Jonathan Kellerman - Compulsion

“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.