To their right, a man sat with a child — a chubby, fair-haired girl. Her back was to me as she hunched over her plate. From her size, six or seven. The man leaned low to maintain eye contact, face melting into the shadows. He touched her cheek. She shook him off, kept eating. She had on a white sweater and a pink plaid skirt, white socks, red patent leather shoes. Except for the shoes, maybe a school uniform. His gray sport coat and brown shirt drabbed in comparison.

I could see enough of him to make out a small frame. That fit Polito’s description of Roland Korvutz. So did his age — sixty or so — and having a child.

He broke a piece of bread and sat up to chew and I got a better look at his face. High, flat cheekbones, bulbous nose, narrow chin, steel-framed specs. If this was my quarry, the red-brown hair had faded to a sparse, gray comb-over.

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.”