by Mark McNease
Linda glanced across the street and saw the coffee shop Kyle had mentioned. Sacred Grounds had been around for a decade, surviving the Starbucks onslaught with the support of a fiercely loyal neighborhood. “Maybe we should start there,” she said, pointing at the shop.
“I think we have to. We can’t knock on people’s doors. You can’t even get to people’s doors here, you have to ring buzzers.”
They headed across the street to the coffee shop. Linda noticed, two doors from it, the Laundromat Kyle had told her about: Fluffy Foldy’s. Did the clever names ever end, she wondered.
Sacred Grounds had needlessly underscored its name with religious icons and paraphernalia on the walls, but clearly done in a post-religion, ironic sort of way: there was nothing overtly religious or spiritual about the place or the people who worked here, but the owner had thought it a good idea to hang replicas of Catholic relics and a dizzying array of saints, gurus, martyrs, and the obligatory photos of Gandhi and Mother Teresa. All to be gazed at while sipping a cinnamon dusted soy cappuccino stirred with a mint biscotti.
There were three disinterested baristas on duty when Kyle and Linda walked in. Kyle walked up to the front counter and was immediately told by a short, acned late-teen with a prematurely shaved head and a look of millennial disdain that, “The line starts there.” He pointed at a sign that said exactly that, but there was no one waiting in front of them. The only other customer was planted by the window with a laptop and a headset to eliminate the sound of other life forms.
Kyle was hoping for some information from the child so he obliged him, shuffling backward to the sign, then, upon receiving a smile of approval, walking the few steps back to the counter. Linda did the same thing, staying silent for now.
“I was hoping someone here was on duty last Friday night.”
“You mean the night Devin was assassinated?” the barista said.
It was a strange choice of words, Kyle thought. “Yes, that Friday night.”
“I told the cops everything I know already, which is nothing. I worked a double that day ‘cause Pigpen has ‘the flu’ again, too much Tequila on Thursday night, and I was stuck here. It’s not that busy on a rainy Friday, but busy enough that I didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anything, just saw it on the news the next day.”
Linda leaned in, her hand on the counter. “So why would you say he was assassinated?”
“I have no idea why.”
“She means, why would you use that word,” Kyle said.
“Because it’s Brooklyn, man! There’s a government program to assassinate artists here, didn’t you know that?”
“This is the first I’ve heard, thanks for sounding the alarm,” Kyle said, wondering how such a delusional young man held down a job. “In the meantime, do you think your friends here saw anything?” He indicated the other two baristas who were multi-tasking with smartphones in one hand.
“Creamy and Soup?” the kid said, leaving Kyle to wonder if he’d spoken in code or those were their names.
“Yes. Creamy and Soup.”
“Nah, they don’t work nights, they’re in school. Out to make something of themselves,” he said derisively.
“Well, thanks for the information.”
“What information?”
Kyle let it go at that and led Linda out of the coffee shop. Once outside, he said, “The kid’s nuts.”
“A diversity hire?” Linda said, smiling.
“Maybe. Like you!” and Kyle smiled, too. Linda’s making homicide detective had been resisted by some on the New Hope police force who claimed she’d been hired just because she was a woman.
Kyle and Linda walked two doors down, turned in and found themselves at Fluffy Foldy’s, the neighborhood Laundromat. Fluffy Foldy’s matched its corny name with a corny interior, displaying photos, paintings, and one large mural of clowns. It seemed designed more for children than bored and impatient neighbors trying to get through one of life’s most tedious chores.
There were a half dozen people in the place, several women of varying ages, one man Kyle pegged as gay the moment he saw him, and one old man who was sitting in a chair by the bathroom door, looking as if Fluffy Foldy’s was his home during its hours of operation.
“So who are we looking for?” Linda asked.
“I don’t know exactly. I doubt any of these people were here Friday night. It’s too soon to be doing laundry again.”
Kyle had begun to wonder what or whom he expected to find when he noticed a petite woman cleaning out a row of dryers. She was wearing the kind of mustard yellow uniform normally seen on hotel housekeepers. She was so short that he almost didn’t see her as she bent into one of the large dryers and wiped it out with a cloth.
“Excuse me,” Kyle said, heading over to her.
She pulled her upper body out of the massive dryer and turned to them suspiciously. Her hair was salt and pepper, heavy on the salt, and tied back in a long, thick ponytail. Her complexion was olive, Mediterranean, Kyle guessed, and she had intelligent, coal black eyes that he knew immediately missed nothing. She could be anywhere from forty to sixty; she had that kind of ageless look of some women of color who never seem to get older.
“Yes?” she said. “May I help you?”
“I’m hoping so,” said Kyle. “What’s your name?”
She stared at him with an expression that said her name was none of his business.
“This is Detective Linda Sikorsky,” Kyle said, trying another tack. “We’re investigating the murder that took place across the street last Friday.”
Her eyebrow arched up – another policeman, this one a woman.
“My name is Yolanda,” she said reluctantly. “I already gave a statement.”
“Yes, yes,” Kyle said, “and we are so appreciative of that. But Detective Sikorsky here just arrived from another jurisdiction, and, well, communication with the New York police has been slow. Could you just tell her what you told the other officers?”
Linda was impressed. Kyle had seen an opportunity to bend the truth to his advantage, with her in the middle, and had done it without a moment’s thought.
“Just so we get our information in sync,” Linda said to the woman. “A quick recap would be fine.”
Yolanda thought about it for several long moments, and Kyle began to think she had seen through them. Then, she said, “I saw them. I was here that night. I’m always here. There is no one else.”
“Oh, you own this establishment?” Linda asked.
Yolanda looked at her as if that was a preposterous idea. “No, I don’t own it, I work here. Just me, and Willy who fixes the machines when they break. But he wasn’t here. Just me. There is no one else.”
“So what is it you saw, Yolanda?”
“I saw the dead man, he comes here to do his wash, or did, until … He was walking toward the building he lives in – I see everything – and then he stopped and turned around. It was raining, but I could see the other man, the one who hurt him. They spoke, like they knew each other.”
Kyle wondered how that would be determined, but he knew this was a woman who had been observing people all her life. Watching how they move, where they go.
“Then the one man takes the hood off his face, but I can’t see from here, and he limps up to the dead guy …”
“Limps?” Kyle asked.
“Yes, limps, but not like he was hurt, like he was born that way.”
Kyle and Linda looked at each other. This was significant news. There was also something familiar about it to Kyle, but he couldn’t think what at the moment. A tiny, faint bell had rung, and just as quickly gone silent.
“I have an aunt,” Yolanda said, “She was born with a short leg. She walks like that.”
Kyle felt his excitement rising. They had something as close to a description as they might find.
“The bad man goes up close to the dead one and … makes him dead. I was in shock. I called 911 but it was too late.”
“Did you try to help him?” Linda asked.
It was the only time Yolanda looked away from them. She had not gone across the street, nor had she told the 911 dispatcher who she was, or that she was calling from the Laundromat.
“It was raining,” she offered weakly. “I thought they were, you know, kissing. It happens a lot.”
“Yes, of course,” Kyle said, leaving her to deal with her guilt another time. “This has been very, very helpful, Yolanda.” He pulled a business card out of his wallet and handed it to her.
She read it. “You’re with a TV station?” she said, alarmed.
“Japanese,” he said quickly. “Nothing local, it has nothing to do with this. Detective Sikorsky can vouch for that. We’re just following up on the investigation, and we thank you, Yolanda, we thank you so much.”
Kyle took Linda by the hand, something Yolanda noticed and thought odd for policemen, and led them out of the Laundromat. Standing on the sidewalk, with Yolanda staring at them from inside, Kyle said, “Finally something substantial.”
“A limp.”
“But not just a limp. Something congenital maybe, or an accident of some kind. And it sounds familiar.”
“You know this guy?”
“No. Yes. I’ve seen him somewhere, but I see thousands of people every day! Maybe I saw him in the subway and it stuck in my mind.”
He recalled the man watching from across the street at the Katherine Pride Gallery. He hadn’t seen him walk, so he couldn’t say if he limped, but something told Kyle it was the man they were looking for, and if that was the case, he was getting much closer.
“I want to talk to Kate Pride again,” Kyle said as they walked toward the subway. “Olivette Washburn – I’ll fill you in on the ride back – said something about Kate being good to know if you were the one she was promoting, something to that effect.”
“And you’re wondering who it was she did not promote.”
“Yes. If she chooses who to have at the New Year New Visions show, she must choose who she leaves out.”
“A grudge.”
“A deadly grudge,” Kyle said, as they headed down the platform stairs to the sound of a train pulling into the station.
Chapter 19
The Katherine Pride Gallery
Corky Richards was alone at the gallery that afternoon. Kate Pride had been there throughout most of the morning, but had left for a late lunch with her husband, Stuart. It was a treat she allowed herself when she felt that everything was in order, as she did today. Kyle’s photos were ready for public viewing, the two rooms where they’d been hung blocked off with velvet rope until the Friday evening opening. That left only the parlor, as it was called, for the other work they were showcasing. It was a small room, although large enough for Corky to have imagined many times how it might look as a studio apartment. Anything much bigger than a shoebox would make a suitable apartment in Manhattan, something of which Corky was painfully aware. He was currently staying in a dump in Coney Island with his cousin Patrick, and the commute itself had him longing for the day when he could find some cozy eighth-floor walkup with a Murphy bed and a hot plate within walking distance of his job.
It was a job he’d only had for two months. Corky Richards was new to the city, having migrated from Las Vegas less than a year earlier. The son of a showgirl and one of her string of boyfriends – she never bothered finding out which one – Corky had hated the desert heat and the garish lights, the vice that permeated everything about Las Vegas. And while it was certainly gay friendly, it was no place for a man like Corky to find a suitable husband, whom he would skillfully balance with a career that headed only upward. Was working the front desk at the Katherine Pride Gallery that career? No, but it aimed him in the right direction and put him in frequent contact with people he could step gently on as he made his way to the top. Some of the men even enjoyed being footstools.
He looked up at the sound of the bell ringing. Kate had not installed a door buzzer, the kind you have to buzz while waiting for someone to unlock the door. She considered it cold, and although this was an art gallery, nothing here was of great value. That was the whole point of the Katherine Pride Gallery: to launch those she found promising into the art world, where the next gallery would sell their work for much more. She was a talent scout, really, and a gambler. It didn’t always pay off; some of the artists she had highlighted over the years had gone no further, while a few others had made good after their deaths from drug overdoses. And now Devin, of course, murdered. His works would immediately triple in value.
The man who entered the gallery did not at first look at Corky, but instead scanned the front room, the parlor, and the rope sectioning off the main gallery.
Corky, normally outgoing to a fault, chipper and always looking to network, remained unusually silent. Something about the man did not invite conversation. Part of it was the way he walked, with a shuffling limp that made Corky think not of a deadened foot but of a broken axle; part of it was his expressionless face, flat, almost reptilian, but very handsome. Corky was perplexed by the incongruity: a man with one leg that appeared to be twisted, walking as if his hips were out of alignment, yet the man himself was fit, good looking, even hot. Corky felt himself flush, and that thought, that annoying thought that flitted into his mind every time he saw a good looking man alone, buzzed into his head: Might this be the one?
“Good morning,” Kieran said, walking up to the desk, still looking everywhere but at Corky.
“Good afternoon,” Corky replied. He was strangely nervous, and he had the uncomfortable sensation of being exposed, even though the man appeared to deliberately not look at him.
“Yes, it is afternoon, isn’t it? I stand corrected.”
“I wasn’t correcting you, that’s not what I meant.”
“No, I doubt you were.” Kieran gazed at the roped off rooms. “It appears you’ve got something planned. An opening?”
“The rope, oh, yes. There’s an opening Friday night. A photographer.”
“A photographer.”
“But we still have pieces available,” Corky said, motioning toward the parlor. “We’re not closed. What are you looking for?”
Kieran sighed, thinking a long moment. Finally he turned and looked at Corky. “Do you have anything by Devin? I think that’s his name. Or Morninglight? Richard Morninglight?”
“Morninglight,” Corky said, and he suddenly believed he knew the man’s game. Obviously he was a buyer who read about the murders and was hoping to snap up something before the prices soared. What artist has ever been worth more alive than dead?
“We don’t currently have anything of Devin’s. We may never, actually. It’s not like we’re the executor of his estate.”
“Oh,” Kieran said, frowning. “Is he dead?”
Corky was confused, but only for a moment. He now thought the man was toying with him for some reason. You don’t live to be a twenty-seven year old gay man, grown up in Las Vegas and now living in Coney Island, without knowing the games people play.
“Listen …”
“How about something by Katherine Pride?” Kieran said. “Or isn’t she dead yet?”
Corky felt the hairs on his neck rise. Something was wrong here, very wrong. “Kate’s not an artist,” he said.
“Does she have to be?”
Corky quickly rose from his chair. “I’m about to close up for lunch.”
“So late? You must be starving.”
“Yeah, well, I lose track sometimes.”
“I’m sure you do. We all do.”
“If there’s nothing else …”
“Oh, but there is, there is,” Kieran said, smiling again. The smile made Corky nearly crumple. He wanted to be away from this man as soon as possible.
“I was hoping to speak with Katherine.”
“Kate.”
“If she prefers. Kate. Will she be here anytime soon?”
“Um, no, I’m sorry, she’s out with … the police, sh
e’s having lunch with some friends from the police force, they come here all the time. They keep an eye on the place.”
Kieran turned and looked out the windows. “So they might be watching us right now?”
“I’m sure of it. By the way, I didn’t get your name.”
“That’s okay,” Kieran said, and he began to walk toward the door. “I’ll give it to Kate myself.”
Please, please let him leave, Corky thought, in as close to a prayer as he ever came.
Kieran turned back just as he reached the door. “We’ll see you at the opening,” he said. “You will the there, won’t you?”
“Maybe. Listen, I have a boyfriend,” Corky lied.
“As well you should, Corky. A young man as sharp as you, as fearless, really, I’d say the sky’s the limit.”
With that he turned back and left the gallery.
It took a moment after the door closed for Corky to feel himself relax. He hurried to the door and locked it, flipping around the hanging sign that said, “Back in 30 minutes!” He sat back down behind the desk and let his breathing slowly return to normal. It was only when he felt like himself again, a good five minutes after the man had left, that he realized he had addressed him by name. “As well you should, Corky.” But Corky had never offered his name.
The chill returned, and Corky sat for a long while rubbing his arms, trying to get the warmth back. What was that old nonsense his mother always said when he felt a chill? “Someone just walked over your grave.” For the first time in his life he believed her.
Chapter 20
Apartment 5G
Kyle was in the kitchen preparing dinner for the three of them. Linda was staying in a hotel, which was fine with Kyle since it meant he wouldn’t have anyone in the spare room until his mother arrived on Friday. Sally Callahan was usually the only guest they had during the year, but when anyone used the room Kyle would have to forego his morning ritual of working on his photography and scanning the Internet so as not to disturb them.
Linda was in the living room, talking on their landline to her new love, Kirsten. Kyle could hear her chattering away about her visit so far, their lunch at the Stopwatch, and the plans for the big opening night that Friday. She had not offered to have Kyle or Danny speak to Kirsten just yet, but Kyle suspected they would meet soon, and he wanted to. He would never dissuade Linda from being in a relationship, and he trusted her judgment, but he wanted to meet Kirsten as soon as possible, given she would become part of their extended family. Perhaps he and Danny would make a trip to New Hope in the summer, though not likely staying at Pride Lodge. As much as he wished them continued success, he would always associate the Lodge with the murder of his friend, Teddy Pembroke.