Compulsion

CHAPTER 21

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.”

“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.”