Polito’s good eye squinted. “All that fur, you could make a coat… guess it could be the same guy, but I couldn’t swear to it.”
“Maybe that’s the point,” I said.
“A shape-shifter?”
“Was he gay?”
“He wasn’t swishy. Your guy’s like that?”
“Some people say he is.”
“Some people… you’re saying he fakes everything?”
I told him about the cowboy getup, the plaid-capped old man, a possible cross-dressing link, stolen luxury cars.
“Black cars,” he said. “Maybe like a symbol of death.” He pushed his plate away, touched his chest.
“You okay?”
“Reflux. This guy turns out to be the perp, I had him right there and he moved on to more bad things? Not a nice thought.”
I said, “He could turn out clean.”
“You thought he was clean, you wouldn’t be here.” He examined the photo some more, handed it back. “Nope, couldn’t say it’s him or not. And the Dale Bright I talked to acted normal. Absolutely nothing hinky about him.”
He finished his wine. “I gotta say, Doc, talking to you is making me realize how much I’d rather be on the lake. So let me give you the rest of what I got and be on my way. First off, I went by Korvutz’s apartment this morning – that was the appointment I mentioned. Schmoozed with the doorman, who happens to be ex-patrol. Don’t you bother him, it gets out he’s talking about the residents, he’s screwed. What he told me is Korvutz is quiet, no problems, married with a little kid, tips good at Christmas. Has dinner by himself twice a week when the missus is out with her gal pals and lucky for you, tonight’s one of those. Creature of habit, goes to the same place, likes Italiano.”
“ La Bella,” I said. “It’s on my list.”
Polito smiled. “Who do you think made up the list? Anyway, Korvutz eats early, is likely to be there six, six thirty. The chance of him offering to share a plate of pasta is not a high probability, but you can fly back to L.A., say you tried.”
“Does he use bodyguards?”
“We’re not talking Trump or Macklowe. This guy’s small-time. Relatively speaking, I mean. He still gets to live in a ten-room co-op in a prewar on Park, bought in years ago.”
“What does he develop nowadays?”
“He doesn’t. Collects rent checks.”
“Retired? How come?”
“Maybe ’cause he wants to be, or maybe ’cause he has to be.”
“What do you mean?”
“To play in the city nowadays, you got to have big-time dough. Starting with a B, not an M.”
“Gotcha,” I said. “What does he look like?”
“Sorry, no picture,” he said. “Guy doesn’t drive. What I can tell you is that eight years ago he was fifty-three. Little guy, glasses, reddish brown hair. Your basic Russian Woody Allen.”
“Thanks. I walked by the building on West Thirty-fifth. It’s back to being a factory.”
“Strictly speaking, it’s a warehouse, Doc. The braid’s manufactured in Queens, they store it on Thirty-fifth. So how come, after all that rigamarole, Korvutz never built his condos? What I heard is he got caught in some kind of financial squeeze, leveraged himself, then the market dipped, he had to sell a bunch of properties at a loss, including that one. It’s all about timing, Doc. The market’s crazy again, crappy tenements getting gentrified in the Lower East Side, Hell’s Kitchen’s full of yuppies, got a new name, Clinton.”
“The boom hasn’t hit West Thirty-fifth.”
“Those building’s are worth plenty,” he said. “Right now it pays to keep ’em commercial, but give it time. One of these days, the only people living on this island are gonna be the limousine bunch.”
I waved the tenant board list. “Any problem with me contacting Glusevitch and Mercurio?”
“Not from my end,” said Polito, “but you’ll have problems on both counts. Mercurio’s dead, got into trouble over a woman five years ago, ex-husband beat him to death, dumped the body in the Bronx. Nothing to do with Korvutz, the ex had a history of beating up boyfriends, only reason I found out is I noticed Lino’s name on a vic list. Kid was a moron and a wiseass, one of those hair-gel guys wants to come across like a gangster. I can see him ticking someone off real bad. Him, I
“Convenient.”
“But righteous, Doc. I checked hotel and airline records, Lino was definitely there. Maybe he paid for the trip with money Korvutz gave him for being on the board.”
“Korvutz bribed the members to serve.”
“Can’t prove it, but why else would they want to bother?”
“And my second problem is Sonia Glusevitch is Korvutz’s distant cousin, why should she cooperate.”
He held up his palms.
I said, “Just in case, any idea where she is?”
“Let’s see if we can find out.” He pulled out his cell, dialed information, asked for listings for Sonia Glusevitch, came up empty, tried “initial S.”
One hand flashed a Victory V. “Three forty-five East Ninety-third. You wanna try Sonia first, be my guest, but I think it would be a mistake. Better to use the element of surprise with Korvutz, don’t risk Sonia alerting him.”
“I agree. What was Sonia like?”
“Young, good-looking, had a thick accent,” said Polito. “Bottle blonde but nice.” Shaping generous, imaginary breasts.
Monique, the waitress, observed his pantomime and frowned.
Polito waved her over. “Delicious, the salmon. He’ll take the check.”
She glanced at me, left.
“I was you, Doc,” said Polito, “I’d leave Monique a real generous tip. I come here from time to time.”
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.
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
