At the far end of the room, six detectives were seated at makeshift desks. Each was talking one-on-one to men we assumed were part of the permanent Met crew. The auditorium doors were open and Prokofiev's music from the late-morning rehearsal drifted up as soothing background for the serious conversations about observations, alibis, and incriminating evidence.

Lieutenant Peterson greeted us and told us to claim some empty piece of tabletop as our own. "Don't get too comfortable, either. Rule is we got to clear out of here by six o'clock. Everything gone from the room, ashtrays empty, soda cans and Krispy Kremes carted along with us. Doors open at six and curtain's up at eight. All cops and other forms of lowlife have to be out of sight."

"What, loo, you surprised? The show must go on. Guess all that gilt and crystal and marble must distract people. Make them forget someone was murdered right under their noses."

"You still got your contacts up at the Botanical Garden, Alex?" Peterson asked.

The last case we had worked together had taken us to the most exquisite land in the five boroughs, a piece of the city with a pristine native forest, acres of cultured gardens, and a river with a deceptively deadly waterfall. New York's Botanical Garden was renowned for its spectacular conservatory filled with rare plants from all over the world, seasonal displays of orchids and exotic flowers, and a scholarly staff dedicated to the understanding and conservation of the plant kingdom.

"I'm sure they haven't forgotten us."

"The head of the police lab called me an hour ago. They're stumped. You know that odor of mint you both smelled on the two ribbons from Galinova's shoe? It's not from floss like you thought, Alex. Crime Scene picked up a couple of crushed leaves with the same scent from the hallway she was thrown from. She must have stepped on them during the struggle. They're thinking maybe someone at the garden can identify the greens, give us a source for the kind of plant it is."

"The research department there is first-rate. You tell the guys at the lab to transport a sample to the Bronx," I said. "I'll find you a botanist."

"How's the talk going?" Mike said, gesturing at the interviewers.

Peterson picked up his clipboard. "So far, we've gotten through eighty-six guys. Fourteen with criminal records-minor stuff-a few driving intox, a couple of petty thefts and harassments, some drug possession. Nothing to get excited about."

"You find the masseur who was rubbing the swan's feathers when Joe Berk showed up in her dressing room? I imagine he's got some upper body strength," Mike said.

"He's covered," Peterson said, flipping to the page of notes for that interview. "No shortage of dancers waiting for him when he left Galinova's room. I got one sugarplum fairy and two bluebirds who swear he was working on them, one after another, the rest of the evening."

"Did he tell you what Berk fought with her about?" I asked.

"Says she starting cursing at him for being late-then went off on a tirade in Russian. The masseur didn't get a word of it-just the volume and tone of voice. Berk told him to get lost so he folded up his table and slipped away while the temperamental duo went on shouting at each other."

I was impressed at the progress Peterson's men were making. "Did anyone have a chance to speak with the ballet mistress? Sandra-I think it's Sandra Braun. She came in when we were talking with Chet Dobbis," I reminded the lieutenant. "She didn't show up Friday night. That leaves both of them without an alibi."

Peterson thumbed back through the pages of notes. "Bad for him, good for her. Twenty-four-hour pharmacy around the corner from her house confirms delivery of antibiotics that she signed for at eight thirty-seven. We got a Xerox of the slip she signed."

"You're really moving on this, loo."

"That's not counting the walk-ins, Alex."

"Who?

"Like one of the girls from New York City Ballet," he said, referring to the legendary company founded by George Balanchine and Lincoln Kirstein, housed in the adjacent State Theater, which shared the Lincoln Center plaza. "She came in this morning to file a complaint about a stagehand who tried to molest her on her way home one night last year. Never reported it to the precinct."

"She I.D. him?"

"Yeah. He was fired six months ago. Bad cocaine habit led to a sloppy attendance record. It's the no-shows that got him kicked out. We'll run him down."

"If she'd reported the damn thing when it happened," Mike said, "we'd have had a lead on him by this time. You fingerprinting?"

"Every damn one. Fingers and palms, photographs, buccal swabs." The last technique, putting each man's saliva on a Q-tip, would give us DNA for every employee.

"Anybody balk yet?"

"Most of 'em are really decent guys, very cooperative. There are a few who don't want to go the whole route. One guy's got a paternity case pending and doesn't want anybody to have his DNA. And then there's some of the crew that haven't even been back here since Friday night, 'cause of shift changes and all that. So we don't know if people are avoiding us or just out of the loop till they show up for work."

"So this could take-"

"Don't even think days. You could be vested by the time we're through here. I could be in my retirement home in Key West, sucking margaritas through my IV tube before we even finish with the house crew."

I stood at the glass partition, looking at the carpeted staircase that wound down to the lobby. There was a surreal air to this investigation, cops on one side of the glass talking murder and autopsy, palm prints, and genetic profiles, while below me, Sleeping Beauty's father-dressed in his crown, robe, and tights-was strolling out of the theater into the sunshine to grab a soda with the witch whose knitting needle felled the young princess.

"Has Chet Dobbis been any help?" Mike asked.

"The artistic director? All he cares about is keeping us out of the way of the people who give him money. I'm telling you, every damn one of these ballets and operas is about somebody getting killed. In every single one of them somebody dies," Peterson said. "But the minute life imitates art, nobody wants to know about it."

"You need me here?"

"You and Alex do what you gotta do. When we narrow this down to some viable suspects, you'll get the first crack at them."

Mike was a skilled interrogator. He had exacted admissions to murders in which there was no physical evidence, building solid cases with little more than his exquisite understanding of the criminal mind and his ability to elicit confessions that would have impressed the most accomplished priests.

We took the elevator up to the executive wing and found Chet Dobbis's office. There was no one with him and his assistant waited until he got off the phone before she showed us in.

"Anything wrong, Mr. Chapman? Or should I expect to see you every day till you've put this matter to bed?"

"What do you call all those extras in the opera?"

"Supernumeraries, detective. Supers."

"Well, think of me as a super-whatever. I'll be in and out all the time till we close a noose around the bastard who killed Galinova. Hope it doesn't rattle your nerves."

Dobbis's suite held an assortment of Met treasures. A framed poster of the very first performance-Leontyne Price and Justino Diaz in Antony and Cleopatra-dominated one wall, surrounded by signed photographs from many of the divas who had sung here over the years. There were grateful inscriptions from Placido Domingo and Renee Fleming, and a triumphant photograph of the brilliant Beverly Sills in her Met debut as Pamira, in the 1975 production of The Siege of Corinth, which won her an eighteen-minute ovation.

"The lieutenant seems to have everything he needs downstairs."