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.”
“Any of his other tenants disappear?”
Polito shook his head. “And no one he litigated with would talk trash about him ’cause that’s the condition of the settlements. To be honest, Doc, only reason he was even considered was there was no one else on the radar. Now you’re telling me about this Bright character.”
“You remember him?”
“I got a vague memory, only because he was the head of that put-up tenant board.”
“It was an obvious put-up?”
“Look,” said Polito, “there’s never any board before Korvutz buys the building, same goes for the first six months Korvutz owns it. Then he files for permission to convert and all of a sudden there’s an election no one remembers too clearly and a board of three people, all of which are tenants who came on after Korvutz bought the building.”
I said, “Bright plus two others.”
“A distant cousin of Korvutz and the son of the plumber who services Korvutz’s New Jersey buildings.”
He produced a folded piece of lined paper, same size as Milo’s pad. “I remembered the names.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Hey,” he said, “D.C. calls, who’m I to say no.” Slowly spreading smile. “Even if he is my wife’s brother-in-law.”
Neat typing on the sheet.
518 W. 35 Tenant Board Members
1. Dale Bright
2. Sonia Glusevitch
3. Lino Mercurio
I said, “Korvutz knew the other two before he bought the building. Any indication of a prior relationship with Bright?”
“Nope. And here’s the thing, Doc: Even if the board was a puppet thing, it’s no big deal legally. Landlord’s not obligated to have a board, period. And none of the tenants gave a crap. Except for the Safrans. They screamed corruption.”
I pocketed the paper.
Polito said, “Truth is, Doc, the Safrans had no leg to stand on, they were just making problems. Everyone else was happy with the deal Korvutz offered because it was better than what they had in that dump. We’re not talking big lofts, like in Soho. This was a crappy place, used to be a shoe factory, that got divided into dinky units, real cheap construction. I’m talking singles and one-bedrooms, iffy plumbing and wiring, not to mention your basic rodent issues, because it’s a commercial neighborhood, open garbage cans, whatnot. Korvutz makes an offer they can’t refuse, no one refuses.”