Compulsion

CHAPTER 22

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-”

“You’re alonely. You can eat with us.”

“Elena-”

The girl pulled at my sleeve. “Eat with us!”

I said, “If it’s okay with your dad.”

Korvutz’s face got hard.

Elena applauded. “Yay!”

“Elena, stop this. Let the gentleman-”

I got up and brought my water glass to their table.

“Yay!”

Korvutz said, “Sir, this is not necessary.”

“I don’t mind for a few minutes-”

“Yay!”

The intense couple glanced over. The woman whispered something to her companion. He shrugged.

“It’s really not necessary,” said Korvutz.

“It is nessery, Daddy!”

The hot-eyed couple smirked.

“Elena-”

“Nessery!”

“Shh, shh-”

“Nesse – ”

“Elena! Shh! What do we say about La Bella?”

The child pouted.

Korvutz said, “In La Bella, we need to be… say it, darling.”

A tear dripped from Elena’s right eye.

Roland Korvutz dried it and kissed her cheek. “Darling, in La Bella we need to be quiet.”

“Darling darling,” said Elena. “That’s Mommy.”

“You’re my darling, too.”

“No!”

Korvutz colored. “Sir, sorry to bother you, you can go back-”

“He’s alonely. Ms. Price say be nice to alonely people.”

“That’s at school, Elena.”

“Ms. Price say always be nice.”

I said, “I can sit until my food comes.”

“Elena, let this man be.”

Korvutz’s voice had risen. Elena’s face crumpled. He muttered something in what sounded like Russian and reached for her. She jumped off her chair sobbing. The young woman at the next table rolled her eyes.

“Elena-”

The child ran to the rear door. “I go, again!”

Korvutz said, “Sir, I apologize. She is very friendly.”

“I think she’s adorable.” Trying not to sound patronizing.

Korvutz’s stare said I hadn’t pulled it off.

I said, “I work with kids.”

“Doing what?”

“Child psychologist.”

“Okay,” he said, with utter disinterest. “Have a nice dinner.” Eyeing my table.

I fished out the brand-new LAPD consultant badge the chief had expressed to my house last night and placed it on the table in front of him. “When you have time, Mr. Korvutz.”

His mouth dropped open. Gray eyes behind thick lenses bulged. Despite the sparse light, his pupils had constricted to pinpoints. “What the-”

I pocketed the badge. “We need to talk. Not about you. About Dale Bright.”

He started to rise from his chair, thought better of it. Both hands clenched but remained on the table. “Get the hell out of-”

“I’ve come three thousand miles to talk to you. Dale Bright may have killed other people. Extremely messy murders.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

I stood, shielding him from scrutiny by the neighboring couple or Gio. Kept a smile on my face to feign friendly conversation.

“Dale Bright. Former chairman of the tenant board on West Thirty-fifth.”

Korvutz’s shoulders crowded his neck. His fingers grazed a butter knife.

“You’re not under suspicion. Bright is. What I need is details, anything that can help locate him.”

Spittle collected at the corner of Korvutz’s mouth. “I know nothing.”

“Just a brief talk at your convenience-”

“Again they torment me.”

“If you cooperate and help us find Bright, it’ll end any-”

“I know nothing.” Extruding the words through clenched lips.

“Even impressions. What he was like, his habits.”

“Dry eye!” announced a voice behind us.

Elena danced to my side, wadded tissue in hand.

Roland Korvutz said, “This man needs to leave.”

“No, Da-”

“Yes!”

“Daddy make me sad!”

Korvutz shot up and took her by the arm. “Life is sad. Even you can learn that.”

He pulled the child, wailing, from the restaurant.

Puzzled, Gio watched the door slam.

The tenor on the soundtrack moaned.

The young woman said, “Bringing a kid to a place like this.”

The young man smoothed a hand-stitched lapel. “Especially that kind of kid. Let’s book.”