The Pride Trilogy: Kyle Callahan 1-3

by Mark McNease

  D was just about to leave the store when Jarrod said, “Did you see the news this morning?”

  D stopped halfway to the door. He knew he’d made a mistake giving into his impulse with Victor, but he knew, too, that Jarrod would never connect his boss with what happened.

  “I’m afraid I did not,” D said.

  “A young man was found dead in the East River early Tuesday morning.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, and there was something very familiar about him. They showed his picture on the news. I’d swear he was here the other day.”

  D, his back to Jarrod, said, “He may have been. We get so much traffic some days, Jarrod, I can’t remember everyone who walks in the door.”

  Jarrod thought a moment, trying to remember. “Victor, they said. That was his name. Victor something.”

  “Victor something.” D’s voice was flat and emotionless. “That’s quite an unusual name. Now I really must be going. I leave the store in your capable hands, as always.”

  “As always!”

  The compliment worked, distracting Jarrod’s attention away from the news and a man he vaguely remembered seeing in the store.

  “Memory plays tricks on us all, Jarrod. I’d think nothing of it.”

  “No, Sir, I won’t. Good luck with the new client.”

  “Luck has nothing to do with it.” D glanced at his reflection in the store window and walked out onto Lexington Avenue. June had brought the first real warmth of the season. For a moment he held his face up to the sky, appreciating the sun and the clearness of the day, then he began walking west.

  Chapter 7

  The television studio for Japan TV3 was originally a garment factory, an outlier in what was once a thriving industry in New York City. Fifty years ago, and for many preceding decades, fabrics were central to Manhattan’s industrial machine. Long contained in an area called the garment district that stretches from Sixth to Ninth Avenues east-to-west and between 34th and 40th Streets south-to-north, it still serves as a center of fashion, with some of the world’s leading designers maintaining factories, but the days of clothing the world are long gone. Shirts, dresses and all other kinds of clothes are now made for a few dollars by people earning pennies in places like Indonesia, Thailand and Bangladesh. But when “Made in America” was the norm, the factory that now housed a Japanese-owned television studio and its offices was humming with the sounds of sewing machines and the silence of an army of workers whose job was to sew, not talk.

  Kyle explained all this to Linda as they walked the last few blocks along Ninth Avenue and turned left at 38th, heading west another long block. Linda was impressed if not quite dazzled by the sheer number of people in this city. She also noticed, as Kyle had when he first moved here, the tendency people had to move quickly for no apparent reason. They seemed to maneuver more than walk, each wanting an advantage over the rest in terms of how quickly they got where they were going.

  “Why’s everyone in such a hurry?” Linda asked as they reached the studio.

  “Because they think they have to be,” Kyle said. “You can sense it the moment you get back into Manhattan from anywhere, this rush everyone’s in.”

  “And they do it all without seeing where they’re going!” She was referring to the omnipresence of smartphones, headsets and ear buds. Almost everyone had one, their eyes fixed on tiny screens in their hands, their ears plugged and deadened by music, their thumbs twitching out text messages and emails. They had all this in rural New Jersey, too, but it was decidedly slower there. Even New Hope, which was as big-city as it got around the area where Linda lived, wasn’t nearly as visibly distracted and manic as this.

  Kyle held the door for Linda and followed her into the studio. It was like many buildings in this part of the city, architecturally interesting on the outside, with its century-old brickwork and large windows, but basically a series of boxes on the inside. The exception was the second floor studio, which had been divided into three units where programs were made for a mostly-Tokyo audience. The offices where Kyle worked were on the third floor, with the first floor given to nondescript and unidentified rooms.

  “What’s on the first floor?” Linda asked.

  “I have no idea,” Kyle replied. “You can spend years in a building here and not know who your neighbors are.” He waved at Franklin, the security guard by the front door who had never been required to secure anything and whose waking state only appeared different from his sleeping state because his eyes were open.

  Kyle led them past the elevator to the stairs and opened the stairwell door.

  “Aren’t we taking the elevator?” Linda asked.

  “It’s broken.”

  “For how long?”

  “Oh, about six months. Don’t worry, you won’t be winded. It’s only two flights up.”

  Kyle walked up the stairs carrying a bag with coffee and a bagel for Imogene, and a cup of fruit for their station manager, Lenny-san. He was Jewish but everyone called him that because the bosses in Tokyo did. Kyle, however, had never been Kyle-san.

  They reached the third floor and Kyle opened the door, ushering Linda onto a brightly lit floor that looked like a million others in offices everywhere. It was an open seating plan, with a maze of cubicles. Only Lenny-san had an office. Linda followed along as Kyle headed down one row of cubes, turned left at the far wall and walked down another row identical to the one they’d just passed. Finally, in the southwest corner, he reached the cubicle he’d spent his workdays in for the last six years. Next to it, unmistakably, was Imogene Landis’s. She had installed tall plants at the entrance to her cube and strung a row of blinking lights. Had she not been one of the stars of the operation none of this would be tolerated and Imogene would surely have left, even if it meant stringing her lights and watering her plants at home while she collected unemployment.

  “Oh! My! God!” Imogene shouted when she saw him. “You’re on vacation, Kyle, what the fuck are you doing here?” Imogene was known for her loudness and her inappropriate language. “Don’t tell me you came here to bring me coffee and a bagel!”

  Linda noticed that Imogene tended to exclaim everything.

  “Oh, wait, of course!” Imogene said, jumping up out of her chair. “You came to introduce me to … to …”

  “Detective Linda,” Kyle said. Linda was retired but had stopped correcting him months ago.

  “Detective Linda,” Imogene said, putting her hand out. “The Detective Linda. You solved the Pride Lodge murders.”

  Linda demurred. “Well, yes and no. I investigated them.”

  “That’s right, that’s right. The killer got away.”

  “One of them,” Kyle said. “But we’re not here to talk about that. I wanted to show Linda where I worked, and to introduce you.”

  Imogene Landis was diminutive and thin, a pixie of a woman with an outsized voice and an even bigger personality. She was wearing red cat-eyes glasses attached to a black necklace around her neck. When she was in front of the camera or out in public—anywhere but the office and at home—the glasses came off. She would prefer to see the world through blurred vision than have the world know she needed corrective lenses.

  “Where’s Lenny-san?” Kyle asked, looking at the empty office with its lights off. “I brought him some fruit.”

  Lenny-san had been on a diet for several years, the length of it extended because he would have his fruit and top it off with a chocolate croissant he’d snuck in in his briefcase.

  “I can’t say,” Imogene said. “He doesn’t tell me when he’s coming in late. He’ll be here. Just leave the fruit with me, unless you plan on staying awhile.”

  “No,” said Kyle. “Just a few minutes. It is my vacation day and I’d rather not get roped into anything.”

  “I’d love to get roped into something,” Imogene said. She was always looking out for the next big story. The Pride Lodge murders were fading into memory and she needed something explosive. “What have you h
eard?”

  “Nothing,” Kyle said. He was concerned about being waylaid and was already thinking they shouldn’t have come. He was a loyal assistant, but that came with a cost. Imogene emailed him and called him at all hours, and as often as she’d promised not to, she still did it out of habit.

  “There was a news item this morning,” Linda said.

  Kyle shot her a glance and Linda realized her mistake.

  “What news item was that?” Imogene took her coffee and bagel from Kyle and set it on her desk.

  “Nothing.”

  She looked at him like a cat eyeing a toy. “Come on, Kyle, you know something.”

  “I don’t know anything. It was just a body found in the river.”

  “Oooooh, I like that.”

  Imogene was not heartless, she was simply driven. She knew dead bodies did not get their feelings hurt, so she kept it honest. Dead bodies in rivers were interesting, depending on how they got there.

  “Fine,” Kyle said. “But it’s your story to run with. I’m not working on it with you, I’m not calling sources, I wasn’t even here this morning. You’re imagining me.”

  “Deal. Just some details, that’s all, I’ll take it from there.”

  “Well,” Kyle said, “I don’t know if you remember the Pride Killer.”

  “Of course I do. He killed people every Gay Weekend or something.”

  “Pride weekend. It’s not called ‘Gay Weekend.’”

  “Am I not supposed to say ‘gay’ anymore? I can’t keep up with the language, it all becomes offensive to someone so quickly.”

  Kyle sighed. Imogene was hopeless in some ways, amazing in others. He looked at Linda, who had decided to lean against the outer cubicle wall and watch it all with amusement.

  “The Pride Killer did his killing for three or four years in June every year, coinciding with the Pride festivities. Yes, they’re gay. They’re a lot of other things too, including the time of year he terrorized the gay community. Then, three years ago, he stopped. He was never caught, obviously. The police never even had any suspects, unless they kept that to themselves. We thought he’d died or gone to prison for something else, or simply moved away. But a body was found in the East River early Tuesday morning and I’m convinced he’s back.”

  “Good, good,” Imogene said. She had grabbed a reporter’s notebook and pen and was quickly jotting things down in her own indecipherable scribble. “Not good that someone’s dead, of course, but the good start to a story. What else do you know?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Goddamn her, Kyle thought. Maybe getting this close to anyone was a mistake. Only Danny could read him that easily and quickly.

  “Okay,” Kyle said. “So the young man he killed was the brother of our doorman.”

  “Can you get me an interview?”

  “No! You’re out of your mind. For one thing, he’s been on leave the past two nights, for obvious reasons. For another … no … you can’t interview him. At least not through me.”

  “So give me a name.”

  Kyle thought about it a moment. Imogene was a relentless newshound and would put it together soon enough once she read the item in that day’s New York Times.

  “Vincent Campagna,” he said. “He’s our overnight doorman. His brother was Victor.”

  “The dead guy.”

  “The victim,” Kyle reminded her. “Don’t forget that. And if you follow up on this, you can say nothing about where you got this information. You read it in the paper, you spoke to the police. I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Fine,” Imogene said. “It’s nothing I can’t find out from other sources, but it expedites things.”

  Kyle realized that Linda had been standing there saying nothing for ten minutes. He’d intended for the two women to have more of an introduction, but after spilling the beans to Imogene he decided it was best to leave.

  “We’re heading to breakfast,” Kyle said. He wanted out of the office and food was always a good excuse.

  “It was so nice to meet you,” Imogene said to Linda. They’d met at Kyle’s photography exhibit but had only spoken for a moment. Imogene was there covering it for Tokyo Pulse, a gift to Kyle he had neither asked for nor wanted.

  “Likewise,” Linda said. She’d taken what measure she could of Kyle’s boss and would think it through later. She sensed she and Imogene would either be friends or, just as likely, not like each other beyond a certain civility. Imogene was New York City in a five-foot-one frame and Linda wasn’t sure she could take the woman for more than a few minutes.

  As they were about to leave, Kyle said, “One thing, Imogene …”

  “Yes?”

  He spoke with all seriousness. “This one’s truly nasty.”

  Imogene smiled. “I wasn’t planning on interviewing the killer, unless he’s in a jail cell.”

  “I’m serious. He’s cold and cruel and not someone you should go anywhere near. If you happen to get any ideas about his identity, call the cops. He’s gotten away with a dozen murders and he won’t hesitate to make you one more.”

  “I can handle myself,” she said.

  “I imagine that’s what all the men he’s killed thought, too. Now goodbye. I’ll see you Monday. After ‘Gay Weekend.’”

  “Get outta here! And take this wonderful Amazonian with you. So nice to meet you!”

  “You’re repeating yourself,” Kyle said. “I’ll see you next week. And put Lenny-san’s fruit cup in the refrigerator before it ferments.”

  Kyle waved a last time and led Linda back along the cubicles the way they’d come. As they walked down the stairs, he thought of the warning he’d given Imogene and how he and Detective Linda ought to heed it themselves. This killer was different. This killer was meticulous—he had to be to get away with it for so long. This killer did not make mistakes, or so the man thought. Everyone makes mistakes, and as Kyle and Linda exited back onto 38th Street, Kyle knew it was the mistakes he had to look for—very, very carefully.

  Chapter 8

  Danny arrived at Margaret’s Passion ten minutes after leaving the apartment. It was one of the perks of working there—he had been able to walk to work and home for over a decade. And while he loved being so close to the restaurant he now called his, he had also been close to Margaret Bowman all this time, and that very long chapter in his life was coming to a close. Margaret, as strong and determined as she had been for eighty-two years, was about to move to Florida. Danny had known for several years this was inevitable but he’d kept putting it out of his mind, just as Margaret had kept putting off her decision to move. The time had finally come; the arrangements had been made, and now all that was left was to celebrate Margaret’s life and achievements and say goodbye. He did not know if he would see her again. He knew if he did, it would mean taking a trip to Florida—she was not coming back to New York City. Danny had never been to Florida and believed he would die having never enjoyed its stifling humidity, vast flatness, and throngs of the elderly. But for Margaret he would go. At her age, in her health, it meant a trip that wouldn’t be put off too long, either.

  Margaret’s Passion had been in business for over thirty years. It started as a dream Margaret had when she worked for her parents’ small Italian restaurant in what was then Little Italy. It was still called that, but there was almost nothing Italian left about it. Chinatown had muscled in long ago, and the Italians had moved on, mostly out of Manhattan to the outer boroughs (as had just about everyone who wasn’t wealthy enough to live on the millionaire’s row the City had become). Now it was a figment of the tourist imagination. Margaret had been prescient, and also not interested in labeling her restaurant with a specific ethnicity. She and her husband Gerard, so young then, started their restaurant near Gramercy Park, and there it remained. They eventually bought the building the restaurant was in; it occupied the first floor, with three floors of tenants above it. The Bowmans themselves lived on the second floor, with
a connecting staircase they’d installed (without city permits, but no one’s telling) that ran down into the kitchen of the restaurant. It was how they came up and down without leaving the building.

  Margaret had been taking those stairs to visit her guests for three decades—and she meant it sincerely, knowing them by name, knowing their children’s birthdays and the major events in their lives; this was no “Next guest!” you hear now being shouted by drug store clerks who couldn’t care less if you were a guest or a corpse. Margaret loved and was beloved.

  Time took its toll, and eventually Margaret stopped coming down to the restaurant. Then, as things came full circle, Danny made the trip up the stairs to see her. Her Danny, her adopted son. She and Gerard had no children. Then Gerard was struck and killed by a taxi not ten feet from the building. Danny never met Gerard Bowman, but he knew Margaret loved the man with whom she had done it all. He knew she loved him, too. She was Danny’s second mother, something he did not say out loud to his own mother in Astoria. But everybody knew how much they meant to each other, and how hard this was going to be.

  It had fallen on Danny to arrange the going away party for Margaret. The planning had gone on for several months now. Danny worked closely with Chloe, the new day manager. That had been Danny’s job until he bought the restaurant with Kyle and Kyle’s mother. (If it had been Kyle’s mother’s money he would be much happier, but Sally Callahan insisted on being part of the package.) Danny had been planning the restaurant’s events for a long time. Several private parties a year were held there, by the types of people who arrived in motorcades and were sometimes preceded by security details. Among the most star-studded events he’d organized was Margaret Bowman’s eighty-first birthday a little over a year ago. He wondered if it had been some kind of signal for Margaret, telling her the time to leave was getting near; or a dress rehearsal for what he was planning now. So many big-name politicians, entertainment figures and philanthropists had shown up that Danny had made the decision to hold a separate, private birthday party with the staff and a few true intimates, including himself. He had worked the main party but had not taken up one of the highly valued sixty seats the restaurant was limited to. Margaret wasn’t happy about it, either, but she knew they could not risk excluding someone whose name was on a Broadway marquee or a ballot in the next election. She wanted them all to keep coming there when she was gone, so she had acquiesced; in the end she had a much better time with just her staff, Danny, Kyle, and a half dozen people who could say they truly knew her.