“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.