Linda Fairstein: Death Dance

"I'll work up the conversation for Jean to have with Selim," I said, "but I don't want her to make that call until your team is stationed outside the door of his apartment. His shift ends right around now and he should be home within the half hour. The minute Jean hangs up, I'll be on the phone to you and you'll go in with the warrant. If her questions raise his antennae, I don't want him to have a chance to clean house before you get there."

The glass-paneled door with the gold-and-black lettering- homicide-opened from within and Mike Chapman called out to Mercer Wallace. "Your witness is getting antsy in here. She wants to know when you and Coop are gonna move on the perp."

I walked farther down the hallway to greet Mike, whom I hadn't seen in several weeks. I smiled at the sight of him back in his natural habitat in the Homicide Squad-his thick shock of straight black hair, the long, lean body, his personal uniform of navy blazer and jeans. All that was missing was the infectious grin that had been good to bring me out of every dark situation and mood I'd faced in more than a decade that we had worked together.

"Hey, stranger. When did you come on?"

"Doing steady midnights. I'm not sleeping much, so I might as well have a place to hang out."

"When Mercer and I finish up in another couple of hours- around two a.m.-why don't we take you downstairs for something to eat?" I asked.

Mike walked to his desk, seated himself with his back to me, and put his feet up while he examined his notebook. I paused at an empty cubicle next to his and started writing the lines I wanted Jean Eaken to deliver to Dr. Sengor.

"I'm sticking here," Mike said. "Just got a scratch I got to sit on."

A scratch wasn't a formal report of a crime, but rather a notification to the NYPD of an unusual circumstance.

"What's so serious you'd pass up the greasiest bacon and eggs in Harlem with me?" I tried to tease a familiar smile out of my favorite homicide detective and still-grieving friend.

"Right up your alley, twinkletoes. There may be a swan on the loose. Lieutenant Peterson has me on standby."

"What are you talking about?"

"Ever hear of"-Mike looked down at his notes to get the name-"Talya. Talya Galinova?"

"Natalya Galinova." The world-renowned dancer who commanded more curtain calls in a month than most performers would ever know in a lifetime was as famous for her artistry as for her ethereal looks and regal bearing. "She's starring with the Royal Ballet at Lincoln Center this week."

"Well, sometime between the second act and the curtain calls tonight, she pulled a Houdini. Me and the loo got other plans for the weekend than breakfast with you. Personally, I'm hoping your missing swan doesn't morph into a dead duck."

"Hello, Selim? I didn't wake you up, did I? It's Jean."

"Jean? Where are you?"

We were sitting in a room with two phones, one of which was attached to a digital recorder, so that I could listen on an extension as my witness confronted her assailant and give her direction in case she needed it. It was now twelve forty-five in the morning.

"I'm at the Port Authority, waiting for-"

"You were supposed to be on a three o'clock bus this afternoon, weren't you?" Selim's English was heavily accented as he cut Jean off before she could answer.

"Yeah, except Cara and I were a bit sick today. Nauseous and dizzy. We just couldn't face a ten-hour bus ride."

"But you're still going tonight, aren't you?"

"Nothing leaves for Toronto until the morning."

"You want to come back here? I'm still up. I haven't been home very long. Wait at my apartment until then."

"Oh, no. I think I'm going to take Cara to the hospital. She's really feeling bad and I think she should be examined before she travels. I was wondering if-"

"You don't want to start with that, Jean," Selim said, sounding almost angry as he raised his voice to get her attention. "I'm a doctor. Tell me what her symptoms are and I can figure out if anything's wrong. Probably something she ate. You'll waste too much time waiting in an emergency room. You don't have any insurance coverage in this country, do you? So it's going to be very expensive for her."

He seemed to be scrambling for any ideas that would keep the women away from a medical exam.

"We didn't eat anything unusual, Selim. Each of us had a salad. And we didn't drink anything except bottled water until we got to your place."

"Yeah, well, maybe there was something wrong with the salad. Like it wasn't clean or the dressing had turned already."

"That's a good enough reason for us to go to the hospital. Could be food poisoning. At least they can do blood tests there, can't they?"

Jean was quick. I had told her not to be confrontational with Selim, knowing that might anger him and cause him to hang up the phone. Roll with him. Bring him back to talking about the cocktail he mixed for you.

"That drink you gave us tasted kind of weird. Lucky I didn't have more of it."

"Hmm."

"Hmm" didn't tell me anything I needed to know. Selim was probably trying to think of an excuse for her observation. I scribbled a note to Jean and slid it across the table. I wanted on record that she had not been drinking more alcohol than she told Mercer and me. I wanted to hear it from Selim. The defense at a trial like this would just try to convince the jury that she and Cara were blottoed.

"I mean, you saw me, Selim. I don't think I even had more than a few sips, did I? I didn't finish a fraction of the drink you poured." Jean was wide awake now, the receiver in one hand and her other one gripping the papers I had prepared.

"No, no, you didn't. You hardly touched it. Maybe you were already feeling sick before you came there."

"I felt fine when we got to the apartment. Both of us did. I'm worried about Cara. She's been throwing up and everything. C'mon, what was in the drink you gave us?"

"Bourbon. Just the bourbon that you brought me."

"You gotta be kidding, Selim. It wasn't even the same color as what was in the bottle. It was all fuzzy and white." Jean didn't like being challenged any more by him than she had by my questions. Her green eyes were focused with determination now.

He was silent.

"You still there, Selim? I mean, I don't have to tell Cara, but it would help me to know that we can get on that bus and she's not going to need to have her stomach pumped or be throwing up on me all the way home. I can't think of much worse than that on a long ride, can you?"

Still, silence.

"My problem has all cleared up-you don't have to worry about that. It's just between you and me, but you gotta give me a hand with Cara."

Good pitch, girl. Let him think it's no big deal.

"Bourbon and what?" Jean said. "I heard you working the blender in there."

A nervous laugh. "Oh, that. I usually put a little cordial in with my drink. Do you know Bailey's?"

"I know what it is, but I've never had it."

"I think you two just weren't used to the taste of the bourbon."

"But that combination of liquors wouldn't make me feel all drugged up, would it? So quickly?"

"Oh, sure. It could do that. Everybody has a different reaction, depending on their metabolism.".

"Really?" Jean paused for several seconds before her next question. She put down the crib sheet, gnawed once at her cuticle, and stared down at the tabletop. "Selim, did you have sex with me last night?"

Again he seemed to snap at her. "Why are you asking me that? You wanted to do that?"

I held my hand up at Jean to try to get her to back off, but it was clear to me that she was frustrated by the doctor's answers and understandably anxious to know whether she had been violated after he sedated her.

"No. You know I didn't have any interest in having sex with you. I made that clear the first night we got there. But I had this sort of dream that you were-"