Compulsion (18 page)

“What about Dorothy?”

“Same thing.”

“Rebels without a cause,” I said. “Dorothy’s sister said they’d felt threatened-”

“Margie Bell,” he said. “Let me tell you about Margie. Long history of depression and whatnot. On all kinds of medication, plus she’d had two commitments to Bellevue. One year later, she hung herself.”

“Definite suicide?”

“Her own kid found her in the bathroom with a note. Doc, the Safrans made a tempest out of a teapot. You get to live cheap in this city because of rent control, count your blessings and move on. I went through their apartment, tossed every inch trying to find a lead.” Shaking his head. “Wouldn’t let my dog live like that. They did, though. Let their dog. In one corner there was dirty newspapers spread out, urine stains, piles of dog dirt all dried up. These people weren’t housekeepers – sorry if I ruined your steak. What I’m getting at is they were living like squatters, shoulda taken Korvutz up on his offer.”

“Ever see the dog?”

“Nope, just what it left behind. Why?”

I told him about Leonora Bright’s missing pets. Dale Bright’s volunteering at Paws and Claws.

He twirled his wineglass. “This guy likes furry things but maybe he’s not so nice to people?”

“It’s been known to happen.”

“You bet,” he said. “Had one case, back when I started out, down on Ludlow Street, Lower East Side. Crazy junkie carves up his old lady, leaves her propped up, sitting at the kitchen table for two weeks. We’re talking middle of the summer, tenement, no air-conditioning, you can imagine. Meanwhile, he’s got a pit bull, everyone says it’s a nice mutt, but you wouldn’t catch me petting one of those. Anyway, this dog, this maniac pampers it, decides to up the protein in its diet. By the time we get there – sorry if
that
ruined your appetite.”

“No sweat.” I ate to demonstrate.

Polito said, “You really like Bright as your perp, huh?”

“He’s associated with two violent deaths, one of which made him wealthy. If he was paid to dispatch the Safrans, that’s two more with a financial incentive. And from what we can tell, after the Safrans vanished, so did he.”

“Into thin air.” He smiled. “That could mean something else, Doc.”

“He got disappeared, too,” I said.

Polito shrugged.

“Maybe,” I said, “but right now, there’s no one else on the screen. Anything you can tell me about him would be helpful.”

“There ain’t much. Even with my brother-in-law linking me up with his official big-shot brother-in-law computer.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like you said, guy’s nowhere. Once the building was vacated, no other address shows up. Can’t find any sign he ever lived in the five boroughs or the entire state of New York. I’m talking no tax records, real estate deeds, driver’s license, the works. All I
can
give you is a general physical description eight years ago and the fact that when I interviewed him, he was cooperative. And that’s because if he wasn’t cooperative, I’da recalled
that.
I talked to the guy exactly once – routine interview, same for all the tenants.”

“What’d he look like?”

“Good-sized guy, beefy, bald.”

“Clean-shaven?”

“Cue ball, no hair, period.”

I fished out my copy of Ansell Bright’s California license.

Polito’s good eye squinted. “All that fur, you could make a coat… guess it could be the same guy, but I couldn’t swear to it.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” I said.

“A shape-shifter?”

“Was he gay?”

“He wasn’t swishy. Your guy’s like that?”

“Some people say he is.”

“Some people… you’re saying he fakes everything?”

I told him about the cowboy getup, the plaid-capped old man, a possible cross-dressing link, stolen luxury cars.

“Black cars,” he said. “Maybe like a symbol of death.” He pushed his plate away, touched his chest.

“You okay?”

“Reflux. This guy turns out to be the perp, I had him right there and he moved on to more bad things? Not a nice thought.”

I said, “He could turn out clean.”

“You thought he was clean, you wouldn’t be here.” He examined the photo some more, handed it back. “Nope, couldn’t say it’s him or not. And the Dale Bright I talked to acted normal. Absolutely nothing hinky about him.”

He finished his wine. “I gotta say, Doc, talking to you is making me realize how much I’d rather be on the lake. So let me give you the rest of what I got and be on my way. First off, I went by Korvutz’s apartment this morning – that was the appointment I mentioned. Schmoozed with the doorman, who happens to be ex-patrol. Don’t you bother him, it gets out he’s talking about the residents, he’s screwed. What he told me is Korvutz is quiet, no problems, married with a little kid, tips good at Christmas. Has dinner by himself twice a week when the missus is out with her gal pals and lucky for you, tonight’s one of those. Creature of habit, goes to the same place, likes Italiano.”

“ La Bella,” I said. “It’s on my list.”

Polito smiled. “Who do you think made up the list? Anyway, Korvutz eats early, is likely to be there six, six thirty. The chance of him offering to share a plate of pasta is not a high probability, but you can fly back to L.A., say you tried.”

“Does he use bodyguards?”

“We’re not talking Trump or Macklowe. This guy’s small-time. Relatively speaking, I mean. He still gets to live in a ten-room co-op in a prewar on Park, bought in years ago.”

“What does he develop nowadays?”

“He doesn’t. Collects rent checks.”

“Retired? How come?”

“Maybe ’cause he wants to be, or maybe ’cause he has to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“To play in the city nowadays, you got to have big-time dough. Starting with a B, not an M.”

“Gotcha,” I said. “What does he look like?”

“Sorry, no picture,” he said. “Guy doesn’t drive. What I can tell you is that eight years ago he was fifty-three. Little guy, glasses, reddish brown hair. Your basic Russian Woody Allen.”

“Thanks. I walked by the building on West Thirty-fifth. It’s back to being a factory.”

“Strictly speaking, it’s a warehouse, Doc. The braid’s manufactured in Queens, they store it on Thirty-fifth. So how come, after all that rigamarole, Korvutz never built his condos? What I heard is he got caught in some kind of financial squeeze, leveraged himself, then the market dipped, he had to sell a bunch of properties at a loss, including that one. It’s all about timing, Doc. The market’s crazy again, crappy tenements getting gentrified in the Lower East Side, Hell’s Kitchen’s full of yuppies, got a new name, Clinton.”

“The boom hasn’t hit West Thirty-fifth.”

“Those building’s are worth plenty,” he said. “Right now it pays to keep ’em commercial, but give it time. One of these days, the only people living on this island are gonna be the limousine bunch.”

I waved the tenant board list. “Any problem with me contacting Glusevitch and Mercurio?”

“Not from my end,” said Polito, “but you’ll have problems on both counts. Mercurio’s dead, got into trouble over a woman five years ago, ex-husband beat him to death, dumped the body in the Bronx. Nothing to do with Korvutz, the ex had a history of beating up boyfriends, only reason I found out is I noticed Lino’s name on a vic list. Kid was a moron and a wiseass, one of those hair-gel guys wants to come across like a gangster. I can see him ticking someone off real bad. Him, I
woulda
liked as a suspect, I could picture him thinking he could make his bones by taking on a contract job. Problem is, he was alibied tight. Vacationing in Aruba with a girlfriend the week the Safrans disappeared.”

“Convenient.”

“But righteous, Doc. I checked hotel and airline records, Lino was definitely there. Maybe he paid for the trip with money Korvutz gave him for being on the board.”

“Korvutz bribed the members to serve.”

“Can’t prove it, but why else would they want to bother?”

“And my second problem is Sonia Glusevitch is Korvutz’s distant cousin, why should she cooperate.”

He held up his palms.

I said, “Just in case, any idea where she is?”

“Let’s see if we can find out.” He pulled out his cell, dialed information, asked for listings for Sonia Glusevitch, came up empty, tried “initial S.”

One hand flashed a Victory V. “Three forty-five East Ninety-third. You wanna try Sonia first, be my guest, but I think it would be a mistake. Better to use the element of surprise with Korvutz, don’t risk Sonia alerting him.”

“I agree. What was Sonia like?”

“Young, good-looking, had a thick accent,” said Polito. “Bottle blonde but nice.” Shaping generous, imaginary breasts.

Monique, the waitress, observed his pantomime and frowned.

Polito waved her over. “Delicious, the salmon. He’ll take the check.”

She glanced at me, left.

“I was you, Doc,” said Polito, “I’d leave Monique a real generous tip. I come here from time to time.”

When Polito left at two forty-five, the restaurant had emptied.

Monique drank coffee at the bar. I paid the check and left a 30 percent tip. She thanked me with wide eyes and pretty teeth.

“Mind if I sit here for a few minutes?”

“I will bring you more wine.”

I had over three hours before Roland Korvutz unfurled his napkin at La Bella. Killed some of it drinking a better Bordeaux than had come with lunch, and thinking about my conversation with the old detective.

Polito was troubled by the possibility that he might’ve had his prime suspect right in front of him and missed something crucial. But Dale’s slipping under the radar was no discredit of Polito’s skills; if Bright was a high-functioning psychopath, he’d have come across super-normal.

Shape-shifter.

If Bright’s corpse wasn’t embedded in the foundation of some Manhattan high-rise, he was probably living under a new name and identity in L.A., toying with the boundaries of gender identity, getting off on the art of deception and worse.

I phoned in for messages, had three: Robin, Milo, and a lawyer chronically lax about paying his bills, and deluded that I’d want to talk to him.

Robin said, “I miss you but the big separation anxiety is Blanche. Not a single smile and she keeps sniffing around your office. Then she insists on going down to the pond, has to sit on the bench exactly where you do. When that doesn’t work, she hops down and stares at the fish until I feed them. If I don’t toss in enough, she lets out that girly little bark. I keep telling her Daddy’s coming back soon, but the way she looks at me, she ain’t buying it.”

“Tell her I’ll bring back a souvenir.”

“She’s no material girl, but sure. How’s it going?”

“Nothing much so far.”

“I checked the weather online. Sounds pretty.”

“Gorgeous,” I said. “One day we should go.”

“Definitely. Got a nice hotel?”

I described the Midtown Executive.

She said, “One advantage, we’d be bumping into each other.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow, plenty of bump opportunities. How’s work?”

“Picked up a couple of new jobs – easy repairs.” Brief pause. “He called this morning, wanting to make sure I’ll be in town when he’s here. He sounded different.”

“How so?”

“Distant – not brimming over with enthusiasm like he usually is. He claims he’s really into the project but the tone didn’t match the words.”

“Buyer’s remorse?” I said.

“Maybe he realized it’s an awful lot of money when you can’t play a note.”

“Worse comes to worst, you sell them to someone else.”

“I’m just wondering if he caught on that any amorous intentions are not going to be reciprocated. I have been avoiding small talk.”

“If he had ulterior motives and drops out, you’re lucky.”

“For sure,” she said.

Her tone didn’t match her words.

I said, “You’ve put a lot of work into this and now it’s complicated.”

“Maybe just in my own mind.”

“You’ve got good instincts, Rob.”

“Not always… guess I’d better clear my head before turning on the band saw. See you tomorrow, love.”

I told Milo about my meeting with Polito.

He said, “Deputy commissioner’s brother-in-law, huh? And this particular D.C. also happens to be His Holiness’s former driver.”

“Takes a village to catch crooks,” I said.

“And to breed ’em. So Bright didn’t come across gay to Polito?”

“Combine that with dramatic changes in appearance, pretending to be a vegan, the Jekyll-Hyde pattern his sister described, and we can’t be sure of anything about him.”

“All the world’s a stage.”

“Bloody stage. Let’s see what Roland Korvutz has to say about him.”

“You’re going to approach Korvutz directly?”

“Wasn’t that the point of giving me his home address and his favorite haunts?”

“Yeah, but I woke up this morning with second thoughts. Why would Korvutz even talk to you?”

“If I can keep the emphasis on Dale Bright and off him, maybe he’ll fancy
himself
a performer and let something interesting slip.”

“If he paid Bright to do the Safrans, he’ll give you the boot or worse.”

“Why settle for pessimism when you can have fatalism?”

“You’ve been reading my diary. This guy could be big trouble, amigo, and I don’t see any payoff in getting him nervous. Go back to your hotel, put quarters in the massage bed, get a good night’s sleep.”

“Aw, thanks. Mom.”

“I’m serious.”

“How’re things on the home front?”

“Changing the subject doesn’t alter reality.”

“I’ll watch my back. Anything new?”

“The home front is nada,” he said. “Why settle for fatalism when I can have futility? Where were you planning to meet Korvutz?”

“Still am. La Bella.”

“The Italian place.”

“Upper East Side, we’re not talking hefty guys drinking espresso in some social club.”

“At best you’re spinning your wheels, Alex. Why would Korvutz blink at you?”

“At one time or another, doesn’t everyone want to be a star?” My neck tightened. “Just thought of something. If Dale’s a wannabe Olivier, maybe that’s what brought him to New York in the first place.”

“Roar of the greasepaint,” he said.

“The Safrans were headed for the theater the night they disappeared. Off-off-Broadway production downtown. What if Bright snared the Safrans by offering an olive branch? ‘I’m doing a show, have your name on the comp list, would be honored if you’d come watch me chew the scenery. Afterward, we go out for drinks, bury the hatchet on the condo thing.’”

“And he brings a literal hatchet… that would be cold. Problem is we already ran every search we could think of on Bright and his name doesn’t pop up in any productions. Or anywhere else.”

“The show could’ve been too short-lived or obscure,” I said. “Or he used a stage name. On my way over from Midtown I passed the main library. Maybe that was karma. I’ve got time before I try Korvutz. Let’s see what the newspaper files have to offer.”

“Good idea. You find something, forget Mr. Korvutz and come home.”

“Now you’re obsessing,” I said.

“Pot and kettle.”

I hurried back to Fifth, made my way through the afternoon crush, ran up the stairs to the library.

The Microfilm Reading Room was equipped with a dozen film-reading machines, twice that many multiformat readers, and a couple of microfiche viewers. Lots of studious researchers waiting for access, including a homeless guy who made it to the front, sat down, spooled randomly.

I located the theater guides for the week preceding the Safrans’ disappearance in the
Times, Post, Daily News,
and
Village Voice,
waited for a free machine, got to work.

An hour later, I’d winnowed a long list down to nine downtown productions that seemed sufficiently obscure. A fifteen-minute wait got me a computer with Internet hookup. No mention of five of the shows. Of the remaining four, I found cast lists for three. Ansell/Dale Bright didn’t appear on any of them, but I printed them and left the library.

The sky was blue-black. Fifth Avenue flashed copper and bronze and silver in the reflected glory of store displays. Vehicle traffic was a bumblebee swarm of yellow cabs and black livery cars. The pedestrian crowd had thickened to something purposeful and polymorphous and I felt like a tiny gear in a wonderful machine.

For variety, I took Madison north, catching glimpses of moonglow haloing sky-scratching towers. Development could be predatory, but man-made New York was as beautiful as anything Nature could conjure.

As I crossed from the sixties into the seventies, mega-designer flagships gave way to boutiques and cozy eateries whose glass fronts showcased pretty people.

Osteria La Bella was different, with a brick façade painted white and tiny beige letters whispering the restaurant’s name over a glass door so festooned with gilt flourishes it might as well have been opaque.

Behind the glass, darkness. One of those places you’d have to know about.

I looked up the street, failed to spot anyone matching Roland Korvutz’s description. Six twenty p.m. If he was in there already, I wanted him settled into a culinary routine. Resuming my walk, I continued all the way to East Ninetieth, picking up the pace to get some aerobic benefit from the gentle slope of Carnegie Hill. By seven ten, I was back at La Bella, with sweet lungs and a buzzing nervous system.

The glass panel opened to a glossy, deep green vestibule backed by a second door of solid black walnut. On the other side of the inner entrance, a small landing was announced by an engraved bronze
Please Watch Your Step
sign.

Three stairs down and a sharp left turn took me to a white marble maître d’ stand. A tall, thick, tuxedoed man studied his reservation book in the amber light of a seashell Tiffany lamp. Low-volume opera supplied the soundtrack, some tenor moaning a sad story. My nostrils filled with alternating ribbons of ripe cheese, roasting meat, garlic, balsamic vinegar.

Behind Tuxedo, a wine rack stretched to the hand-plastered ceiling, obscuring the entire left side of the room. The wall to the right was covered by a mural. Happy peasants bringing in the grape harvest. The three tables in full view were round, covered in red linen, and unoccupied. Glass clink and the low murmur of conversation floated from behind the rack.

“May I help you, sir?”

“No reservation, but if you could accommodate one for dinner.”

“One,” he said, as if he’d never heard the word before.

“Thought I’d be spontaneous.”

“We like spontaneous, sir.” He ushered me to one of the empty tables, handed me a wine list and a menu, and told me about the osso buco special made with veal from serene Vermont calves allowed to enjoy their brief lives unfettered by pens.

His bulk blocked visual access to my fellow diners. As he described a medley of “artisanal vegetables,” I feigned interest and glanced at the menu. Auction-gallery wines, white truffles, hand-netted fish from lakes I’d never heard of. The balsamic was older than most marriages.

Prices to match.

“Drink, sir?”

“Bottled water, bubbles.”

“Very good.”

He stepped aside, revealing two parties on the other side of the windowless room.

The first was a gorgeously dressed couple in their thirties clenching wineglasses and tilting toward each other like pugilists.

Tight jaws, parted lips, and rapt stares. Passion just short of coitus, or a poorly camouflaged argument.

To their right, a man sat with a child – a chubby, fair-haired girl. Her back was to me as she hunched over her plate. From her size, six or seven. The man leaned low to maintain eye contact, face melting into the shadows. He touched her cheek. She shook him off, kept eating. She had on a white sweater and a pink plaid skirt, white socks, red patent leather shoes. Except for the shoes, maybe a school uniform. His gray sport coat and brown shirt drabbed in comparison.

I could see enough of him to make out a small frame. That fit Polito’s description of Roland Korvutz. So did his age – sixty or so – and having a child.

He broke a piece of bread and sat up to chew and I got a better look at his face. High, flat cheekbones, bulbous nose, narrow chin, steel-framed specs. If this was my quarry, the red-brown hair had faded to a sparse, gray comb-over.

He reached for his fork, curled pasta, offered some to the little girl. She shook her head emphatically.

He said something. If the girl answered, I couldn’t hear it.

Black serge filled my visual field again. A large bottle of Aqua Minerale Primo Fiorentina and a chilled glass were set down gently. “Ready to order, sir?”

Still full from the late lunch, I opted for the lightest offering, a forty-four-dollar diver scallop salad. Before Tuxedo took away the menu, I checked the price of the water. Well over LAPD’s daily food allowance, all by itself. Maybe it had been hand-drawn from artesian springs by highly educated, medically verified vestal virgins.

I drank. It tasted like water.

The little girl across the room said something that made the man in the gray sport coat raise his eyebrows.

Again, he spoke. She shook her head. Got off her chair. Her skirt had ridden up and he reached out to smooth it. Her hand got there first. She planted her feet, fluffed her hair. Turned.

Clear-skinned, blue-eyed, pug-nosed. The unmistakable visage of Down syndrome.

Older than I’d estimated; ten or eleven.

She noticed me. Smiled. Waved. Said, “Hel-lo,” loud enough to override the opera.

“Hi.”

“I’m going to the bathroom.”

The man said, “Elena-”

The girl wagged a scolding finger. “I talk to the
man,
Daddy.”

“Darling, if you have to go-”

The girl stomped a foot. “I
talk,
Daddy.”

“I know that, darling. But-”

“Daddy,”
she said, stomping a foot. Then: “Daddy
sad
?” She grabbed his face with both hands, kissed his cheek, bounced happily to a door at the back of the restaurant.

Unmarked door; the kid was a veteran of hundred-dollar dinners.

The man shrugged and mouthed, “Sorry.”

“She’s adorable.”

He resumed twirling pasta. Examined a diamond wristwatch. Put his fork down, checked the time again.

Tuxedo came over. “Everything okay, Mr. Korvutz?”

“Yeah, yeah, thanks, Gio.”

“Nice to see Elena. Her cold’s all better?”

“Finally.”

“Smart girl, Mr. K. She like school?”

Korvutz nodded weakly.

“Some wine to go with the Diet Coke, Mr. K.?”

“No, I’m doing homework later, need to keep a clear head.”

“Kids,” said Gio.

Korvutz’s face turned sad. “It’s worth it.”

Elena returned playing with the hem of her sweater. She stopped at my table, pointed a finger. “
He’s
all alonely.”

Roland Korvutz said, “Leave the gentleman alone.”

“He’s
alonely,
Daddy.”

“I’m sure he’d just like to-”