"Did you see any wagons this afternoon?" I asked. "Where do you think he means?"

"Must be some part of tonight's show. Let's just get over to the stage and someone will show us."

We rounded the last corner and found ourselves in the cavernous opening of the Metropolitan's stage. The curtain separating us from the six tiers of seats was closed, and at least a dozen men were readying sets for the performance that was due to start in about an hour. One woman was dabbing paint on the scratched surface of a fake boulder, making details perfect for the evening event. If anyone had concerns about the murder of one of last night's artists in an air shaft several hundred feet away, nobody showed it.

"Hold it up right there," a voice shouted at us, although I couldn't see the speaker.

"We're looking for-" Mike said.

"I don't care what you're doing. It'll have to wait until after the show." A lanky man with wire-rimmed glasses stepped out from behind a control panel on stage right. "You mind stepping back? We've got a big move to make."

"Look, I'm a detective. Mike-"

"Nice to know. And I'm Biff Owens. Stage manager. I got an audience to please tonight, you three want to step out of the way?"

"Sure. I'm looking for Chet Dobbis. Where's the wagon?"

We stepped around the wires on the floor and he motioned us into what seemed to be his workspace, an area with four television monitors and more switches than the controls of a space shuttle.

"I got four wagons, and if you stay perfectly still, you won't wind up underneath one of them while we check this out. Harry?" Owens called out to someone farther upstage. "Let's roll out the main and bring in the turntable."

With the sound of a low rumble, the entire main stage of the Met began to sink out of sight, dropping almost ten feet. From the rear of the building, another enormous platform, sixty by sixty feet, rolled forward into place.

Biff Owens clapped his hands in approval and then studied the second hand of his watch to time the movement as the entire surface rotated in a giant sweep of a circle, making a full rotation in two minutes.

"Okay, Harry. Swing it back," Owens said, turning to Mike. "Those are my wagons. Why'd you ask?"

"I'm looking for Chet Dobbis. Somebody told us he was near the wagon."

"This is one of the things that makes the Met unique, detective. We have four separate stages here, each one full size. That area off stage right is one, off stage left is the second, the rear stage with the turntable is the third, and this here's the main," Owens said, as the solid floor crept back up into place. "Stagehands call them wagons."

"Hydraulic?"

"Nope. They're on an electrical system. When the main one lowers, the others are attached by cables that supply the electricity and pulleys that move them into place. They move 'em like wagons."

"Must be noisy, no?"

"During performances, you mean? There's soundproofed doors between each of the stages. Nobody can hear a peep."

Owens confirmed the acoustical needs that made the musical experience so pleasurable for the audience and treacherous for a woman in peril behind the scene.

"None of you ever saw Boheme here?" he asked, walking back to his monitors. "You got the Bohemian house on stage left, dragged right in on top of the main stage for the opening. Takes a minute to slip it off-bingo-you got the Parisian street scene. Over on stage right the cafe is all set up, and on the back wagon you got the whole thing gradually elevated so when Mimi's dying, back in her garret, you'd think you were up on the heights of Montmartre."

"During last night's performance, what kept you busy?"

"Me? Think of it like I'm the air traffic controller, detective. If I leave my post for even a minute during the performance, there's likely to be a disaster. I'm responsible for giving all the cues to the principals, making sure the scenery gets moved when it has to, and knowing when every scrim and curtain needs to be lowered or raised. That's several hundred commands per hour. The show don't go on without me."

"These monitors," Mike said, sweeping a finger across the small television screens, "what do they tell you?"

"This one lets me see the conductor, down below stage center. The second one-that's dark during the ballet. Don't use it when nobody needs lyrics. Usually it's my window on the prompter, who is giving all the lines to the opera singers. Third is the lighting controls, and the fourth one shows me the full stage, so I can follow how the production is going."

"And Mr. Dobbis, where was he during last night's performance?"

"In the director's booth."

"Where's that?"

"Very back of the orchestra. He'll be there again when the show starts tonight."

"Hey, Biff," a man called from high above the stage. "You ready for me to drop the trees?"

"Who's that?" Mercer asked.

"One of the flymen," Owens said, before clearing the stage with a loud bark. "Everybody out of the way. Let 'er rip, Jimmy."

I craned my neck and looked up to the blackened interior, almost ten floors above. With lightning speed and incredible precision, an enormous painted forest fell from the heights and stopped a quarter of an inch above the floorboards. If someone had been beneath it, he would have been sliced in half.

"What's up there?"

"The fly system. Ninety-seven pipes, each one the width of the stage, and each one capable of holding half a ton of scenery. We can fit an entire show up there, dropping the pieces in a flash."

The network above me was ringed with catwalks and galleries, painted black pipes against a painted black background. Three or four figures in dark clothing moved on opposite sides of the grating.

"Looks like an accident waiting to happen," said Mike.

"Dangerous stuff. That's why we're so meticulous about rehearsing the timing of it."

"Who calls the shots?"

"I do," said Owens. "I need a scrim down, the hands have the number that corresponds to what pipe it's hanging from in their script. I yell out 'Go' to the head flyman, and he calls out to the others to move. Takes eight, ten guys to man the bigger shows."

"So, if a man took a hike before the act ended-"

"Couldn't happen with my crew. They work in pairs, both sides coordinating with each other. Anybody slipped off, there wouldn't have been a close to the second act or a scene change to start the third. One guy can't manage it alone."

"And Dobbis," Mike said, "you could see him in that booth last night?"

"You got that backwards, mister. His equipment can see me, and he can talk to me by phone. But I can't see him. He gave me the signal to raise the curtain at eight fifteen, and when we were striking the sets at the end, he came by to say good night. Everything in between, that's his business."

"Can we get out into the theater from here?" I asked.

Owens led us away from his post and pointed to another series of doors. The three of us continued on our way, practically pinning ourselves against the wall from time to time as we went against the flow of ticket holders trying to claim their seats.

I asked the usher for the director's booth, and he led us to a narrow doorway, midway between the elongated bar and the rear entrance to the orchestra. I turned the handle but it was locked, so I knocked.

Chet Dobbis opened the door, seeming rather startled to see us. "Let me call you back later. I've got company," he said into the phone receiver before hanging up.

"May we come in?"

Dobbis had changed into a business suit and his mien had become as formal as his dress. "This isn't a particularly good time. We're ready to get the program started here," he said, stepping back as he reluctantly let us into his small room.

The glass-fronted booth was about ten feet wide, furnished with two stools and several monitors. "The ballet mistress will be along any minute. We watch the performances together."