As part of the book launch for Maniac (The Kensington Killers, Book Three), I reached out to Chris Bunton at The Yard: Crime Blog to request that he promote this hard-boiled detective series on his highly popular crime fiction blog.
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We are here because crime, and dark things draw us. It interests us. We are shocked by it and entertained by it. We are hurt by it, and we often commit it. We are here to entertain and feed that desire to see more of it, or to tell about what happened to us. We want to have fun, but realize that these are serious subjects, and we want to support helping victims, and criminals heal. We want a better world, where stories of crime are for entertainment purposes only, and not based on real people getting hurt or destroyed. We want to see things change in our world for the better. We love stories of hope, but we also live in reality.
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You can read the Lunatic excerpt on The Yard: Crime Blog, or on Medium where they also publish their blogs. Also, follow them on Facebook!
MANIAC
(THE KENSINGTON KILLERS, BOOK THREE)
Packed with twists and dark turns, Maniac presents a riveting tale of family secrets, homicidal justice, and the harrowing message that everyone is capable of murder.
Another brutal murder has been committed in Kensington, but detectives Danielle Foster and Carter Dobbs don't understand why they've been assigned the case. The dead man, a professional ballet dancer, wasn't a "special victim," but he was a member of the wealthiest family in Brooklyn. And the killer attempted to disguise the homicide as a badly staged suicide.
Lieutenant Martin Franco has been quietly tracking a judge he doesn't trust. When Bobby Campopiano is found hanged to death at the Brooklyn Ballet, Franco pulls strings to get his best S.V.U. detectives on the case. Franco is convinced the dirty judge has taken bribes from the Campopiano crime family. He finally has his shot at taking down the corrupt judge, but only if Danny and Carter can navigate two investigations without coming undone.
As Danny teeters on the brink of personal destruction, her own family matters having reached a fever-pitch, she presses into the investigation with everything she's got. Danny and Carter follow perplexing clues that lead deeper into Brooklyn's elite society, and quickly learn that anyone can be bought for the right price.
The third installment of The Kensington Killers can only be described as psychological suspense at its finest.
MANIAC
The Kensington Killers
(Book Three)
by
MIRA GIBSON
Prologue
"MY DAUGHTER tried to kill me."
Nora's frail hand fluttered from her lap to her throat where bruises had formed.
As she touched eyes with the detectives seated across from her, she added, "I found out that my daughter killed her infant son. That's why she tried to kill me. Because I found out."
Nora looked on anxiously as the detectives exchanged a glance. She couldn't get a read on them. Shouldn't they be shocked? They weren't leaning across the table. They were hardly on the edge of their seats.
The older detective had introduced himself as Detective Crouse, and the younger one was Toliver.
Nora wondered if they knew Danny.
The older detective, Crouse, scratched his jowls and frowned like a bulldog.
"Who did you say your daughter is?" he asked, as he finally picked up the pen that had been resting on a legal-sized notepad.
"Danny Foster," she repeated for the second time, tempering the exasperation in her voice. "She's Detective Danielle Foster. She works at this precinct as a Special Victims Unit investigator."
Though Crouse pressed the tip of his pen to the notepad, he didn't write the name down. Nora took that as a good sign, though. He obviously knew Danny. Both of them did.
The interview room felt airless.
Nora couldn't breathe, but maybe that was because her own flesh and blood had tried to crush her larynx only a few hours ago.
"She was on maternity leave," she went on, sensing that the detectives needed an explanation. "And once the baby was born, Danny couldn't handle being a mother. It was too much for her, psychologically. The next thing I knew, baby Gregory was dead. Danny killed that innocent boy."
Overcome with emotion, Nora burst out in tears, not for the loss of her grandson, but rather for the fact that she was here. She had lost Danny.
Her daughter had tried to kill her. That was true, and it broke Nora's heart.
The younger detective, Toliver, spoke up, "We were under the impression that Foster's infant died of S.I.D.S."
Collecting herself, Nora swallowed the lump in her throat and found the strength to go on.
"We all did," she allowed. "But I found out that baby Gregory was smothered to death. There was an autopsy. You can check with the Kings County Medical Examiner's Office."
"How did you find this out?" Toliver asked.
His eyes were bright—he believed her!—yet his discerning expression told Nora that he needed information from her. Information that could be verified.
She didn't have any.
So, swapping Danny for herself in the story, she reconstructed the chain of events for Detectives Crouse and Toliver, all the while she stroked her tender neck.
"I learned of all this from the baby's father, a man named Thomas O'Toole. He goes by Tommy and owns the bar O'Toole's on Caton Avenue."
Detective Toliver's mouth curled. He was fond of O'Toole's. Most of the cops in Kensington favored the place over the trendier bars that had cropped up throughout Brooklyn over the years.
"Danny and Tommy had been on the rocks," she went on. "They were an 'on again, off again' type of couple. They were 'off again' when Danny had the baby, and when she killed the baby. Weeks later, when they got back together, Tommy learned that Gregory had died of S.I.D.S. He must have suspected foul play. I guess he ordered an autopsy, discovered that the baby had been asphyxiated, and he told me."
"He told you what?" Crouse questioned.
"What do you mean?" Nora didn't get it.
Toliver clarified, "What exactly did Tommy tell you?"
"That Gregory had been killed," she supplied, as if that was all the information the detectives would need.
"Who jumped to the conclusion that Danny was responsible?" Crouse asked.
"What are you talking about?" Nora replied, upset. "She's the mother. The baby was found dead. Danny killed the baby."
Detective Toliver calmed Nora down when he said, "We'll look into this, of course."
"Look into it?! You'll arrest Danielle Foster! She tried to strangle me to death in my apartment earlier today! Look at my neck!"
Nora couldn't see straight, she was so mad.
If Homicide didn't arrest Danny for the murder of Gregory O'Toole, then Nora feared that her daughter would have her arrested. Nora's back was to a brick wall. The only saving grace was the fact that Danny had tried to kill Nora, and the marks on Nora's throat proved it.
"Do you think my daughter would try to choke me to death for no reason?" she raged on.
Detectives Crouse and Toliver leaned back in their chairs to claim some space.
"I found out she killed her son, and she tried to kill me to keep me quiet!" Nora yelled so loudly that she began coughing.
"Take it easy," Crouse suggested, as he made a few notes.
"Would you like a glass of water?" Toliver offered.
"I would like you to arrest my daughter."
"Here's what we're going to do," said Toliver. "You were attacked. We can see that. We're going to get you to the hospital for medical attention. We'll get you there. The police will take photos of your neck—"
Nora interrupted, "And get the DNA! I had to claw my way out of Danny's grasp. I'm sure her skin is under my fingernails."
"Absolutely," Toliver agreed.
"She killed Gregory," Nora insisted.
Detectives Toliver and Crouse touched eyes for the tenth time.
Then Detective Crouse asked, "The night Gregory died, as far as you know Danny was alone with the baby?"
Nora's mouth pressed into a hard line.
She didn't want to have to correct him.
"Mrs. Foster?"
"No," she admitted.
"Danny wasn't alone that night?" asked Toliver, curious.
Nora didn't say a word.
Detective Crouse asked her, "Who else was there?"
She folded her arms, hardened to stone, and insisted:
"My daughter has scratches all over her face. She tried to kill me. I clawed my way out. I want her arrested for attempted murder, now."
Chapter One
THE SCRATCHES still stung.
As Detective Danielle Foster walked along Church Avenue in the humid heat of May, she resisted the temptation to touch the worst scratch. Red, raised, and stinging, the scratch ran from her cheekbone to the corner of her mouth on the left side of her face.
She had disinfected it with rubbing alcohol and had tried to cover it with concealer and foundation makeup, neither of which had worked.
The other two scratches were superficial. One cut across her chin and the other ran down the side of her neck.
She hadn't even felt her mother digging her nails in.
All she felt now was guilt.
She had lived her entire life never knowing that deep down inside of her lurked evil. It had been more than an emotion. The darkness inside of her that had risen up had been the power that had strangled her mother within an inch of Nora's life. As if that dark force had its own will… a life of its own. Separate from Danny. Maybe even at odds with her.
Danny didn't trust herself.
The only thing keeping full-blown terror at bay was the fact that she had regained control of herself. She had walked away. She would have never been able to live with herself if she had killed her mother. But since she hadn't gone through with it, she had a chance at recovering from this.
She told herself that she was in no danger of going to prison. Nora would never report the attack. She couldn't. Nora knew that if she did, Danny would then expose the infanticide and have Nora arrested for having smothered Gregory in his crib…
Nora couldn't send Danny to prison without sending herself there as well.
Danny reminded herself of this, as she came to the corner of Westminster Road and Church Avenue.
She glanced around to get her bearings.
North of Church Avenue was Prospect Park. The southern corner of the block was dominated by St. Christopher's Cathedral, Parish Hall, Rectory, and the associated private school, St. Christopher's Catholic School. The elegant stone buildings of the parish seemed to establish an entire world that clashed with the gritty, Kensington neighborhood—stone statues and green ivy juxtaposed with bodegas, barber shops, and delicatessens.
The church was the landmark, however. When the 66th Precinct had called her cell this morning about the murder at the Brooklyn Ballet Studios, the dispatch officer had told her the ballet studio address, mentioned the location would be hard to find, and gave her St. Christopher's as a landmark.
An even better landmark was the behemoth African-American detective who was standing on the opposite side of the street.
Detective Carter Dobbs spotted her, and Danny waved. He was wearing a suit, as usual. His police-issued Glock was holstered under his arm, as usual. And, as usual, he looked angered, which meant that either Danny was late, or someone at the crime scene wasn't cooperating.
She glanced up and down the avenue, waited for a gap in the traffic, then she started walking briskly towards Carter, as a warm breeze cut across the avenue.
April showers had certainly brought late-May flowers, blue skies, and warm winds, but Danny could already feel the hot, humid grime of Brooklyn clinging to her skin.
"What the hell happened to you?" Carter asked, noticing the long, raised scratch across her cheek the moment she reached him.
"Good morning to you, too," she said.
"Seriously—"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You get a cat or something?"
"I said, I don't want to talk about it."
He teased, "Was the cat trying to get out of the bag?"
"Something like that," she grumbled.
"Danny, seriously, what happened to your face?"
Danny stared him down.
"Alright," he agreed, dropping it.
Carter pulled the glass entrance door open for Danny to step inside a shallow entryway that immediately led to a set of stairs.
The glass door only had the address number, 1128, but no other indications that the location belonged to the Brooklyn Ballet Studios.
"The studios are upstairs," Carter told her.
As they started up the narrow staircase, the sounds of city life pounded through the walls and poured in from the street.
Carter said, "It looks like a staged suicide."
"What makes you think it's a staged suicide?" she asked her partner quietly.
When they reached the landing, he shot Danny a funny look.
"I only had a glance around," he told her. "But my impression is that everything was staged."
"Well, I figured it couldn't be a real suicide," she agreed, since the Special Victims Unit had been called.
There was another glass door on the other side of the landing. 'Brooklyn Ballet Studios' was written across the glass in bold, red letters.
Carter pulled the door open for Danny and quietly asked her, "Are you sure you're okay?"
What was she supposed to tell him? That she had completely lost control over herself? That Nora had pushed her too far? Was she supposed to linger on the landing and tell her police partner of barely two months that she had tried to kill her own mother? She had been overcome with rage. Rage that Nora had murdered her baby, and rage at herself for not doing anything about it. How could she tell Carter that her mom had admitted murdering Gregory to Gregory's father, not as a means to unburden her soul, but for the purposes of intentionally destroying Danny's relationship with the man?
"Leave it alone, Carter," she warned, as she yanked the glass door open. "I already have a feeling about this one."
"You and me, both," he agreed.
On the other side of the glass door was a proper anteroom with a front desk, though no one was seated behind it. The walls were covered with huge, black and white photographs of ballet dancers twirling, leaping, and contorting their lean, muscular bodies into shapes that defied human flexibility.
Danny noticed the place smelled of leather and hairspray.
The Chief Medical Examiner, Jill Andover, stood with forensic investigators on the far side of the anteroom. They had set up a table with their equipment, but experience told Danny that Jill hadn't gone into the crime scene yet. She wouldn't until Danny and Carter had gone in first, gained their impressions, and invited her team in.
Jill looked bright eyed and focused, though she was still recovering, both physically and emotionally, for having fallen in love with a homicidal psychopath earlier in the month. The word around the precinct was that Jill had declared she was taking a long break from dating. Carter didn't believe it.
Carter and Danny stopped at the forensics table, grabbed plastic gloves, and pulled them on, all the while they greeted Jill and the rest of the team.
"Let us know when we can get in there," Jill reminded Danny.
"Of course," she said, and Jill pushed her shoulders back, pleased.
That's what Danny loved about Jill. The woman was passionate about her work.
Jill stepped in close and discreetly asked her, "What happened to your face?"
"New cat," she lied.
Too smart for her own good, Jill disagreed. "That scratch is too wide to match a cat's claw."
Carter told Jill, "Leave it alone," on Danny's behalf.
"We're ready when you're ready for us," Jill reiterated, accepting that if the detectives didn't want her to know something, she wasn't going to know it, especially if it was personal.
Carter walked Danny through the anteroom towards the crime scene, as he explained, "Brooklyn Ballet Studios has three studios and two communal dressing rooms. One for men and the other for women. In-between the two dressing rooms is a single dressing room."
"Handicapped?" she guessed.
He shook his head. "You ever meet a handicapped professional ballet dancer?"
"Right."
"The single dressing room is generally not used, I'm told, unless the ballet company is doing a run-through in their costumes, in which case the principal female ballet dancer would get the room."
"Okay," she said, digesting the specifics that he had learned, as they came to the single dressing room in question.
"I mention this because the victim was found dead in the single dressing room this morning."
"The victim is male," Danny pointed out. It was one of the few details she had learned from dispatch.
"And the company wasn't planning a dress rehearsal today," he added.
"Which makes the location of the crime peculiar."
"You ain't seen nothing yet."
Carter used a gloved hand to open the dressing room door.
Danny stepped inside the windowless dressing room, which was much larger than she had expected. A rectangular room twice the size of her bedroom. Brick walls. Pre-war architecture and floors. There was a long counter at the back of the room with a wall of mirrors behind it, stools lined the length of the counter.
At first, she saw the victim's reflection in the mirror.
He had been hanged.
The sight stopped Danny dead in her tracks.
Carter closed the door behind them, as Danny turned on her heel to face the hanging dead man.
"He's a 'special victim' because he's naked?" she asked Carter, but he didn't seem to know.
As she absorbed the full magnitude of the scene, Carter took a slow lap around the dressing room and said, "My gut tells me that this case should've landed in Homicide, but maybe the family name was a deciding factor."
The victim had the toned physique of an athlete, though his musculature was lean. Danny guessed the man was 5'10" or 5'11", but it was hard to say with him hanging from a rope. Dark brown hair, Caucasian but distinctly Italian.
His hands were tied behind his back, which would've been impossible during a suicide.
The rope he had been hung with was wrapped around one of the iron beams on the unfinished ceiling. These pre-war buildings around Kensington often had exposed brick, lofty ceilings, and exposed load-bearing support beams, all of which offered a uniquely 'Brooklyn' aesthetic. Clearly, the Brooklyn Ballet Studios enjoyed the aesthetic, too.
Not only was the rope wrapped around one of the support beams, it was also anchored to a masonry hook. The masonry hook, another architectural relic of pre-war buildings, was fixed into the brick wall about five inches off the floor.
Danny crouched and had a close look at the knot used to tether the rope to the masonry hook. She was no sailing expert, but the knot looked professional.
She stood and asked Carter, "What were you saying about 'a family name'?"
"I think this is a case for Homicide," he began explaining. "The guy's naked, sure, but my gut tells me that Homicide should've been called, and then their department could've determined if the naked factor crossed the Special Victims Unit line. We got the call straight off the bat, and I think that's because the Vic is a 'Campopiano'."
"Campopiano?"
She locked eyes with Carter.
He nodded. "Bobby Campopiano."
"Of the Campopiano crime family?" she asked, thrown.
When Carter confirmed with a nod, she breathed, "Damn."
"If this is a mob hit, then Homicide should've been called."
"To say the least," she agreed.
"So, why were we called?" Carter wondered.
Danny knew Carter well enough to know that her partner already felt toyed with, as if the killer had Carter in mind when he had orchestrated this complex crime scene.
She also knew the answer to his question.
"The captain must want this investigation to stay quiet. The press rarely bothers S.V.U. unlike Homicide. Plus, you know Homicide would treat the Vic like a pawn in a mob war. We won't."
"I think the Vic is a pawn in a mob war," he grumbled, as he picked up a sheet of paper that had been left on the long counter. "Care to read the fake suicide note?"
She shot him a crooked smile, took the paper from him, and said, "Don't mind if I do."
Carter complained, "Mob hits are clean. One bullet to the back of the head—"
"You've watched too many mafia movies—"
"This scene doesn't look like someone who personally knew the Vic killed him. It looks like someone staged the crime to look like a suicide. It's a neat mess, if that makes sense. It looks like a bunch of crime bosses dreamed up the most convincing way to kill a guy so that it would appear that someone personal to the Vic had killed him, and then staged the homicide to look like a suicide."
She glared at him. "You gonna let me read this?"
"Do you know what I'm saying?"
"This is a ballet dancer," she reminded him. "Let's not jump to conclusions."
Danny concentrated on the weirdly typed 'suicide' note. She skimmed it, then read it closely.
"Well, at least we know why S.V.U. was called," she concluded as she set the so-called suicide note down.
"That thing reads like a badly—"
"I get it," she agreed. She read the highlights out loud. "'I can't live with the memories of sexual abuse any longer… I want to end it all… If I don't take my own life, then I know I'll kill him… Everyone in my family loves Father Silva and they never would have believed me… Attending St. Christopher's Catholic School ruined my life…'"
Sarcastically, Carter told her, "The suicide note should've been signed 'Red Herring'."
"It's not that unconvincing."
He screwed his face up at her.
"If this Father Silva priest is still working at St. Christopher's, if he's still alive, let's talk to him," she suggested.
"That's just what the killer wants."
"Maybe Father Silva is the killer?" she said, but Carter didn't like it.
Danny folded her arms and got down to business.
"Who called it in?"
"A couple of dancers," he said, as he opened the door.
"Let's get Jill in here, talk to the dancers, and see if anyone had it in for Bobby Campopiano."
Danny exited the dressing room and Carter followed after her, but left the door open for the forensics team.
"Jill," she said. "The place is all yours."
"Great," she replied, as she gathered her laptop computer and portable equipment.
One of the police officers, a young Irish-American guy named Sean Quinlan, stepped into the anteroom from one of the ballet studios where he had been holding the two dancers who had called 911.
Officer Quinlan was quick to grab the largest of Jill's equipment satchels when he saw her struggling.
His helpful nature and boyish good looks were lost on Jill. She frowned, didn't thank him, and rushed into the dressing room.
Quinlan followed after her, but paused in front of Danny and Carter to let the detectives know, "The dancers have been practicing in there."
"Practicing?" Danny asked, surprised.
Quinlan nodded. "Stretching, warming up, and doing their routine," he elaborated. The fact of the matter obviously didn't sit right with him.
It didn't sit right with Carter, either.
"Not crying or trying to make sense of the unfathomable?" Carter pointed out.
"The show must go on, I guess," Quinlan figured with a shrug.
Jill filled the doorway of the dressing room, irritated that her most important equipment had been delayed.
"Officer Quinlan," she barked. "Are you helping? Or are you helping?"
Turning on her heel, she huffed back into the crime scene, as Quinlan's cheeks turned pink.
He started off, and Danny told him, "Once Jill is set up, I want you to stay outside the door, on the landing. Don't let anyone into the anteroom. Ballet classes are canceled until further notice."
"Roger that."
"Oh, and Quinlan?"
"Detective?"
"She's not ready to date."
The police officer's cheeks turned pink for the second time, but he straightened his spine, which gave Danny the impression that Quinlan begged to differ.
As he continued into the dressing room, Danny asked, "Aren't you going to 'roger that' Quinlan?"
Carter chuckled.
"What's so funny?"
"Jill's ready to date," he quietly explained. "But guys that are into her aren't her type."
"Oh, please."
"I know women."
"I bet."
Danny and Carter started through the anteroom and crossed a long hallway. There were three ballet studios, all on the right, and all with their doors open. The last studio on the right was where the detectives found the ballet dancers who had discovered Bobby Campopiano's dead body hanging from rope this morning.
Officer Quinlan had been correct.
The ballet dancers were in the concentrated throes of practicing when Danny and Carter entered the studio.
A male ballet dancer and a female one. Both wore traditional ballet slippers.
The woman wore a black leotard and pale pink tights. Her dark hair was pulled back into a very tight bun that sat on the top of her head. She looked like she had been surviving on a diet of cigarettes and determination for the entirety of her twenty-eight years.
She trotted, hopped, and then leapt into her partner's arms. Her long legs shot into the air, as the male ballet dancer held her over his head.
Turning and twirling, they hardly noticed the detectives that had stomped across the marley floor to get their attention.
"Excuse me," Danny spoke up. "I'm Detective Foster and this is Detective Dobbs."
Out of breath and pleased with themselves, the dancers released one another and padded over to the detectives.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," Danny went on. "We have a number of questions for you. Can we start with your names?"
"I'm Tracy Jones," said the female dancer. Her hands were planted on her hips, as she fought to fully catch her breath. Her skin was slick with sweat. "I'm with de Corps de Ballet tier," she mentioned, using impressive French pronunciation. "This is Eric."
"Eric MacDermott," said the other dancer, as he shook Danny's hand then Carter's. "Soloist."
Danny wondered if the titles were supposed to mean something, and the same curiosity must have crossed Carter's mind.
"Meaning, you dance all by yourself?"
Eric smiled, having caught his breath. He pushed his light brown hair off his forehead.
"Yes, I'm a 'soloist' by contract, which means I'm generally cast to perform solos in our ballets."
"He's Bobby's understudy," Tracy clarified, and by the looks of it, Eric didn't appreciate the distinction. "That's why he's here today. Bobby and I have a pas de deux in Romeo and Juliet. We agreed to all meet this morning so that Eric can practice Bobby's role."
"Understudies are always guaranteed at least one performance per production," explained Eric.
Danny made sure that she understood. "So, Bobby was cast to play…?"
"Friar Lawrence," Tracy supplied. "And I'm the Nurse."
"Minor characters," Eric humbly added.
Carter understood and asked Eric, "You're not the understudy anymore, are you?"
"No," he said as a breezy grin came over him. "Now I'll dance as Friar Lawrence in all the ballet performances."
It piqued Danny's interest, but she didn't probe.
Instead, she asked them, "Can you walk us through what happened when you got to the ballet studios this morning?"
Carter added, "No detail is insignificant. Tell us everything you can."
Eric's mood shifted. "I'm sorry, didn't Bobby hang himself?"
Carter told them, "Detective Foster and I are detectives with the Special Victims Unit. No, we don't believe Bobby took his own life, though it may turn out that he did. At the moment, we're proceeding as though this is a homicide."
Tracy's dainty eyebrows knit together and her big brown eyes widened.
Eric asked, "What does Special Victims Unit mean? Like the TV show?"
"How was Bobby a 'special victim'?" Tracy cut in before Carter could answer.
Carter leveled with them. "We don't exactly know what made Bobby a 'special victim,' except that if this was a homicide, the perpetrator intended it look like a suicide. Generally, Detective Foster and I investigate sex crimes. The fact that Bobby was hanged without any clothes on probably caused the precinct we work for to assign the case to us."
Tracy found her voice and remarked, "Who would kill him like that?"
Danny assured her, "That's what we're here to find out."
Carter got the interview back on track. "Please, if you could tell us what happened, starting with when you showed up this morning."
Tracy and Eric looked at each other, trying to decide who should begin. The dancers obviously had a close, personal relationship. Eric stood a few inches taller than Tracy, but he was relatively short for a man. He was maybe 5'8" but his lean build made him look taller.
In Danny's observation, Eric and Tracy had veiled chemistry. She suspected they might be dating, but then again, considering that Eric was a ballet dancer, it crossed Danny's mind that he could be gay.
Tracy took the floor.
"Well, we didn't just 'show up.' I reserved the studio a few days ago. We have an online system, so I booked the ballet studio through that. All of the company dancers have keys."
Danny and Carter touched eyes, and Carter asked, "So, anyone can get in here at any time?"
Eric confirmed, "The company dancers can, for sure."
Danny was sick of the terminology already. "What do you mean, 'company' dancers?"
Tracy explained, "This location, Brooklyn Ballet Studios, is a rental business. We, meaning Eric, myself, and about thirty-two other dancers are professional ballet dancers contracted with the Brooklyn Ballet. Brooklyn Ballet pays Brooklyn Ballet Studios, I think monthly?"
Eric confirmed, "Yeah, I think a monthly flat rate."
"So, any of the company dancers can book rehearsal time here. We all have keys to get in. We can practice whenever we want."
"But the online calendar has blackout dates and times," Eric added.
"Because this studio also hosts non-professional adult ballet classes, children's ballet classes, and all that," said Tracy.
Carter asked, "Do you know of any surveillance cameras here?"
"There aren't any," said Tracy. "Except maybe outside on the street?"
Danny realized, "If the Brooklyn Ballet Studios gave keys to thirty-two, or thirty-four professional dancers, they may have supplied keys to any of the other programs, teachers, and students—"
"Probably," Tracy agreed.
Carter angled away from the dancers and spoke quietly in Danny's ear.
"Jill will have a time of death for us. I doubt we'll have to go through dozens of potential suspects who have keys. I'll get Quinlan on the street to talk to businesses that have surveillance cameras covering the sidewalk."
"Would you?" Danny replied to get the ball rolling right away.
Carter excused himself to do just that, and left the room, as Danny returned her attention to the dancers.
"Okay, Tracy, you booked the studio. You both have keys. Who arrived first and how did you discover Bobby?"
As Tracy went on, Danny sized up the petite ballerina. She looked strong, wiry in fact. Danny doubted that Tracy could've overpowered Bobby on her own. But Tracy and Eric might have been able to… It was an avenue to consider, though if the dancers were telling the truth about their minor roles, and Bobby's minor role, Danny hardly thought they would have killed Bobby just to steal a bit part.
"We arrived at the same time," she went on. "Met downstairs on the street and keyed in together. We had coffee, which we bought across the street. So, of course I had to use the ladies' bathroom the second we got here."
"I went straight into the studio," Eric interjected. "There was no need to change, because I came with everything on and just took off my sweatpants."
"When I got out of the bathroom, I was walking by the anteroom and that's when I noticed that the single dressing room door was open."
"It was open?"
"Yeah, which was weird, because that door is usually closed. All the dressing room doors are generally kept closed. But whatever, it wasn't that weird. As I walked by, though, I could see the dressing room mirror. It caught my eye because the mirror was reflecting Bobby, but I didn't really know what I was seeing at first."
"Then I heard you scream," said Eric.
"Right, because I crept into the dressing room, and as I pushed the door inward, opening it more, I saw Bobby in the mirror. He was basically hanging behind the open door, because of how the dressing room is set up…"
"I noticed that, yes," she allowed.
"I screamed," Tracy went on. "Eric ran in."
"I saw he was dead, pulled Tracy out of the room, and I called the police."
"We stayed in the anteroom until Officer Quinlan arrived."
"The cops were here in less than five minutes, honestly," said Eric.
Danny jotted the bullet points down on her hand-sized notepad then asked for their contact information, trusting that Officer Quinlan had already taken their statements formally.
As she tucked her notepad into the back pocket of her jeans, she asked them, "Can you think of anyone who would've wanted Bobby dead?"
Tracy fell silent, but to Danny it looked as though the young woman's mind had latched onto a response that she wasn't about to let herself admit.
Eric focused on Tracy. He wasn't so much racking his brain as warning Tracy to keep quiet.
Danny found it odd.
"If you can think of anyone, or if anything comes to mind," she said as she found her business cards in her wallet. She handed each of them a card. "Give me a call on my cell or at the precinct. Both numbers are listed, as well as my email address."
Eric asked, "Can we stay and practice?"
Danny stared at him for a moment. "No, I'm afraid you'll have to leave until we're finished investigating."
Finally, Tracy said, "Bobby was trying to cut ties with his family. He wanted to change his last name. He thought being a 'Campopiano' was dangerous."
Eric looked like he was about to boil over.
Danny told her, "We're aware, and we're planning on looking into it."
Eric shook his head. "Bobby wouldn't have made it into the ballet company if he wasn't a Campopiano. The name made him famous."
"That's not true," Tracy disagreed. "He hated being a Campopiano."
"Doesn't matter if he hated it," Eric shot back. "I'm telling you, he wouldn't have gotten into the company if he didn't belong to that family."
"Why?" Danny asked.
"It's obvious," he told her. But that wasn't enough, so he insisted, "The Campopianos are loaded. The artistic director and board probably thought Bobby's family would fund us. If you ever saw Bobby perform ballet, you would agree it wasn't his skills as a dancer that got him into the Brooklyn Ballet, for Christ's sake."
"Eric!" Tracy balked.
"I'm just saying what everyone thought!"
As the dancers began quibbling, Carter returned, entering the ballet studio.
"Danny?"
"Yeah?" she asked, as she turned.
He looked thrown.
"What?" she asked.
"A word?"
She crossed the gray marley floor and stepped out of the studio. Carter walked with her into the anteroom and turned on his heel. She followed and again asked him:
"What?"
Confused by the situation himself, Carter told her, "Homicide wants to speak with you."
"What?"
"Detectives Crouse and Toliver are outside."
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