On one monitor I could see the conductor's baton waving from the orchestra pit as he seemed to be rehearsing the tempo of a piece. Another had a frozen shot of the great curtain while the third displayed the lighting devices high above the back of the auditorium.

"Would you prefer to step out for a few minutes? There are some questions we need to ask you before the story of Natalya's death hits the morning papers."

He parked himself on one of the stools, fidgeting with something in his left hand that made me think of Captain Queeg and his marbles. "If you don't mind holding off until the end of the performance, we can certainly talk again."

Three hours was longer than I was willing to wait. If Dobbis and Galinova had been involved in a relationship, both my boss and Chapman's needed to know. "I'd rather get the answers-"

I was interrupted by the opening of the door. "Sandra, come in, of course," Dobbis said, rising to make room for the woman he introduced to us as the ballet mistress.

"Sorry," she said, kissing Dobbis on both cheeks before stepping in front of me to perch on the second stool. "I just couldn't shake whatever was bothering me yesterday. Some kind of twenty-four-hour thing. I didn't mean to leave you alone last night, and then- oh, then with this dreadful thing about Talya."

"In or out, Ms. Cooper. I can't let you open that door once the performance begins. The light draws the dancers' attention from the stage."

There really wasn't room for the three of us to stand in the booth behind both of them, and I nodded to Mercer to open the door. The three thousand lightbulbs in the theater started to dim and the crystal chandeliers circling the parterre boxes began to lift up out of sight.

Dobbis thanked us and said he'd see us later. He stopped playing with the small object in his fingers and placed it on the ledge in front of him.

The booth was almost dark but the light that glowed from the monitors settled on the thing that Chet Dobbis had carried in his hand. It was a two-inch-long black nail-the kind the stagehands called a bent twenty.

"Dewar's on the rocks for the blonde. No fruit. You have Grey Goose?"

The bartender set up the glasses and took Mike's drink orders. We three were alone in the lobby of the Met, at the foot of the grand staircase, while all the balletomanes were in their seats for the performance.

The added police presence at entrances and doorways leading behind the stage hadn't seemed off-putting to most spectators, who would not know about Natalya Galinova's death until they heard the late news or read the morning paper.

We sipped our drinks and talked through the forty-minute first act of Coppelia, Mercer and I both trying unsuccessfully to draw out Mike. It was clear to me that he wasn't ready to expose the emotional upheaval he had suffered after Val's death, and he didn't even bother to feign interest in Mercer's stories about Vickee and their baby boy.

When the doors from the auditorium swung open and the crowd emptied the rows for the intermission, Mike stepped around the corner and fought his way to the director's booth. As I followed behind him, I could see that his instinct had been right. Chet Dobbis was walking briskly toward the front of the house, against the flow of the people, as though he was trying to distance himself from us.

Mike called out to him, but Dobbis didn't turn his head. I was zigzagging through the lines of annoyed patrons, as I slowed their efforts to get their plastic glasses of champagne or stand on the endless lines for the restrooms.

Mercer was more direct. He scooted across a row of seats that was empty but for one elderly couple, and then he vaulted over the chairs in front, beating Dobbis to the exit that was closest to the backstage door.

"You know how this one ends or you just trying to catch an early train?" Mike asked.

The angled nail was again twisting between the director's thumb and forefinger. "I've got to talk to the stage manager, detective. Our lead dancer has missed half of his cues and his performance is entirely off."

"Why don't you let the ballet mistress take care of that?" Mike said, backing out the door with his hand on Dobbis's elbow. "This will only cost you a few minutes."

The usher saw Dobbis coming toward him and opened the door to the backstage area that said no entrance. Once inside, the three of us stopped, surrounding the director before he could go any farther.

"Am I making you nervous, buddy?" Mike asked.

"Not at all. I'm sure you don't like being interrupted when you're doing something important at a crime scene, and I'm asking the same respect for the business at hand tonight. I'm in the middle of a major production."

"What a coincidence. This is the middle of my crime scene, Mr. Dobbis. You wanna watch out for that nail you got? I'd hate to lose you to a bad case of tetanus before we even get to talk."

Dobbis opened his palm and looked down, as though he'd surprised even himself by the discovery that he was holding something. "This? Not nerves at all, detective. Just for good luck," he said, pocketing the black nail.

"How so?"

"Something I picked up in the days Pavarotti sang here. Luciano Pavarotti?"

"Yeah. The fat man."

"Hardly a distinction among tenors, detective. Pavarotti was wildly superstitious, did you know that, Ms. Cooper?"

"Why does everybody ask her the culture questions? She didn't know it-trust me on that-and neither did Mercer. What about it?"

"It got so Luciano wouldn't go onstage until he picked up a bent twenty. He found one, just by chance, the very first time he did Tosca here. A tremendous ovation and sixty Toscas later it remained his personal good luck charm. They actually had to have a pocket sewn into every one of his costumes to conceal a nail. He'd spend the last few seconds before his entrance scouring the floor for these," Dobbis said, showing it off to us again. "I got in the habit of carrying one around just so that I could hand it to him if he couldn't find any."

"Some habits die hard," Mike said. "Didn't he retire a few years back?"

"His superstition must have rubbed off on me. I still think it's a charm."

"Not so lucky last night, was it? Or maybe you dropped it?"

"They're all over the place, Mr. Chapman, as I'm sure you've seen. Are you here to talk hardware or something more serious? There's a second act to stage."

Mercer had walked a few feet away and turned his back to us, making it seem as though Dobbis could reveal any secrets he had only to Mike and me.

"Ms. Cooper and I are easily confused, Mr. Dobbis, so maybe you could straighten this out for us. You were quick to point the finger at Joe Berk and his relationship with Talya, and in the meantime, Berk says that you've been scoring with her, too."

"Such a way with words, detective. But Joe Berk is wrong."

"I'm gonna let you be the guy to tell him that. Do you know who he is, Mr. Dobbis?"

Dobbis didn't appreciate Mike's effort at humor. "Who he is, or who he thinks he is?"

He adjusted his tie and the collar of his shirt before speaking again. "Talya and I had an affair ten years ago, maybe more. Long before either one of us was married. Neither she nor I had any reason to hide it. It drained me of a fortune in yellow roses every time she curtsied to the crowd and caused an ulcer I'm still nursing today. When Talya decided to end the whole thing, it was actually a blessing."

"Never got the urge to revisit the territory?"

"Not even to look at the map, detective."

"Artistic differences? Anything to squabble about?"

"Of course we had those. She wanted things to be all Talya all the time. She liked a good fight, and the older she got, the more unwelcoming she was to the young dancers who were getting the starred reviews. I spend an inordinate amount of time juggling personalities instead of directing talent."