you, did she?" Mike asked.

Berk dragged on the cigarette. "Footlights and fantasy, Mr. Chapman. That's what I'm about. Anybody who ever walked the boards wants to work for me."

The intercom buzzed again. Berk gave Mike a full palm now. "Yeah, babe?"

He listened while the secretary told him who was on the line. "Gotta take this call, guys."

Berk rested the cigarette holder in an ashtray and pressed his fingers against his temple. "Bottom line, that's all I wanna know. Yesterday you told me thirty-five. We going over that yet?" He waited for an answer. "You kidding me? It's grossed over three billion worldwide. Soup it up, Joey. Hands down, it's the most popular entertainment property ever. Don't screw with me-I got a lady here, Joey, or I'd tell you how I really feel."

"Can you hold these calls till we're done?" Mike asked.

"Hey, for thirty-five million, I'd suggest you hold your questions till I'm done, buddy," Berk said, turning his attention to me. "We're taking Phantom of the Opera to Vegas. Custom-made theater at the Venetian, a flying chandelier bigger than a boat, and very few people with Joe Berk-size pockets who can make it happen. Broadway goes Vegas. Get a hundred bucks a seat without even blinking."

"We were talking about Ms. Galinova," Mike said. "Look, Mr. Berk, we understand you were at the Met last night."

"Absolutely."

"But missed the show."

"Not my thing, ballet. The music puts me to sleep, the broads are too skinny for my taste, the boys run around with pairs of socks wadded in their crotches to make themselves look like they're well hung. Give me Shakespeare or give me schmaltz and I can pack you a full house. Not the ballet."

"But you were going there specifically to see Ms. Galinova, weren't you?" Mike asked.

"Talya invited me to the gala. Look, I tried very hard to make it. She's a classy dame, but I got a schedule of my own. We had an understudy going on in one of our shows last night and I had to see the first act for myself to figure out whether she's got the stuff to take over the lead. I was late for Talya's scene. So sue me."

"What happened when you arrived at the Met?"

"Nothing happened. Meaning what?"

"Meaning what did you do when you found out they wouldn't seat you?"

"I thanked my lucky stars for my brilliant timing and went back to the dressing room to wait for her."

"The ushers just let you inside? No problem?"

"Why? Some jerk didn't know me, I had to spend a few minutes educating him? Next time he will."

"You knew where the dressing room was?"

"Yeah, sure I did. I've been there before."

"Recently?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Talya wanted to talk to me, I went. She tad time off during the rehearsals, I went."

"To talk about ballet?"

"Don't be funny, detective. I told you that doesn't interest me. Talya needed Joe Berk, Mr. Chapman, not the other way around," he said, poking his forefinger into his broad chest. "She wants to be-wanted to be-in a production of mine. She wanted me to make her a Broadway baby."

"Any show in particular?"

"That would make a difference to you? You want to put up ten percent, be a backer?"

Mike was as annoyed as if Berk were scratching a fingernail along a blackboard. "The only difference it would make is whether I believe you."

"Like I have to worry if you do or you don't." Berk laughed. "You know the story of the girl on the red velvet swing? Evelyn Nesbit."

I recognized the Nesbit name and knew she'd been involved in some kind of scandal, but couldn't bring it to mind. Mike answered. "Harry Thaw. Stanford White. The old Madison Square Garden. Sex, infidelity, money, murder-the story's got it all."

"Bravo, detective. Opening-night seats for you, sir, on the aisle. Murder, Miss Cooper. A good old-fashioned Manhattan murder. Your detective friend clearly knows his true-crime stories. He'll tell you later. Otherwise you'll have to buy tickets. You," Berk said, winking at me, "I might invite you myself. Leave the coppers home."

Mike had majored in history at Fordham College. There was nothing he didn't know about military history-foreign and American-and his congenital fascination with the world of policing made him an expert on New York's darkest deeds.

"It's a Broadway show?" Mike asked. "A homicide case that's a hundred years old?"

"Eighteen, twenty months down the road I expect it will be. A blockbuster musical. You're too young to remember Sweeney Todd. Hey, look at Chicago. The Weisslers, now they're fucking geniuses. Came to me with the idea to do a show for Broadway about a dame who shoots her lover and I turned them down flat. How many years running and nine touring companies abroad? Forget about what the movie did to keep the show alive and kicking. The Shuberts had more goddamn sense than I did, for once. What the hell was I thinking? Murder set to music sells great."

Berk flicked his ashes. "I've got Elton John doing the score, Santo Loquasto on the costumes-gowns, furs, that famous bearskin rug- and the swing will be gaudier than the bullshit chandelier they're building for Phantom in Vegas, How does that song go? All I need now is the girl."

"Talya Galinova?" I asked.

"Ask Mr. Chapman to fill you in on the story, Miss Cooper. Evelyn Nesbit was one of the most gorgeous dames of her day. But she was only sixteen years old when all of this happened. Great role for an ingenue. Talya? She would have been a bit too long in the tooth by the time we launch this production. Give me nubile."

"Did she know that?" Or could it have been what they fought about in the dressing room?

"It doesn't matter if she knew it. I certainly did."

"And Miss Galinova, she was glad to see you last night?" Mike asked.

"They really sweat, you aware of that? You think it's all floating around on your toes and flapping your wings out there onstage, but those girls do some kind of workout. She came in all sweaty and hot, dripping with perspiration. And very pissed off that I'd missed the show. What a temper," Berk said, walking away from us and untying the belt on his robe as he opened a door and turned on a light.