Death Dance: A Novel
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About this ebook
Teaming up with longtime friends -- NYPD's Mike Chapman and Mercer Wallace -- Assistant DA Alex Cooper investigates the disappearance of world-famous dancer Natalya Galinova, who has suddenly vanished backstage at Lincoln Center's Metropolitan Opera House -- during a performance.
The three colleagues are soon drawn into the machinations of New York City's secretive theatrical community, where ambition takes many forms, including those most deadly. Among Galinova's lovers is Joe Berk, the colorful, strong-willed boss of the Berk Organization, one of four family companies that own all the legitimate theaters on Broadway. The aging ballerina was using Berk to help revive her career at the time of her disappearance.
Cooper, Chapman, and Wallace go underground and backstage at the Met, explore Berk's unusual apartment on top of the Belasco Theatre with its rumored ghostly resident, and then discover bizarre circumstances at City Center, which has a peculiar history not one of them knew about until now.
Within the glamorous but sordid inner sanctums of the Broadway elite, the team confronts the ruthless power brokers who control both the stars and the stages where they appear. They meet Joe's niece Mona Berk, who is mounting a vicious campaign to extract her share of the family fortune, and stunning starlet Lucy DeVore, whose beauty may be her fatal undoing. Chet Dobbis is the artistic director of the Metropolitan Opera, and therefore privy to the most scandalous exploits among its famous inhabitants. He also knows every inch of the labyrinthine building into which the ballerina disappeared...
Meanwhile, Alex is working on a very different case, using a creative technique to nab a physician who has been drugging women in order to assault them. As Dr. Selim Sengor eludes capture, Alex must navigate the new investigative world of DFSA -- drug-facilitated sexual assault -- intent on proving him guilty.
Complicating her quest is the explosive legal and ethical dilemma of using the existing DNA databank to solve new cases. Can Alex convince a judge to let her prosecute a man for a violent crime using DNA that was collected for a prior case in which he was never charged? Or do the suspect's civil rights prevent law enforcement from keeping his DNA on file to be used against him at any future time?
Death Dance is a spellbinding thriller combining a former prosecutor's fresh insight into hot-button legal issues with the unique history and spectacle of New York theater, and its shocking twists make this novel Linda Fairstein's most chilling adventure yet.
Linda Fairstein
Linda Fairstein was chief of the Sex Crimes Unit of the district attorney's office in Manhattan for more than two decades and is America's foremost legal expert on sexual assault and domestic violence. Her Alexandra Cooper novels are international bestsellers and have been translated into more than a dozen languages. She lives in Manhattan and on Martha's Vineyard.
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Reviews for Death Dance
156 ratings12 reviews
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5How can I fairly judge Death Dance? Though I once read only books, it is rare now that I read a mystery. Last year, out of the 158 books that I read, only two were mysteries.So what would make me, a rare mystery reader, pick up this book? The same things that would make me pick up any book. I look for characters that interest me and a story that is compelling. The blurb on the back offers up the story in a way that appeals to me; I was intrigued by the idea of dancers. That's enough for me to pick up the book, but it's not enough to keep me reading. To keep me in the book, the author has to surprise me. Death Dance did not surprise me. I forced myself to read through the book, but it felt more like assigned reading than pleasure.
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5Why was Alex part of this investigation? There was no sex crime involved with the death of Galinova. The DA just assigned her to it because she asked, which seems really dumb since she probably had a lot of other work she could have done. I didn’t buy the fact that she was necessary.And I didn’t really care about the dead woman. No effort was made to help me to do so, either. She was written as shrill, manipulative and uncaring woman past her prime, still grasping at some sort of fame. I think I would have killed her, too. In the end, it was Mona and Mona’s boyfriend who killed her, but I can’t remember why. Probably money.I did enjoy the subplot revolving around the doctor who drugs women so he can rape them while they are unconscious. He was a guy worth writing about and I felt sympathy for the victims of that case. But it was just a subplot and not given much ink.The friendship between Alex and her investigators is fun to read about and almost seems like it could be real. Almost. The smooth way they fit their lives together and the non-sexual banter is really false. They’re always finding some swanky restaurant to eat in, or a bar just in time to hear Final Jeopardy or flitting off to Alex’s house on the Vinyard. It seems a little too slick, but comforting somehow. Even a fictional perfect world is that, I guess.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5This is another in the series of Alexandra Cooper. She is investigating the apparent suicide of a ballerina at the NY Met. Unfortunately, she isn't someone the reader cares about, nor are the incidental characters. Most are flat and uninteresting, although there is some interest in a few of the interactions. The book opened with a drug-rape scene and its ensuing courtroom actions. The judge was a mysogenist, although way over the top. He was too extreme to be believable as a character. Although probably within the realm of reality, he was too much for a book. This plot line was more interesting and more appropriate for Alexandra. Unfortunately it was a subplot and happened in the background and was resolved without much interest. Overall the story felt flat. It wasn't a bad mystery, but just barely held my interest.
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5I really enjoy Linda Fairsteins books, and this was no exception.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5This book was ok. It was a very slow read and not much action. I also didnt really care for some of the characters, they were a little on the cheesy side. I dont think I would recommend this book.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5An Alexandra Cooper, head of the sex crimes unit in NY, novel. This time set at the Met Opera.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A decent Alex Cooper mystery, but they're all getting samey. Only question is how Alex is going to get herself into trouble and who's getting her out of it. Interesting twists this book: Mike's recovery and Dan Bolin, unfortunately the latter disappeared as quickly as he was mentioned.I liked that this was partially set at the Met, I know City Center and am curious as to whether any of this is true. I think that's what the best about Linda Fairstein's stories, the "other" New York.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5I love all of Linda Fairstein's New York City mysteries. Each gives you a little history on the city and its great buildings and locales. This was not one of my favorites, however. The mystery involves a murdered prima ballerina, Broadway producers, and a young actress. We get to learn a lot about Lincoln Center and Broadway. It is a solid mystery, which keeps you guessing, and the character develop is, as always, thorough and engaging. I think I just wasn't too fond of the focus of this particular book.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5I started reading Fairstein's books with the first of the series. I am at the point now where I will continue to read them because I am involved with the characters and want to see where their lives take them. However, the books are becoming a little cookie cutter. On a positive note NYC is one of my favourite places to visit and her books, up to now, have all taken place at various venues in that city. Through reading them I have had the pleasure of visiting some places in NYC I may not have gone to (the Cloisters, for instance), except that her books made them sound interesting and they were.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Asst DA Alexandra Cooper has always been fascinated by the stage, especially the Metropolitan Opera. When a world-renowned Russian Ballerina is murdered at the Met shortly after her performance, Cooper quickly launches into an investigation, eager to go deep behind the scenes. But she soon discovers that the clues - and the suspects - are as complex as the corridors that zigzag throughout the great opera house.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Alexandra Cooper, Mike and Mercer solve the murder of a ballerina at the Met. The relationship between the three main characters was more interesting than the crime. Had the usual elements -- threat to Alex, protection, chase. Just not as good as the others in the series.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5the history of the theatres on Broadway was utterly fascinating!
kept going to Safari and looking up photos.. the mystery itself was
absorbing! reading more of her books as I love the characters as well?
Book preview
Death Dance - Linda Fairstein
1
You think we’ve got a case?
Mercer Wallace asked me.
The answer’s inside that cardboard box you’re holding,
I said, opening the glass-paneled door of his lieutenant’s office in the Special Victims Squad.
I placed my hand on the shoulder of the young woman who was slumped over a desk, napping while she waited for my arrival. She lifted her head from her crossed arms and flicked her long auburn hair out of her eyes.
I’m Alex Cooper. Manhattan DA’s office.
I tried not to convey the urgency of what we had to get done within the next few hours. Are you Jean?
Yes. Jean Eaken.
Has Detective Wallace explained what we need?
You’re the prosecutor running the investigation, he told me. I’ve got to go through the details with you again, and then make a phone call that you’re going to script for me. Is Cara still here?
Jean asked.
She’s in another office down the hall,
Mercer said. It’s better we keep you separated until this is done. Then we’ll take you over to the hotel and let you get some rest.
I had been the assistant district attorney in charge of the Sex Crimes Prosecution Unit for more than a decade, and Mercer had called me into the case to try to add something from my legal arsenal to speed the arrest process and increase the likelihood that Jean Eaken would be a successful witness in the courtroom.
Mercer told me that the twenty-four-year-old Canadian graduate student had met the suspect at a conference on adolescent psychology at the University of Toronto, which she had attended with her friend, Cara, four months earlier.
I sat opposite Jean, who stifled a yawn as I asked the first question. It was almost midnight. When you met Selim back in January, how much time did you spend with him then?
I sat next to him at a couple of lectures. We made small talk during the breaks. He bought Cara and me a glass of wine on the last afternoon, at happy hour. Told us he lived in Manhattan, that he was a doctor. Nothing more than that.
He invited you to New York?
Not exactly. I told him that we’d never been here, but that we had a trip planned for the spring. He was very friendly, very kind. Cara asked him if he knew any inexpensive hotels, since we’re on student budgets, and he told us we could stay at his apartment.
Did you talk about the sleeping arrangements?
Yes, of course. Selim told us he had a girlfriend, and that he’d either stay over at her place or sleep on a futon in the living room. He offered us the twin beds,
Jean said. He gave me his card, Ms.Cooper, with his office phone and everything. He’s a medical doctor—a psychiatric resident. It seemed perfectly safe to both of us.
It should have been perfectly safe,
I said, trying to reassure her that it was not her own judgment that precipitated her victimization. Did you correspond with him after that first meeting?
Jean shrugged. A couple of e-mails, maybe. Nothing personal. I thanked him for his offer and asked him whether he really meant it. Then I sent him another one a month ago, after Cara and I set our travel dates, to see if those were still good for him.
Mercer nodded at me over Jean’s head. He was keeping a list of things to do, and getting subpoenas for the e-mail records of both parties would be added to his tasks. We had worked together often enough to know each other’s professional style, especially for documenting every corroborating fact we could in this often bizarre world of sex crimes.
Were there any phone calls between you two?
Just one, a week ago. I left him a voice mail explaining when our bus arrived at the Port Authority and making sure it was a convenient time to show up at his apartment. He called me back late that night and we talked for a while.
Can you reconstruct that conversation for us? The details of it, I mean.
There would be skeptics on any jury that was eventually impaneled, people who would assume that there must have been verbal foreplay between the time of the first meeting of this attractive young woman and the stranger at whose home she later arranged a sleepover. I needed to know that before Mercer and I took the next steps.
Selim asked me if we had made plans for the days that we’d be in the city and what we wanted to see. Things like that.
Did he say anything at all, Jean—anything—that made you think he was interested in you, maybe socially or even sexually?
She answered quickly and firmly. No.
Her green eyes opened wide as she looked at me to measure my response.
Nothing inappropriate?
She thought for several seconds. He asked me why my boyfriend wasn’t coming with me. I told him I didn’t have one,
Jean said. Oh, yeah. He wanted to know if I liked to smoke marijuana, ’cause he could get some while I was here.
Mercer moved his head back and forth. This was a fact he was hearing for the first time. It didn’t necessarily change the case at all, but it reminded us that we had to constantly press for things that often seemed irrelevant to witnesses—and for the truth.
What did you tell him?
That I don’t like weed, that it makes me sick.
Did you expect to spend any time with him, Jean?
No way. Dr. Sengor—Selim—told us he’d be at work all day and with his girlfriend most evenings. I just thought he was being a nice guy, letting us crash at his place.
Most of my prosecutorial career had involved women meeting nice guys who had other things in mind. Cops and prosecutors—and often Manhattan jurors—found young people from west of the Hudson River and north of the Bronx a bit too trusting much of the time.
So he didn’t come on to you at all?
Jean forced a smile. Not until I was ready to go to bed the first night.
What happened then?
It was after nine when we got to his place. We sort of settled in and talked for an hour. Just stuff. Psychology and how hard grad school is and what were our first impressions of the city. When Cara went into the bathroom to take a shower, Selim came over to the couch I was sitting on and like, well, he tried to hook up with me.
Tell Alex exactly what he did,
Mercer said, coaxing the facts we needed out of her as he had done earlier in the day.
Jean was a well-built young woman, almost as tall as I am at five-foot-ten, but much stockier. I was tired from the long bus ride, and kind of leaning back with my head against a pillow. Selim reached over and tried to kiss me—right on the mouth—while he was fumbling to get his hand on my chest.
What did you do?
I just pushed him away and stood up. I asked him to give me the telephone book so I could find a hotel to stay in.
How did he react to that?
He was very apologetic, Ms. Cooper. He told me how sorry he was, that he had misinterpreted my body language. He pleaded with me not to tell Cara. He told me that in his country—
His country?
I asked.
Selim’s from Turkey. He said that back home, if anybody did that to his sister, he’d be pilloried in the town square.
He’d be short one hand and castrated, too, no doubt. So you stayed?
He was a perfect gentleman from that point on. He was just testing me, I guess. It’s happened to me before. Maybe that’s why I thought I could handle the situation.
And Cara?
You’ll have to ask her about that,
Jean said, blushing perceptibly.
Mercer had already told me that Selim Sengor hit on Cara, too, after Jean fell asleep the first night. They stayed in the living room talking, and she engaged in some kissing and fondling with him, but had stopped short of further sexual intimacy. That was another reason to keep the witnesses separated. They were likely to be more straightforward with us out of each other’s presence. Cara might blame herself for what happened thereafter—an unfortunate but typical reaction when some of the sexual contact was consensual. She might even be less candid in front of Jean.
Did you socialize with him during the week?
No. In fact, he actually did spend the night before last with his girlfriend. We hardly ever saw him.
She bit at the cuticle of one of her nails, until she noticed me watching her. Then she straightened up again and began to wind a strand of her long hair behind her left ear.
And yesterday?
In the morning, after Cara and I made our plans, I beeped him at the hospital. When he called back, I told him that we were going sightseeing and planned to pick up some half-price tickets to a Broadway show, in Times Square. We invited him to join us, to thank him for letting us stay with him.
Did he spend the evening with you?
No, he didn’t seem the least bit interested in doing that.
Did you and Cara go to the theater?
Yeah, we saw that new Andrew Lloyd Webber thing. Cara loves him. We got back to the apartment after eleven o’clock and Selim was waiting up for us. We bought him a gift, an expensive bottle of Kentucky bourbon,
Jean said, smiling again, now braiding the length of hair as she talked. It sounded very American.
What did you do then?
He offered us a drink and we both said sure. We sat in the living room while Selim went into the kitchen and mixed the cocktails.
Mixed them? What did he make for you?
Again she shrugged and shook her head. I don’t know. I never drank bourbon before. I heard that loud kind of noise that a food blender makes, and he came out with something—I don’t know—it looked very frothy when he brought it to us.
I couldn’t imagine anyone adding something to a good scotch, and I doubted there was much to improve on in a fine bourbon either.
Had you changed your clothes, Jean, to get ready to go to sleep?
No. Cara turned on the CD player and we started listening to the soundtrack from the show. Selim came back into the room and handed us each a drink. He offered a toast to our friendship and we clinked our glasses together.
The young woman rested her elbows on the desk and cushioned her head in her hands while I asked her how much of the cocktail she drank.
Three sips of it, Ms. Cooper. Maybe four. I swear I didn’t have any more than that.
Any marijuana?
No. I mean he had some in the apartment—he offered me a joint that he took out of a drawer in one of the tables, but I didn’t smoke any.
I needed her candor. The blood and urine that had been collected by the nurse-examiner would confirm her answer.
Did he smoke?
Not in front of us. Not that I saw.
What’s the next thing you remember?
There was no next thing. That’s the last memory I have, really. I felt dizzy and weak—so weak that I tried to stand up but I couldn’t. The room started spinning and then it was dark. Completely black. That’s all I know.
Jean pushed herself upright again, looked at her nail—the bed red with irritation from her biting—and then back at me.
Until…?
Until I woke up this morning.
In the living room?
No, no. No. I was in one of the beds in the other room. That’s what’s so strange about this, Ms. Cooper. I was dressed in my nightgown, my clothes were folded neatly on top of my suitcase,
Jean said, dropping her head back in her hands and lowering her voice. And I ached. I ached terribly.
I need to know where it hurt. Exactly where you felt it.
Jean Eaken didn’t lift her head. She rubbed her lower abdomen with one hand.
Mercer and I both knew what she meant, but that wouldn’t be specific enough for the purposes of the law. On the outside of your body?
I asked, speaking softly.
No. Inside me. Like someone had sex with me. Too much.
Do you remember having intercourse with Selim? Do you think you might have consented to it after you started drinking with—
Jean flashed another look at me as I gently challenged her and cut me off abruptly with a single sharp word. No.
Tell me what you did this morning, Jean.
I was frozen. I didn’t know what to do. At first I couldn’t even remember where I was. I looked at my watch and saw that it was eleven thirty in the morning. We’d had the alarm set all week for seven, but I didn’t even hear that go off. I got out of bed—I was still a little dizzy—to lock the bedroom door. Selim had been working rotating shifts—different hours all week. He told us he had to work sixteen hours today—eight a.m. to midnight—but I was scared he might still be there. Then I woke Cara up.
Where was she?
I asked.
In the other bed. Same as me—dressed in her nightgown and her jeans and sweater all folded up neatly. She was sleeping so deep, I had to keep shaking her to get her up. She didn’t remember anything, either. She started crying, so first I had to calm her down. It was my idea to get dressed and go over there to the hospital.
That was the best thing you could have done, Jean. Very smart.
But the doctors haven’t told me anything.
We won’t let you go home until they’ve explained their findings to you,
Mercer said, watching Jean nervously twist and untwist the same plait of hair.
Did you leave your things at Selim’s?
Are you crazy? I never wanted to see that guy again. We brought our suitcases with us.
The glasses you drank from,
I said, did you see them in the apartment this morning?
I didn’t look around. I just wanted to get out of there as fast as possible.
Did you have any reason to go into the kitchen, to put things away or clean anything up?
No. That’s his problem.
Even better. It meant there was a shot that we might get lucky and still find some inculpatory evidence if Mercer and I could get going on this.
I know it’s been a long day for you, Jean. Just give us a few minutes to put things together and we’ll be back,
I said, stepping out of the room behind Mercer, who had picked up the cardboard evidence collection kit that had been prepared by the nurse-examiner at the hospital. We were in the hallway of the quiet corridor that Special Victims shared with the Manhattan North Homicide Squad.
How long will it take to get the tox screening back on these?
he asked, referring to the slides and plastic bottles inside the compact box.
In addition to the traditional testing of fluids and stains recovered from a patient’s body during the emergency room treatment of a rape victim, the latest kits required samples be taken of blood and urine for the most refined testing, as assailants used more sophisticated methods to overcome their prey.
Seventy-two hours, if they jump us to the front of the line.
I’m sending this whole thing to the M.E.’s office, to Serology?
It starts there,
I said. Mercer knew that our medical examiner’s serology lab did most of the analyses we needed. Unfortunately, if there are any exotic drugs involved, it’ll go out to a private lab and take even longer.
Damn. I hate to give this bastard a three-day pass. We’ll even have the DNA results by this time tomorrow.
DNA tells us next to nothing in a case like this. We know they spent the night in his apartment. We know the docs recovered semen specimens from both women. None of that’s a crime unless he used force—
No sign of that,
Mercer said.
Even the aches that Jean described could be consistent with consensual sexual activity if it was vigorous or prolonged—or infrequent, since she had told Selim she did not have a current boyfriend.
Or he spiked their drinks to render them unconscious. We’re nowhere without the toxicology,
I said.
How do you want to take it from here?
My deputy, Sarah Brenner, had stayed behind at the DA’s office to draft the search warrant with the facts Mercer provided to her, and she would take it before the judge who was sitting in night court to sign while we set the rest of the operation in motion.
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.
2
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—
Maybe you drank the bourbon too fast. Maybe you’re just imagining things. I never touched you. Look, it’s really late and I have to go to—
How about Cara? She swears you made love to her.
I had written out that choice of language for Jean to use. If she’d confronted Selim with a highly charged word like rape,
he would have known immediately that she was talking about a crime. I was hoping that an expression like making love
would cause him to lower his guard and explain away the conduct to his accuser as consensual.
I think you better go home, Jean. I think you’re acting really crazy. Nobody’s going to believe the stuff you’re saying. They’ll just think you were drunk.
The call ended abruptly. Jean tried to keep him talking, but Selim wasn’t having any more of it.
I dialed Mercer’s cell phone number and walked out of the room so Jean wouldn’t hear my conversation with him.
Where are you?
I said when he answered.
Right down the hall from the doc’s apartment. Top of the stairwell,
he whispered. I got two guys with me for backup, and Kerry Schreiner, in case the girlfriend’s inside. Four of us ready to roll.
The judge authorized nighttime entry, didn’t she?
Yeah, Sarah argued exigent circumstances so we could go in any time. By morning, the kitchen sink might be clean as a whistle. Before I put my finger on the doorbell, did Jean get any admissions from him?
Not enough to collar him yet. Denies drugging them. Denies sex. She did a really good job but he got spooked when she pressed too much. It’s all up to what you find inside. Keep me posted.
I wished him luck and clicked off the phone.
I took Jean back to the Special Victims office to reunite her with Cara McDevitt. When Cara saw us enter the squad room, she stood up and rushed forward to embrace her friend.
What took so long?
Cara asked. Are you okay?
She was tearful and anxious. Jean nodded without emotion and stepped away to sit in one of the chairs. I’m fine. Exhausted is all. I just talked to the pervert—
You did?
Cara asked, wide-eyed and still sniffling.
Can I let her know about it now, Ms. Cooper? I’m only sorry I couldn’t tell him what I really wanted to say.
I promise to give you that chance down the road. It’s better for the case that you stuck to my script. You nailed down some very important points, and I know how hard that was to do.
I smiled at Jean, admiring her courage and her fortitude. Sure you can tell Cara about it.
One of the detectives from the squad was waiting to take them to the hotel room we had arranged so they could get some rest. I wanted them to stay in town to testify before the grand jury the next week if we came up with evidence of the commission of a crime.
My file was still in the Homicide Squad office, so I went back to retrieve it and wait for Mercer.
What’s got you up past your bedtime?
Mike asked. You’re looking a little short in the beauty sleep department.
Think we’ve got a DFSA.
Drug-facilitated sexual assault had been around for a very long time. There were mickeys slipped to femmes fatales in half of the noir films and pulp fiction of the forties and fifties. And the occasional Mata Haris who used similar techniques to betray their seducers. But the nineties had ushered in a roster of designer drugs that made it sport for college kids, street thugs, and professionals to lace drinks of unsuspecting dates with ecstasy and Seconal, roofies and GHB—known more formally as Rohypnol and gamma hydroxybutyrate. Not only did the druggings often lead to sex crimes, but also to lethal combinations of chemical substances in these muscle relaxants that triggered a range of reactions, from seizures to comas, and even death.
Why don’t you go home?
Mike asked.
The call didn’t go as well as I had hoped. The guy didn’t give us much, so I want to see what Mercer comes back with. Anything new on Natalya?
The artistic director of the company wants to lowball it. She’s got a bad rep as a prima donna—
"She is a prima donna. She’s one of the best dancers in the world. Julie Kent, Alessandra Ferri, Natalya Galinova—they’re breathtakingly brilliant artists. What does that have to do with the fact that she disappeared?"
Your pal Talya sports a fierce temper and a foul mouth. She had a battle backstage in her dressing room after the second act, stormed out of there, and wasn’t around to take her bow at the end of the evening.
She’s too much of a pro not to finish the performance.
No, no, Coop. She was dancing only one piece. It was—what do you call it? A gala or something. They weren’t doing a full-length ballet, just excerpts, and hers was done.
That makes more sense. Who was she fighting with?
Maybe her lover. Maybe—
Her lover? I’m sure her husband back in London will be thrilled with the news.
Could be why the director wants to keep a lid on this one for a few hours, till we see where she shows up,
Mike said, looking over his notes. Thirty-eight. That’s pushing it for a dancer, isn’t it? It’s even an advanced age for a prosecutor.
I’m not there yet. Don’t rush me. And yes, ballet is ruthless in that regard,
I said. Who called in the scratch?
I asked.
Talya’s agent. He phoned the precinct to ask how to file a missing persons report. The desk sergeant told him it was too early but kicked it up here to cover his ass.
The long-standing NYPD policy didn’t allow adults to be declared missing unless they hadn’t been heard from in more than twenty-four hours. More than eighteen thousand reports of missing persons came in to city cops over the course of an average year, and all but a handful turned out to be runaways or people who had chosen to leave whatever scene they had disappeared from.
Who’s the lover?
Depends who you ask. The artistic director claims the guy’s a major producer. Theatrical, like Broadway shows. He says they’ve been working the couch in her dressing room pretty hard. The agent admits Talya knows the man, but claims it’s just a professional relationship.
What’s his name?
Joe Berk. Ever hear of him?
I’ve seen it in the papers but I don’t know anything about him.
Seems there’s no accounting for the lady’s taste. He’s twice her age, thick like a stuffed boar, filthy rich, and vicious as a rattlesnake, according to Talya’s agent. But he’s sleeping at home like a baby tonight. Rinaldo Vicci—that’s her agent—tried calling Berk to find her. Says if the guy did anything evil, it’s not keeping him awake. Besides, Talya also argued with the stage manager about the lighting, and earlier in the evening with the guy who partnered her about nearly dropping her on a lift at today’s rehearsal. Might have just pirouetted off in a huff. Something you’ve done to me more times than I can count on all my fingers and toes, blondie.
The door opened and Sergeant Maron from Special Victims signaled to me. Need you inside, Alex. DCPI wants a briefing in case anything goes down.
The deputy commissioner of Public Information had to be ready for reporters when any police matter threatened to be high profile. I picked up my folder and started out.
Hey, Mike,
Maron said. Where you been holed up?
Took some time off.
He wouldn’t turn his head in Steve’s direction.
Sorry to steal Alex away from you.
Mike waved the back of his hand at us. You’re doing me a favor. Coop was threatening for a month to plaster my picture on the side of milk cartons, send a task force out searching for me. It’s a relief to be back on the job.
Mike’s girlfriend had been killed in a freak accident on a ski trip a few months back. The grief had overwhelmed him and he had distanced himself from even his closest friends as he tried to find a way to deal with the loss.
Steve Maron and I were still in his office half an hour later when Mercer and his team of detectives walked into the squad room. He was holding the arm of a man whose hands were cuffed behind his back.
Mercer led his prisoner into the barred holding cell, unlocked the cuffs, and told him to take a seat on the wooden bench against the wall. The sullen suspect was about five-foot-eleven, looked to be in his early thirties, had short brown hair parted neatly on one side, and large dark eyes that swept the room as though he was trying to figure out who each of us was and why he had been brought here.
Dr. Sengor, I presume?
I asked Mercer, as he crossed the room to talk to me in Maron’s office, our backs to the larger room.
Mercer nodded.
And probable cause to go with him?
I asked.
Check out the boxes,
he said, closing the door and pointing at the cartons that the other two detectives