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.