Jonathan Kellerman - Compulsion

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.”