Death Dance

by Linda Fairstein

  "But, signora, I've got a client performing at the Winter Garden tonight. Second lead. I promised to meet with him backstage before he goes on."

  "We'll do our best to get you there on time."

  Vicci unwrapped his trademark scarf and walked to the sofa to make another call.

  "Would you mind introducing me to these other people?" I asked Kehoe, taking a small writing pad from Berk's desk.

  "Sure. They're friends of Briggs. I don't know all their names, but there's no reason for them not to cooperate." We broke up the four-some who still remained and I took down their pedigree and contact information. A short conversation with each and it seemed they had no connection to Joe Berk other than their relationship with Briggs.

  "You think Detective Chapman wants me to wait around, too?" Kehoe said.

  "I'll go up and check with him. We've actually got to get back up to City Center this evening. I was going to talk to Mona about that, too. Does she keep any kind of office there?"

  "At City Center? No, she doesn't. Why do you want to know?"

  "I saw her leaving the building this afternoon. I tried to get her attention but she was already on her way here. I guess she'd heard the news about Joe. I was wondering what her business might be there."

  "She may have gone to see a rehearsal. Or maybe an agent called her to check out a client. You'll have to ask her about that."

  "Let me see what Mike's up to. I'll be back to both of you in a few minutes."

  Briggs and Mike were talking quietly when I went upstairs to the bedroom, the kid sitting on the side of the bed and Mike on a chair he had pulled opposite him.

  Briggs was recounting the conversation he'd had with his father yesterday.

  "Do you mind if I-"

  "C'mon in," Mike said. "Doesn't look like junior here knew about the monitors. Claims he had no reason to come into the bedroom. Wasn't here very often."

  "Hardly ever."

  "But you were having dinner with your father the night of his accident," I said.

  "Yeah. But we hadn't been getting along too well before that. We'd made that date a few weeks earlier. I-I waited for him to come downstairs. I always did."

  "Tell Ms. Cooper why you came back from California."

  Briggs looked up at me. "Rinaldo-you know Mr. Vicci?-he'd been calling me about Lucy. About Lucy DeVore. He told me the doctors expect her to be conscious this week. He-um-he thought I ought to be here, like in case she had anything to say about me. He's-well-he's like a very nervous kind of guy, Mr. Vicci."

  "Did your father know why you were coming home?"

  "Nope. I didn't call him until yesterday morning. Only Rinaldo knew, and Mona. My cousin Mona."

  "Why'd you tell her?" I asked.

  "We were just getting to that when you came in. Seems Briggs here wanted to talk to his father about his will. Get the old boy while he's down."

  The young man's head snapped up as he looked at Mike. "He almost died last week. I wanted to-um-to make sure things were straight between us, let him know he didn't have to worry about me screwing up the fortune he'd made."

  "Make sure you were still in the will? So tell Miss Cooper why you called Mona."

  "'Cause my siblings and I don't get along. They hated my mother and they hate me. Mona's the only one in the family who's been decent to me, even when my father had no use for me."

  "She wasn't mad at you when you dropped the lawsuit the two of you had started against Joe?"

  Briggs looked over at me. "Who told you about the lawsuit?"

  "Give the DA some credit for doing her homework, kid. Ms. Cooper's not as dumb as she looks," Mike said.

  "Did you and your father argue yesterday?"

  He didn't answer.

  "Were you fighting about your inheritance?"

  "I didn't want to do anything to upset him. He-he looked bad," Briggs said. "I felt really sorry for him. Right up through the night of the accident he was really strong. He was in good shape. All of a sudden, I see him this way. He looked so weak and unhappy. I didn't mean to start a fight."

  "But you did?" I said softly.

  "I don't want to talk about it. And I don't want you looking around in here anymore until my dad's lawyer comes over."

  "We've got some detectives on the way who are going to spend the night here, Briggs. They're going to make sure no one touches anything of your father's," I said.

  "So you'd better come downstairs with us, okay?"

  He stood up and followed us out of the room. Vicci and Kehoe were waiting for Mike in Berk's office. It was after seven o'clock and each was ready to get on his way.

  Mike asked a few questions before letting them go. Both embraced Briggs and told him they'd see him the next day.

  Within minutes after their departure, the doorbell rang. Briggs opened it and two men, both detectives who'd been called in from their respective squads to work on the Met task force, introduced themselves to Briggs and came inside.

  "Hey, Michael," Frank Merriam said, slapping Chapman on the back. "Counselor, top of the evening to you, too. Heard you had a rough night over at your place, Alexandra."

  "You know me-any excitement to keep Chapman on his toes."

  "You pull this detail, Frankie? Sorry about that," Mike said. "Till we find out who the executor of the estate is, Coop's afraid someone's gonna run off with whatever Joe Berk has here."

  "No need for apologies. Overtime, my good man. Back-to-back tours in the big city? Doesn't happen often enough for a guy in the 123rd. Just tell me where I can get the best steak and a couple of brews when I stroll out for my dinner."

  The portly, red-faced Merriam worked in one of the three precincts that covered Staten Island. The city's fifth borough was part of the same police department, but it seemed like a different planet. To cops who spent a career working the streets of Manhattan, the 123 rd might as well have been in the Cotswolds.

  "Those men we saw going out a few minutes ago. You happen to get the name of the tall guy? The younger one?"

  Mike answered. "You mean Kehoe? Ross Kehoe."

  "That's the moniker. I thought he looked familiar."

  "You know him?"

  "Not a drinking buddy, if that's what you mean. Remember the Kills?"

  The expression kills derived irons an old Dutch word meaning "channels," dating from the period when New York was once New Amsterdam. The Kills was the body of water separating Staten Island from the New Jersey shoreline, and Mike and I had come to know it well.

  "Sure."

  "We had a homicide-body washed up near the Outerbridge Crossing. Probably a hit, somebody who got whacked, but was dressed up real nice to look like a suicide."

  "How long ago?"

  "Two, maybe two and a half years."

  "Who died?" Mike asked.

  "Construction worker. Had something to do with one of the unions and some mob heavies. You've met my partner, Vinny, right? He thought Kehoe looked good for it. Four or five guys who grew up with the union boss. Seemed like they'd do anything for him, and Kehoe was one of the slickest in that pack."

  "Grew up where?"

  "Staten Island."

  Mike and I looked at each other before he spoke. "Where's Clay Pit Ponds park?"

  "You oughta come hang out with me sometime. I'll give you a tour. None of this blackboard jungle you live with in Manhattan. We got beaches and golf courses and lakes. We even got us a wildlife refuge now."

  "Clay Pit Ponds park, Frank? C'mon." Mike was serious now, and I thought of the Staten Island site of the rare Torrey Mountain mint plant that had been found on Talya's pointe shoe.

  "Southwestern part of the island."

  "Near the Kills? Kehoe have any family there?"

  "He did then. His mother lived off Woodrow Avenue. I think he had a sister who may have gotten the family house when she kicked the bucket, but I didn't follow it close like Vinny." Frank was exploring the niches that ringed Joe Berk's office, looking at the bizarre assortment of Napol
eonic objects.

  "The homicide Vinny was working-he ever clear Kehoe?"

  "Nah. The ME gave us an inconclusive. Body was in the water too long for a cause of death so we never got no murder charge to go with."

  "Listen to me, Frank. You guys out on Staten Island, news reach you yet about this stuff they call DNA?"

  "Only lately. Don't Nab his Ass-DNA-Don't Nab his Ass until you get his spit or his sperm. That's what the captain always tells me. Right, Michael?"

  "Did Vinny get a DNA sample from Ross Kehoe?"

  Frank put down the Empress Josephine's tortoiseshell hair comb to turn around and face Mike. "What do you think, buddy? You cross the Verrazano and it's all amateur hour to you? We get a few homicides every year, a handful of rapes. Sure, Vinny got DNA. That's how come I saw Kehoe. He had to come into the station house to be swabbed one night. Cool as an ice cube. Never gave us a bit of trouble."

  "And the deceased?"

  "Nothing left of what was once his body to compare to anything or anybody. Waterlogged bones inside of a zoot suit. Fishes and frogs got to him first."

  I walked to Joe Berk's desk and picked up the phone to call Serology.

  A technician answered and I identified myself. "I've got an urgent request. I need you to drop whatever you're doing to examine two samples tonight. I need you to make a comparison to some evidence in the Metropolitan Opera murder case."

  The tech rambled an objection while Mike smiled at me, the biggest grin I'd seen on his face in months. "That's the Coop I know. I can hear those steel balls clanging against each other even while you're standing still."

  "Well, either you call Dr. Thaler at home or I will, but we're going to get this done before your shift is over tonight."

  The tech continued his protest.

  "I know there's a court order forbidding comparisons of crime scene evidence to suspects in the linkage database, and you have my word that I'll deal with the judge first thing tomorrow morning. In person. If anybody's held in contempt of court, you won't be the first one behind bars. That'll be me. I'm going to give you the names and case information and you tell me how fast you can get this done, okay?"

  I told him what he needed to know, then hung up the phone and grabbed Frank Merriam in a bear hug.

  "Some globally endangered mint and a few skin cells on the outside of a man's glove," Mike said. "Didn't look like much at first, but it's beginning to smell a little bit like probable cause."

  41

  "No one in or out upstairs," Mike said to Frank, putting the key to the bedroom door back in the desk. "Lawyers should be crawling all over this place by tomorrow morning. They'll be more of them carving up Berk's empire than there are maggots on a dead rat."

  Briggs had agreed to go back to his own apartment to spend the night.

  Frank had taken off his trench coat and settled in behind Berk's desk.

  "Watch out for the ghosts, Frank."

  "And exactly which ones would they be, counselor?"

  "Belasco's ghost. The theater downstairs is supposed to be haunted. Now that Berk's dead, there might be two spirits floating around. Could be a traffic jam, with the size of those egos."

  "Well, Alex, you know me and floating spirits. Sounds more like a cocktail than a fright."

  I drove the Crown Vic back uptown to City Center while Mike made some calls. He found out that there were two detectives on a fixed post in front of the loft where Mona Berk and Ross Kehoe lived, but the guys had no idea whether they'd arrived there before or after Berk went inside. They had no sightings of either resident.

  "Beep me the minute you see anything," Mike said before he hung up. "They're right, though, Coop. It's dinnertime. Eight o'clock. If Berk and Kehoe are out eating somewhere, they may not show up for hours. I gotta assume Peterson has her office covered, too."

  He dialed the lieutenant's number, but someone else in the squad answered. Peterson was out on his meal, so Mike passed the message along to the colleague who had answered the phone.

  I took Eighth Avenue uptown. We needed to go east on 56th Street, since only the entrance to the office tower-not the theater- would be open at this hour of the night.

  I was parking the car when someone entering the building caught my attention. "Did you see that?"

  "What?"

  "Going into City Center. Wasn't that Chet Dobbis?"

  "Can't tell. I just caught the back of his head."

  I locked the door and threw the keys over the hood to Mike. "I'd swear it was Dobbis."

  "He used to work here, according to Hubert Alden, before he went to the Met."

  "But no longer," I said, crossing the street to follow him inside.

  The guard sitting behind the desk smiled at Mike and me as we walked in. We had no idea where we were going but he didn't seem to care.

  "Excuse me," I said as Mike flashed his badge.

  "Go right on ahead," he said, not looking up from his solitaire hand.

  "You give new meaning to the word security. We're looking for my partner, Detective Wallace. You know where he is?"

  The guard picked up a piece of paper and pushed the phone to Mike. "He said for you to call him when you got back. The director is letting him use her secretary's desk. Just dial extension two-nine-nine."

  "And that man who just came in before we did?" I asked. "Was that Mr. Dobbis?"

  "Was it who?"

  "How long have you worked here? Was it the former director, Chet Dobbis?"

  "Sorry, miss. I've only been here two months. I'm real bad on names."

  Mike hung up the phone. "Let's get Mercer first. He's meeting us back at that ladies' lounge on the seventh floor."

  The corridors were empty and we wound our way around to the elevators and up to the rehearsal studios. Mercer was waiting for us there.

  "Check it out, Alex. I don't want to embarrass anyone."

  I walked in and turned on the light. No one was inside, so I opened the door for Mike and Mercer.

  We went to the showers to reexamine the room using a flashlight that Mike had brought in from the car. There was a small recess above the molding in the opposite wall and it looked like a hole had been drilled in to support the kind of microcamera that Mike and Mercer were familiar with from their surveillance cases.

  "You want Crime Scene to take some pictures of these spots, don't you?" Mike asked. "They've got to do it before Vito comes in tomorrow to dig behind it and see where the wiring goes."

  "I already called. They're not going to come out on a job like this tonight. They've got their hands full with a homicide in Inwood and a drug raid that turned into a shoot-out. They told me to secure it till morning," Mercer said. "They'll have a crew here first thing, and they can document whatever Vito finds."

  "Can we close it off?"

  "Yeah. Before Stan left for the night, he got me the janitor. Soon as we're done he's going to lock it and put up one of their 'out of order' signs on it. That should work. I'll call him when we get downstairs," Mercer said as we started back to the elevator.

  "You know Merriam? Frankie Merriam?"

  "Heavyset red-faced guy from Staten Island?" Mercer asked.

  "Map of Ireland on his mug-that's the guy. We gotta bring you up to date on what he says about Ross Kehoe."

  "So let's go grab some dinner. What we need to do is sit down and sort out all these pieces. What's close by?"

  "Michael's," I said. "On Fifty-fifth Street, a block away."

  The restaurant was a favorite of literary lions and media heavy-weights, but it was after eight thirty, so we'd be able to nab a table in the quiet garden room in the rear.

  "Walk back the cat," Mike said.

  "What?"

  "That's what the three of us have to do. Walk back the cat."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Military intelligence, Coop. Spook-speak. Say somebody shoots the king or blows up the embassy. After it happens the cat walkers go back and look at all the intelligence they had before the
event, apply the stuff they know after the fact to whatever happened. Uncover the moles, find the motive."

  "I'm for that. We know a hell of a lot more than we did before the weekend. Did Mike tell you that I swear I saw Chet Dobbis coming into this building when we pulled into the block?" I asked Mercer.

  "No, but now that explains what Ms. Schiller's secretary was waiting around for while I was hanging out for you."

  The elevator doors opened on the ground floor as Mercer continued. "One of the other secretaries came by so they could walk to the subway together, and I heard her say she was staying late, waiting for Mr. D to get here. She had to let him into the theater before she left. Some kind of proposal he was working on. It never occurred to me they were talking about Dobbis."

  "So that's only ten minutes ago?"

  "Yeah."

  "Let's check the theater. What the hell is he coming back here for-and at night, when no one's around?"

  Instead of turning right toward the security desk, we retraced our steps through the narrow hallway, piled deep with soon-to-be-discarded equipment that we had navigated earlier in the day. The heavy door that separated the office tower from the original Mecca Temple building was open, and the three of us threaded our way behind the mezzanine seats, our footsteps padded by the thick carpeting of traditional Moorish design that covered the entire space.

  The vast auditorium was darkened, except for a few rays of light that came from off to the side of stage right. I could hear a man's voice from the pit below, and we all stopped so that Mercer, the tallest of us, could peer down from the steep rake of the balcony to see who was speaking.

  He motioned us to the top of the staircase and whispered, "It's Dobbis. His back is to us so I can't hear what he's saying, but it looks like he's talking to someone in the wings."

  We continued down the wide staircase from the old Shriners' lounge, descending to the rear of the once-elegant lobby of the old theater. The doors leading to the street were all locked and covered with metal grating, while those that accessed the auditorium were closed over.

  Mike put his finger to his lips and led us down the side of a corridor that abutted the theater. It seemed to be taking us as near to the stage, to the front of the orchestra, as we could get before revealing ourselves to Dobbis.