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.”

“Except the Safrans,” I said.

Polito put down his fork. “I don’t like bad-mouthing my vics but from what I could tell those two were confrontative. I’m talking hippie refugees from the sixties. He was at City College back when, radical SDS type. I was in uniform back then, did crowd control. For all I know he was one of those spoiled little bastards screaming at me.”

“What about Dorothy?”

“Same thing.”

“Rebels without a cause,” I said. “Dorothy’s sister said they’d felt threatened-”

“Margie Bell,” he said. “Let me tell you about Margie. Long history of depression and whatnot. On all kinds of medication, plus she’d had two commitments to Bellevue. One year later, she hung herself.”

“Definite suicide?”

“Her own kid found her in the bathroom with a note. Doc, the Safrans made a tempest out of a teapot. You get to live cheap in this city because of rent control, count your blessings and move on. I went through their apartment, tossed every inch trying to find a lead.” Shaking his head. “Wouldn’t let my dog live like that. They did, though. Let their dog. In one corner there was dirty newspapers spread out, urine stains, piles of dog dirt all dried up. These people weren’t housekeepers – sorry if I ruined your steak. What I’m getting at is they were living like squatters, shoulda taken Korvutz up on his offer.”