The place was haunted, so the legend went, the Belasco Theater half a block off Times Square. Which was probably why Gaga wanted to use it, this spooky leftover from times past where Brando and some other big timers got their starts, to hold Simone's memorial service. Let herself tune in to the ghost vibes here, and hope Sickblade was nearby on the same wavelength. Use it to track him, she said.

"Of course you know it could work the other way," I said, walking with her down the side aisle, nobody else in the moody old place, empty seats going off into the shadows.

"What do you mean?" she said.

"I mean he could use it to track you."

She nodded at the bare stage that had just a single work light on it. "He won't have to track me. I'll be up there in full view."

"I mean after."

"Then all the better. That's what we want, that's the plan." She looked sideways at me. "And you'll have my back. So will the cops."

"Yeah, well, we're talking about a guy who's got us pretty well scoped by now." I met her look. "You're getting off on this, aren't you? I mean, yeah it's about Simone's service and all. But you're a risk junkie, I finally see it."

"Hey, we knew from the get there'd be risk. And watch who you call junkie."

Truth was, I'd rather have her that way than not. Didn't need someone going wussy when the time came. I pointed ahead of us. "Watch your step there."

We'd come to a set of portable steps that we climbed up onto the stage.

She turned around and looked out at the murky orchestra seats, looked up at the balcony with its gold leaf on the front of it that seemed close enough we could touch it.

"Belasco wanted this all to be intimate," Gaga said. "Like his personal showcase, which it pretty much was." She was walking along the front of the stage now where the footlights would be, getting a feel for the space. "He had his own apartment upstairs. It's his ghost that's supposed to haunt the place. Word has it he was a lecher. Some of the women who performed here say they felt him pinching their asses."

"Dirty old ghost."

"Really."

She looked higher up, to the second balcony. "Maybe he's up there now."

I looked up and thought how Sickblade himself could be up there. His kind of place, shadows everywhere to hide in and a pervert spook for company. Saw how it could give a person with nerve issues the creeps.

I jumped when my phone went off.

Took it out and saw it was Curly Sasso. "Hey, what's happening?"

"Not too much, unfortunately," he said. "They didn't get a match on that DNA."

Aw, man. "What, the towel didn't work?"

"The towel worked fine, had whatever it was they needed. It just didn't match what was inside Tanya."

"Shit."

"Sorry. They say they double-checked. What do you want me to do with the fetus?"

I had to think for a second. I mean, somebody had to be the father, Tanya not likely into artificial stuff. I wasn't crossing Dempsey off the list just yet, especially with Curly telling me yesterday that Tanya had been one of his moles. Just that now he wouldn't be on the father list.

"Can you keep it at your place?" I asked Curly.

"Sure. Or I can bring it to the house. Doc can let me in if you're not there. I need him to check my shoulder anyway."

I couldn't blame him if he didn't want a fetus around. "Fine. I'll call and tell him you're coming. Actually, we can put it in his freezer if he doesn't mind. I'll make sure it's OK."

I started to disconnect, remembered my manners. "Hey, thanks for getting the DNA done so quick. Let me know what I owe you."

"You don't owe me anything. They didn't charge."

Before I could make sure he wasn't going to get stuck for it, he'd hung up.

So back to square one. Or square two, one candidate being eliminated, or at least put on hold.

I pocketed my phone and looked around the stage. Didn't see her.

Glanced over at the wings, back into the shadows, looked out at the orchestra seats.

No movement, no sound.

Where was Gaga?

# # #

Doris Sherner undid her bra and tossed it onto the chair with her other clothes. "So it comes down to this Sickblade. He dies, any problems with the girl die with him."

The man who was stretched on the bed watching her had to admit she still had a pretty good pair. "And the CIA has a new director," he said, meaning her husband.

Doris hooked her thumbs into the waist of her panties. "Then you'd better make sure it happens if you want to catch that ride with him."

The man, Detective Mark Dempsey, watched her push the panties down to her perfectly painted toes and step out of them. "We will," he said, wriggling out of his briefs, the last item he was wearing, and dropping them beside the bed.

Doris tossed her panties on top of the bra. "Tell me something."

"What's that?"

"What was it like to kill her?"

"You don't want to know."

"Sure I do," Doris said. "The woman was fucking my husband."

"True," Dempsey said, watching her come toward him, the trimmed triangle between her thighs at eye level.

She stood by the bed and looked down at him, could see he was more than ready for her. "And besides," she said, kneeling on the bed, and then swinging a trim leg over his hips and settling onto his erection, "I think it would be a turn-on."

# # #

I couldn't find her anywhere.

I looked backstage, went out and looked in the lobby, was on my way upstairs now to look in the lighting booth - thought that at some point she'd be checking out how she'd want to set up the lights for Simone's service.

"Gaga?"

No response.

I stood up there and looked down over the empty seats, at the bare stage.

Where the hell was she?

Or her two escort cops, her having talked them into staying outside, promising she'd check in by phone.

The thought finally got through to pull out mine and hit her number. I let it ring. No answer.

This was crazy. Like a repeat of Szu. Oh, man, don't let the sonofabitch do that again.

Some fucking bodyguard I was.

And wasn't there a watchman here?

And then I remembered.

The apartment.

The guy Belasco, the randy producer who the theater was named for, had kept an apartment upstairs, lived there until he died back in the thirties.

The kind of place Gaga would want to check out.

But why wouldn't she tell me? Why wasn't she answering her phone?

Never mind, just get up there.

Right. So how?

Dressing rooms. By the sound of him, the guy liked to get it on with his cast, his leading ladies, schmooze them and bring them upstairs for an intimate dinner after the show.

I went backstage, found the hallway the dressing rooms were off of, went down it and came to a door at the end marked Private. It wasn't locked so I pushed through and there was a set of stairs. Had light enough from the red exit sign to navigate by, so up I went.

Got to the top and came to a heavy wooden door that had a religious kind of cross carved on it, the door left partway open. I slipped inside and it was like going back to a different time. The only light came from an old stained glass fixture that hung from the cathedral ceiling. Dark old paintings hung on the paneled walls. There was heavy wood furniture covered in velvet that made me think of the parlor back at the house, it probably built around the same time the theater was.

But it wasn't just the way the place looked that made it a time trip, it was how it felt. There were definitely forces at work here, and I could see why the ghost thing had its believers. Was thinking how without much stretch I could be one, when the sound of a woman's voice turned my head. It was coming from a doorway off to my right that had a kind of blue glow coming from it - and I could tell the voice was Gaga's.

But I couldn't make out what she was saying.

I went quiet to the doorway and looked into what must have been Belasco's old study, shelves full of books lining the walls. The blue glow was coming from a high-backed chair that faced away from me. Gaga was speaking to whoever, or whatever, was sitting in it, her in a chair facing my direction.

"...appreciate your hospitality," she said.

She saw me in the doorway and lifted a hand for me to be still. I could see she was into some kind of zone, had woven a spell for herself (she later told me) to tune in to that glow. Which I realized was why she didn't answer her phone, maybe had it turned off - didn't want to undo whatever she had going.

She sat still for a while with her eyes closed and didn't speak. And while she sat there, the glow in the chair across from her faded and the room went almost dark. Finally, she got up and came over to me, but still didn't speak.

She took my hand and led me out into the main hallway, to the door that had the cross carved on it. We left the apartment, her closing the door behind us, me following her down the stairs.

She stopped at the landing for the dressing rooms and phoned her two cops outside and told them everything was good. Then she kept going on down until we got to the basement. I was pretty sure she'd never been down here, but it was like she knew just where to go. Like Belasco or whoever the glow was had mapped it out for her.

And then I understood why she hadn't wanted the two cops with us - they'd have screwed up her seance.

We went down a passage lined with storage spaces that were crammed with pieces of scenery and props from shows that probably nobody remembered. At the end of the passage was the boiler room that still had a coal bin in it, from before oil burners took over.

Gaga stopped in front of the bin and stared at it, a pile of coal still in there, me wondering what the city must have been like when that last delivery was made.

She took a few steps to the side and looked down a narrow aisle that ran next to the bin, a rack of storage shelves standing against the wall at the end.

"Give me a hand," she said, going back to the shelves.

She started pulling old cans of paint off them and setting them on the floor. She gave me a look and I started doing the same.

After ten minutes or so we had the shelves clear and Gaga told me to grab one end of the rack. She grabbed the other end and we wriggled and slid it away from the wall.

Or what I'd thought was a wall.

When we got the rack clear I could see we'd uncovered a rusty iron door.

"Where's that go?" I said.

"Let's see."

She took hold of the door's curved iron handle and gave it a yank. No give, the thing rusted tight. I grabbed hold of it with her and we both yanked. Still didn't happen. We braced our feet, grabbed again, and pulled down hard as we could.

Got it to squeak. Budge. Finally got it to turn all the way. We counted three and shouldered the door open - and stared into pitch darkness.

A tunnel.

Probably from speakeasy days. The theater would have had one, Belasco sounding like that kind of guy, and this would have been where they delivered the booze. Curly told me once there had been a network of booze tunnels running under the city (drainage tunnels, actually, that the booze guys had taken over).

I turned to Gaga. "So what's your plan?"

"Sickblade is a tunnel person."

"I'll buy that."

"And I'm betting he knows about this one."

"So?"

"So he doesn't know we know."

(To be continued...)