Death Dance (9 page)

Mike and Mercer joined me to make way for Hal Sherman, who had
to photograph the body from every aspect before anyone could move the
dancer from her painful pose.

When that was done, Dr. Kestenbaum, the medical examiner on
duty, put on his lab suit, gloves, and booties, looking more like a
space traveler than a forensic pathologist as he approached the air
shaft. Within minutes, Kestenbaum returned and signaled the ambulance
crew to bag the body.

We circled around him to see what he had to say. "I think you
could have done this without me."

"Yeah, doc," Mike said. "But what killed her?"

"Skull fracture. Broken neck with cervical spinal injuries.
Hands bound behind her back so nothing to cushion the blow before the
head struck. Massive contrecoup contusions—a classic result
of a fall. You and I had one like that before, Mike."

I had seen the photos of the brain in Mike's case in which a
man was pushed off the roof of one of the city's great museums. The
brain rebounds backward from the skull after striking with such great
force, leaving the devastating marks at the location directly opposite
the point of impact.

The young doctor turned to me. "Doesn't look like your
Baliwick, Ms. Cooper. The leotard and tights are in place. No signs of
an attempt at sexual assault."

Mercer wasn't giving up the connection that would keep a
Special Victims Squad detective in the case. "The murder may have been
the result of a relationship she was involved in. Too early to tell.
Alex and I are in this for the long haul."

I couldn't tell whether Mercer said this because he was
professionally interested in who killed Talya or because he wanted to
remain in the case for the purpose of shoring Mike up as we got him
back in the saddle for what would now be a high-profile investigation.

"You'll want these things," Kestenbaum said to Mike, handing
him several brown paper bags.

Mike opened the first one and passed it to me. Inside was one
of Talya's pointe shoes—soft white satin with the hard
surface at the front that allowed her to dance on her toes. The two
ribbons that crisscrossed and laced around the ankles seemed to be
missing.

"Did this tear off during the fall?" I asked.

"No," Kestenbaum said. "Check one of the other bags. The perp
must have made her take one slipper off before he killed her."

Each piece of evidence was bagged separately, to prevent the
transfer of any substance—even microscopic
amounts—from one item to another. It was collected in
ordinary brown paper, so that surfaces damp from blood or water would
dry out, rather than mildew in the plastic. In a second bag, then, were
two strands of ribbon.

"The shoe landed underneath her body. We'll have to study the
pattern of the blood to see exactly how it spattered or dripped. Those
ribbons were used to tie her hands behind her back. Much easier to toss
her into the pit without her able to struggle or resist. I'm actually
surprised there's no gag."

"That's 'cause this monster's turned off now. Sounded like a
fleet of 747s on takeoff when we got here," Mike said. "Would have
drowned out anything."

Mercer's gloved hand reached for the smaller bag. He removed
the two pieces of ribbon, an ivory white satin that matched the color
of the pointe shoes exactly, and examined them. The ends that had been
sewn onto the shoe had been ripped off. He sniffed at the ribbons.

"Smells like mint, don't they?" he said, extending his hand to
me.

"Yeah. Could be flavored dental floss. The girls are each
responsible for their own shoes—breaking them in, coating the
toes with resin, sewing on the ribbons," I said. The class that I took
on Saturdays had several of American Ballet Theater's soloists in it.
They often relaxed between sessions, stretched against the wall below
the barres and covered in their leg warmers, preparing some of the
dozens of shoes they danced through every season for the week's
performances.

"Floss?" Kestenbaum asked. "We'll have the lab test to make
sure."

"That's the latest thing in the studio—it's replaced
old-fashioned thread 'cause it's stronger and thicker."

A small manila envelope was the third package Kestenbaum
handed Mike. "Looks like your victim pulled a tuft of these oat of
somebody's head."

There were eight or ten strands of hair, white and silky.
"Were they in her hand?" I asked.

"Not when she landed. Hard to say, after being bounced against
the walls on her way down. A few were clinging to the tulle skirt in
the back, so they may have been in her fist before she got banged
around."

"Will you be able to do mitochondrial DNA?" It was a much
slower process used for human hair—and a different
one—than that used with body fluids, and still more
controversial in regard to acceptance in the courtroom,

"If she didn't get these out by the root, then, yes, we'll
have to do mito. We'll send them down to the FBI overnight." This form
of testing could be done when the entire root of the hair was not
available for traditional nuclear DNA work, using just the shaft that
often rubbed or sloughed off against clothing or other surfaces.

"Where'd this come from?" Mike asked, removing a small black
object from the last envelope.

"Not to worry. Hal got a picture before I moved it. It was
likely to fall out when they picked up the body," the pathologist said.
"It was caught in the netting of the skirt. Most likely an artifact of
some sort that she picked up during the drop to her death. I didn't
want to leave it behind because some defense attorney will end up
seeing it in the photos and accuse me of throwing it away. I don't know
what it is."

"You've been spending too much time under the microscope. You
need to give your brain a rest and work with your hands every now and
then," Mike said. "Never saw a bent twenty in your life?"

I leaned over for a look. It was a nail, bent at a
ninety-degree angle in the middle.

"They're everywhere here. Go back to the design shop, they're
probably what hinges every piece of scenery you see. When workers put
the different panels of plywood together, after they've moved them onto
the stage, they hammer 'em in place using these little suckers to hold
them. I bet there's more bent twenties in the Met than there are peanut
shells at Yankee Stadium."

"You getting ideas?" Mercer asked.

"Tell the commissioner this one will take a task force the
size of an army. By the time we interview everyone on staff, run raps
on all of them, check alibis, and begin to think about strangers who
might have worked their way inside, I'll be old enough to put in my
papers for retirement."

We started back toward the elevators. "Don't you think we
ought to get this theater shut down for the night?"

"That's the first subject that reared its ugly head before you
and Mercer got here this afternoon. I was turned down flat. Not even
the PC can get it done, but he's got the mayor working on it. Why
should a frigging murder get in the way of a few hundred thousand bucks
at the box office?"

When the elevator doors opened on one, Chet Dobbis was waiting
for us. "Word's spread around here pretty quickly. Rinaldo Vicci has
gone to call Talya's husband, and I'll have to deal with the media. May
I—may I see her before… ?"

"Nope. You can pay your respects at the funeral home. This
stuff isn't for amateurs," Mike said. "Better make some space for us.
We'll be living under your roof for a while."

"I thought you'd do this from the station house, detective,"
Dobbis said, pulling tighter on the knot of the sweater wrapped around
his neck. His narrow, elongated face looked pinched, as though he'd
tasted something sour. "It's going to be rather disruptive to the other
artists, to the people who work here. To our patrons, of course."

"Funny thing about murder, Mr. Dobbis. It often is. Put some
of your divas on tranquilizers, but I expect this to be our
headquarters till we find the phantom."

"And what do I tell Joe Berk, Mr. Chapman?"

"What do you mean?"

"He called here half an hour ago, looking for Talya. Do you
want to break this to him or should I?"

The green velvet smoking robe with its coordinated paisley
ascot over
bare hairy legs was a striking choice of outfits for Joe Berk, who
received the three of us at five thirty on a Saturday afternoon, but I
was mostly fixated on his mane of fine white hair.

"You'll forgive me for not getting up, won't you? Which one of
you is Chapman?"

Berk was reclining in a Barcalounger, unable to see me behind
Mercer and Mike.

"I'm Chapman. This is Detective Wallace, and that's Alexandra
Cooper, from the Manhattan DA's office."

"I didn't notice the young lady there. Sorry," Berk said,
kicking down the footrest and getting to his feet. He approached us,
exchanging greetings with the men, then bowed at the waist and reached
for my hand, gesturing as though to kiss it.

He looked younger than I had expected, and more fit. Mike had
used the word
thick
to describe Berk, but it was
burliness rather than weight, and it gave him a powerful air that was
consistent with the arrogance he exuded. *

"My secretary said you wanted to see me about a missing
person. Who's that?" he said, picking up a cigarette holder, sticking a
Gauloise in the tip and searching for his lighter. Berk moved behind
his desk and offered us three chairs that were arrayed in front of it.
"Who'd you lose?"

It was easier to get people to cooperate with
investigators— especially if they could be linked to the
crime in any way—by asking for help with someone who's gone
missing rather than invoke the word
murder
.

"Natalya Galinova," Mike said.

"You're a little behind the breaking news, aren't you, boys?"
Berk looked back and forth between Mercer and Mike. "Who're you kidding
here? Joe Berk? Talya is dead. You think I'm an idiot?"

"Seems to me that half an hour ago you didn't have a clue
where she—" Mike said before being interrupted by the buzz of
an intercom.

Four of the buttons on Berk's large phone console showed
flickering red lights and he pushed the one closest to him, holding a
finger up in Mike's direction. "Yeah, babe? Tell that rat bastard when
his check clears,
then
I'll take his call. And
release all my house tickets for tonight. Anyone on your list. It looks
like I'm going to be with these comedians for a while." He disconnected
the call. "Gentlemen?"

"Who told you about Ms. Galinova?" Mike asked.

"Told me what?"

"That she's dead."

"It's some kind of secret?"

"It was until—"

"Yeah, I heard you. Half an hour ago. You know how many people
call Joe Berk every thirty minutes?" he said, sweeping his hand over
the blinking dials on the console.

"Nathan Lane comes down with a sore throat, my phone rings.
Bernadette Peters gets indigestion, somebody rings me. The Lion King
has diarrhea, I'm the first to know."