Compulsion (17 page)

Ansell Dennond Bright’s DMV photo came through at ten a.m. the following day.

Thirteen-year-old shot, when Bright was twenty-nine.

Six feet, two ten, blond and brown, needs corrective lenses.

Relaxed expression, nothing ominous in the eyes.

True to Shantee Moloney’s description, lank, pale strands obscured Bright’s brow, draping his ears and fanning his shoulders.

The beard was a broad, brown sheet, pelting his face from Adam’s apple to the bottoms of his eye sockets.

Nothing to see
but
hair.

Art of the misdirect.

Did that explain Bright’s lie about not eating animals? Manipulating Shantee Moloney, but to what end? Bright had never received a penny for his work at the shelter.

Love of the game or a need to feel virtuous?

Or both.

All that hair; nature’s costume.

I thought of High Plains drifter duds. Plaid cap, old man’s shuffle, conspicuous wheels. It all added up to clever theater.

In Kat Shonsky’s situation, the Bentley would’ve been enough to lower her guard but I wondered if the killer had gone further.

Angry man with a thing for A-lines and heels, still seething at Kat’s ridicule. What sweeter revenge than to stalk her in drag?

I pictured the big black car gliding by as she fretted in her Mustang. Passenger window sliding down, revealing a driver in a bouffant wig, designer dress, maybe a discreet string of pearls.

That extra touch.

A pretty, diaphanous
scarf.

Kat’s driver’s license – the symbol of her identity – had been wedged in her private parts.

Some killers take souvenirs, other leave them. It’s always about a message.

The message Kat’s killer had delivered was
You’re not the woman you think you are. Mock me at your own peril.

Kat. An animal name.

Too perfect to resist.

Milo phoned just before two p.m., yawned a greeting followed by a bout of coughing.

I said, “Rock-and-roll pneumonia or boogie-woogie flu?”

“Oh, man, it’s way too early for humor.”

“It’s the afternoon.”

“Feels like daybreak… Jesus, you’re right. Did a whole lot more nothing watching Tony, got home at six and crashed till an emergency call jolted me up at seven. Bradley Maisonette’s parole officer. ‘You sounded frantic, Lieutenant, so I thought I’d catch you early.’ I’m on two cylinders, bastard’s gloating. And what’s the big news: Bradley’s been
persona non show-uppa
for seven weeks. But not to worry, he’s got a history of dropping out for stretches, always comes back.”

“Addict’s excursions,” I said.

“Doesn’t sound like a guy who digs art museums and thee
ay
ter. P.O. considers him low priority because he’s got a long list of more violent guys who don’t show up. Says Maisonette doesn’t ‘act out’ unless he’s exhausted legal avenues of income.”

“He works?”

“Panhandles, sells his blood. P.O. diagnoses the basic problem as ‘low self-esteem.’”

“Everyone’s a therapist,” I said.

“I finally got the idiot to agree to pretend to search for him. Thanks for Cardenas’s e-mail. You get a chance to talk to the animal lady?”

I summarized the conversation with Shantee Moloney.

“Small dogs,” he said. “As in Leonora’s missing pooches?”

“If Dale was behind the Ojo Negro murders,” I said, “it would be nice to think he took them as pets.”

“Loves dogs, hates Sis.”

“Wears hemp shoes and eats meat on the sly.”

He sang the chorus of Lou Christie’s “Two Faces Have I.”

I said, “He’s also the right size for Ella’s killer, the cowboy, and Kat’s cross-dresser.”

“And size matters… loves the great cities, huh? Gets hold of major inheritance, travels the world, settles into L.A.?”

“Maybe it’s the weather.” I gave him my woman-with-a-scarf theory. “Society lady in two hundred grand worth of car – why not? Now all we need is Dale to come waltzing through the door confessing.”

“Short of that, how about this: One of the cities Bright mentioned to Moloney was New York. The chief’s old turf. Why not start there and see if any black-car murders show up? Or if Bright left some kind of paper trail from San Francisco.”

He didn’t answer.

“There’s a problem?”

“No,” he said. “On the contrary. A chance for His Beneficence to demonstrate his commitment.”

“You doubt him?”

“So far he’s been as righteous as a politician can be, but I’m like that bumper sticker,
Question Authority.
New Yawk New Yawk… I was thinking Rome but my French is rusty. Okay, scan Bright’s picture and send it over and I’ll put a call in to Himself.”

Three hours later, he was at my front door, freshly shaved, wearing a bright blue shirt under a coarse gray herringbone jacket, a green tie patterned with brown ukuleles, khakis, bubble-toe gray oxfords with red crepe soles.

Usually, he beelines for the kitchen. This time he stood in the door, eyes dancing, lips curled in a scary scimitar I knew to be a smile.

“His Excellency woke someone up and presto, we got records from the N.Y. Housing Department rolls. Mr. Dale Bright was never a property owner but his name does show up on a petition eight years ago. Converting an industrial building to condos.”

“Pro or con?”

“Pro.”

I said, “One year after he inherits, he’s in his favorite American city, trying to break into the real estate market?”

He loped to my office, logged on to my computer, typed in
518 w. 35th st NY 10001.

Six hits flashed, all culled from newspaper accounts, all variants on the same theme.

He called up the
New York Post.

Vanished Couple Condo-Complexity?

The mysterious disappearance of a Manhattan couple involved in a long-term landlord-tenant dispute continues to baffle New York’s finest. Three weeks ago, rent-controlniks Paul and Dorothy Safran left their apartment on 518 W. 35th Street to attend an off-off-Broadway production in lower Manhattan and haven’t been seen or heard from since.

Paul, 47, a lithographer, and Dorothy, 44, a substitute teacher, had been embroiled in a yearlong struggle with their landlord over
failure to provide heat and plans to convert the former warehouse that served as their domicile to condominiums.

The three-story structure in the still-industrial ’hood had been subdivided 22 years ago into Soho-style rental lofts and the Safrans had lived there protected by rent-control provisions. Soon after the building changed hands, the new owner, an Englewood, N.J.-based developer named Roland Korvutz, announced plans for condo-conversion. Under an agreement brokered between Korvutz and a newly elected tenant board, residents were offered compensated relocation or first dibs on the newly constructed units.

Most tenants opted for the payoff but the Safrans, claiming the board was corrupt, refused to budge and brought suit against Korvutz in Housing Court. For the past six months, the Safrans withheld rent and tried to rally other tenants to their cause.

In a breaking story three days ago, The Post reported the claims of Paul Safran’s sister, Marjorie Bell, of Elmhurst, that shortly before the dueling duo vanished they’d expressed fears for their safety because of the conflict with Korvutz. Bell also criticized the police for not investigating Korvutz more thoroughly and alleged that Korvutz, an immigrant from Belarus, has a history of tenant intimidation.

When contacted yesterday by The Post for follow-up, Bell refused comment.

Court records reveal eleven suits brought against Korvutz’s company, RK Development, all settled before trial. Korvutz’s attorney, Bernard Ring, said, “Anyone attempting to beautify the city encounters that kind of thing. Call it the price of doing business in a litigious society.”

Repeated calls to Korvutz’s home in Englewood and to RK Development offices in Teterboro were not returned. Police sources describe the investigation into the Safrans’ whereabouts as “in progress.”

A five-year follow-up article reported no solve.

I said, “Dale signed the petition. He was living in the Safrans’ building when they disappeared.”

“Dale was chairman of the tenant board.”

“When he’s around, some people’s problems get solved, others stop breathing.”

“If there was a money motive, it wasn’t bargain real estate, Alex; Dale never bought a condo or any other residence in the city.”

“Maybe he was paid to do a job,” I said. “Wonder where his next stop was.”

“By any chance,” he said, “are you feeling some wanderlust?”

Finally, the inevitable foray to the fridge. Milo spread jam and butter on half a dozen pieces of bread, folded the first piece in half, pushed it into his mouth, and chewed slowly.

“Here’s the situation,” he said, gulping milk from the carton. “With two open cases and the need to stay on Antoine Beverly, I can’t leave. Chief offered me Sean or another rookie D, but Sean’s never flown further than Phoenix and I don’t want to start breaking in a greenhorn. When I brought up your name to His Importance he thought that would be a peachy idea as long as you don’t step ‘outside the boundaries of departmental procedures and can adhere to departmental guidelines.’”

“What’s the difference?”

“
Procedures
is don’t get arrested.
Guidelines
is a discount flight on JetBlue, the subway not taxis, food vouchers that might cover Taco Bell twice a day, and hostelry that’s a distant galaxy from that place you were gonna stay at a couple of years ago – the St. Regis.”

Aborted vacation some time back with the woman I’d seen during the breakup. Through a mutual friend, I’d heard Allison was engaged…

“You can take Robin if you pay for her.”

“She’s in the middle of a big project.”

He ate another slice of bread. “So when can you leave?”

I booked the nine p.m. red-eye to Kennedy out of Burbank the following day. The flight was delayed an hour due to “factors in New York,” and when the plane did arrive, the smiling woman behind the counter announced a refuel stop in Salt Lake City due to short runways at Bob Hope Airport and “wind issues.”

We boarded ninety minutes later and for the next six and a half hours, I sat with my knees bent at an interesting angle, sharing a row with a young tattooed couple who made out audibly. I tried to kill time by watching the satellite TV screen on my seat back during the intermittent periods it functioned. Shows about gardening, competitive cooking, and serial killers made me drowsy and I drifted in and out of sleep, woke to loving murmurs and slurping tongues.

The final time I roused, touchdown was half an hour away and the screen was fuzzy. I took another look at the contents of the business-sized envelope.

Single sheet of paper, Milo’s back-slanted cursive.

1.
Safran-Bright residence: 518 W. 35 now Lieber Braid and Trim. (bet. 9th and 10th)

2.
Detective Samuel Polito (ret.) cell # 917 555 2396. Lunch at 1:30, call him for details

3.
RK Developers new address: 420 Seventh Avenue (bet 32d and 33rd)

4.
Roland Korvutz new address: 762 Park Avenue, 9A (bet 72d and 73rd)

5.
Korvutz favorite restaurants:

a. Lizabeth (breakfast), 996 Lexington (bet 71st and 72d)

b. La Bella, 933 Madison (bet 74th and 75th)

c. Brasserie Madison, 1068 Madison (81st)

6.
Your hostelry: The Midtown Executive, 152 W. 48 (bet 6th and Broadway – give my regards to…)

By nine a.m. I was presenting myself to a droopy-lidded clerk in the closet-sized lobby of the Midtown Executive Hotel. The space was eye-searing bright and beautified by a rack of postcards, maps, and miniature
I Love NY
pennants.

The clerk moved his lips while studying my reservation slip. “Bill’s being paid by some kind of voucher…”

“L.A. Police Department.”

“Whatever.” He checked a card file. “Doesn’t include incidentals.”

“You’ve got room service?”

“Nah, the phone. Rates are a ripoff, I’d use a cell.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“I need a credit card. Four thirteen. That’s the fourth floor.”

Cracking the door allowed me to squeeze into the room.

Eight by eight, with a lav half that size, all the charm of an MRI chamber.

A single mattress as thin as Tony Mancusi’s Murphy bed was wedged by a nightstand fashioned from a pink-blond mystery material. A nine-inch TV screwed to the wall fought for space with a snarl of wires. Completing the décor were a bolted-down floor lamp and a soiled watercolor of the Chrysler Building.

The sole window was stationary and double-paned, the glass thick enough to mute the din of West Forty-eighth and Broadway to a persistent, peevish grumble punctuated by random honks and clangs. Drawing the lint-colored drapes turned the room into a tomb but did nothing to lower the volume.

I stripped down, got under the covers, set the alarm on my watch for two hours hence, closed my eyes.

An hour later, I was still wide awake, trying to synch my brain waves with the urban soundtrack down below. Somehow I managed to drop off only to be slapped awake at eleven by the alarm. I called Detective Samuel Polito (ret.), got a canned female voice permitting me to leave a message. During the time it took to shower and shave, my phone registered a return call.

“Polito.”

“Detective, this is Alex Delaware-”

“The shrink, how you doing? I got an appointment before you. Where are you?”

I told him.

He said, “That place? We used to put witnesses up there, characters you needed to stick around to testify but they wouldn’t unless you babysat ’em. Used to give ’em a giant pizza, pay-per-view, and a good-looking female A.D.A. to chaperone.”

I said, “Zero out of three ain’t bad.”

“The Executive,” he said. “Takes me back. Listen, I can’t move up seeing you earlier than half past one, you want a late breakfast by yourself, go for it.”

“Would’ve brought my Jell-O and oatmeal on the plane but security thought they might ignite.”

“Got a sense of humor, huh? You’ll need it. Okay, meet me at this place, Le Petit Grenouille, at half past. Seventy-ninth between Lex and Third, French, but friendly.”

By noon, I was out on the street. The air was crisp and illogically fresh and the grumble had transformed to something rich and melodic. Ninety minutes remained until my lunch date; I used a third of it walking to Paul and Dorothy Safran’s last known residence.

Commercial neighborhood, more trucks than cars. The three-story brick structure housing Lieber Braid and Trim was lined with rows of stingy, square windows. Wire-glass panes were crusted with grime.

Wondering what had prompted Roland Korvutz to abandon his plans to condo-convert, I turned around, picked up my pace, and headed for Fifth Avenue.

Being alone in a big alien city sometimes tweaks my brain in a strange way, setting off jolts of euphoria followed by a substrate of melancholy. Usually, it takes time to develop. This time, it was instantaneous and as I race-walked New York’s bustling streets, I felt weightless and anonymous.

At Fifth and Forty-second, I got sucked up into the crowd near the public library, forged north dodging NASCAR pedestrians, handbill hawkers, window-gawkers, lithe pickpockets. Crossing Fifty-ninth took me past the construction project that had once been the Plaza Hotel. Hansom drivers waited for fares. The air was ripe with horseshit. I walked parallel with Central Park. The trees wore their fall colors with appropriate arrogance.

By one twenty-eight, I was sitting in a stiff wooden booth at Le Petit Grenouille, drinking water and red wine and eating acrid, oil-cured olives.

The place was set up with starched white linens, vintage tobacco posters, and rust-colored walls under a black tin ceiling. Half the booths were occupied by stylish people. A gilt-lettered window faced the energy of the street. Getting here had taken me past the mayor’s graystone town house on Seventy-ninth. No different from any other billionaire’s digs except for flint-eyed plainclothes cops guarding the front steps and fighting introspection.

A smiling waitress with chopped red hair and a sliver of torso brought a basket of rolls and a butter dish. I worked on my blood sugar and looked at my watch.

At one forty-seven, a blocky, blue-jawed man in his sixties entered the restaurant, said something to the host, flatfooted over.

“Sam Polito.”

“Alex Delaware.”

Polito’s hand was hard and rough. The little hair he had left was white and fine. He wore a black windbreaker, gray ribbed turtleneck, charcoal slacks, black loafers with gold Gucci buckles that might have been real. Rosy cheeks contrasted with a lower face that would never looked shaved. His right eye was clear and brown. Its mate was a sagging remnant with a milky iris.

Polito said, “Hey, Monique,” to the waitress. “Salmon wild today?”

“Oh yes.”

“I’ll have it. With the white asparagus, big glass of that Médoc wine, Château whatever.”

“Potatoes?”

Polito contemplated. “What the heck, yeah. Easy on the oil.”

“Bon. M’sieur?”

“Hanger steak, medium rare, salad, fries.”

Polito watched her depart, aiming his face so his good eye had maximum coverage. “Red meat, huh? No cholesterol issues?”

“Not so far,” I said.

The eye took me in. “Me, it’s just the opposite. Everyone in my family croaks by sixty. I beat it by three years so far, had a stent when I was fifty-eight. Doctor says Lipitor, watch what I eat, drink the vino, there’s a good chance I can set a record.”

“Good for you.”

“So,” he said, “you got some kind of pull.”

“With who?”

“Deputy chief calls me at home, I’m about to drive off to Lake George with the wife, he says, ‘Sam, I want you to meet with someone.’ Like I’m still obligated.”

“Sorry for messing up your plans.”

“Hey, it was my choice. He told me what it was, I’m more than happy.” Snatching a roll from the basket, he broke it in two, watched the crumbs rain. “Even though we’re not talking one of my triumphs.”

“Tough case.”

“Jimmy Hoffa’ll be found before the Safrans will. Maybe in the same place.”

“Under some building,” I said. “Or in the East River.”

“The former. The river, we’da found ’em. Damn thing runs both ways, all that agitation, bodies come up, I had more than my share of floaters.” He reached for an olive, gnawed around the pit. “Trust me, the river, they’da shown up.”

His wine arrived. He sniffed, swirled, sipped. “Elixir of life. That and the olive oil.” Catching the waitress’s eye, he mouthed “Oil” and mimicked pouring.

After he’d sopped up half the golden puddle with his bread, he said, “Work this city long enough, you get a taste for fine food. So tell me about these L.A. murders.”

I summarized.

“That’s it?”

“Unfortunately.”

“So this Dale character, only reason you’re here is guilt by association maybe, possibly, could-be.”

“Yup.”

“Fancy cars, huh? That’s L.A., ain’t it? They actually put you on a plane for that? LAPD must be getting modern, sending a shrink – sorry, a psychologist. How’d you get that kind of pull?”

“The Midtown Executive is pull?”

“You got a point.”

The food came. Polito said, “Seriously, Doc, I’m curious, the whole psych bit. We got guys, but what they do is therapize when the brass thinks a guy’s screwed up. You do that?”

I gave him a short-version account of my history and my role.

“Doing your own thing,” he said. “If you can pull it off, that’s the way to go. Anyway, the Safrans. Suspicion fell right away on Korvutz, because he was the only one they were known to have serious conflict with. Plus he had a history of what I’d call sneaky moves. Like bringing a demo crew in the middle of the night and taking down a building so the neighbors can’t complain. Then, when everyone’s got their panties in an uproar, his lawyers apologize, ‘Oops, sorry, paperwork mess-up, we’ll compensate you for any inconvenience.’ Then it takes months to figure out what the inconvenience is, then more delays, then everyone forgets.”

“The newspaper account I read said he’d been sued a lot.”

“Price of doing business.”

“That’s what his lawyer called it.”

“His lawyer was right, Doctor. This city, you sneeze upwind, you’re in court. My son’s finishing at Brooklyn Law. Did ten years in Brooklyn Robbery, saw where the bread was buttered.” Smiling. “Olive-oiled.”

His attention shifted to his plate and he began eating with obvious pleasure. My steak was great but my mind was elsewhere. I waited awhile before asking if there’d been suspects other than Korvutz.

“Nope. And it never went anywhere with Korvutz because we couldn’t find any criminal connections. Despite the Russian thing. We got neighborhoods, Doctor, Brighton Beach, whatnot, you hear more Russian than English. Some of these guys came over in the first place to do no-good, we got Russian-speaking detectives keeping plenty busy. None of them and none of their informants ever heard of Korvutz. He wasn’t from Moscow, Odessa, the places most of them are from.”

“Belarus.”

“Used to be called White Russia, it’s its own country now,” said Polito. “The point I’m making is no matter how deep we dug, there was no dirt on Korvutz. Sure, he’s in court a lot. So is every other developer. And each time he gets sued, he settles.”

“Any of his other tenants disappear?”

Polito shook his head. “And no one he litigated with would talk trash about him ’cause that’s the condition of the settlements. To be honest, Doc, only reason he was even considered was there was no one else on the radar. Now you’re telling me about this Bright character.”

“You remember him?”

“I got a vague memory, only because he was the head of that put-up tenant board.”

“It was an obvious put-up?”

“Look,” said Polito, “there’s never any board before Korvutz buys the building, same goes for the first six months Korvutz owns it. Then he files for permission to convert and all of a sudden there’s an election no one remembers too clearly and a board of three people, all of which are tenants who came on after Korvutz bought the building.”

I said, “Bright plus two others.”

“A distant cousin of Korvutz and the son of the plumber who services Korvutz’s New Jersey buildings.”

He produced a folded piece of lined paper, same size as Milo’s pad. “I remembered the names.”

“Appreciate it.”

“Hey,” he said, “D.C. calls, who’m I to say no.” Slowly spreading smile. “Even if he is my wife’s brother-in-law.”

Neat typing on the sheet.

518 W. 35 Tenant Board Members

1. Dale Bright

2. Sonia Glusevitch

3. Lino Mercurio

I said, “Korvutz knew the other two before he bought the building. Any indication of a prior relationship with Bright?”

“Nope. And here’s the thing, Doc: Even if the board was a puppet thing, it’s no big deal legally. Landlord’s not obligated to have a board, period. And none of the tenants gave a crap. Except for the Safrans. They screamed corruption.”

I pocketed the paper.

Polito said, “Truth is, Doc, the Safrans had no leg to stand on, they were just making problems. Everyone else was happy with the deal Korvutz offered because it was better than what they had in that dump. We’re not talking big lofts, like in Soho. This was a crappy place, used to be a shoe factory, that got divided into dinky units, real cheap construction. I’m talking singles and one-bedrooms, iffy plumbing and wiring, not to mention your basic rodent issues, because it’s a commercial neighborhood, open garbage cans, whatnot. Korvutz makes an offer they can’t refuse, no one refuses.”

“Except the Safrans,” I said.

Polito put down his fork. “I don’t like bad-mouthing my vics but from what I could tell those two were
confrontative.
I’m talking hippie refugees from the sixties. He was at City College back when, radical SDS type. I was in uniform back then, did crowd control. For all I know he was one of those spoiled little bastards screaming at me.”