"So far. But I'm hoping you'll help us behind the scenes," Mike said.

"What do you mean?" Dobbis asked, as I studied the costumes he had hung on wall displays and in shadow boxes.

"You're likely to hear things because of your position. I'm talking about things no one will tell us. Workers who may be reluctant to give up their colleagues or supervisors who may try to protect one of their own might not spill the beans to the police. It happens in whatever setting we're looking at. Museum staff, hospital employees, teachers-you're far more likely to hear the rumors and gossip about the internal goings-on that we may never get wind of."

"Surely, Mr. Chapman, you're not going to operate from rumors and gossip to solve a murder?"

"I'm not going to ignore them, either. Sometimes they just lead us the right way, sometimes they're dead-on accurate. Not all gossip is unfounded."

Chet Dobbis seemed to flinch at Mike's statement, as though he was taking it personally. He turned to me and changed the subject.

"You're interested in my collection?" he asked, smoothing the front of his suit jacket. "That's the outfit Grace Bumbry wore when she did the dance of the seven veils. Salome. Do you know it?"

I nodded my head. "And this one?"

"Turandot. The emperor's costume," Dobbis said, stepping over to finger the elaborately woven silk kimono that hung from the wall. "Zeffirelli may be the most brilliant director we've ever had at the Met, but he cost us a fortune in costumes and scenery for every production."

"Why are these particular things here, rather than on display downstairs?"

"Naturally, everything in the collection is archived. It's one of my perks to choose some of the more colorful items, some of my personal favorites, to decorate my office. It's a good hook when I'm'trying to raise money from people who come in for meetings."

Mike pointed to a long pole across the near edge of Dobbis's desk, too shiny and modern to be part of a traditional costume. "That looks lethal. Where did that come from?"

"It has nothing to do with the Met, I assure you. I'm a rock climber, Mr. Chapman. And a spelunker-you know, caves and that sort of thing. That pole is for trekking. It's got a precision steel tip at the point, to help get a foothold in the ice or between rocks, and it probably is pretty deadly. I live across the river, near the Palisades, and I was setting out to climb on Saturday morning when I was called back here because of Talya. I never leave my equipment in the car-it's an easy target for thieves and quite expensive to replace, so I carried it in when I parked."

I was staring at the assortment of wigs that were mounted on shelves next to the door.

"Tell me about these."

"We make everything in-house, Ms. Cooper. Every single piece of clothing, even the wigs. You've got wonderful examples there," he said, pointing at the variety of styles, "from Dr. Faust's receding hair-line to Madame Butterfly's thick upsweep."

"This one? The one on the top shelf with the long white hair?"

"Falstaff. I'm quite sure that's Falstaff."

Mike picked up my cue. "Pretty natural looking. What are they made of?"

"Human hair, of course," Dobbis said, lifting the closest wig from its stand. "Very costly, but that's still the way we do it here. Manon Lescaut, this, with all the curls and pompadours of eighteenth-century France. You see? There's a very fine mesh, which is actually glued to the singer's forehead during the performance. The hairs are knotted through that mesh. It takes three or four days to make each one of these."

"Besides you, Mr. Dobbis, who else has costumes and props available to them?" I asked.

He thought for a minute. "I'm not really sure. I don't suppose they're easily accessed. Occasionally, when they're worn-out and need to be replaced, I guess the employees get to keep some of them. The ones in better shape are auctioned off at our annual gala, along with the used pointe shoes of the dancers, as you probably know."

"These wigs," I asked, "where are they normally kept?"

Dobbis handed the one he was holding to Mike. "In the wig shop, upstairs, under lock and key, I'm sure. They're all made from human hair except for these white ones," he said, pointing at the one he had just given to Mike.

Mike rubbed the strands between his fingers. "Could have fooled me. These don't feel artificial at all."

"Nothing here is artificial, detective. It's just that human hair that's white," Dobbis said, "well, it tends to turn yellow under the stage lights. We like to keep everything natural, everything real-so all the white wigs that are used at the Met are made from animal hair. It keeps its color better. The hair in every one of the white wigs comes from albino yaks, actually. Tibetan yaks."

Mike's raised eyebrows gave away his surprise. "Have I startled you, Mr. Chapman?" Dobbis asked, smugly strutting back to his desk as though he had scored a point in a sporting competition.

"You got that right. I'm thinking blondie here, with all her peroxide, is no match for an albino yak. I got my niece's first holy communion coming up in two weeks and I just about freaked thinking Coop is such a stickler for detail that she's likely to send me on an extradition to the Himalayas for a live yak."

Dobbis couldn't figure whether Mike was trying to be fanny or not. "This matter about the hair-the wigs-is it serious?"

"Nothing that the Dalai Lama and I can't figure out," Mike said, walking to the door of Dobbis's room. "Excuse me. I meant the Dalai Lama, Richard Gere, and I."

Mike stopped to tell Peterson the news about the animal hair. "Let's see if we can get a fix on the wig shop upstairs. See what kind of inventory they keep. Maybe there's something missing from last week. That stuff must be expensive to make so they've got to keep careful track of it. Maybe we can get a photo or duplicate. If the killer who intercepted Galinova was wearing a white wig, it would change his entire appearance."

Employees were being questioned not only about their own activities on Friday night, but about strangers they saw in the hallways and backstage area before and after the performance. These descriptions might have less use to us if the perp had altered his appearance during the course of the evening.

Peterson asked about Dobbis's collection. "You think he had access?"

"I could kick myself for letting him see how thrown off I was by his answer. Anyway, the wigs he's got on display are period costumes. He'd draw a little attention to himself walking around like he's the French king, but who knows what he's got in his drawers? A wig with a contemporary cut-well, whoever was wearing it might just look like a distinguished gentleman. A diversion, a strong feature you'd be sure to remember if you passed him in a hallway or rode up with him in an elevator."

"Or maybe," I said, "the killer wanted someone to think he was Joe Berk. See a shock of white hair-or even better, just plant a few on the floor to throw us off base-knowing Berk was having some kind of liaison with Talya. Create an illusion-that's what costumes are all about. Launch a red herring to send us in Berk's direction."

"So who knew that about Berk and Galinova?" Peterson asked.

"Dobbis, of course. Rinaldo Vicci, her agent. I can't imagine it was a secret from some of the crew who worked backstage with her the past few days, and at rehearsals the week before. Talya was very visible, and Berk picked her up from the Met a few times."

"And then there's Berk's family," Mike said. "I could put on some protective armor and get into that hornet's nest."

Peterson turned back to his temporary squad headquarters. "All nice to know once we get past the most obvious likelihood. I've studied the case file from the old Met murder case. The odds are pretty good that Talya was a random pick-bumped into the wrong guy in a deserted corridor or staircase, just like that doomed violinist. He makes a pass, she rejects it, and he goes wild. A scenario Alex has seen dozens of times before."