Compulsion (20 page)

Sonia Glusevitch lived in a fortress of yellow brick that hogged a third of a block on East Ninety-third.

The doors to this lobby were wide open. Mirrored walls alternated with panels of gold-flocked velvet. Ailing palms yearned for something other than track lighting.

Two hatless doormen in white shirts sat behind a Formica counter ignoring a bank of closed-circuit TVs. Sonia Glusevitch’s name evoked a wave-through as they continued to study an offtrack betting brochure.

“Which apartment?”

Laborious consultation of a black plastic-bound book.

“Twenty-six eleven.”

A metal-clad elevator griped all the way to the twenty-sixth floor. The hallways were papered in shiny copper splotched to resemble patina. Rust-colored carpeting had long lost its bounce.

I knocked on Sonia Glusevitch’s door. The woman who opened wore a lime-and-orange kimono and gold, high-heeled sandals.

Early forties, fleshy and pretty, with long too-black hair, tarantulous eyelashes, and crimson lips. Her face was coated with a fresh application of powder. Vanilla-laden perfume breezed out into the corridor.

“Ms. Glusevitch? Alex Delaware.”

“Sonia.” Two soft hands clasped mine. More vanilla as she kneaded my knuckles. “Come in, please.”

Her living room was boxy, pale blue, set up with black velvet seating, white rugs, baroque gold-mirrored tables. Paris street scenes featuring too much pigment and not enough proportion hung on the walls. A black japanned console bore a collection of free-form ceramic mounds.

She perched on the edge of a love seat, pointed me to a chair that placed our knees inches apart. Undraped windows looked out to the East River and the night-glow of Queens.

“Thanks for seeing me.”

Silk rustled as she crossed her legs. A gold-link necklace circled a soft white neck. Additional glint was provided by oversized hoop earrings, a cocktail ring set with a massive amethyst, a gold-and-diamond Lady Rolex.

“Ah-lex,” she said. “That’s a popular Russian nyame. You have Russian blood?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Please.” She pointed to a coffee table set with crackers, tooth-picked cheese chunks, an open bottle of Riesling, two cut-glass goblets. Low lighting accentuated the river view and was kind to her complexion.

I poured wine for both of us. Her first sip didn’t alter the fluid level. I drank less.

Both of us smiling and pretending to enjoy each other’s company. Like a bad blind date.

She’d used the fifteen minutes it had taken me to walk from Korvutz’s place on Park to put on her face and toss together a little spread.

I said, “Did Mr. Korvutz fill you in?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Tinkly voice, Slavic overtones. Show of small, white teeth as a crooked smile suggested a mischievous girlhood. “Roland said you were very nyosy. He
didn’t
say very handsome.”

She placed cheese on the cracker, nibbled. Played with the toothpick.

“You think maybe Dyale killed someone?”

“It’s possible.”

“Okay.”

“That doesn’t shock you?”

“Of course it shocks me. Cheese? It’s good.”

I’d paid for my forty-dollar salad at La Bella but had left before it arrived. Still, I had no appetite for anything but information.

I reached for a cracker. “Please tell me about Dale.”

“What’s to say?”

“What was he like?”

Sonia Glusevitch said, “Nice. Helpful. He liked to help people.”

“He helped you?”

“Oh, yes.”

“With what?”

“My lines, how I talked, doing the eyes. It’s different.”

“What is?”

“The myakeup for the theater. You must make a styatement.”

“Dale told you that.”

Nod.

I said, “Dale had experience with theatrical makeup.”

“Experience, I don’t knyow. He was very, very good. Artistic.”

“Did the two of you meet doing
Dark Nose Holiday
?”

“Oh, yes. I was Neurona – a traveler in the brain – and Dyale was Sir Axon. He showed me how to use the light and the dyark.” Touching an eyelid. “To look mystyerious on styage. To make the face dramatic.”

Roland Korvutz had described actors completely shrouded by dark robes.

I said, “So the two of you became friends.”

Sonia Glusevitch drank wine. “Dyale was a real friendly guy.”

“You don’t seem that surprised that he’d be a murder suspect.”

“Everything can be a surprise. Or nothing, depends.”

“On what?”

She cocked her head to one side. “If you trust people, you get surprised.”

“You don’t?”

“No more,” she said. “Every day, my husband told me he loved me. Every single day, six thirty, first thing he woke up, even before the toothbrush. ‘I love you, Sonny.’ Covering his mouth so the bad breath didn’t bother me.” The hand drifted to her abdomen, continued to her knee. “He was a syurgeon. Every Friday, he gave me flowers, all the women were jealous. He worked so hard, plastic syurgeon, my Stevie. Long hours. Long long
long
hours.” Flashing teeth. “He hired pretty little Puerto Rican nurses. Now he is married to one.”

“Ah.”

She recrossed her legs. Fabric shifted, revealing the flank of a meaty white thigh. A sandal bobbled.

I said, “You knew Dale when you were married.”

“Oh, yes.”

“What kind of relationship did the two of you have?”

Crooked grin. “You want to know did I sleep with him? A little, yes, it happened. Stevie was having his nurse fun. The rooster, why not the hen?”

“Only a little?” I said.

“I liked to do it. Dale not so much.”

“No enthusiasm.”

“Enthusiasm, yes,” she said. “When he did it. And he was
able.
No problem with able, just problem with
often.
”

“Any sign he was gay?”

“He told me no.”

“You asked.”

“It was a syad time for me.” Her shoulders sagged. “I found a little Platinum American Express receipt in Stevie’s jacket. Big, expensive dinner, at a place in the Hamptons I’d asked Stevie to take me. He nyever did.”

“What a bum,” I said.

“Oh, yes, Ah-lex. Big-time bum. So I was syad. I cried to Dyale, said please treat me like a woman. Instead, he was nice.”

“Nice?”

“Like a gyirlfriend.”

“Good listener?”

“The hand-hold, the listening, the hugs. The little kiss
here.
” Tapping the tip of her nose. “The business? Nyo.”

She shifted her weight, exposed more thigh.

I said, “Hard to believe he turned you down.”

Her eyes moistened. “You are probably lying but I like it anyway.”

She drank wine, looked up at the ceiling. Her chin quivered. She covered her thigh.

I said, “So you asked if he was gay and he said no.”

“Right away, no.”

“Did the question bother him?”

“Not at all,” she said. “He laughed. Changed the subject.”

“To what topic?”

“‘You are so beautiful, Sonny.’” Deep sigh.

“Was he effeminate?”

“Nyo,” she said. “I’d say nyo.”

“You’re not sure.”

“Yes, I’m sure, definite
nyo.
Dyale was not girly, just a sensitive guy.”

“Helpful.”

She winked. “Not like a nyormal man, eh?”

I laughed.

“Another way he was different,” she said. “Very neat and clean, always smelled fresh. And no toys. I don’t talk about sex toys, I mean fast car, big watches, big TV, big stereo. Stevie likes the toys.”

“Dale didn’t own any of that.”

“Dyale had
nyothing.
Futon for sleeping, jeans and sweaters in the closet, nyo real food in the ’frigerator, just juice and water, a backpack, a locker.”

“A locker?”

“A green locker. From the army.”

“Dale told you he was a veteran?”

“Cyaptain, five years.”

“Where’d he serve?”

“Germany. He fixed tanks.”

“Mechanical.”

“Good with his hands,” she said. “One time he fixed my styove, the pilot light. Also, the toilet. Twice, the toilet.”

“We’re talking about your apartment on West Thirty-fifth.”

She flicked a red nail against her goblet. “Ah-lex, I was very, very lonely in the big house, Stevie was working all the time with the little nurses. Roland had a nyew building, I was doing the play, why go back to Long Island every night?”

“You got yourself an apartment, then you got Dale one.”

“I like to help, too.” Smile. “I’m talking to you.”

“I appreciate it. So-”

“How long are you going to be in the city, Ah-lex?”

“Leaving tomorrow.”

She clucked her tongue. “You come back a lot?”

“From time to time.”

“It’s a good city,” she said. “Always excitement.”

“Where was Dale living before he moved into Roland’s building?”

“Hotel.”

“Do you remember a name?”

“Never knyew a name,” she said. “Dyale told me it wasn’t nice. I said, Guess what, I have a solution for you. I talk to Roland, Dyale moves in next to me.”

“What else did he tell you about himself?”

“That’s it.”

“What about his family?”

“He said he didn’t have a family.”

“Why not?”

“The parents died. That’s why he moved to the city.”

“From California.”

“California?” she said. “Washington, D.C.”

“That’s where he told you he was from?”

“He talked about the capital, all the politicians lying all the time. Maybe he was a politician, too, eh?”

“Before moving here, he lived in San Francisco.”

“He never talked about California.”

“Did he mention any sisters or brothers?”

“He said he was an only child.” Smile. “Another tale?”

I nodded.

“Dyale, Dyale, Dyale,” said Sonia Glusevitch. “See what I mean about trusting?”

“What else did he tell you?”

“I just said nothing else, Ah-lex. You didn’t have cheese, it’s good.”

I bit off a corner of the cube. Rubbery and stiff around the edges. “There’s nothing else you can tell me about Dale?”

“Mostly, I talked and Dyale listened. He was a good friend when I needed a good friend. And now maybe he killed someone? Who?”

“Could be several people.”

She flinched. “I was alone with him so many times. He was always nyice.”

“Helpful,” I said.

“So helpful. The most helpful man I ever met.”

She left to go to “the girl’s room,” returned moments later with her jewelry removed, less makeup, hair pinned up.

Looking plainer but younger. “You didn’t move,” she said, remaining on her feet. “Not an inch.”

“Worried I’d steal the silver?”

She laughed. “You are leaving tomorrow? Morning or night?”

“Early-morning flight.”

Eye flicker. “Have a good trip, Ah-lex.”

Extending her hand.

I said, “If you don’t mind, just a few more questions.”

She sighed and sat. “Now you want to talk about the Safrans, right? Roland said you think Dyale killed them.”

“Would that surprise you?”

“Those two,” she said. “Who knows about people like that?”

“People like what?”

“Always like this.” She made a sour face. “Sloppy, messy, like they don’t wash. Dyale said they were like roaches.”

“Pests,” I said.

“Dirtying Roland’s property, not being fair to Roland. The way they treat the dog.”

“They were cruel to their dog?”

“Dyale said they never walked it, the dog made mess inside.”

“Dale was inside the Safrans’ apartment.”

Her mouth slackened but her eyes got tight. “This is the fyirst time I think about that.”

“Dale and the Safrans didn’t get along,” I said. “No reason for him to be there.”

“Whatever,” she said. “Roland
nyever
asked Dyale to help him,
nyever.
”

“Roland wanted to make sure you told me that.”

“Roland is not some gangster. In Belarus he was a hospital clerk, helped old people get medicine.”

“The night the Safrans disappeared, they went to a play downtown. Was
Dark Nose Holiday
still running?”

“Running.” She giggled. “More like limping. We had four days.”

“Did the Safrans attend?”

Slow nod.

I said, “Dale invited them.”

“I say why, he say why not be nyice?”

“Did they enjoy the show?”

“Don’t know.”

“Did you see Dale with them after the show?”

“Don’t know,” she insisted. “I was taking off my makeup. It takes time.”

“Dale had already left.”

“Yes.”

“Ever see the Safrans again?”

Long silence. Head shake. “My God. Dyale.”

“Was Dale in any other productions after that?”

“Nyo.”

“How’d he spend his time?”

“Mostly I was in Long Island. I use the apartment for when I don’t want to drive back.”

“Did Dale have a job?”

“He said he was going to look for one but not now, he had money. From the parents, just a little – that was a lie, too?”

“He inherited more than a little,” I said. “Once he left Roland’s building, there’s no record of him working anywhere. What kind of work did he say he’d look for?”

“He didn’t – ah, I think of something
else.
He said he was going to travel.”

“Where?”

“The world. Like it is one place. I said, Dyale, trust me, the world is not one place, it is little boxes of people who hate each other and kill each other and no one likes anyone different. Do you want to go to Belarus and see why I left? He said, No, Sonny, I mean the great cyities. Paris, London, Rome. I asked why he never went to the great cyities when he was cyaptain in Germany. He said the army kept him too busy. But maybe he wasn’t
in
Germany, eh?”

“That would be my guess,” I said.

“All lies,” she said. “Okay, so what else is new?”

“Do you have any pictures of him?”

“I don’t kyeep souvenirs.”

I asked for a physical description. The picture she painted – big, hefty, bald – matched everything Roland Korbutz had said.

“Brown eyes,” she added. “Soft eyes. Sometimes he wore glasses, sometimes contacts.”