by Mark McNease
Danny came into the living room. He was dressed for work in black slacks, a light blue shirt and dark tie. He’d always been meticulous in his work appearance and had become more so since he owned the restaurant. The burdens of ownership were several degrees higher and heavier than simply managing the place, and he wanted to always be prepared for doing business, meeting clients as well as customers, and generally looking like he owned one of the best restaurants in Manhattan.
“I’m heading out now,” Danny said. He grabbed a lint roller from several they had on a shelf just inside the kitchen. Cat hair was a constant in their home, and he rolled the latest batch from his pants legs.
“You’re leaving early,” Kyle said.
“More planning to do.”
“How’s that all going, by the way?”
“Fine, considering this is the one party I never wanted to have. We’re whittling down the list, getting the invitations out. We’ve only got a month. Some people we knew were invited got a ‘Save the Date’ email a couple weeks ago. Is your mother coming?”
“No,” Kyle said, secretly glad of it. There had been increasing friction between Danny and his mother-in-law since they’d been business partners and Kyle wanted this going-away party to be free of it. Sally might have suggestions for the seating plan, suggestions for the menu, even suggestions for who was being invited. Kyle was relieved she’d be on a cruise with her man-friend Farley somewhere in the Caribbean.
“That’s right,” Danny said, remembering. “She’s taking a cruise. Good for her. Better for me.” He put the lint roller back on the shelf. “Margaret suggested, now that we have title to the building, we could get a line of credit and buy your mother out.”
Kyle hadn’t given any thought to being landlords and didn’t want to think about it now. But he liked the idea of buying out his mother. It could relieve a source of stress that had been in their lives the last six months.
“Margaret’s a smart woman,” Kyle said. “Let’s talk seriously about that after her going-away party.”
Danny nodded. He walked over to Kyle and kissed him goodbye. “Love you,” he said. They always said this to each other when they parted, even when one was simply going across the street for milk. Life was unpredictable. People got hit by cars, they had heart attacks. Better to always say “I love you” and not wish later you had.
Danny leaned down and gave Linda a hug. “Please keep an eye on him,” he said. “And yourself. One of these days you two are going to go after a killer who’s smarter than you are.”
It reminded Linda she needed to tell Kyle she’d brought her gun. She would do that as soon as they were alone. There was something about this killer that put her more on guard than usual.
“We’ll be fine,” Kyle said. “Safety in numbers.”
“I’m not convinced ‘two’ qualifies for that,” Danny said. “Bye everybody, bye cats.” He waved at Smelly and Leonard. The cats glanced at him, uninterested, as the door closed.
Kyle looked at his watch. They still had over an hour. “Hungry?” he said.
“I could use some breakfast.”
“I know a diner, the Moonrise, not far from where we’re going.”
“Sounds good.” Linda got up from the couch. “Let me get my gun and jacket first.”
“Your gun?”
“Well, yes. I’ve been meaning to tell you about that.”
Kyle followed Linda into the guest room as she began to tell him about her father’s gun—now her gun—and why she planned on bringing it along.
Chapter 24
Danny walked slowly along Lexington Avenue, south toward 23rd Street. It was only a six-block walk to Margaret’s Passion and one he’d taken a few thousand times in the last eleven years. It was also one he knew he would take only a dozen more times before Margaret Bowman was gone. What then? He would get to the restaurant knowing she was not upstairs. And now it was his building! What would he and Kyle do with it? He needed to speak to the managing agent and see about keeping them on, arranging as seamless a transition as possible from Margaret’s ownership to theirs. What of the tenants, too? Danny knew some of them. There was the older couple in the second floor apartment next to Margaret’s, and the author who lived on the fourth floor and came in for lunch every Tuesday—a woman in her 50s who wrote a wildly successful series in the Young Adult fiction genre. Gladys Markowitz, although she did not write under that name. Danny was trying to think of her pen name as he turned left at 23rd. Tess Collins? Tess Collier? Something like that. Sold books by the hundreds of thousands to teenagers around the world.
Danny stopped on the corner and looked around him. He was acutely aware of how little attention we pay to our surroundings. New York was just a glaring example of it: everyone stumbled along with smart phones in their hands, ear buds shoved into their ears, or both. Texting, reading, typing, ignoring everything and everyone around them without realizing they would never, ever, encounter this moment again. He’d been guilty of it himself and had only stopped looking at his phone the last few months. Whatever emails were there could wait until he got to work. He and Kyle watched the morning news in bed every day, that was enough. He didn’t need to read the New York Times in miniature as he shuffled along Third Avenue. It could all wait—which was exactly the opposite of how the world lived now. Most people thought nothing could wait anymore, not their Facebook updates, not the latest tweet from their favorite celebrity, not the endless stream of “click-bait” trying to grab their attention with headlines that would shame a high school newspaper writer at his most vulgar and juvenile. Danny had a dim view of the culture he found himself living in at fifty-six. Was it age? Or was it simply coming to see it all as flotsam clogging the surface of a sea of emptiness?
He smiled at that one, “a sea of emptiness.” What did that even mean? He waved at the old man who ran the shoe repair store near the corner of 23rd and Third. He was surprised the store was still there. Almost everyone around it had gone out of business, replaced by other shops that would last six months, maybe a year or two, then they’d be gone as well. Flow and change.
A lot had changed in Danny Durban’s life the last seven years. He was married. He owned a restaurant, and now the building it was in. His second mother, the one he loved as dearly as he loved his own, was about to move to Florida for the last few years of her life. But the shoe repair store was still there! Third Avenue was still there! Smelly and Leonard and Kyle were still there. He straightened up, smiled. The sun was out, the temperature expected to stay below 80. What a beautiful morning. So many beautiful mornings he’d missed, walking with his head down, staring at the tiny screen on his phone. No more. Today, and tomorrow, and the next day, he would look at the world around him. He would take comfort in what had not changed. He would cherish it all for every moment it lasted and not fall prey to sorrow, wondering when it would end.
He had a party to plan. He had a life to celebrate—Margaret’s and his own. And the lives of his cats, and the lives of everyone he loved. His mother, his father, his sisters, his nieces and nephews, his husband, Detective Linda and Kirsten, the old man in the shoe store and the bus driver and the mail lady. Celebrate all of them, celebrate each step he took as he walked along, celebrate being alive.
Yes, he thought, as Margaret’s Passion came into view just a half-block ahead. Time for a new suit—literally and figuratively. Time to be alive.
He reached the restaurant and saw Chloe already there. He waved at her through the window; she waved back. Trebor the bartender was there, too, making everything look fabulous for the coming lunch crowd. He opened the door and just stood there looking around at his restaurant. His Margaret’s Passion. He would make sure it always lived up to its name, and he would thank Margaret every day of his life for the passion she inspired in him. No time now for sadness, no time for mourning what had not yet passed. It was time to get to work, and do it with a song.
Chapter 25
Kyle loved diners. Ther
e had always been something about them that gave him comfort. He traced it back to his childhood, when he and his parents would go to breakfast on Saturday mornings in Highland Park, Illinois. The Chicago suburb was Kyle’s home until he left for college. His father, Bert Callahan, an architect of some renown, died at his desk in the house—the same desk Kyle now used as his own. It was the only possession of his father’s Kyle asked for when his mother moved to Chicago. But the memories of the diners had never faded, and he loved sitting in them, interacting with the waiters and waitresses who came by with coffee and an occasional attitude. He liked the feel of the leatherette booths and the paper placemats with advertisements on them for local businesses. Everything about a diner said home for Kyle, and they were a way for him to go there no matter where he was: diners on the road when they traveled, diners near their apartment, diners in other states, other worlds. Like comfort food itself, diners were consistent, reliable and soothing.
They’d taken a booth near the window facing Lexington Avenue. It was just nine-thirty and they were only a few blocks from the men’s store. Linda was eating light, a fruit bowl with cereal, while Kyle had a Greek omelet, dry toast, no potatoes. He was now aware of the gun Linda carried in a holster beneath her jacket that would be visible only to the trained eye had she not told him about it. Being a retired detective allowed her to carry her firearm across state lines, provided she also had proof she’d qualified with the weapon in the past twelve months. Linda never failed to qualify.
“So here’s where we stand,” Kyle said, waving away their waitress who was making the rounds with fresh coffee. “We know Victor Campagna was at Cargill’s where he was supposed to meet Sam Paddington, who never showed up.”
“Sam’s last communication with Vic was a text about going to look for a suit. If there were more we’ll never know, since there’s no phone.”
“At least no phone we know about.”
“Maybe the phone was the souvenir. You said the Pride Killer always keeps one.”
“That’s a distinct possibility. And I would guess, given how careful and successful this guy is, that if the cops have the phone, there’s nothing on it that will lead them to him. Otherwise there might not be a second victim—they would have stopped him by now.”
Kyle had blamed himself all morning for not finding some way to prevent the latest murder. It was useless guilt and fantasy—there was nothing more they could have done—but it troubled him to know the killer had acted outside his pattern. Did it mean he was escalating? That he was in a hurry for some reason? If that was the case he might be meeting his third victim as they spoke.
“No one ever heard from Victor again once he left Cargill’s,” Kyle continued. “That means he met the killer either before he got to Keller and Whitman, or very soon after. He was in frequent contact with his brother and I just don’t think an entire afternoon would pass without another text, another phone call, something.”
“Vinnie said Victor had a habit of turning his phone off.”
“A bad habit, as it turns out.”
Linda thought about it. “So the store is a turning point. But what if he never showed up there?”
“That’s what we’re going to find out.” Kyle quickly finished half his toast and left the other piece on his plate, along with most of his omelet. He wasn’t hungry.
“I wish you hadn’t brought the gun,” he said.
“It’s perfectly legal,” Linda replied, self-consciously patting her jacket pocket. She could feel the pistol under the cloth. If diners were comforting to Kyle, her father’s Colt .45 was comforting to her. “Or are you one of those people who thinks guns are evil?”
“I didn’t say they were evil. They just make me nervous.”
“That’s because you’re never around them, Kyle. I’ve been around guns my entire life and I’d have to say they make the world a safer place. And there’s just something about this Pride Killer that makes me want to be very, very careful.”
“Fine, Detective, whatever you say.”
“I’m a Republican.”
Kyle stared at her a moment, not knowing what one had to do with the other.
“I just needed to come out, that’s all. I came out as gay not very long ago, and I don’t want to be in any closets. Not with my family, not with my social circle, small at it is, and not with you. And I gotta tell you, Kyle, coming out as Republican when you’ve got gay friends is very risky.”
Kyle was silent a moment, then burst out laughing. “You think this is an issue for me? You think I’ve never voted for a Republican in my life?” (He hadn’t, but would not tell her that.) “Pa-leeze!”
“I didn’t know. We’ve never talked politics.”
“Listen,” Kyle said, as he motioned to the waitress for a check. “You’re an ex-cop. You’re a kickass lesbian. I am not surprised in the least that you carry a gun, or that you’re a Republican. I would’ve guessed Libertarian.”
It was Linda’s turn to laugh. It gave them both a brief reprieve from the seriousness they’d been immersed in the last twenty-four hours.
“Let’s just hope your aim is better than your judgment.” Kyle winked as he pulled out his wallet. “Breakfast is on me.”
Kyle took out several ones and placed them on the table for a tip, then grabbed the check and slid out of the booth. Keller and Whitman was scheduled to open in ten minutes and he had a lot of questions to ask there. A man’s life could depend on the answers.
Chapter 26
D was distracted and wished Jarrod had not had a doctor’s appointment. The morning after a kill was always like this, as if he couldn’t stop reliving the pleasure and excitement of it: the helplessness and fear in his victim’s eyes, the belt around the neck, the indescribable ecstasy of seeing life extinguished like a flame that has burned its last molecule of oxygen. Then the pictures—click, pose, click, pose, some flash, some natural lighting—and the disposal. He even enjoyed that last part, wrapping the body in a plastic sheet, getting it to the river undetected, and dropping it in. Splish splash! Then home, slowly, already savoring the sense memories of the last few hours. And now the morning.
He’d kept Scott Devlin’s keys in his right pants pocket. He did that on his mornings-after, bringing his souvenir to work with him. He could feel the keys jangling against his leg. He slid his hand in his pocket, fingering the metal on his skin, the contours. He was seeing it all again, the terrible surprise on Scott’s face, when he looked up and saw them through the front window. A man and a tall woman coming into the store. Very early. Of course, when you ran a store, there was no such thing as too early. You wanted customers as soon as the door was unlocked, and here were two of them. He took his hand out of his pocket and smiled at Kyle and Linda as they entered.
“Good morning,” D said, stepping out from behind the counter.
“Morning,” said Kyle. He’d talked over their approach as they walked from the diner. It would not be a direct questioning, at least not at first. He wanted the chance to see what was here, to get a feel for the place and whoever worked at the store.
Linda went along, following Kyle a few steps behind. Both of them began to look around at the clothes as if they were regular shoppers, or tourists who’d heard of the store’s reputation.
“How may I help you?” D said, smiling.
“Not really sure yet,” Kyle said. “I’m looking at suits.”
D was now standing next to Kyle at a small rack of very high-priced suits.
“Is there an occasion in mind? We could start with your measurements, go with something custom made.”
“It’s not for me.” Kyle ran his fingers over a charcoal gray suit coat. “It’s for my partner. He has a special event to attend but he’s very busy. I thought I’d look around for him, save him some time.”
“I see,” said D. He glanced at Linda, who was standing ten feet or so away, appearing to look at a display of ties.
Something wasn’t right here. D considered
his instincts impeccable and there was something off with these two. Was it the way they appeared too casual? And why was the woman keeping her distance, as if she were listening and not really looking?
“What’s the event?” D asked. His smile was still there, but the corners of his mouth had fallen slightly.
“A going away party,” Kyle said. “He works at Margaret’s Passion.”
“The restaurant?”
“That’s the one.”
“I’ve heard of it, although I’ve never been there. Is he a maître d?”
“No, he’s the owner.”
“Oh, pardon me,” said D.
“No offense taken,” Kyle said. “There’s nothing wrong with being a maître d! But no, we own the restaurant.”
We. D relaxed slightly. This was indeed a man of means. Margaret’s Passion was known as one of the best restaurants in the city. Like Keller and Whitman, its customers came from the upper echelons of Manhattan society. D’s suspicion was quickly pushed aside at the thought of selling a most expensive suit—several if he did his best.
“My name’s Kyle Callahan, by the way. And this is my sister, Linda.” He waved Linda over.
“Good morning,” Linda said as she approached the man.
“Very nice to meet you both.”
“A friend told us this was the place to buy the best suit in town,” Kyle said.
“Really?” said D. “How nice of your friend to speak well of us. We won’t disappoint!”
Kyle took out the photograph of Victor Campagna. “Actually, you may know him.”
This was the moment of surprise Kyle wanted. He watched D’s facial expression, his body language, as he held up the picture.
“He was here three days ago.”
D froze, but only on the inside. He remained casual, very careful not to give away any recognition of the photograph.