They sort of, shall I say, fly through the air — but without the trapeze.”
Had Zukov been the apparition who had disappeared from the balcony at St. John the Divine when I called after him, and terrified Faith by climbing on the scaffolding above her without making a sound?
The large man hoisted himself out of his chair and moved to his desk. He had a stack of photos — eight-by- ten color glossies — and flipped through them till he found some of Oksana Zukov to show to us.
“Look at this, Mike,” I said. The attractive woman was dressed in a lacy black bodysuit and sheer tights, her lithe body bent back to form a semicircle, hanging on to a red fabric suspended from the ceiling of a tent. Her left leg was hooked over a vertical piece of the ceiling support, and the top of her auburn hair almost touched her right foot, which pointed straight down, also wrapped in the lower length of fabric.
“How the hell can she do that?” Mike asked.
“It’s in the DNA, Detective,” Mr. Delahawk said. “These families have it in the blood, I tell you. They’re incredible artists.”
“What’s the fabric?”
“It’s called aerial silk, but it’s really a very strong, flexible, stretch material, which gives the performers all the control they need.”
“Aerial silk,” Mike said. “I’ll bet that’s the type of cloth that was found under Naomi Gersh’s arm.”
The shiny blue fragment that had been shielded from flames by the flexion angle of her armpit might yet be a forensic link to the killer’s train compartment.
“So why don’t you tell me about Ted, Mr. Delahawk?”
The older man screwed up his face and answered Mike with a blank stare. “Ted? Who do you mean by that?”
“There’s a Zukov named Ted, isn’t there? You leaving him out for a reason?”
“I don’t know who you mean. The only one I haven’t mentioned is Fyodor.”
“That’s the Russian equivalent of Theodore, Mike,” I said. “There’s your Ted.”
“So where is he, this Fyodor? What suite?”
“You’ve missed him, Detective. He’s on leave.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. He’s taken a leave. Young Daniel here is his replacement.”
“I didn’t know that. I swear I didn’t,” Daniel said, jumping to his feet. “I’m just a stagehand. I’m not like Ted.”
“Are we talking about the same person?” I asked. “Can you describe him, Mr. Delahawk?”
“He’s a Zukov, young lady. That’s what he looks like. Tall, like all of them are. Thin. Supple body, like you see in his sister’s picture. A Zukov.”
“Any unusual features? What about his hair?”
Delahawk thought for a moment. “Dark hair. Very long. That’s all.”
“His skin?” I asked.
“It’s marked or pitted or something. But around me — when he was appearing in the show — I am used to seeing all these kids with so much makeup on that I wouldn’t really notice.”
“Makeup?” Mike asked.
“Yes. Theatrical makeup. Very thick, almost like a white paste for the aerialists, so you can see them highlighted against the dark background of the tent, or in contrast with their black costumes.”
Phantasmagorical, like Faith Grant said, when she encountered Ted on the street.
“So is Fyodor a stagehand or an artist, Mr. Delahawk? Russian or American?”
“His parents came to this country when they were in their twenties, sent by their families. The three siblings were all born here. In Florida, in fact, near our headquarters.”
“Accent or no?”
“Not a trace.”
Mike was ready to call in to Peterson with a description of “Ted’s” actual birth name and other information.
“Do you know if he’s religious?” I asked.
“The whole lot of them are religious,” Delahawk said. “In our business, I suppose it’s either religion or superstition that gets you up on the high wire. I’d pray a lot more if I was seventy feet in the air and had nothing but the wooden flooring to break my fall.”
“What religion? Do you know where he worships?”
“Eastern Orthodox. For years now we’ve had to make sure there was a church for the Zukovs to attend near every stop we make.”
I didn’t know the Orthodox position on feminist theology.
Fontaine Delahawk held his forefinger against his lips. “With Fyodor, everything changed after the accident last year. He doesn’t go to church with the others anymore. I’m not sure what he does about that.”
“What accident are you talking about?”
“Fortunately, we were in a backwater town in the Florida Panhandle,” Delahawk said. “If it happened at Madison Square Garden, it would have been front-page news.”
“What was it?” I asked again.
“Fyodor Zukov dropped a girl.” Delahawk spoke each word distinctly. “He was on the trapeze, during a performance, and his partner — the girl he was training to work with him — fell to the ground. She trusted him to catch her while he was on the trapeze — he’s done it thousands of times. He’s done it almost every day of his life, since childhood. But she plummeted like a rock.”
“Did she live?”
“She’s alive, last I knew. But both of her legs were crushed. If she ever walks again it will be a miracle.”
“And this was an accident, you say?” I was skeptical, thinking of the violence that had seemingly engulfed Fyodor’s life throughout this year.
“It proved to be a medical situation, Ms. Cooper. You can be certain the doctors — and the police — confirmed all that. So, yes, it was an accident. Fyodor can no longer do the wire acts or trapeze. He had a brilliant future, of course, but now that’s gone. That’s why he’s been moving scenery and carting the props around. I’ve offered to keep him on payroll, but he’s very angry. He’s angry at the world.”
“What medical condition is it?”
“Something to do with his nerves. I simply don’t know. Patient privacy and all that.”
“You mean he’s lost his nerve?” Mike asked.
“Oh, no,” Delahawk said, almost chortling while he spoke. “Fyodor’s got ice water in his veins, Detective. Nothing scares him, I can promise you that. It’s the nerves in his hands that are shot.”
“When did he leave the company?”
“He hasn’t been back to the train all week. That’s why we had to hire an extra young man for the next leg of the trip,” Delahawk said, gesturing to Daniel Gersh. “I haven’t seen Fyodor Zukov all week.”
FORTY-FOUR
“WE need to talk to Fyodor’s family,” Mike said.
“I’ll ask them if they’re willing to—”
“You’ll ask them nothing, Mr. Delahawk. It’s almost time for dinner. Pour yourself a nice stiff drink, stay off the airwaves there — no intercom warnings — and we’ll pay them a visit. No illusionists or jugglers. Don’t send in the clowns. Do I make myself clear?”
“But I’ve told them not to talk, Detective.”
“I can be very persuasive, sir,” Mike said. “C’mon, Daniel. You’re with us.”
As we retraced our steps through the narrow corridors toward the Zukov suite, we stopped in one of the vestibules between cars. Mike called Lieutenant Peterson and I turned away from him to speak with Faith Grant on
