The Pride Trilogy: Kyle Callahan 1-3

by Mark McNease

  Linda’s personal life had experienced significant changes as well. She and Kirsten McClellan were living together now as wife and wife, tucked in the woods in Linda’s small house. There’d been a rocky, unsure time, last fall when Kyle and Danny visited, but it had passed and things were as secure and comforting as Linda imagined they could be, back when she’d first said hello at a New Year’s Eve party to the woman she now shared her life with. Back then Kirsten was a highly successful real estate agent in New Hope, long established with her own company, and infinitely more experienced with relationships than Linda. While Linda had had several relationships with men over her forty-four years and even once considered marrying in her twenties, she had never dated a woman. Now she was married to one.

  Another big change since her last trip to Manhattan was retiring from the police force and opening her vintage-everything store. For Pete’s Sake was named after her father, a cop whose senseless death when Linda was eight years old had left an indelible stain on her heart. It was why she’d become a police officer, and why she named her business after him. She had put in her twenty years on the force, the last five as a homicide detective, and had given her notice. On the last Friday in September, Detective Linda became just Linda Sikorsky. No more notifying the next of kin, no more days at the precinct, no more nights and weekends hoping her phone wouldn’t ring, calling her to a crime scene. She loved being a cop, and making detective had been among her life’s true high points. But she had gone into the career in large part because of her father and the time had come to move on and honor him in other ways.

  She had known even as a child that her mother Estelle worried every moment Pete was on duty, and most that he was not. Pete Sikorsky was the kind of cop—the kind of man—who stepped in if he saw someone in trouble or if he thought he could stop evil in its many forms. It’s what killed him, and why Estelle had been right to fret nearly every waking moment of their lives. Pete had gone to the small corner grocery store just three blocks from their house and, proving fate’s capricious nature, walked into a robbery. He hadn’t entered the store yet when two men who had just held up the grocer at gun point came bursting out of the door. A police cruiser that had been nearby came gunning up the street. One of the robbers fired, confusion ensued, and five seconds later Peter Sikorsky lay dying on the sidewalk, a stray bullet in his neck.

  Several years later Estelle remarried and moved with her new husband and daughter to Philadelphia, where she now lived as a seventy-three-year-old double widow. Linda became a police officer, got a job with the New Hope force, and twenty-plus years later she had turned one of the biggest pages in her life. Her one advantage was knowing what she wanted to do “in retirement.” Many people have no idea what to do with themselves when they leave a job they’d been at for over two decades; many a cop ended his life with a gun in his mouth, haunted by what he’d seen, usually divorced a time or two, and so lost he or she saw no way out of the tunnel but the bright light of a gun muzzle. Linda would not be one of them. She had long wanted to open a “vintage everything” store, modeled after her favorite shop in Doylestown, Pennsylvania. She’d even become friends with Suzanne, the store owner, and Suzanne had mentored her since the store’s opening last November. The business had done well and Linda had even been able to hire an assistant manager, Mitchell Parsons. Mitch was in his fifties, a devoted gay bachelor and an even more devoted assistant manager who ran the store more efficiently than Linda ever could. He’d been a real find and she was relieved beyond words to have him back in New Hope taking care of the store now. With her mother-in-law dying in Phoenix and the frequent trips she and Kirsten were making there, having Mitch to take care of things was among the great comforts in Linda’s life. She made a mental note to call him later this morning and see how things were going—if he didn’t call her first to tell her, which was usually the case.

  Kyle and Danny were sitting at the kitchen table when Linda joined them, wearing yellow silk pajamas with bright green parrots on them. She had picked them up on a trip to San Francisco with Kirsten for their honeymoon. They accentuated her long dark blonde hair. Linda Sikorsky was a tall woman, “big boned” as her mother always said. At five-nine she stood head to head with Kyle. When she’d been on duty, wearing her navy suit, a holster on her hip and a badge clipped to her breast pocket, she had presented an intimidating presence. Sometimes it worked in her favor, such as when she had to question suspects; other times it kept people from trusting and befriending her. She believed it was one of the reasons she had stayed single and closeted for so many years; not because she didn’t accept herself, but because life was just easier, simpler, when you spent it alone. It was a feeling she hoped to never have again.

  “What’s cooking?” Linda said, shuffling into the kitchen.

  “Nothing,” Kyle replied. “We’re going out for breakfast.”

  “No, not literally cooking. I wouldn’t expect you to make me breakfast. I mean what’s up. It’s seven o’clock in the morning.”

  “We’re up, obviously,” Danny said, standing and heading to the sink. He took a coffee cup from the cabinet above it and handed it to Linda. “Kyle was just going through the mail, reading the paper.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “In the mail or the paper?”

  “Either.”

  “Oh yes,” Kyle said, and he tapped the newspaper with his finger. “Something very interesting indeed.”

  Linda got her coffee and joined Kyle at the table.

  “Why are you so interested in this?” Danny asked. He did not sit back down. He planned to go back to the bedroom and watch the news, joined by Smelly and Leonard, each cat settling in on either side of him.

  “Because it’s Vinnie’s brother.”

  Linda: “Who’s Vinnie? What are you interested in?”

  Having their doorman’s brother found floating in the East River made it personal for Kyle.

  “I didn’t know you were friends with Vinnie,” Danny said.

  “I’m not unfriendly. We talk. And think about it, Danny. If this could happen to Vinnie’s brother, it could happen to anyone … and will. If this is the first victim, which I’m guessing it is, there are going to be two more. Two innocent men, right now going about their lives with no idea what’s waiting for them.”

  “And what is that?” asked Linda.

  “Not what,” Kyle said, “but who.”

  Kyle began telling Linda about the unsolved murders linked to the Pride Killer, how he had struck every Pride weekend for four years, then vanished, and how now, with the death of their doorman’s brother, he had managed to hit very close to home.

  Danny left them to their conversation and headed to the bedroom, the cats following behind like large mice on a trail of cheese. He wanted nothing to do with serial killers and dead bodies in the river. He had hoped after the Pride Gallery murders and that terrible business at CrossCreek Farm their lives would stop intersecting with murder, but he knew his hope had been in vain. Trouble had a way of finding them, as if it had been patiently waiting just ahead for them to turn the corner. Then it stepped out from the shadows.

  Chapter 4

  D sat luxuriating in the vastness of his king-sized bed, enjoying the quiet of the morning. The bedroom was in the corner of the townhouse’s second floor and he could see the sun rising slowly over the river six blocks away. He had loved rivers all his life and would live on a riverbank if he could. If the rains came and flooded his riverbank home, he would stand in his living room with his legs in the water, marveling at the water’s mystery and power, and if it swept him away he would glide along in its current, surrendered to going wherever it took him. He had no idea where this love came from—there had been no river in Anaheim when he was a child, no river near his uncle Leo’s apartment in Brooklyn, where he’d gone to live when his mother fled back to Berlin in tatters. And it wasn’t a general love of water; he was not fond of oceans or lakes. It was specific to rivers, somethi
ng about rivers that moved his spirit in ways matched only by killing. He kept meaning to examine the connection between the two—a river’s mighty flow as it followed its banks along channels carved in antiquity, and the mighty flow of his blood when he ended men’s lives and commended their lifeless bodies to the very river he loved and respected so much. But he had no one with whom to examine this connection, no therapist to talk to, no close friend. So he had put it off and put it off, until he finally accepted he may never analyze or understand it. It just was.

  He was careful not to drop crumbs on the sheets as he enjoyed his toasted corn muffin, his laptop open at his side. He had no housekeeper; inviting anyone at all into his home was a risk. He occasionally needed a plumber or an electrician, but he made sure they stayed in whichever part of the house he needed them. And they never, ever, went into the basement. Only invited guests went there, sometimes to see his artificial wine cellar, other times to see his one-of-a-kind gaming room with whatever latest computer equipment he’d read about. Victor Someone was into miniature train sets, of all the ridiculous things, and to his delight he discovered that D was, too! In fact, D had what some considered the most elaborate miniature train setup east of the Mississippi and wouldn’t Victor like to see that? Why yes, yes he would. It’s right down here, in the basement, please come, I’ll show you. D had shown him, and like all the guests invited into D’s basement, Victor Someone had not come back alive.

  He was bored with Victor already. He’d stared at the idiot’s driver’s license for part of the morning, trying to relive the excitement of the kill, but there had been so little then or now. It was like trying to remember the marvelous taste of an especially bland meal. He gave up after his first cup of tea and half his muffin, tossed the driver’s license aside and focused on the two dozen responses he’d gotten from his ad on ManMate. He’d worded it carefully to hint at his wealth and age without coming right out and presenting himself as a sugar daddy. He preferred ones with some intelligence, not run-of-the-mill hustlers. The more success they had in the world, the more they were able to hold an interesting conversation, the more he enjoyed their company for a short while before inviting them to see whatever he’d determined they wanted to see in his basement. He extracted just enough information from them to fantasize something down there they would want to see, and it always worked. But the dumb ones, the hustlers and the rent boys? They were only there for one thing, quick and easy. D was not interested in killing men no one would miss. He wanted worthy prey, so he placed his ads to attract it:

  Single older man seeks friendship and possible traveling companion. Enjoy fine dining, theater, quality wine and quality time. Not looking for hookups or one-night stands. You should be intelligent, engaging, fully self-supporting and interested in seeing the city and possibly the world with your new best friend. Must be over 30 and easy on the eyes. Photo with all replies please.

  It was broad yet specific enough to get at least some responses from the types of men he was looking for. Victor had been an anomaly, a customer he’d never seen before but whose amazing blue eyes and easy smile had tripped him up, caught him off guard. He did not make mistakes, and would not make one again. He’d paid for it in a lackluster kill that left him unsatisfied. He planned to make up for it with the next one.

  There were sixteen responses to his ad. Eight of them he immediately deleted; four he pondered, scanning their photographs with his eyes to see if what initially caught his fancy lasted more then a few moments. It didn’t, so he deleted those as well. That left four more. One was African-American and quite handsome. He’d sent a photograph of himself in dress military uniform. D had no idea what branch of service it was, but clearly this man was a serious candidate. D minimized the photograph and moved to the next one. This gentleman—for someone clearly in his 50s ought to be called a gentleman—was also very handsome and well-groomed, salt-and-pepper buzz cut, no glasses, although D suspected he wore them, at least for reading. He was a keeper, so D saved his email and photo. The last two were younger, one Asian, one white. D did not consider himself a racist or especially biased (not to be confused with discerning, which he most certainly was), but Asians were never really his cup of tea. As attractive as the man was, in a suit and tie, no less, he didn’t fit the bill. D deleted him, leaving him with three choices.

  Decisions, decisions. The fourth and final applicant was very good looking indeed. Dressed casually, “Kevin,” as he called himself, listed his age as 32 and his occupation as branch manager for one of the largest bank chains in the city. Kevin lived in Staten Island—a very long way to travel to meet someone from an online ad, but that could be advantageous for D. The further away from home his victim came, the farther afield the police would have to search (futilely, he might add). Kevin had a disarming smile, sparkling brown eyes, longish sandy hair and a button-down shirt, the sort a bank manager might wear on his off-time.

  In the end D said goodbye to the military man. He was truly appealing, but also too great a risk. Someone who had served his country might be very quick in a struggle. D had to consider his own strength and age. He could not take a chance at losing the upper hand; and while he drugged his victims first, it was just enough to make them woozy. The kill was a disappointment if they were incapacitated. He’d learned that early on when he first started. An unconscious man was no more interesting than a dead one. No, he would have to pass on Mr. Military, musing on how lucky the man was without ever knowing it.

  That left Kevin the bank manager and Scott the well-preserved 50-something. Scott gave no indication what he did for a living or where he lived. If D wanted to know more he would have to respond. Did he want to know more? He peered closely at Scott’s picture. Damn, he was a nice looking man. Not too tall, either. D didn’t like taller men.

  Suddenly D found himself in a unique situation. He had always been able to narrow it down to one. On occasion that one proved to be a poor choice and he’d had to start over, but it had always been one at a time. Now he could not decide.

  He took another bite of his muffin and felt his frustration rise—and his curiosity. What was going on with him? His first kill had been uninspiring, even uneventful. And now he could not make a decision! Was it because the two remaining candidates were so different—one older than D, one younger? One vague in his email, saying little about himself, the other an eager bank branch manager whose email, short at it was, seemed written to let D know he was “fully self-supporting” and mature for his age?

  Damn, D thought, sliding his plate to the side. Damn, damn, damn. This was not like him. This was indecisive. This was … thrilling in its way. Maybe he needed to switch things up. Yes, maybe that was the lesson of Victor Someone. It wasn’t that he’d been away from it too long, wasting three years in a dreary German city, unable to speak the language well at first and tending to his pathetic mother out of a sense of obligation that had surprised him after all these years. It wasn’t that he’d lost his passion. It was simply that he needed some spice, some new twists. Meeting two men instead of one would certainly be that. He always met them first. In his initial meetings he said nothing of who he was or where he worked, the men’s clothing store he owned or where he lived. He was simply a well-heeled, well-mannered man from a city teeming with them, and they were unsuspecting prey.

  He would do it! He would respond to each of them and set a time with Kevin for a casual coffee at the Arlington, perhaps meet Scott in a discreet bar. He hated chain coffee shops; nothing could be more banal than meeting in a Starbucks. But the Arlington served coffee and tea in their lobby. The landmark hotel had changed a great deal. The ghosts of celebrities from the 1930s and 40s had been chased away by tourists from Idaho and South Dakota. But the place still had atmosphere and the illusion of something once grand. It was one of his meeting places, but not the only one. He had to be careful; hotel clerks, servers and baristas had memories and could give descriptions. There were cameras absolutely everywhere, too. Most times D w
ould meet them in a park—Bryant Park, or even the majestic Central Park—but not always. Sometimes a public meeting with witnesses added a touch of danger. He felt like being dangerous. He would not have the second one be as boring as the first.

  He took a deep breath and felt an involuntary smile spread across his face. He placed his fingers over the laptop keyboard, then began thinking of his reply to each man. Wording was key. He would meet them each, one late morning and one in the afternoon. Jarrod would mind the store. He’d minded it for three years and done a very commendable job. It’s why D had hired him; he knew a quality man when he saw one. And now he was looking at two!

  He began to type.

  Chapter 5

  Kyle was determined their visit with Detective Linda would be different this time. On her last trip they’d been consumed by their search for the killer Kieran Stipling—whose name and motive they didn’t know until they’d stopped his killing spree on a SoHo rooftop. There had been no time to see the city, no time to stroll or stop at one of the coffee shops on every other corner; no time to visit Grand Central terminal and gaze in awe at the ceiling with its constellations or marvel at the human river flowing in, out and around the magnificent train station every day. This time Kyle would show her the city he’d loved since moving here fresh out of college with his then-boyfriend David. He realized, as they walked west on 23rd Street, that it had been over thirty years since then. The city had changed. He had changed. The world itself was a very different place.

  “Welcome to Chelsea,” Kyle said as they crossed Sixth Avenue. “Once a gay mecca, now more a blend of strollers and gays and yuppies—does anyone still say ‘yuppie’?”

  Linda was taking it all in. Her memories of New York City were not the best: she’d stayed away from the city for many years, not wanting to taint the memory of her trip here as a child just months before her father was killed in Cincinnati; then, when she finally returned last year, she was pursuing a murderer not long after stepping off a train at Penn Station. Kyle’s photography exhibit opening at the Katherine Pride Gallery had been wonderful, but the next day she was gone again. She could not yet say what she thought of the city, not really.