"Where then?"

"There are only ten places in the world where Torrey's mountain mint survives, so far as we know. There's a site on Staten Island called Clay Pit Ponds State Park. You can check with the city's Department of Environmental Preservation. There was a big brouhaha last year over a large shopping plaza that was planned for the location. Pickets and protesters and green-lovers. This sweet little endangered plant held up construction of a hundred-million-dollar mall project."

Mike was writing down the names. "Where else?"

"High mountain, detective. The mint thrives for some reason in the Preakness Range of the Watchung Mountains. Do you know where that is?"

I said, "No," while Mike answered at the same time, "Yeah, doc. Across the river in New Jersey, right? I'll explain it to her. Anywhere else in the Northeast?"

"No. No. Just these two patches. We're keeping a close watch. We'd obviously love to find more of it."

"Thanks a lot for your help," Mike said, ending the conversation.

"So what don't I know about the Watchung Mountains that I should?"

"It's a nature preserve with some of the most magnificent vistas of the city. Now, if you'd paid a little more attention in your history class, you'd know that it's got some of the highest ridges anywhere along the Hudson, and that Revolutionary soldiers used those points for signaling stations against the British troops."

"Nice to know, but-"

"And in World War Two, the army mounted mobile antiaircraft guns on top of High Mountain in case the Nazis made it over the ocean. They should have kept the frigging things there to welcome those Al Qaeda bastards in 2001. A lot of people I care about might still be alive."

"Where in New Jersey is it, Mike?"

"I was serious, Coop. Right across the Hudson. I'll tell you what else is there. Rock shelters-caves that were used by the Indians for hundreds of years."

"So?"

"So how about that it's not very far from where your spelunker friend lives."

"My what?"

"Chet Dobbis. Artistic director of the Metropolitan Opera. Rock climber, wig collector, former lover of Natalya Galinova. Maybe he tracked in a little mint on his cleats."

Lieutenant Peterson was waiting for us when we arrived at the opera house. The task force members were still sprawled out across the elegant boardroom, their cardboard cartons seeming to have spawned dozens of offspring since my last visit. We grabbed two folding chairs from a pile against the wall and sat down to talk about the latest developments.

"What does Joe Berk's DNA give you?" Peterson asked.

"A reason to look at him again. May be the first step in developing probable cause."

"We can't use that hit, Mike," I said. "We'll have to get back to that square some other way."

"So I'll get him to spit at me. It probably wouldn't take much. But now Chet Dobbis looks as good as Berk does."

"Slow down, Chapman," the lieutenant said, standing up to reach for a box of index cards. "When you called me with the news about that rare mint plant an hour ago, I sifted through these-we've made one for each of the four hundred permanent employees here. Forget the per diems. At least sixty men who work on the staff live in north Jersey, and another fifty live on Staten Island."

"And how many of those guys are in the pool that still haven't been excluded, who were supposed to be in the opera house on Friday night?"

"Roughly? About thirty of them live out in Jersey or on Staten Island. But now we've got to go back and double-check the residential locations of all the others, comparing them to Clay Pit Ponds State Park and the Watchung Mountains. That's in addition to the people in Galinova's personal life that you're looking at."

"How many famous killers-I mean, sort of household name killers-were fat guys?" Mike asked.

Peterson and I looked at him quizzically.

"Like David Berkowitz-Son of Sam-he was chubby. Bluebeard, in drawings, they always make him look hefty. Fatty Arbuckle-I guess the name says all you need to know. Think about it, though. Most killers are lean and mean."

Peterson ignored Mike and went back to reviewing pedigree information on index cards while I tried to figure out where his non sequitur was going.

"Malvo and Mohammed-the D.C. snipers-they were lean. The Menendez brothers-skinny. O.J.-well built but trim. Ma Barker- no fat there. I can't think of a lot of fat murderers."

"You never watched The Sopranos?" Peterson asked. "Tony S., Big Pussy-they had a ton of overweight perps."

"That's television. Dillinger-thin as a rail. Manson-malnowr-ished. Bundy, Dahmer, that fertilizer salesman from Modesto who gave your namesakes a bad rep-all lean."

"Maybe if you told me why you want to-" I started to ask.

"'Cause over your shoulder, Coop," Mike said, pointing to the glass door, "is a porky little liar who looks like a homicidal maniac, and I think he's after you."

I turned my head to see Rinaldo Vicci, still swathed in the lavender scarf, standing outside the fancy room that had been commandeered for the investigation. We were on the level of the parterre boxes of the empty theater, so there could be no other purpose for which he was lurking. I smiled at him and waved him in, but he shook his head from side to side.

"Throw him a crumb, Coop. Go see what he wants."

I got up from the table and let myself out into the carpeted hallway. The auditorium doors were open now, and the orchestra rehearsal of the triumphal march from Aida filled the lobby with the rich sounds of its music

Vicci walked ahead of me to the floor-length window that overlooked the plaza and fountain. "Thank you, Signora Cooper. I saw you come in earlier, and I had a few questions to ask you."

He was one of those people who had trouble making eye contact. He looked at my face when he talked to me, but his eyes focused on a spot inches away from mine, giving them a bizarre cast and making it hard to gauge his credibility.

"Why are you here today, Mr. Vicci? I mean, why at the Met?"

He motioned in the direction of the stage with the tail of the scarf. "A young tenor I represent. He's going to understudy the role of Radames. Signore Dobbis has been gracious enough to let me sit in on rehearsals."

Vicci took a few steps closer to the window and gazed out at the pedestrians who were enjoying the spring morning. "The girl, Ms. Cooper, I feel so badly about the girl. I've been calling the hospital, but they won't tell me nothing because-"

"Lucy DeVore?"

"Yes, of course. Miss Lucy. Her condition, they won't tell me since I am not a relative of hers. Is she going to live?"

"The doctors expect she will, Mr. Vicci. Personally, I hope they'll bring her out of the coma in the next week or so. The test of you are so uncooperative, I expect she'll be able to give us some useful information," I said. "She's not going to die, if that's what you and your cohorts were hoping. They're just trying to control the pain levels this way."

Vicci coughed and spent seconds clearing his throat. It seemed to me he was stalling, as he reached for something in his pocket and seemed unable to speak. When he resumed the conversation, his accent seemed to have thickened dramatically and he clutched at the scarf. "Of course I don't want her to die. What a shocking thought. A lozenge?"

"No, thanks. You were supposed to call me about Lucy after you checked in your office. Tell me what your file said about how she got to you."

Vicci closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead between his thumb and forefinger. "I'm in a very precarious situation, signora. I'm so afraid that if I gossip about things, someone will be angry with me."

"What you tell me in the course of this investigation is confidential. Nobody will know the information comes from you." We were standing in the most open, visible space within the opera house, but there didn't seem to be anyone in a position to notice. "I understand from some of the other witnesses that it was you who invited Hubert Alden to be at the audition the other day. In fact, we know that Ms. Galinova-Talya-was supposed to be the person on that broken swing. Not Lucy DeVore."