Jonathan Kellerman - Compulsion

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 a lonely. 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.”

Elegant people walked refined dogs on Park Avenue.

Roland Korvutz’s building, on the west side of the street, was ten stories of somber gray stone, each level one apartment wide.

Gleaming brass rods supported a spotless maroon awning. A carpet of some weather-resistant material that looked good enough for my house led to dead-bolted, brass-framed glass doors. The All Visitors Must Be Announced sign was the same gleaming metal. So was the call button.

Inside the lobby, a maroon-clad doorman relaxed in a carved chair and watched me watch him. Hispanic, mustachioed, too young to be the retired cop Polito had spoken to.

As I approached, he stayed put. Light from a crystal chandelier ambered the black-and-white marble checkerboard lobby floor. Dark wood panels glowed like melting chocolate.