He stopped twisting the fringed edge of his scarf and almost choked on his lozenge. My comment had the desired effect. I wanted him to know other witnesses were talking to us, even though none had said as much as I would have liked.

Again, Vicci cleared his throat. "This is a very-how you say-a very unforgiving business, Ms. Cooper. Actors, singers, dancers- both the men and the women-every day of their life is an audition.

Everybody they speak to, every appearance they make, somebody is judging them for the next leading role, maybe the next bit part."

"Galinova wanted to try out in front of Mona Berk?"

Vicci made the sign of the cross as he bit his lip. "Joe Berk would kill me if he knew I arranged for her to do this. That's why Talya and I made up the story that she fired me. It was Talya who called Mona. Mona's fiance, actually-Ross Kehoe."

"How did Talya know Kehoe?"

"From years ago, I think, when he worked for Joe Berk."

"Ross Kehoe was an employee of Joe's, and now he's engaged to Mona Berk? I bet Uncle Joe isn't happy about that. What kind of job did he have?"

Vicci didn't seem to know. "In the theater, he did things for Joe. I saw him around, but I can't tell you his title. Was nothing very serious, I can assure you."

Hadn't Kehoe told us that he'd never met Natalya Galinova? Mike would know if that's what he said in our first meeting with him.

"And Lucy DeVore? Please, Mr. Vicci, I need to know how she fits in with these people. I need to know who brought her to you."

Again the coughing fit, the hand covering the mouth to delay the answer-maybe to filter it. Again the throat lozenge. "I-uh-I told you I didn't represent her, that I was doing a favor for a friend, no?"

"You did. Now who's the friend?"

"It was Joe himself, Joe Berk who told me to take the girl around. Get her a job, get her on her feet. Most of all to find her a rich man she could-shall I tell you Joe's word? A rich man she could hustle."

"A man like Hubert Alden?"

"Exactly, signora."

"Because Joe Berk was involved with her?"

"No, no. I believe Joe when he tells me this. I know his taste in women, and is not this girl. But he was very unhappy with Lucy," Vicci said, crushing the candy in his teeth. "Miss Lucy was making a play for Joe's son-the baby one."

"Briggs?"

"Yes, Briggs, Ms. Cooper. Joe found out about it and thought she was trash-you call in English a gold digger. He tried to buy her off himself-give her money, threaten to keep her away from the boy."

"Threaten Lucy with what? Threaten to hurt her, like what happened to her on Tuesday?"

"No, no. I'm sure he meant only to hurt her career, not the girl herself," Vicci said, protesting the inference I'd made. "Joe didn't need to do something that extreme. You know, he only had to tell Briggs he'd disinherit him if he stayed with the cheap showgirl. The boy isn't pazzo, Ms. Cooper. He's not so crazy he'd give up the Berk fortune for a hillbilly who can sing and dance."

The music had stopped now and someone was calling out directions for a scenery change.

"What about the money, Mr. Vicci? She was living in the Elk Hotel. It doesn't look like anyone paid her off for anything."

He raised his head back and put his forefinger above his lip, sniffing as he did. "Up her nose, Ms. Cooper. Briggs, too. Most of the money was spent on cocaine. That's how come the boy dropped his foolish lawsuit. He wouldn't make it without his father's money, not at the rate he snorts white powder. He had to come back into the fold."

"And Lucy's family. Do you-"

"Honestly, I tell you the truth. This I don't know. And I don't think she wanted anyone to know who she was or where she came from. She had a little talent, Ms. Cooper, a nice voice and quite an able dancer. Mostly what she had to sell were her looks-and her body."

"Let's hope there's something left to that when she starts to recover."

A shrill scream blasted off the stage and rang out across the tiered lobby. I could make out the voices and sounds of men fighting with each other and hear the low rumble of something mechanical moving behind the scrim. "He's a lying bastard," were the only words shouted out clearly enough for me to understand.

I ran to the glass-doored boardroom and pounded on it to get Mike's attention. As I grabbed the banister to fly down the winding staircase, the flat metal curtain suspended behind the elegant velvet swag slammed to the floor to cut off the auditorium from the violent encounter taking place backstage.

Mike overtook me and pushed past the security guard to open the door that led to stage right behind the curtain.

The crew looked like players on the field at Yankee Stadium whenever the dugout emptied if they believed that a Boston pitcher intentionally had beaned a batter. Six guys were restraining one of the hands, who was trying to pull away from them and free his arms. Others were arguing among themselves, pushing and shoving, paying no attention to the three supervisors who were trying to calm everyone down.

One man was lying on the floor, writhing in pain, his ankle twisted off to the side so that his foot appeared to have sustained a major injury.

Someone was standing at the control panel, moving levers, and the wagon on which we were standing-the entire stage-right platform- began to move away from the main stage. I steadied myself against the papier-mache side of an Egyptian pyramid.

Mike grabbed the arm of one of the men in the melee and several of the other detectives who had followed him downstairs from the makeshift office helped to restore order. "What happened?"

"An accident."

"Maybe I'll have to ask for everyone's driver's license. Make sure you don't run over anybody with all this equipment. It's too frigging dangerous here at the Met. I'll try again-what happened?"

One of the men in carpenter's pants turned to walk away. "Something moved when it wasn't supposed to. That's all. There's a reason we call this place the House of Pain. There's a lot of ways to get hurt if you don't watch yourself-the fly system, the electrical panels, and even the curtain slams down at high speed. It's not a matter for the police."

"What moved?" Mike asked, aware that the decent workmen had wearied of the detectives who had been poring over their personal lives for the last week.

"That wagon," he said, pointing to the stage on which we were standing.

The entire system of four rotating stages was electrical, not hydraulic. I could see the pulley cable bringing the giant platform- forty by sixty feet-back into place. It had been activated unexpectedly, and one man's leg had been caught as the right wagon shifted under the main stage.

Mike directed his attention to the injured man. "You okay, buddy? We'll get you a doctor to look at the leg."

He was sitting upright now, rubbing his ankle. "There's a medical office here. They'll check me out."

The man in the green-plaid shirt who had been restrained by his coworkers broke away from them. "Buddy, my ass. Tell 'em who you are. Tell ' em or I will."

The man with the twisted foot was bleeding from the side of his mouth. The shriek we heard when his leg was caught under the colliding wagons must have followed a punch.

Mike walked into the group of men and told them to step back. Several protested, not willing to leave him alone with their angry colleague. They muttered about the work that had to get done and the rehearsal that was in progress.

Detectives helped the injured man to his feet and watched him test his ankle. He shook them off and started to limp away.

"Harney!" the guy with Mike screamed out. "Don't go too far. You better tell the detectives where you were last Friday."