The Pride Trilogy: Kyle Callahan 1-3

by Mark McNease

  Linda was patient by nature. It was a necessary trait in homicide investigation; you often had to wait for evidence to present itself, or wait for test results, or simply wait for someone you were questioning to stop crying and give you an answer. But even someone as calm as Detective Linda could lose it when faced with an obstacle like Corky. He didn’t seem to hear her when she said she needed to speak with Kate Pride right away. He began asking her where she was from and with whom she had made this alleged appointment. She told him she was a friend of Kyle Callahan’s, the photographer whose photos were on the walls, for godsake, and that the matter was urgent. He stalled some more, and Linda realized he was pumping her for information. Finally she pulled out her badge, something she refrained from doing outside her job unless it was absolutely necessary.

  “I’m a homicide detective,” she said, holding out her shield. “New Hope Police Force.”

  Corky’s eyes widened. This was definitely prime information. He felt his Twitter finger twitching already.

  “Is this about Devin?” Corky asked, staring up at her.

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Where’s New Hope? Isn’t that California?”

  Linda sighed heavily, wishing someone had told this young man she was coming.

  “Listen,” Corky said. “I don’t know if it’s related, but there was this guy in here yesterday, really creepy. We never met but he knew my name, weird, huh?”

  Before Linda could respond the phone rang. She saw it was Kyle and had a quick conversation with him that Corky interrupted to tell her he was not “the desk guy” and to poo-pooh her use of the words “walked funny.” She was about to slip into the parlor to escape the presumptuous young man when she saw Kate Pride pull up in a taxi and ended the call.

  Moments later the door opened and Kate Pride came in, an oversized leather purse hanging from her left shoulder. She had a binder in her right hand that she handed to Corky when she got to the desk.

  Corky took the binder without a word and said nothing more. Kate was the boss, and as much as she liked Corky, she had no patience for his prying. He was a very young man with a lot to learn; she was happy to teach him what she could, but on her terms and in her time. This was not one of those times.

  Linda shook hands with Kate. “Linda Sikorksy.”

  “Kate Pride.”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk privately?” Linda said, glancing at Corky.

  “Yes, certainly, I have a small office in the back.”

  Kate led Linda to the back of the gallery. “Can we get you something?” she asked as they left the room. “Coffee? Water?”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Linda said, disappointing the eavesdropping Corky. When Kate asked if ‘we’ could get her something, she meant Corky, and he was hoping for the chance to scurry to Breadwinner’s across the street, get some coffee or scones, and insert himself at least one more time into the conversation. Now he had been effectively shut out, and he started brooding. It took Corky all of ten seconds to switch from aloof to brooding, excited to brooding, any mood at all to brooding; if he was born to succeed, as he often insisted, he was equally born to brood.

  He turned his attention to the binder. It was filled with photographs for the next exhibit. Kate was always three steps ahead. The photographer Kyle Callahan would have his moment in the sun, and within a few weeks there would be another one. A sculptor this time, Corky could see as he flipped through pictures of the woman’s pieces. Women sculptors remained a significant find in a medium still dominated by men. The most famous ones tended to be potters, but this woman, Geraldine Wenzel, did absolute wonders with heavy metal. Corky quickly forgot about the detective from California and the strange limping man and his horrible landlord harassing him for back rent, as he glanced at the amazing sculptures that would soon be placed around the Katherine Pride Gallery. So short was his attention span that he did not notice the same limping man watching him from Breadwinner’s as he enjoyed his last meal in New York City. Had the good detective asked for coffee, things might have turned out very differently. Corky would have gone across the street and seen the man he had tried to tell her about. But that is the dark side of serendipity. One man’s happy coincidence is another man’s misfortune. Bad luck appeared to be on a roll.

  Chapter 26

  The Stopwatch Diner

  Danny arrived at the Stopwatch twenty minutes early, knowing Linus would not be late. He took a booth facing the front so he would be able to see Linus before Linus saw him. He wanted to observe the look on Linus’s face when he realized Claude was not the one waiting for him.

  The bad blood between the two men went back a decade. Danny had first met Linus when he began working at Margaret’s Passion and Linus had dinner there one evening with several companions. He’d stared at Danny throughout the meal and at first Danny thought it was flirtatious; but then he sensed hostility in the restaurateur’s gaze, and finally something close to hatred. A hatred he had never understood, but that had become almost mutual. ‘Almost,’ because Danny was not the hateful sort, but he had witnessed enough destruction brought about by this venture capitalist to come close to hating him. Despise would be a better word. Linus left victims in his wake, starting up restaurants with an investor or two, then selling to some hapless dreamer and making off with a nice profit. More often than not the restaurant failed within a year, and the poor owner and his backers, who were usually family members, were left holding an empty bag while Linus was off to the next start up. That was his specialty: starting up, then leaving. He never stayed for the unhappy endings.

  “You want a warm up?” the waiter asked, nodding at Danny’s coffee cup. He hadn’t seen the man scurry up to him, coffee pot in hand.

  “No, I’m fine,” Danny said.

  He looked over as the waiter disappeared and saw Linus Hern enter the front door. Hern scanned the restaurant for Claude Petrie, and after a few moments of puzzlement – he was not one to be kept waiting and knew Claude would be punctual – his gaze landed on Danny and he froze. He cocked his head, not sure if this was a chance encounter or if Danny was the one he was here to see.

  Danny nodded: yes, Linus, I’ve been waiting for you.

  While not exactly going pale, Hern’s face fell even further than its natural frown. He brushed past the maître de and walked to Danny’s table.

  “I’m assuming Claude’s not coming,” Linus said.

  “You would be correct,” Danny replied. “Please, Linus, have a seat.”

  Hern hesitated and considered leaving, then decided the only way out of this situation was through it. Now that his plan had been found out he would have to sit and get it over with. He slid into the booth across from Danny. No sooner had he settled in than the waiter reappeared.

  “Go away,” Linus said to the man, who’d had his share of rude customers and did not take it personally. He shrugged and shuffled off to another table.

  “So. Danny Durban. I never anticipated this, if anticipation is the right word.”

  “I think it is for you, Linus. The sweet anticipation of deceiving Margaret Bowman. She just turned eighty, but you know that.”

  “Yes. I remember her birthday luncheon. I wasn’t invited.”

  “Don’t worry, you’re on the list for her hundredth. Where was I? Oh, yes, tricking an elderly woman into signing over her building, in which both she and her very successful restaurant reside, only to find herself out of a home in a few months and that restaurant closed. Am I right? Did I get the plan down?”

  “Close enough. But the eviction part’s off. I would never put someone that near the end of her life on the street.”

  Danny sighed. He was tiring of the man already. “What I don’t understand,” he said, looking at Hern now as if examining him for his many imperfections, “is why Margaret? Why an old woman who has run a restaurant for thirty years? She’s not defenseless, but obviously vulnerable. Her mind’s not quite as sharp as it used to be, or she would
have seen through your hired guns the moment they walked in the door. I’m sure it was Claude who told you about her financial problems, and there you were, like a snake that had lain patiently in the grass all this time.”

  Linus thought a long moment, considering his reply. “It’s not Margaret,” he said, leaning across the table, inserting himself perilously into Danny’s personal space. “It’s you.”

  Danny couldn’t help himself; he pushed back against the cushion wanting to distance himself from a much too close Linus Hern. Finally Linus eased away, the hint of a smile coming onto his face.

  “Me?” Danny said.

  “You really didn’t know, did you?” Linus said, waving over the waiter. “I’ll have that coffee now.”

  Linus took the time they waited for his coffee to be poured to gather his thoughts. He felt a sudden peace come over him, if peace can relieve a malevolent man. He put creamer into his coffee, stirred it slowly, and carefully set his spoon down on a napkin.

  “It’s a very short story,” Linus said finally. “I was in love once, very much so. He was younger than I, about ten years. Sal was his name. Salvatore Minelli.” He looked at Danny, waiting to see any indication the name meant something to him. “No,” he said. “I suppose you wouldn’t remember him.”

  Danny had become intensely uncomfortable, regretting the meeting. He should have done it formally, in the company of witnesses, or in a letter, anything that would have given him distance; but it was too late now, Linus was at this table, in this diner, and he had no choice but to hear him out.

  “Anyway,” Linus continued, “he was the only man I’ve loved, really. Certainly the only one for whom I’ve ever let down my guard. I honestly believed we’d be spending the rest of our lives together. Me, a successful restaurateur, Sal the manager of a very popular Gramercy Park restaurant.”

  Hern watched Danny again, and this time something clicked.

  Danny felt his stomach lurch. He did remember the name.

  “I have to correct myself,” Linus said. “A moment ago I said this was not about Margaret Bowman, but it is. It’s about Margaret, her restaurant, you. All of it. You see, Sal was on the fragile side. It’s one of the things I loved about him. I was hard, he was soft. I was the storm, he was the calm. And one day he got fired from his job, for reasons that were never clear. It seems the old woman who owned the restaurant had found someone she preferred, someone she favored and has favored ever since.”

  Danny knew now, he remembered. The blood flowed out of his face and his hands went cold.

  “The other weakness Sal had, aside for a foolish trust in people, was drugs. He took the job loss hard. He took it personally. He had trusted the old woman, and she had betrayed him, threw him off for someone more pleasing to her.”

  “It was just a job,” Danny said weakly.

  “Oh, wonderful, then you shouldn’t mind at all losing yours, or care in the least what happens to Margaret. She’s just a woman who gave you … just a job.”

  Linus let it sink in a moment, sipping his coffee. “Sal was inconsolable. He was hurt and angry, not safe emotions for someone with addictions. He didn’t believe he could take his anger out on Margaret, so he took it out on himself. Must I continue or do you remember him now?”

  Danny waited, staring at Hern. “Yes,” he said. “I remember him. I never knew what happened to him.”

  “Because you never cared,” Linus hissed, sending shivers down the back of Danny’s neck. “You never cared, that old woman never cared, nobody cared. He couldn’t get clean again, Daniel, and six months later he was found in the Hudson River. It was not an accident. It was not some fun murder for your husband to solve. It was a sad, broken man ending his own life. And for that I vowed to someday destroy Margaret Bowman, her restaurant, and the man she threw Sal away for. Now if you’ll excuse me - and even if you won’t - I’ll be leaving.”

  Linus slid out of the booth, watching Danny a final moment while Danny’s gaze was frozen on the table. A ten dollar bill appeared in his line of sight as Hern threw it down. Danny looked up; he had never seen such hatred in a man’s eyes before.

  “I’m sorry,” Danny said.

  “Don’t be. It’s much too late. And don’t think this is the end of it. Consider it a pause, now that you know what this has been about, this animosity between us all these years.”

  “No one ever told me.”

  Hern cut him off, leaning down into his space again. “Because it’s none of their fucking business,” he said slowly. “This is not for some sad gossip page. This is personal, private. And I’ll be back. She’ll have to sell to someone, and whoever it is will regret the day they got in my way. People who do that don’t usually survive.”

  Danny knew he meant it, and that Linus Hern, now that his reasons were out in the open, would be more dangerous than ever.

  “Give Kyle my congratulations on the photo exhibit,” Linus said, turning to leave. “And my regrets. I’m previously engaged. I’ll have to read the scathing reviews in the New York Times. Don’t worry, their critic will be there, I made sure of that.”

  Linus Hern left him then, striding out of the restaurant with a spring in his step. The air had been cleared between them, but to Danny it felt like the preparing of a battlefield. The clouds had parted, the sun had come out, and beneath them the artillery was now in place. The first shot had been fired long ago; today the war had begun.

  Danny motioned for the check. He wanted to be away from here as quickly as possible. Linus Hern had left a chill in his wake and Danny needed to be warm again.

  Chapter 27

  The Katherine Pride Gallery

  The back office of the Katherine Pride Gallery had once been a utility closet. Kate had expanded it to twice the size, which made it just large enough for a small metal desk, two folding chairs and a water cooler that held a five-gallon jug. This was where many a hopeful artist first learned she would be stepping into the limelight with the blessing and support of one of Manhattan’s most experienced art dealers. Kate Pride had been around long enough to be considered part of the establishment, but not long enough to be irrelevant. She knew the day was coming when she would be seen as entirely Old Guard and she didn’t care. She loved sitting in this little office at her small gallery meeting new creative minds, welcoming new talent into the world.

  “So,” Linda said, sitting in the visitor’s chair to the side of Kate’s desk. “Here’s what we’re thinking.”

  “We? You have a partner?” Kate asked.

  She glanced at her phone, noticing the red “message” light was on. Probably a call from her husband; they were set to have lunch again that afternoon.

  Linda blushed at the question about a partner. She had several: Kirsten McLellan in New Hope, Bryan Frazier on the force, not technically a partner but the one other cop she’d really bonded with, and Kyle Callahan.

  “Kyle,” she said.

  “Photographer Kyle?”

  “Yes, that Kyle, the one who has a show here Friday night.”

  “He solves murders?”

  Kate could tell Linda was becoming frustrated. “Sorry, I just had no idea. What is it you’re thinking, you and Kyle?”

  Linda reached for her tote bag, the one she’d bought at Grand Central with the subway map stenciled on it, and took out the New Year New Visions catalog. She placed it on the desk. “Someone involved, somehow, with the New Visions show is very unhappy and taking it out on the others.” She looked gravely at Kate. “That could include you, Ms. Pride.”

  “Kate, please.”

  “Kate. After all, you’re the ringmaster, if I may put it that way. I need to know what became of the others, the ones who aren’t dead as far as we know, and especially the ones we’ll never know at all.”

  Kate took the catalog and opened to the front. She remembered the artists very well. That year’s New Visions show had been one of her most successful, in terms of launching the artists’ careers. The show had become quit
e the hot ticket every January; style pages and art blogs across the city started anticipating the show as early as October, speculating on who might be included and what waves they would send through art circles.

  “The graffiti couple are in Paris,” Kate said. “I just read about them in Le Monde. That’s the French paper. I don’t speak it well but I can read fair enough. I’m a Francophile, what can I say. Suzanne DePris is in Seattle last I heard, and Javier Velasco’s in Argentina.”

  “You know this for a fact? That they’re all alive and well?

  “I don’t know if they’re well, that’s a very broad term, but it’s easy enough to find them and ask them.”

  “That’s my next stop,” Linda said. “Back to the hotel for research, then meeting Kyle at an event he went to. I’m very much in need of some answers by then. What about the ones you rejected?”

  Kate closed the catalog and handed it back to Linda. “There weren’t any,” she said. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  Linda put the catalog back in her bag. “How does it work then? I can’t imagine you accept everyone who wants to be in the show.”

  “It’s not a matter of acceptance or rejection. I find them, you see. Everybody knows about the New Year New Visions show, it’s gotten a lot of attention, and people do try to persuade me, mostly agents and dealers. Some of the artists, sure. But my policy is also very well known. No one gets rejected because I do the asking. Submissions are not accepted. The New Year New Visions is an invitation-only show.”

  Invitation-only. No one gets rejected. The information didn’t so much change things as narrow it. Detective Linda now knew she was looking at a smaller field, more limited choices. It had to be someone connected to the artists who had been in the show.

  The thought hit her like ice water in the face. What if it was one of the artists who was in the show? What if success had not come to everyone – and why would it? Maybe one of them had found themselves in the shadows instead of the bright, warm light of fame? She needed to track them down, and quickly.