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recitation. “Wait! There’s more. There’s one other sentence that you must hear, Swede.” He searched frantically through his notes, then came up with what he’d been seeking:
    “‘Dobrynin’s only visible weakness during this performance was that it was obvious his double
tours en l’air
were less than secure.’ ”
    Exhausted, Tony collapsed back in his seat.
    “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself so much, Tony.”
    “It’s priceless stuff, Swede. Priceless.”
    I remained silent, letting his macho energy exhaust itself. Maybe on another day I’d point out to Tony that what he’d just read sounded far from “mad” to me. In fact, it had been a great deal more to the point than a lot of the twaddle we’d both read about the theater.
    “Hmmm, yes,” I murmured in agreement. “Now, tell me, did you get any
facts
, Tony? Which is why you were there. Have any of
those
to quote?”
    “A few.”
    Over drinks and hamburgers and shared French fries, we traded what we’d each learned that day. We went back and forth, trying to reconstruct a simple resumé of the main facts of Peter Dobrynin’s life.
    What we came up with was more or less this:
    Dobrynin’s father had emigrated from Russia to England in the 1920s. He married an American woman and then returned to live in Russia for many years as a translator for the British consulate in Leningrad. Peter, as a child, was sent to the Kirov ballet school, and became the first foreign national to be invited to join that most distinguished company.
    When the family was transferred back to England, Peter danced for a while with the Royal Ballet before coming to America.
    He lived in Manhattan for several years before he began his meteoric rise. And that sudden infusion of money and fame obviously unhinged—deranged—him.
    Finishing his coffee, Tony ordered a brandy and said: “Well, we did a very creditable job, I think. You’ve got your bio.”
    “Not really. An aborted bio, maybe.”
    “In what way?”
    “The three years prior to the murder are a cipher. Did Dobrynin really become a derelict? What happened to him? He knew dozens of wealthy people. If he was in trouble, why not go to them for help? Were there any warning signs that he was not just a carouser and a womanizer but an emotionally disturbed man? Who knew him best? All his fears, his intimate thoughts, his secrets, assuming he had any. You see what I mean? Dobrynin wasn’t a riveter who lost his job and had to go on welfare because he could no longer support his family. There’s got to be a very special story behind his winding up on that balcony with matted hair and no shoes.”
    “Well, yeah,” Tony said. “All that’s missing. But you don’t expect to find that kind of stuff in the library, right? You find that out from people who knew him.”
    “Agreed, Tony. Very much agreed. That’s why you and I are going to visit Lucia tomorrow. We’ve got to dig a little deeper. People usually know things they don’t even know they know.”
    “Murderers make me nervous, Swede.”
    “That isn’t funny!” I retorted angrily. “Lucia is
not
a murderer!”
    “Okay, okay! Calm down, Miss Sherlock! You know I’ll do anything . . . say anything . . . to get you to hold my hand.”
    I stared deeply at him then, thinking so many thoughts about crazy Basillio, worrying about him, too. Once again, I was astonished at the notion that he and I had actually been lovers. Oh, there was a lot I planned to tell him—and soon. But not now.

Chapter 8
    Lucia was seated on her large sofa when Basillio and I entered her apartment. However brief her imprisonment, the trauma of it was there in her face for all to see. Her skin was stretched tight and white. Her hands were restless in her lap, the fingers seeming to search for a dancer’s gesture.
    Across the large room sat a stranger: a handsome, diminutive black woman of middle age. She was reading a French-language newspaper.
    I introduced Lucia to Tony.