Jonathan Kellerman - Compulsion

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?”

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.”