Compulsion by Kellerman Jonathon

Author:Kellerman, Jonathon [Kellerman, Jonathan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Suspense, Fiction, Police Procedural, Police, Mystery & Detective, General, Psychological, Mystery fiction, Los Angeles (Calif.), 26NEWBIE, Delaware; Alex (Fictitious character), Sturgis; Milo (Fictitious character), Psychologists, Police - California - Los Angeles
ISBN: 9780345465283
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2008-08-25T21:00:00+00:00

Osteria La Bella was different, with a brick facade 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. I looked up the street, failed to spot anyone matching Roland Korvutz's description. Six twenty p.m. If he was in there already, I wanted him settled into a culinary routine. Resuming my walk, I continued all the way to East Ninetieth, picking up the pace to get some aerobic benefit from the gentle slope of Carnegie Hill. By seven ten, I was back at La Bella, with sweet lungs and a buzzing nervous system. The glass panel opened to a glossy, deep green vestibule backed by a second door of solid black walnut. On the other side of the inner entrance, a small landing was announced by an engraved bronze Please Watch Your Step sign. Three stairs down and a sharp left turn took me to a white marble maitre d' stand. A tall, thick, tuxedoed man studied his reservation book in the amber light of a seashell Tiffany lamp. Low-volume opera supplied the soundtrack, some tenor moaning a sad story. My nostrils filled with alternating ribbons of ripe cheese, roasting meat, garlic, balsamic vinegar. Behind Tuxedo, a wine rack stretched to the hand-plastered ceiling, obscuring the entire left side of the room. The wall to the right was covered by a mural. Happy peasants bringing in the grape harvest. The three tables in full view were round, covered in red linen, and unoccupied. Glass clink and the low murmur of conversation floated from behind the rack. "May I help you, sir?" "No reservation, but if you could accommodate one for dinner." "One," he said, as if he'd never heard the word before. "Thought I'd be spontaneous." "We like spontaneous, sir." He ushered me to one of the empty tables, handed me a wine list and a menu, and told me about the osso buco special made with veal from serene Vermont calves allowed to enjoy their brief lives unfettered by pens. His bulk blocked visual access to my fellow diners. As he described a medley of "artisanal vegetables," I feigned interest and glanced at the menu. Auction-gallery wines, white truffles, hand-netted fish from lakes I'd never heard of. The balsamic was older than most marriages. Prices to match. "Drink, sir?" "Bottled water, bubbles." "Very good." He stepped aside, revealing two parties on the other side of the windowless room. The first was a gorgeously dressed couple in their thirties clenching wineglasses and tilting toward each other like pugilists. Tight jaws, parted lips, and rapt stares. Passion just short of coitus, or a poorly camouflaged argument. 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.

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