"Progress? You still got a ballerina in a refrigerator down at the morgue and me itching to put cuffs on Joe-do-you-know-who-I-am-Berk. Progress is when I ratchet those little metal bracelets on some-body's wrists."

"When do we check the place out?" Mercer asked.

Mike looked at his watch. "It's almost three o'clock. Let's get up there while there's still someone to show us around. Where are your wheels?"

" Bayard Street. Near the sleazebag bail bondsman's office."

"I'm in front of the building. Let's use mine. Chow down, blondie."

The ride up Avenue of the Americas was slowed by traffic. I tried to nap in a corner of the cluttered rear seat of Mike's department car. I didn't have to count sheep-I had an even longer list, it seemed, of suspects who had eluded the long arm of the law this past week: the Turkish doctor who drugged his victims; Ramon Carido, the rapist who'd been bitten by a dog; and Ralph Harney, the stagehand who'd gotten a stand-in rather than provide us with a sample of his DNA.

"Ralph Harney," I said aloud. "You think he knows enough about electrical stuff to have been the guy who blackened the apartments and waited for me last night?"

Mike cocked his head and looked at me in the rearview mirror. "He's a stagehand, not an electrician."

"But he's worked around all that elaborate stage wiring for years. Had to pick something up, the jobs are so intertwined," Mercer said. "Worth looking at. The guys he works with could tell us how much he knows."

There was a hotel loading zone half a block east of City Center. Mike pulled in and parked the car.

As we approached the theater-the great expanse of sandstone capped by its monumental dome-a huddle of young women walked out of the building, stopping on the sidewalk to talk among themselves. Their long legs resting in the turned-out position of dancers, towels around their necks, suggested they had just finished the day's warm-up or class.

Behind them, another woman rushed out of the door, seemingly agitated that her path was blocked. She shifted from one side to the other, nudging the girl closest to her in order to pass by and run out into the street to flag down a Yellow Cab. She tossed her large black tote into the rear seat and climbed in after it.

It was impossible to tell whether she ignored the three of us or simply didn't hear Mike Chapman call for her by name to get her to stop. Mona Berk slammed the door of the taxi and took off down the one-way street.

The two security guards inside the lobby were less than impressed with Mike's gold shield. They kept no sign-in book at this entrance, although there was one on the 56th Street side, where the center's offices were located. And no, they had no idea who any of the women were who had left a short while ago.

One of the men called upstairs to have someone from management escort us inside. While we waited, I stepped back out on the sidewalk to look at the front of the theater. The words Mecca Temple were too many stories above for me to see-as Alden had suggested-but the other Islamic architectural motifs were impossible to mistake.

I noted as if for the first time the arcade of horseshoe arches in the tawny sandstone, the attached columns and capitals framed by the traditional Arabic alfiz, and the colorful glazed tiles that set the building apart from the low brick structures on either side. The massive facade was dotted with lancet windows, again in the Moorish style, which must have provided the only natural light to the areas behind the auditorium seats in the upper balconies.

Inside the foyer, Mike and Mercer's impatience was clear as they paced between the advance ticket sales window and a wall on the far end, postered with coming events.

"Detective Chapman? Ms. Schiller sent me down to answer your questions. My name is Stan," the young man said, extending his hand to each of us. "How can we help?"

"We're investigating the homicide that occurred at the Met ten days ago."

"Miss Galinova, of course."

"We understand that she rented studio space here for class and rehearsal."

"Yes, she did. We were privileged to have her."

"We're going to have to look around. We need to see where she worked, whether she kept a locker here, any record of her comings and goings or who might have visited her. People she mixed with, dancers who might have noticed her guests, men who-"

"Perhaps we can schedule an appropriate time to do this. I hadn't realized how much ground you need to cover." Stan tried to reach an arm out to stop Mike from entering the lobby, but he was too late.

"We might as well get started," Mercer said.

Mike had climbed the six steps that led to the rear of the auditorium, so completely different in style from the Met and other theaters we had seen. Mercer and I stepped up behind him for a look.

I had never seen the old house empty. Tier after tier of red velvet seats spread outward like a great fan, with shiny brass railings that ran along the aisles. The stage with its arched proscenium looked enormous; above and around the ceiling was the lacy grillwork typical of Moorish design-large perforated stars arrayed as cutouts above the orchestra and over the balcony seats-and gleaming ivory paint accented with rich gold metallic trim.

"Coop, take a look at the seats."

Below the armrest of each seat on the aisle was an intricately engraved panel, and in the middle of each one was the letter M.

"Miss Galinova had nothing to do with the auditorium, detective," Stan said, pushing up the sleeve of his shirt to check the time. "I'm leaving for the day at five, but if you'd like me to take you up to the office tower, I can give you an idea of where she worked."

He led us out through the lobby. "If you don't mind walking up a flight, we can actually connect through to the other space from within the theater without going outside to the Fifty-sixth Street entrance."

"We saw a woman leaving as we pulled up," Mike said. "Mona Berk. D'you know her? She have an office here?"

"I have no idea who she is. The name means nothing to me."

I walked beside Stan on the broad staircase as Mike and Mercer hurried ahead. "Very grand looking, isn't it?" I said as we reached the mezzanine.

The wide expanse was unlike the cramped spaces in Broadway theater lobbies, with beautifully stenciled coffered ceilings and thick carpeting.

"When the Shriners built Mecca Temple, this was one of the gentlemen's lounges. It was their smoking lodge, actually. Lots of sofas and sitting chairs, spittoons beside them. Marble floors with Moroccan carpets. The old boys were very interested in their comfort and elegance. Watch your heads, please."

We all stooped to exit the auditorium area and emerged into a dingy hallway that led to the office tower.

"Careful where you walk. This is the only way through to the studios, and it has to be kept unlocked. It's the only fire exit on this side of the building. But it's worth your life to get through here at the moment," Stan said, guiding me around piles of gels and high-top sleeves that once covered the spots from recesses overhead. "We're replacing a lot of the lighting equipment, modernizing to a digital system."

The path was cluttered with all the backstage theatrical magic that brought the stage alive, and Mike was annoyed at me for tiptoeing around the mess and slowing him down.

"Sorry, Mr. Chapman. Mecca was entirely gaslit when it was built in the twenties. Between that and the smoking habits of a lot of the performers and workmen, we've always had to take extraordinary precautions against fire."

A few corridors away we reached a bank of elevators.

"I'll take you up to seven. That's where Ms. Galinova liked to work."