Compulsion

CHAPTER 20

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 theeayter. 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?”