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theatergoers who queued on
the lines to buy tickets for next week's performances.
    One of the only African-American first-grade detectives in the
city, Mercer's six-foot-six figure commanded attention wherever he
went. Here he flashed his badge at a young officer, who responded by
removing the red velvet rope from the brass stanchion and sending us
down the carpeted staircase to the lower lobby without even questioning
why I accompanied Mercer.
    The long flat counter of the bar would later be filled with
cocktails served up for the crush of dance aficionados during
intermissions of this evening's program. Now it was covered with paper
from end to end. Mike Chapman stood with his back to us, his left hand
in his pants pocket and the right one combing through his thick hair.
    Mercer tapped his shoulder, interrupting Mike's conversation
with the two men who stood across from him behind the bar. They were
all studying architectural drawings of the vast corridors, below-and
aboveground, which made up this imposing theatrical venue.
    Mike turned to introduce us. "Mr. Dobbis here, Chet Dobbis, is
the artistic director of the Metropolitan Opera. He's overseeing the
ballet company's visit because it's part of a series of fundraisers for
the house.
    "Mr. Dobbis, I'd like you to meet Mercer
Wallace—NYPD Special Victims. This is Ms. Cooper, Alex
Cooper. Alex heads the Sex Crimes Prosecution Unit in the Manhattan
DA's office. And she's a mean dancer."
    I reached over to shake Dobbis's hand. He was taller and
leaner than the photos of him I'd seen in the
Times
when he was hired two year ago by the great Beverly
Sills—just before her retirement—and her board of
directors. Forty-five, maybe older, he was dressed in a black shirt and
slacks with a sweater over his shoulders, tied loosely around the neck.
    "And this is Rinaldo Vicci. He's Ms. Galinova's agent." I
towered over the diminutive Vicci, who bowed in my direction. I guessed
him to be fifty, too portly for his height, with pasty skin that looked
blotchy and irritated. The glen plaid suit he sported was in need of
serious alterations, the buttons pulling across his belly as he
stretched out a hand to each of us.
    "Any developments since we spoke?" Mercer asked Mike.
    "The commissioner gave us a green light to start searching the
joint."
    "That's a big concession."
    "The missing person status would go
real-time—twenty-four hours since Talya
disappeared—in the middle of tonight's show, which would
certainly disrupt the crowd. Everybody here thought we needed to
ratchet it up as soon as possible."
    "Where is Talya staying?" I asked.
    "The Mark. But she hasn't been back to the hotel room since
yesterday," Mike said. "Never called her husband, and they usually
speak three or four times a day."
    "Her street clothes?" I asked.
    "They're still in her dressing room," Vicci said with a trace
of an Italian accent. "Sweater and pants, her boots. Even the purse she
carries. It's all still there. I—I can't tell you how worried
I am about her. I'm absolutely frantic at the thought of anyone harming
her."
    "Bet you are," Mike said. "What does an agent get these days?
Fifteen percent of nothing is nothing. That's why we need your help,
Mr. Vicci. You got a better reason than anybody to keep her alive and
well."
    "Joe Berk?" I asked. "Have any of you spoken with him today?"
    "Nobody can find him," Chet Dobbis said. "The office is closed
for the weekend and he's not answering calls. I'm told that's not
unusual, Ms. Cooper. In the middle of a Saturday afternoon, he might
well be attending a performance of one of his shows."
    "Mind if I take a few minutes with Detective Wallace?" Mike
asked.
    "I'll step inside and watch the dress rehearsal, if you don't
mind. Rinaldo, why don't you wait with me?" Dobbis said, leading Vicci
to the theater doors at the far end of the bar. There was a quiet
elegance about him, a gracefulness in the way he moved that fit so
precisely with his role in the