“I’ve come three thousand miles to talk to you. Dale Bright may have killed other people. Extremely messy murders.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

I stood, shielding him from scrutiny by the neighboring couple or Gio. Kept a smile on my face to feign friendly conversation.

“Dale Bright. Former chairman of the tenant board on West Thirty-fifth.”

Korvutz’s shoulders crowded his neck. His fingers grazed a butter knife.

“You’re not under suspicion. Bright is. What I need is details, anything that can help locate him.”

Spittle collected at the corner of Korvutz’s mouth. “I know nothing.”

“Just a brief talk at your convenience—”

“Again they torment me.”

“If you cooperate and help us find Bright, it’ll end any—”

“I know nothing.” Extruding the words through clenched lips.

“Even impressions. What he was like, his habits.”

“Dry eye!” announced a voice behind us.

Elena danced to my side, wadded tissue in hand.

Roland Korvutz said, “This man needs to leave.”

“No, Da—”

“Yes!”

“Daddy make me sad!”

Korvutz shot up and took her by the arm. “Life is sad. Even you can learn that.”

He pulled the child, wailing, from the restaurant.

Puzzled, Gio watched the door slam.

The tenor on the soundtrack moaned.

The young woman said, “Bringing a kid to a place like this.”

The young man smoothed a hand-stitched lapel. “Especially that kind of kid. Let’s book.”

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER
23

Elegant people walked refined dogs on Park Avenue.

Roland Korvutz’s building, on the west side of the street, was ten stories of somber gray stone, each level one apartment wide.

Gleaming brass rods supported a spotless maroon awning. A carpet of some weather-resistant material that looked good enough for my house led to dead-bolted, brass-framed glass doors. The All Visitors Must Be Announced sign was the same gleaming metal. So was the call button.

Inside the lobby, a maroon-clad doorman relaxed in a carved chair and watched me watch him. Hispanic, mustachioed, too young to be the retired cop Polito had spoken to.

As I approached, he stayed put. Light from a crystal chandelier ambered the black-and-white marble checkerboard lobby floor. Dark wood panels glowed like melting chocolate.

The doorman didn’t budge until I pushed the button. Even then, his movements were languid.

He opened the door a couple of inches. “Help you?”

“I’m here for Mr. Korvutz.”

“He expecting you?”

“I sure hope so.”

“Name?”

“Dr. Delaware.”

He closed the door, got on a phone. I cooled my heels under the awning, braced for refusal, maybe a warning to cease and desist. Felt guilty about cutting Elena’s dinner short, then thought about the Safrans and suppressed my regret.

The doorman hung up, cracked the door again. “He’s comin’ down.”

Roland Korvutz emerged moments later in brown shirtsleeves, baggy gray pants, and white sneakers, cradling a tiny white Pomeranian.

I prepared for rage. His face was blank.