Vice Cop Ch. 11

"Mr. Ormond, it's not necessary for a person to have no criminal record to commit their first crime," Lexa said to him, "I think this is an issue that involves an extramarital affair."

"And since when is that a crime?" he said, with a small laugh.

He had an annoyed look in his face, as if Lexa was embarrassing him and he had his hand on his hip. He was drinking bottled water.

"The adultery itself is not the crime. Reverend Victor Marshall, who is a fan of this ballet, disappeared after a performance and I suspect it has to do with one of the dancers. It could be a kidnap or it could be --"

"So it's about one of our dancers who did a really bad thing with a man? A priest?"

"No, not a priest. Marshall is not Catholic. He is a married Christian pastor. Since this is a case I've just taken on, everything is speculation at this point. But I'm digging for clues and what better place than here, where Rev. Victor Marshall was last seen."

"This can't be good."

He drank from his bottled water and surveyed Lexa up and down.

"You're very pretty for a detective," he said to her, "lots of times we get very unattractive men in here and --"

"Please stick to the subject, Mr. Ormond. Tell me, do you feel there is one particular dancer that has the capacity to do something like this with a man like Victor Marshall? Are any of the girls known to misbehave when they are not performing or preparing for a performance?"

He rubbed his dark hair and looked about, his eyes on the girls who were twirling and dancing about the floor. The Triumphal March from Aida was being played on a record player for the girls to dance. Julian Ormond was quiet and pensive. He then turned to Lexa again, putting a hand on her shoulder.

"If you ask me, the only girl here that is most likely to be "bad" is the stuck-up Madeline Cavanaugh, our prima ballerina. She acts like she was born to a life of privilege. My ass! Her mother works as a hotel maid in Maine and her dad was a drunken gambler. She came to dance in New York City like the Queen of Sheba because she had won some scholarship or something. "

"What makes you think she is most likely to be bad? Is she spoiled and rotten?"

"Oh is she ever. She is very deluded. No one really likes her and we all talk about her behind her back. She thinks she can get whatever she wants. It's always her way or nothing. She drives everyone nuts."

"Where can I find this girl?" Lexa said.

He pointed to a room somewhere in the back.

"She's in there rehearsing for the Dance of the Seven Veils. She commandeered that room for herself and is alone."

"Thank you, Mr. Ormond."

He watched Lexa as she walked toward the backroom while drinking his bottled water.

Lexa opened the door without knocking. She had learned from Detective Mason that this was a way to exert her authority as detective and to watch for reactions that could indicate more than annoyance. This is exactly the look she got from Madeline Cavanaugh who was in the middle of her dance. A record player was on and the music to Salome floated in the air. Madeline crossed her arms and put her foot down.

"Who are you and what the fuck are you doing in here?"

"I didn't know ballerinas could use such bad language," Lexa said with a sly grin.

"Security!"

"Don't bother calling security, Miss Cavanaugh. I'm a detective with the NYPD conducting an investigation."

"Is this some kind of joke? I'm no criminal. How dare you come in here. Get out. I'm rehearsing."

"Please understand, Miss Cavanaugh. This is a very important investigation. Reverend Victor Marshall who conducts sermons here in Manhattan is missing. He is known to be a lover of the ballet. He was last seen here before he went missing. I want to ask you a few questions."

Lexa noticed that the girl was very pretty. Her body was young and lithe and she had a proud countenance, as if indeed she had been born into royalty. But somewhere, deep down, Lexa sensed that this girl was pure trash. The fact she had used the f word and her spoiled ways showed that she was no good; used to getting what she wanted.

"Look, Detective whoever you are, I cannot emphasize enough how this has nothing to do with me. My life is the ballet. All I ever care about is my art. I hope you have interrogated the other dancers too. Anything they tell you about me is out of pure envy."

"Do you know Reverend Marshall at all?"

"No. I have no religion. I'm pagan," she said cynically and with a laugh, "but that doesn't mean that I'm a criminal. This is a bad time. I must have my privacy while rehearsing. Please leave."

Lexa looked at her silently for a moment and then left. Madeline's face was still taut from anger and continued to dance, spinning around slowly; gyrating her body to the beat of the exotic music.

When Lexa returned to the other practice room, where a group of ballerinas were now stretching, a scream penetrated the air, startling everyone. At once, the dancers ran toward the direction of the scream. Lexa found that she, too, was running. She came to a secluded part of the theater where a hall led into a number of utility rooms. A crowd gathered at one of these rooms.

"What is going on here?" Lexa said.

"I was bringing back a mop," said an elderly janitor, "and look what I found here --"

On the floor, hidden in part by a number of rags, brooms and buckets was the headless body of a man.

SIX

Lexa walked into Mason Holmes' office so suddenly that it took him by surprise.

He was on the phone but he was compelled to hang up.

"What is the matter?" he said; his eyes wide.

"I'm now investigating a homicide case," Lexa said to him flatly, "and you'll have to brace yourself."

"Lexa, you're scaring me. What's going on?"

"Reverend Victor Marshall was murdered. He was decapitated and his body was found in the utility room of the American Ballet Theater. I was there when the body was found."

"My God! Poor Claire."

"I notified her of course. It wasn't very easy to tell her what happened to Victor."

"I can imagine. She must be an emotional mess."

"She is not talking to anyone. She told me she will contact you again when she is ready."

"But I'm on another case."

"I know. I didn't want to tell her that. I just find it so interesting that Victor was beheaded, beheaded like that headhunter serial killer you're looking for."

"My God. This is terrible. I don't know what to think."

"It's gotten personal. I have the strangest feeling, though, that the Reverend's decapitation was not the act of your headhunter killer. This seemed like an act driven by passion. The killer left a note. It was hidden in one of his pockets." "What did the note say?"

"You were beautiful."

Mason was silent for a moment. He got up and walked about his office.

"This doesn't sound like the headhunter, who has never left a calling card of any sort. You may be on to something here. This could be the work of an entirely different murderer."

Lexa looked at him, as if watching for his reaction. She took a deep breath.

"I'd like to stay on this case," she said to him, "and me alone. This is a major murder case and I want to be involved in every part of its investigation. Don't say no. I'm ready, Mason. I want to know who did this to Claire's husband."

Mason looked at her, as if studying her.

"Alright, Lexie. This case is yours. Just be careful. I wouldn't want for you to lose your head."

"Don't worry about that, detective. Mine is a head that is securely fastened on my shoulders."

SEVEN

Vince McClintock, Hudson's partner, was off-duty and although he had called Hudson, Hudson had not answered the phone. Vince would have liked to have had a guys' night out, doing all the typical guy stuff with Hudson. Vince, too, had very little friends and enjoyed Hudson's companionship.

If Hudson wasn't in such a depressed state, he was certain he could convince him to go to a bar and drink, go to a dance club to check out the girls or even go to a strip club. But there was no such luck. Hudson was still wrapped in gloom and did not want to socialize with anyone. Although he had tried to contact other friends, they had all excused themselves saying they had previous commitments. Vince figured these "commitments" were their girlfriends. Vince, too, was single and he felt that was probably why he got along with Hudson, who seemed to be perennially single.

So, bored as hell, Vince decided to go to a coffeehouse. He was tired of the bar scene. And more and more prostitutes were picking up their clients from the bars, and he did not want to feel tempted by them. He had always played it safe, being a cop, and didn't want to do anything that seemed out of place. Most prostitutes he had known were on drugs. He saw it all the time whenever he brought a hooker to the police station, disoriented, dyed-haired girls with red eyes and emaciated bodies. At least there was no possibility of a hooker doing her thing at a respectable café. He felt it was time he should try out a new place, and a café was perfect. Maybe he would meet a nice girl there.

The café was called Café du Calais, and it was modeled after a French café-bistro. There was accordion music playing lilting melodies as he entered the establishment, and his eyes were bombarded with pleasant imagery on the walls. Various replicas of Monet's Water Lilies and other Impressionist art like Le Dejeuner Sur L'Herbe hung on the walls, and all the colors, though pastel, were brightened under the café lights.

Here was a group of people Vince normally did not socialize with, nor was seen with. He could tell right away that these people were, if not wealthy, at least upper-middle class folks who dressed stylishly and fashionably, who seemed to enjoy an idle and leisurely lifestyle. He also saw a lot of academic types -- professors, writers, artists, photographers and philosophers, but these were mostly men. The women seemed to be their girlfriends or young University girls, super models and classy young women from the city.

Yes, he did not seem to fit in here, but he thought he'd give it a try.

Stepping up to the counter, he ordered flavored coffee and a light meal. He turned around to notice that the accordion music was not Muzak, but a live band, playing instruments on a small stage next to a brick wall. The accordion music passages were but one part of a small ensemble that featured saxophone and piano.

It was modern jazz music, very soothing and French sounding. The players were all thin and young and wearing black. Vince thought they looked like a throwback to 1950's beatnik culture. He sat down and waited for his order to arrive. His eyes moved about, searching to see if any girl was sitting somewhere else alone. Everyone was paired up, from the looks of it, either as couples or groups of friends. Vince, who had somewhat large ears on a small face, was able to hear conversations from some feet away. The group of friends sitting directly across from him were evidently French American.

"Catherine, c'est toi? Ma foi, Combien de temps as-tu habite a New York? Je me rappelle bien quand vous etiez un etudant chez le Sorbonne."

Great, thought Vince, it was just as well he couldn't speak or understand French. How he wished he could understand. It would be entertaining to overhear other people's conversations. The two girls in the opposite table were American, one was brunette, the other a red-head. They were both very slim and wearing v-shaped tops and sweatpants. He noticed their shoes were very flat-bottomed, like ballet shoes.

"You can't tell me you don't like the administration at The American Ballet Theater," one of the girls, the brunette, said, "you must be joking. Baryshnikov has done miracles with the repertoire. He's a valuable asset. And Lucia Chase is a legend. What are you complaining about?"

"You're young, Madeline. You never knew Balanchine. He really knew how to handle dancers and how to deliver the goods. Everything that man did for the ballet here in the city was perfect. Today's dancers are just like Hollywood celebrities, spoiled and shallow and self-centered."

"You weren't Balanchine's favorite. And you've had your diva moments, too. I know you, Mila."

"Diva? Me? No way. I'm just Russian."

They shared a laugh.

"You look really tired, Madeline. Did they push you real hard at rehearsal today?"

"You better believe it. And I'm sick of working with second-tier conductors. That last guy whoever he was, my God what a nightmare! I don't care that he's got experience with the Bolshoi. He conducted the orchestra like he was on speed. I can't really dance to his style and if he thinks I'm like some trained monkey, he better think again."

"Look, you're just nervous. This is your first Swan Lake. And that's one hell of a role you're interpreting."

"I hate the Odile costume. It's like someone killed a black-feathered ostrich and removed everything but the black feathers and black skinned stomach! I'm glad I'm going to be dancing for Salome at the Met. That is one step up at least."

Vince had been staring at the girls for a prolonged period and was especially drawn to the brunette girl.

"Look, that guy is staring at us, or you, rather," said the red-head.

Vince heard this and turned his head to look into another direction. He cleared his throat.

"Maybe he's seen me perform. Maybe he's one of those ballet queer fans of mine."

"Or a stalker. You know that I had a guy stalking me once, back when I was dancing under Balanchine. The guy was nuts and I had to get the cops after him. I think I'll know what to do."

She got up from the table and approached Vince, who had grabbed a free newspaper and pretended to read it. The girl tapped his shoulder. Vince turned around and looked up to see her face to face.

"You've been looking at me like you know me," she said, "do you?"

"No," Vince said, "I'm sorry if I startled you. You're just so beautiful."

"Do you attend the ballet?"

"Me? I've never been to a ballet in all my life."

"So you don't know who I am?"

"No. Who are you? An actress?"

"I'm Madeline Cavanaugh of the American Ballet Theater."

She extended her hand to him, as if expecting him to kiss it but Vince took her hand and shook it.

"I'm Vince McClintock, of the New York Police's Vice Squad."

"Charmed I'm sure. I think it would nice to have at least one cop on my side."

She laughed as if she had joked but there was something strange about her remark. Vince ignored it and smiled back, entranced by her beauty.

* * * *

Madeline Cavanaugh, ballerina.

Vince was thinking about her the next day when, impulsively, he purchased tickets to Salome at the Metropolitan Opera, which everyone just called "The Met". She had told him that she was to dance and substitute for the soprano. Furthermore, she had said she'd surprise everyone with brief nudity at the end of her dance. It was his first opera and the only reason he was going was to see her. She had been polite at the café where he first saw her and they had conversed for a while, not long, but long enough for him to fall head over heels for her. She seemed genuinely interested in him, as well, and called him cute. She told him she would talk to him again only if he saw her perform. She said she never dated any guy who did not appreciate the the performing arts.

So he went, considerably underdressed in a blue dress shirt, black slacks and leather jacket. It was his "dance club" outfit, and he knew it was not formal wear, but he felt it would do. He hoped she would be able to see him, even from her stance on the stage when she danced. He had purchased an orchestra seat.

The Met was crowded that night.

Men in tuxedos and women in fancy gowns swarmed into the auditorium to take their seats. The conductor, a tall and imposing Russian man, with white Albert Einstein-type hair looked cartoonish to Vince and somewhat looney. There was an excitement in the air and everyone was talking about Madeline. So, apparently, the girl was quite popular and well-known in the ballet world. He felt like an idiot for not knowing who she was. She was so graceful, so elegant but yet so American, which meant she was warm, friendly and approachable. The lights were turned off and the conductor got up, received his applause and struck up the orchestra.

He hated the opera and he could sense that many of the men were eagerly awaiting the "dance".

Some time later, the soprano singing the star role exited the stage and Madeline Cavanaugh emerged. She was like an exotic belly dance from THE THOUSAND AND ONE ARABIAN NIGHTS. She had on many colorful veils and a skimpy "I dream of Jeannie" type outfit. She danced like a woman possessed, erotically, driven and passionate. She removed each veil and teased the audience with a flash of breast, a leg, a thigh, a hip, until finally the last veil was removed and she was on her knees in the nude for a few seconds before other dancers who had been dancing in the background as accompaniment took her away.

And she flashed Vince a smile.......

Vince waited for her in the wings. The red-haired Russian lady, Mila, who recognized him from the Café du Calais, allowed him access to this area. When a troop of beautiful girls in white tutus passed, he was able to see Madeline. She was the only dancer with a tiara on her head.

"Hey Madeline," he said to her.

"I knew you'd come," she said to him, "I'm headed to my dressing room to change. Wait for me here. I'll be right back."

"She doesn't do this for just anyone, you know," Mila said to him, with a grin, "but the guys who fall for her really fall hard. The last guy she was infatuated with lost his head over her. I don't think she's worth it if you ask me."

"You're supposed to be her friend though."

"We're fellow dancers; not friends. Excuse me."

She walked off the stage and headed for another direction. Vince looked out to the vast auditorium. So many seats, including balcony seats on the upper level. The lights were still on and the last remnants of the crowds that had been seated still lingered. The conductor was putting away the score to Swan Lake in a folder and talking to a violinist. He looked up and returned Vince's gaze briefly, but it was a look of hauteur. Vince was able to see what the dancers saw from their place on the stage. It was very intimidating.

Before long, Madeline returned, looking as if she had just come from a Metallica concert. Her shirt had the Metallica logo on it and her hair was in a ponytail behind her back. She was in shorts, and her pretty legs were nicely showcased.

"You like rock music?"

"I really do. I'm not some stuffy, stuck-up ballerina broad, you know."

They both shared a laugh. She smiled at him.

"How would you like to take me to dinner tonight?"

"Really? It would be my pleasure, Madeline."

EIGHT

Dinner was on Vince, but being a mere rookie cop, he couldn't afford to take Madeline Cavanaugh to an upscale restaurant. So, he invited her to his modest home in Flushing, Queens, which she accepted. Vince was Italian-American, something which he had in common with Hudson, and knew how to cook. His mother had passed away of cancer a few years back, and he had inherited his skills in the kitchen from observing her cook. His father had passed away when he was a small boy and he grew up a single child with a single mother.

His home in Queens was an unprepossessing, one-bedroom home. The kitchen was very small. Madeline looked at the place as if she didn't even know certain homes were made in small sizes. Vince was certain she was used to the best, and was a Manhattan socialite to the bone.

"You must have lots of rich friends," Vince said to her, "don't the rich enjoy the ballet and that kind of stuff?"