Linda Fairstein - Death Dance

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?"