Compulsion

CHAPTER 24

Sonia Glusevitch lived in a fortress of yellow brick that hogged a third of a block on East Ninety-third.

The doors to this lobby were wide open. Mirrored walls alternated with panels of gold-flocked velvet. Ailing palms yearned for something other than track lighting.

Two hatless doormen in white shirts sat behind a Formica counter ignoring a bank of closed-circuit TVs. Sonia Glusevitch’s name evoked a wave-through as they continued to study an offtrack betting brochure.

“Which apartment?”

Laborious consultation of a black plastic-bound book.

“Twenty-six eleven.”

A metal-clad elevator griped all the way to the twenty-sixth floor. The hallways were papered in shiny copper splotched to resemble patina. Rust-colored carpeting had long lost its bounce.

I knocked on Sonia Glusevitch’s door. The woman who opened wore a lime-and-orange kimono and gold, high- heeled sandals.

Early forties, fleshy and pretty, with long too-black hair, tarantulous eyelashes, and crimson lips. Her face was coated with a fresh application of powder. Vanilla-laden perfume breezed out into the corridor.

“Ms. Glusevitch? Alex Delaware.”

“Sonia.” Two soft hands clasped mine. More vanilla as she kneaded my knuckles. “Come in, please.”

Her living room was boxy, pale blue, set up with black velvet seating, white rugs, baroque gold-mirrored tables. Paris street scenes featuring too much pigment and not enough proportion hung on the walls. A black japanned console bore a collection of free-form ceramic mounds.

She perched on the edge of a love seat, pointed me to a chair that placed our knees inches apart. Undraped windows looked out to the East River and the night-glow of Queens.

“Thanks for seeing me.”

Silk rustled as she crossed her legs. A gold-link necklace circled a soft white neck. Additional glint was provided by oversized hoop earrings, a cocktail ring set with a massive amethyst, a gold-and-diamond Lady Rolex.

“Ah-lex,” she said. “That’s a popular Russian nyame. You have Russian blood?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Please.” She pointed to a coffee table set with crackers, tooth-picked cheese chunks, an open bottle of Riesling, two cut-glass goblets. Low lighting accentuated the river view and was kind to her complexion.

I poured wine for both of us. Her first sip didn’t alter the fluid level. I drank less.

Both of us smiling and pretending to enjoy each other’s company. Like a bad blind date.

She’d used the fifteen minutes it had taken me to walk from Korvutz’s place on Park to put on her face and toss together a little spread.

I said, “Did Mr. Korvutz fill you in?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Tinkly voice, Slavic overtones. Show of small, white teeth as a crooked smile suggested a mischievous girlhood. “Roland said you were very nyosy. He didn’t say very handsome.”

She placed cheese on the cracker, nibbled. Played with the toothpick.

“You think maybe Dyale killed someone?”

“It’s possible.”

“Okay.”

“That doesn’t shock you?”

“Of course it shocks me. Cheese? It’s good.”

I’d paid for my forty-dollar salad at La Bella but had left before it arrived. Still, I had no appetite for anything but information.

I reached for a cracker. “Please tell me about Dale.”

“What’s to say?”

“What was he like?”

Sonia Glusevitch said, “Nice. Helpful. He liked to help people.”

“He helped you?”

“Oh, yes.”

“With what?”

“My lines, how I talked, doing the eyes. It’s different.”

“What is?”

“The myakeup for the theater. You must make a styatement.”

“Dale told you that.”

Nod.

I said, “Dale had experience with theatrical makeup.”

“Experience, I don’t knyow. He was very, very good. Artistic.”

“Did the two of you meet doing Dark Nose Holiday?”

“Oh, yes. I was Neurona – a traveler in the brain – and Dyale was Sir Axon. He showed me how to use the light and the dyark.” Touching an eyelid. “To look mystyerious on styage. To make the face dramatic.”

Roland Korvutz had described actors completely shrouded by dark robes.

I said, “So the two of you became friends.”

Sonia Glusevitch drank wine. “Dyale was a real friendly guy.”

“You don’t seem that surprised that he’d be a murder suspect.”

“Everything can be a surprise. Or nothing, depends.”

“On what?”

She cocked her head to one side. “If you trust people, you get surprised.”

“You don’t?”

“No more,” she said. “Every day, my husband told me he loved me. Every single day, six thirty, first thing he woke up, even before the toothbrush. ‘I love you, Sonny.’ Covering his mouth so the bad breath didn’t bother me.” The hand drifted to her abdomen, continued to her knee. “He was a syurgeon. Every Friday, he gave me flowers, all the women were jealous. He worked so hard, plastic syurgeon, my Stevie. Long hours. Long long long hours.” Flashing teeth. “He hired pretty little Puerto Rican nurses. Now he is married to one.”

“Ah.”

She recrossed her legs. Fabric shifted, revealing the flank of a meaty white thigh. A sandal bobbled.

I said, “You knew Dale when you were married.”

“Oh, yes.”

“What kind of relationship did the two of you have?”

Crooked grin. “You want to know did I sleep with him? A little, yes, it happened. Stevie was having his nurse fun. The rooster, why not the hen?”

“Only a little?” I said.

“I liked to do it. Dale not so much.”

“No enthusiasm.”

“Enthusiasm, yes,” she said. “When he did it. And he was able. No problem with able, just problem with often.”

“Any sign he was gay?”

“He told me no.”

“You asked.”

“It was a syad time for me.” Her shoulders sagged. “I found a little Platinum American Express receipt in Stevie’s jacket. Big, expensive dinner, at a place in the Hamptons I’d asked Stevie to take me. He nyever did.”

“What a bum,” I said.

“Oh, yes, Ah-lex. Big-time bum. So I was syad. I cried to Dyale, said please treat me like a woman. Instead, he was nice.”

“Nice?”