Early one January morning, Alexander Ozerovsky drew on his brown suede gloves as he stood near a crowded bus stop. He stared up the stretch of Fifth Avenue north of Ninety-sixth Street and paid no attention to the other New Yorkers who looked at him with interest as they waited for their bus. He stood with them, and yet apart from them at the curb: aloof and impeccably dressed.
Though Sasha (as everyone called him in the Russian manner) was not unusually handsome, he had a physical presence that attracted attention. His clear grey eyes, aquiline features, and perfect posture (the result of years of childhood riding...