Death Dance by Linda Fairstein

nose-bleed section," Mike said, poking me in the back.
"Bet you've never been up there, Coop. You'd get vertigo just thinking
about it."
    "Two hundred seventy-five people pay for standing room at the
back of the orchestra. That's your four thousand tally."
    "Employees?"
    "Several hundred. Stagehands, electricians, makeup artists,
costume and set designers. Every piece of scenery, every item of
clothing or headdress, every prop for more than twenty-five operas that
are mounted here throughout the season is made in-house. And then we
have guests who rent the space, if you will, ballet companies like the
Royal, who bring their own people in."
    "So every day… ?" I asked.
    "You've got hundreds of employees, and hundreds more
transients passing through. Tours are conducted
daily—schoolchildren, tourists of all ages and nationalities,
visiting performers and dignitaries, materials are delivered from
morning until night. Artists have visitors—family, friends,
other producers they're auditioning for. We've got coaches and
prompters and conductors. A cast of thousands, you might say."
    "Screened by security?"
    "They come in through the stage-door entrance. They've got to
show identification, of course. Do they sign in or have we lists of
their names? For the employees, certainly. For everyone else, I think
not."
    The gray cement corridor was cheerless and cold. Its walls
were lined on one side with enormous trunks stamped with the Royal
Ballet name in white stencils. A few were open, revealing peasant
dresses and pirate shirts, all part of the repertoire that would be
danced during the week.
    Mike rapped his knuckles on a trunk and called to a uniformed
cop at the far end of the long hall. "Get more guys in here. Open every
one of these. I don't care if you have to break the locks to get
inside, just check each of them."
    We were single file going through now, Dobbis leading us as he
talked. "That's the doctor's office," he said. "Nurses are on duty all
throughout the day, and there's a physician in the house for every
performance. Talya knew that as well."
    Past another door. He turned the knob, but it didn't give.
"Animal handlers. SPCA requirements. Whenever we've got an opera with a
horse or a donkey or a camel, we've got to have someone who meets
humane society regulations. In
Giselle
, there are
a couple of borzois—Russian wolfhounds—so even this
room was occupied last night."
    Mike yelled again to the cop. "Yo. You doing anything? Get a
custodian with keys or a sledgehammer to get through these doors."
    Chet Dobbis showed his annoyance for the first time. "We're
going as fast as we can manage, detective. I've given orders to have
everything unlocked for you."
    "After the show, Mr. Dobbis," I said, "suppose Talya had gone
somewhere on another floor in the building, for a legitimate reason.
How soon would the backstage area be emptied out of all the workers?"
    "It never is. The Met stage is alive for the better part of
twenty-four hours. The show will go on tonight, and when it's over, the
stage crew will strike the sets that were used. The night gang will
take over and they'll start working to put up the scenery for whatever
the next day's dress rehearsal will be. When the rehearsal is finished,
they strike that set and get things in place for the following night.
The work is endless and the place is always bustling."
    "Even Sundays?"
    "Often. There are usually practice sessions, even if the house
is dark. And then you've got charity benefits and special events that
we put on quite frequently."
    Another left turn and we were at a door marked dressing rooms.
Dobbis entered and the string of us followed him in. A small wall unit
held a series of locked boxes. "This is where the principals keep their
valuables while they're dancing. Talya's wallet and hotel key are still
there," Vicci said. "I've got her spare."

Mike took the key from the agent, unlocked the box, and removed the
items. "Hold on to these," he said to me.