The Pride Trilogy: Kyle Callahan 1-3

by Mark McNease

  “Keep in mind it was the afternoon. People pay less attention then. They’ve been at work all day, they want to go home or out to play. They’re thinking of themselves more than they are of passersby.”

  “True,” said Kyle. He was feeling glum. There had already been a second victim, ahead of schedule. For all they knew the third victim was selected and might be heading to his death right now. The thought depressed and angered him. He kept thinking they’d missed something, that if they’d asked a different question at Cargill’s, or in any of the businesses they’d stopped in, they could have jogged someone’s memory.

  “Should we keep going?” Linda asked. “We backtracked. Should we move forward now, stop in all the shops heading uptown?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  There was a newsstand a half block from Keller and Whitman’s. Just a hole in the wall, a narrow box of a shop where the owner sold a dozen newspapers, gum, candy, and sodas from a small back cooler. “Let’s stop in here,” Kyle said.

  “Who reads newspapers anymore?” Linda asked as they entered the small store. She, like everyone she knew, got her news online now. She barely used her smartphone as a phone, except to call Kirsten. “Shit!” she blurted.

  “What?” Kyle said, startled.

  “I forgot to call Kirsten this morning. Listen, you talk to this guy and I’ll wait outside. I call her every day. She’ll be wondering what’s wrong.” She pulled her phone out of her purse. There were two messages in her voicemail. “Too late. She’s called me. I had the damn thing on silent mode.”

  “Go,” Kyle said. “I’ll meet you outside.”

  Linda left the store to make her phone call. Kyle walked up to the man seated on a stool behind the counter. He’d watched them when they’d come in but had said nothing.

  “No more cigarettes,” the man said.

  Kyle looked at the wall behind the man and was surprised to see an empty cigarette rack. “I don’t smoke,” he said.

  “Gum? Candy? Not too many newspapers left, they go fast.”

  “Actually,” Kyle said, taking out the photograph of Victor, “I was hoping you may have seen this man. Monday afternoon.” He handed the picture to the shop owner. “What’s your name, by the way?”

  “You first.”

  “Kyle. Kyle Callahan. I’m trying to find my friend.”

  “Omar. I’m the owner here, twenty years. Everybody else come and go, but Omar stays.”

  The man took a pair of glasses from under the counter and perched them on his nose. He stared at the picture. “This is the one they found in the river, yes?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Then you found who you are looking for.”

  Kyle couldn’t tell if the man was being facetious or just literal. “Okay, then, I’m trying to find out where he went before they found him in the river. He was last known to be in this area.”

  The man peered again at the picture, then handed it back. Kyle felt his disappointment rising. He expected to hit another dead end among too many that day.

  “Sure, I saw him.”

  “Really?”

  The man, who Kyle now knew was named Omar, scowled at him. “What, you think I’m just saying it?”

  “No, no, I believe you.” Kyle glanced out the window and saw Linda talking on her phone. He wished she was with him to hear this.

  “I was outside smoking—I smoke them, I just don’t sell them—and I saw him come out of the store.”

  “Which store is that?”

  “The men’s store, the snooty one. Their customers never come in here. That’s why I notice him. He leaves the men’s store and comes in here to buy gum. He speaks to me. Not everybody does. Most just put what they buy on the counter, pay and leave. But this young man, he was very nice.”

  “What did he say?” asked Kyle.

  “He say he’s feeling lucky, or it was his lucky day, something like that. Maybe he felt lucky because he didn’t buy a suit. Very overpriced, that place, I went there once. My brother’s a tailor. You need a suit, I get you a good one at half what you pay there.”

  “Thank you, Omar. I don’t need a suit but I’ll keep it in mind.”

  Omar handed the photograph back. “I’m sorry about your friend,” he said. “I guess it wasn’t his lucky day after all.”

  Kyle took the picture and slipped it back in his pocket. He quickly picked out a pack of spearmint gum and tossed a ten dollar bill on the counter. Omar rang up the purchase and was taking out the change when Kyle said, “Keep it,” and hurried out of the store.

  Linda was saying goodbye as Kyle came out on the sidewalk.

  “How’s Kirsten and her mother?” Kyle said.

  “I can’t say fine. Dot’s in the final stages, but they’re keeping her comfortable. Kirsten thinks we’re looking at a week, two at the most.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “It happens … to all of us. Some people just have the misfortune of dying in pain. My concern is getting Kirsten through this. I didn’t tell her about the Pride Killer, that’s not something she needs on her mind.”

  “Right.”

  “How did it go in there? Nothing helpful?”

  “Oh,” said Kyle, “to the contrary. It was very helpful. He saw Victor Campagna. They spoke.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Omar didn’t say anything, as far as I know. But Victor told him it was his lucky day.”

  It was an odd thing to tell a stranger, unless you’d just had a nice surprise. “I wonder what he meant by that.”

  “I don’t know, but I know someone who might. Someone who told us he’d never seen Victor.”

  “Diedrich Keller.”

  “You guessed it. Omar—that’s the store owner—said Victor had just come out of Keller and Whitman. He was there, and something happened that put him in a very good mood.”

  “I think it’s time to pay another visit,” Linda said. She slipped her phone back in her purse and the two of them began walking toward the men’s store.

  Kyle wondered what Diedrich Keller would tell them this time. Whatever it was, he knew it would be a lie.

  Chapter 30

  D had never suffered from claustrophobia and could not even define it, other than as the fear of confined spaces. Whatever people afflicted with it experience, he imagined it to be what he was feeling now: confined, boxed in, with the walls seeming to close in on him. He had miscalculated badly. He blamed it on being out of the game for three years—damn his mother! Damn Berlin! He had gotten cocky on his return, assuming his ability to remain not just un-captured, but unsuspected all these years, was the natural order of things. He felt invisible, as if he could simply choose his first victim from any man he met on the street, as if he could say to the world, Look, I am invincible, you see me but you don’t! I can do this with impunity. And so he had chatted up Victor Campagna when he came into the store, giving no thought at all to Jarrod observing from the counter or across the room. Giving no thought to Victor leaving any kind of trail, no thought whatsoever to the police following that trail, and certainly no thought to a stranger and his sister coming in to ask questions.

  Think, Diedrich, think clearly, he mumbled to himself as he paced his living room. They may have their suspicions, but what could they really know? No one on the police force had come to see him. No questions had been asked, except by the man and woman in the store that morning. There was no proof. He was overreacting. He needed to relax. He went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a small snifter of brandy. Drinking was not something he allowed himself during the day, but his nerves were on edge and he needed to slow down, to relieve the sense that everything was about to come crashing down on him.

  He was a world traveler. He had a valid passport, with stamps from a dozen countries. He could always go back to Germany. He’d learned enough of the language to get by for the time it would take to establish a new identity. And while he hated the time he�
�d spent there, it was just the sort of place he could vanish. He took his snifter to the couch, sat down and enjoyed the warmth of the brandy spreading through him.

  A few minutes later he was slumped on the couch, enveloped by the cushions. So comfortable, so comforting. He’d finished his brandy and was contemplating a second glass as he let his memories wash over him. Each of his fourteen victims had sat on this couch. Each had been happy to have met such a nice man, such a refined man, who welcomed them into his home. Each had relaxed as he now relaxed, and soon, after a drink of their own, each had gone to his basement for the biggest, most spectacular and final surprise of their lives.

  You knew it had to end sometime, Diedrich, he thought. Even the best dreams end with the opening of an eye, the dull workaday world coming back into focus as the sweet dream recedes. It won’t be long. Do what you need to do, then dream again.

  All would be well, he knew that now. The mind, once calmed, is the most powerful thing on Earth. Everything man has accomplished began in his mind. Every vision made reality, every towering achievement, every work of art. His life was a work of art, he believed that with all his heart. There had never been one like him, and there would never be one like him when he was gone. And he would go. He knew that now, too, in the clear calm of his soothed mind. It was all a fiction anyway, was it not? The townhouse, the paintings, the appearance of a life he’d built here, even the store. All of it had been manufactured to serve his one true purpose, and that was the only thing he lived to fulfill.

  He was hungry now. He decided to have just a few more drops of the brandy, then head out for a nice meal. The only thing that eased a troubled soul more than a good stiff drink was fine food. He wanted some. He stood from the couch just a tiny bit unsteadily and headed back to the liquor cabinet. One more taste, one more slow, luscious swallow of the hot powerful liquid, and he would leave the townhouse. He would take a taxi, give the man directions, and head south.

  Chapter 31

  Jarrod saw the couple through the store window as they approached the door. The woman was taller than the man and quite striking, with her long hair and her navy jacket. They were deep in conversation and Jarrod wondered what they were talking about. He’d entertained himself for years by making up stories about people he saw, strangers, and the conversations they had with themselves. He imagined they were talking about a wedding they were planning to attend. The man needed a suit for the wedding but hated wearing suits. He did not strike Jarrod, upon first impression and from a distance, as the type who dressed up unless he had to. But weddings were special events, and the woman was telling him he had no choice. This was her brother’s wedding—to a man, no less, something that gave Jarrod a special tingle while stirring his own sad longing for love. (He’d thought when he first met Mr. K there might be something there, but he’d been wrong and quickly let it go.)

  Kyle and Linda walked into the store and Kyle noticed the man near the counter staring at them as he quickly pasted on his best may-I-help-you smile. It was not Diedrich Keller and Kyle guessed it was his assistant, the one they’d been lead to believe was rarely there. The man looked to be in his 50s, slim and stylishly dressed in dark pants and matching sport coat. He wore a thin gray tie with a small diamond tie-pin at its midpoint. His hair was artificially black, but not the sort of shoe-polish look that some young hipster types wore or that made some older men look ridiculous. Just clearly dyed.

  “May I help you?” Jarrod asked.

  “We were looking for Diedrich Keller,” Kyle said. “We spoke to him earlier and were under the impression he would still be here.”

  “He didn’t mention having help today,” Linda added.

  Help? Jarrod thought. Is that how they thought of him? Surely Mr. Keller had not referred to him that way. He was an assistant. An Assistant Store Manager, if one wanted to rely on titles. But not help.

  “I’m here every day,” Jarrod said. “Perhaps if he referred to the help he meant the cleaning crew that comes in on Sundays. But of course it’s not Sunday.”

  “Of course not,” Kyle said. He could tell Linda’s comment rubbed the man the wrong way. This could work to his advantage if he made this man annoyed with his boss. “Surely that’s what he meant, not you.”

  “Definitely not.”

  Kyle extended his hand. “I’m Kyle, by the way. Kyle Callahan, and this is my associate Linda Sikorsky.”

  Linda nodded, declining to extend her hand. She was remaining silent, waiting to see how Kyle played this.

  “Jarrod Sperling. I’ve been Mr. Keller’s assistant here—Assistant Manager, that is—for nearly seven years. I basically run the store when he needs to be out, which is fairly often. Are you looking for a suit? A nice ensemble of some kind?”

  “No. We’re actually asking around about a friend of mine.” Kyle took out the photo of Victor Campagna and showed it to Jarrod.

  “Oh, my,” Jarrod said, and Kyle knew he recognized Victor. “I’ve definitely seen him before … on the news. It’s terrible what happened to him. But are they sure he didn’t fall into the river? It happens sometimes. People have too much to drink, they get too close to the water’s edge.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

  “Are you with the police?”

  “Yes and no,” Linda interjected. “I’m a private detective, hired by Victor’s family.”

  Something was peculiar with these two, Jarrod thought. First they were “associates.” Then they were friends of the poor young dead man. Now one of them is a private detective. His guard went up. What should he tell them? And should he tell Mr. K first? Had they been the police it would be different, but they were not. He did not want to do or say something that could get him in trouble. He liked his life, he liked his job, he liked his status as Assistant Manager in one of the city’s finest men’s clothing boutiques. This was not a boat he wanted to rock.

  “Well,” he said, “other than on the news reports and the flyers, I can’t say I’ve seen him before.” It was a lie and Jarrod could feel his face flush, hoping it was only something he felt and not something they saw.

  “We’d like to ask Diedrich a few more questions,” Linda said. “Might you have his home address?”

  Something was definitely fishy now. What private detective worth her pay could not find someone’s home address? And that information was private. Jarrod had never, not once, given our Mr. K’s address or his phone number.

  “He’s at a meeting,” Jarrod said.

  Kyle: “A meeting?”

  “With one of our suppliers.”

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?” asked Linda.

  “Um … no, I don’t. Sometimes he doesn’t come back until the next day. He doesn’t need to come back. He has me here.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Kyle, “his Assistant Manager.” This had gotten them nowhere, and he believed Jarrod was hiding something.

  Linda took out her business card and handed it to Jarrod. It was the card for her vintage store in New Hope that listed her cell phone number.

  Jarrod read it and looked at her curiously. “For Pete’s Sake?” he said, reading the store name.

  “It’s my cover.”

  “An undercover private detective. I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

  “Just please call me if Mr. Keller returns. It’s very important. The family is distraught and I’ve promised to do all I can to find out what happened to their son.”

  “Do you think Mr. K … Mr. Keller, might know something?”

  “That’s what we’d like to find out,” Kyle said. “Not that he had anything to do with the disappearance, just if he might remember something, anything, about seeing Victor walk by or perhaps stop and look in the window here. Please give us a ring if Mr. Keller returns, it’s a simple request.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  Kyle and Linda prepared to leave. They both felt they’d been stonewalled and that the first thing Jarrod Sperl
ing would do when they left was call Diedrich Keller. Maybe this was a good thing: having been to his store twice in one day, they might have him on edge, thinking too quickly and ripe for making a costly error.

  “By the way,” Kyle said as they were about to turn and leave. “You said you ran the store for Diedrich Keller when he wasn’t here.”

  “Yes,” Jarrod said, stiffening proudly.

  “Did you ever run it for him for an extended period?”

  “Why yes, I did. I ran it for him for nearly three years.”

  Kyle stared at him. He felt as if a shadow had just come over them. “Three years? Really?”

  “Mr. Keller spent time in Germany. Berlin, to be exact, taking care of his mother. He’s only been back a few months. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” said Kyle. “Thank you for your time. And if you do hear from him, please call that cell phone number on the card.”

  They left the store and Jarrod stood by the window, watching them walk away. It had been a most unusual exchange. He’d lied because … because … he wasn’t sure who they really were or what he should tell them. He prided himself on making decisions, being proactive. But this was a very different set of circumstances. A young man was dead—a man who had been in the store just three days ago. Mr. K was acting oddly and taking off more than usual. And now two strangers had come in asking questions he felt he could not answer, not without talking to Mr. K first.

  He hurried to the phone behind the counter and dialed Diedrich Keller’s home number. After four rings it went to an answering machine and Jarrod hung up. This was too important to leave a message and wait. He dialed again, this time Keller’s cell phone. After two rings Diedrich answered. He would know it was Jarrod from the called ID.

  “Yes, Jarrod?” he said.

  Jarrod could not tell where his boss was, but he thought he heard traffic sounds in the background. Interesting; he had not gone home, or, if he had, he’d left again.

  “Two people were just in the store,” Jarrod said. “They claimed to have spoken to you earlier.”