Death by Pride: A Kyle Callahan Mystery

by Mark McNease

  “Afternoon,” said the bartender. He put down a glass and walked over. “What can I get you folks?”

  “Diet Coke for me,” Linda said and Kyle ordered the same.

  When the bartender set their drinks on napkins, Kyle said, “We’re looking for some information.”

  The bartender eyed them, but not suspiciously. He’d had plenty of people—police and others—who came in every now and then looking for information. Most were just tourists wondering how to get to the South Street Seaport or the Empire State Building. Occasionally he’d get a private investigator trying to track down someone’s errant spouse.

  “I’m Kyle, by the way. And this is Detective Linda Sikorsky.”

  The bartender came to attention. “Robert,” he said. “Robert Jeffries.”

  “Yes, well, Bob …”

  “Nobody calls me Bob.”

  “Sorry,” said Kyle. “Robert … we were wondering if you saw this man on Monday afternoon.”

  Kyle pulled out the photograph of Vic Campagna and handed it to Robert. He took the picture and held it up to the light.

  “Vic,” he said. “Yeah, I knew Vic. Very fucked up, what happened to him.”

  “Very,” Linda said. “We think he may have met someone here.”

  The implication was not lost on Robert. He glanced around, as if someone dangerous might be sitting at one of his bar stools.

  He handed the picture back. “He was in here to meet his buddy Sam, but Sam’s no killer. He never even showed up. I remember Vic waiting about a half hour. Then he said Sam stood him up again and he left.”

  “Sam stood him up?” asked Kyle. “Were they dating?”

  “Dating? Ah, no. Sam’s got a husband. They’re just friends, as far as I know. They met here a couple years ago, I remember that. And once or twice a month they’d meet for drinks, get caught up I guess. I try not to eavesdrop.”

  “Does Sam have a last name?” Linda asked.

  “Paddington. Fortyish, works at the Met I think. The museum, not the opera.”

  “Any idea where we might find Sam?”

  “The museum,” Robert replied dryly.

  “Right,” said Kyle. “Not the opera. Do you know what he does there?”

  “He’s a ticket-taker, maybe an usher, I’m not sure.” Robert leaned closer. “Listen, you think this is that guy, that Pride Killer? I heard he died or something. I remember when he was doing this before. Very scary.”

  “No one knows what happened to him,” Kyle said. “Only that he’s back. If he’s back. It could be a different killer. It could be random.”

  “Word’s starting to spread. My customers are getting nervous. Some of them, they knew Vic, they knew he came in here.”

  “I have a feeling that’s not how Vic met his killer. The internet’s a much more likely place to meet men who don’t want to be found.”

  “Or seen,” Linda added.

  “Right, right. Should I put up posters or something? You know, warn people?”

  “That’s up to you,” said Kyle. “But it might start a panic. As long as people know to use their instincts and common sense.”

  “I never meet guys on the internet, and I don’t hookup. It’s crazy. I’m like, control your impulses already, you could get killed doing this. And now they got apps on phones, you can find some guy in the coffee shop sitting next to you.”

  Kyle had read about these things but knew nothing of them and didn’t want to know. The only man he ever wanted to find was Danny, and that was easy enough.

  “Listen, Robert, you’ve been very helpful,” Kyle said. He slid off his barstool and Linda followed.

  “You gonna talk to Sam?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “It’s not him, I’m telling you. Sam’s been coming in here for years. Quiet guy, not your hookup type either. And definitely not a killer.”

  “Thanks,” said Linda. She threw a ten dollar bill on the bar. “Keep the change.”

  They left Robert standing there wondering if he’d served a drink to a murderer in the last three days and if he should sound some kind of alarm. Heading back out to 58th Street, Kyle stopped on the sidewalk and mulled over the information they had, which was next to none.

  “So,” Linda said.

  “So … Vic comes here to meet Sam, Sam doesn’t show up.”

  “Do they text? Do they call?”

  “The police will know, if they have Vic’s phone. That’s not the kind of information they put in news reports.”

  “Should we leave it up to them, then? The police?”

  Kyle looked at her. “There’s no time,” he said. “For all we know Vic wasn’t the first victim.”

  “Sam was. He didn’t show up. It’s possible there’s some connection between the three of them—Vic, Sam and the Killer.”

  “Possible, yes. We have to look at everything as possible, although I have my doubts. It doesn’t fit this killer’s pattern, but neither does disappearing for three years.”

  “So you want to go to the Met?”

  “Yes,” said Kyle. “The museum, not the opera.”

  “But we don’t know what Sam Paddington does there.”

  “Someone will tell us.”

  Kyle stepped to the curb and held up his hand. A taxi heading west pulled up within seconds, and they drove off after Kyle told the driver they were going to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  CHAPTER Sixteen

  D was uncharacteristically anxious. It was another thing that had changed since he was last in the hunt. First there had been the curious disappointment with killing Victor, as if he’d lost interest in the one thing he’d been most passionate about in his life. And now this anxiety, this impatience. He refused to believe he was nervous—that was for novices and people unsure of themselves. D was supremely confident in everything he did. This was more like a general anxiety, and it had gotten the best of him as he’d waited in the store, checking his watch every fifteen minutes. Finally, at 3:15 p.m., he’d told Jarrod he was feeling just a little under the weather and he wanted to go home and lay down for a bit.

  “Is it something you ate?” Jarrod asked, concerned for his boss. He’d noticed a change in Mr. K since his return from Germany. He attributed it to the loss of his mother. Jarrod’s mother had passed away six years ago, and he knew how difficult it could be. He’d learned that grief was not linear, that it came and went in waves. He suspected a wave had overtaken Mr. K and he just needed to be alone.

  “No, I’m sure that’s not the cause,” D replied. “But thank you so much for asking, Jarrod. You’re a true friend. I just want to rest awhile. I’ll be fine in the morning.”

  D had left the store then, walking the three blocks to his townhouse. He wanted to center himself before meeting Scott. He was worried Scott, too, would not be the one, and he would find himself in a rush to identify a replacement. Rushing was dangerous. People who hurried made mistakes, and he could not be one of them. He walked briskly north toward home, wanting to get there quickly. He knew he would feel better once he was there—and not in his bed, as he had told Jarrod, but in his basement.

  When D first bought the townhouse the basement had been dank and empty. It seemed people in New York had no imagination, no ability to see an empty cellar as anything but a place to put boxes or washing machines. D had taken a look and seen potential. It was one of the reasons he bought the place. He knew when he first descended the stairs that he could turn this space into something special. First to go were the rickety stairs. They were narrow and wooden and looked dangerous. The last thing he wanted anyone to think when they headed down the stairs was that something dangerous was waiting for them. No ghosts, no cobwebs, no rodents. New York City was full of rodents, D thought. Most of them with office jobs and cell phones to their ears.

  He’d replaced the stairs with wider planks and had them carpeted. Carpet was essential in his redesign: it absorbed sound. It was also comfortable to walk on, and he wanted his
victims to feel very comfortable when he took them downstairs.

  Essentially the basement was whatever D needed it to be when he was chatting up his victims in the living room. He was adept at determining their pastimes and passions. One man was a wine connoisseur and, lo and behold, so was D! In fact, D had an impressive collection of wines in his basement, in a temperature controlled room. Come, I’ll show you. Another collected jazz records from the 1950s. Really? You’ll never believe this, but I have a collection as well in my basement. Come, I’ll show you.

  Whatever it was they fancied—photography, art, sculpture, movies—D had just the thing to impress them, down a short flight of carpeted stairs, down beneath his townhouse, down where no one but D ever came back from alive.

  He’d furnished the basement, of course. Large leather chairs and a sofa. A wide-screen TV. Even a computer on a large desk. All for appearances. It was an illusion he only needed to sustain for a short while. By the time they got down there they were already woozy from a special cocktail in the living room. Something to refresh them and dull their senses. He’d only had to struggle with two of them, but he was in shape and it had never been a real contest.

  D got home and went directly to his basement. It really was a very comfortable space, and he sometimes spent an afternoon or evening here by himself. He might watch the news, or listen to some music. He might have a drink, but never before a meeting. Today he simply wanted to center himself, to sit awhile in his favorite environment and let his mind slow down. He didn’t like his thoughts racing. They could get away from him, which is what had happened earlier. He’d grown so impatient in the store that he’d become agitated, and his basement was the perfect place to remedy that.

  He slipped off his shoes and sat back on the brown leather sofa. He imagined Scott being the one, coming over the next evening for a quick visit before heading off to dinner. He imagined Scott liking old movie posters and discovering to his delight that D had several originals … in the basement. Greta Garbo, Humphrey Bogart. Signed by the illustrator, no less. Come, take a look.

  He closed his eyes and luxuriated in mental images. Scott having a second drink … here, let me freshen that. Scott needing to sit a minute, feeling lightheaded. Scott wondering what was happening to him just as D came up behind the sofa, his special belt taught between his hands, slipping the thick black leather over Scott’s head as Scott realized there had indeed been something very dangerous down those stairs, something deadly.

  D smiled, opened his eyes slightly, and looked at his watch. One more hour.

  CHAPTER Seventeen

  The Metropolitan Museum of Art is the largest art museum in the United States and one of the ten largest in the world. You can see its classical Greek columns as you approach its massive façade on Fifth Avenue, the steps leading up to the entrance crowded in good weather with tourists, students and sightseers from around the world. Banners heralding its exhibits drape down the front like giant flags. Founded in 1870 by a group of American businessmen, financiers, artists and leading thinkers of the day, the Met has been a must-see destination for people visiting New York City since its doors first opened.

  The taxi pulled up in front of the museum, taking its place behind a long line of cabs dropping off and picking up passengers. Kyle paid the driver, noticing how much more expensive it had become to take a taxi. Just getting into the backseat will cost you $2.50, and if you go more than a few blocks you’ll burn through $10 in the course of a very short conversation—your own, or the one the cab driver enjoys illegally on a cell phone plugged into his earpiece.

  “Who was he talking to?” Linda asked as they headed up the museum steps.

  “No idea,” Kyle said. “I don’t understand the language. And he’s not supposed to be talking to anyone, it’s against the law. Danny tells them to stop, but they all do it anyway.”

  Linda slowed down and looked up at the museum. She’d never been here and was as impressed as she was meant to be by the architecture. The museum had a Very Important Place feel to it and she was amazed by the sheer number of people on the steps, climbing up and down them, sitting on them, taking pictures and flowing into and out of the building.

  “This looks like a museum you could spend a day in,” Linda said as they entered.

  “At least a day.”

  The main room was cavernous and even more crowded than the outside. Visitors herded in three directions, wandering with maps to the left, right, and up a wide set of stairs directly across from the front doors.

  Kyle stopped once they’d cleared the entrance enough not to obstruct it. He’d had no plan and had not formed one on the way over.

  “What are we going to do?” Linda asked.

  “I’m thinking.” Kyle looked around, wondering who to ask about a man named Sam Paddington. He worked here, but where? Doing what? The bartender at Cargill’s said he might be a ticket taker. “Let’s just get our tickets and figure this out.”

  They headed to one of several counters. This one was staffed by two young women who looked like they could be interns or volunteers, and an older man who appeared to be teaching them the ropes.

  “Two adults,” Kyle said, handing his credit card to the man. He knew the entrance fee was suggested (something most of the tourists didn’t realize) but decided he would make the full donation and support his local art institution.

  The man took Kyle’s card and swiped it. Kyle pegged him as gay. It doesn’t take that much to get the sensors reacting: a mannerism, a speech pattern. In this case, the man just seemed a little fussy. Kyle thought he was probably very good at his job—fussy is likely an attribute working at one of the most famous museums in the world.

  “Excuse me,” Kyle said, signing the credit card receipt.

  “Yes?” said the man. “Did you need a map?”

  “No, no. Actually, I’m looking for someone.”

  The man glanced around. “Good luck here, there are several thousand people to sift through. What does this person look like? I could keep an eye out for you, let them know you’ve arrived.”

  “Actually, I don’t know what he looks like.”

  The man looked at Kyle, then at Linda, sizing them up. Probably one of those gay man/straight woman friendships, although Linda seemed like she could be family.

  “I just have a name,” Kyle said. “Sam Paddington. I’m told he works here at the museum.”

  The man’s eyes widened. He cocked his head, most curious, then said, “I’m Sam Paddington.”

  “Seriously?” Linda said.

  “Well, yes. Seriously, not seriously. Frivolously, depending on my mood. Why are you looking for me?”

  Kyle took a moment to compose himself. People choose not to believe in coincidence, preferring the illusion of order only rarely disturbed by the unexpected, but coincidences happen all the time. Life, Kyle believed, was pretty much one long coincidence that appeared not to be.

  “It’s about Victor Campagna,” he said.

  Sam’s expression froze. He looked quickly to the two young women at the counter with him. “Excuse me, Gina,” he said to the girl on his left. “I’m going to step away for a few minutes.”

  “Please, Mr. Paddington, go right ahead, we’ll be fine.”

  Sam Paddington walked out from behind the counter and led Kyle and Linda to the side, as away from the crowd as they could get, which was not far.

  “I feel so terrible,” Sam said once they were clustered in a corner. “I keep thinking, if I hadn’t canceled on Vic …”

  “So you did cancel,” Kyle said. “The bartender at Cargill’s didn’t know. He just said you never showed up.”

  Sam looked aghast. “Of course I canceled! I would never just stand someone up, and certainly not a friend like Vic. I texted him saying I wasn’t feeling well and I was going home early.”

  Kyle looked at him carefully. “But you feel fine now.”

  “It’s been three days. I would hope I felt better by now. What are you
getting at?”

  “Nothing, Mr. Paddington, I’m just thinking out loud.”

  “Monday afternoon I was feeling … I don’t know, food poisoning, but not that bad. Just an upset stomach, and I went home to my apartment in the Village.”

  “And that was it?” Linda asked.

  “That was it.”

  “Did Vic text you back?”

  “Yes, yes he did. He said he was going to buy a suit.”

  Vincent Campagna had told them the same thing, that his brother wanted a new suit for their niece’s christening.

  “Here,” Sam said, taking his phone off his belt holster. “I still have it.

  He went to his message screen, scrolled to Vic Campagna’s name and held the phone out for Kyle to see.

  No probs. Feel better. Headed to Keller and Whitman for a suit. Want the best for the baby. Call me later.

  Sam’s face darkened. “I never called him. I feel so terrible.”

  “You had no way of knowing,” Linda said.

  “Still … it would have been nice to hear his voice one last time, before …. before …”

  “What is Keller and Whitman?” Kyle asked, not wanting to lose the thread of their conversation.

  “It’s a high-end men’s store, clothing store, on the Upper East Side. I told Vic he shouldn’t spend that kind of money, it’s not like he’d be wearing the suit again any time soon. But he insisted, it was a big deal in the family.”

  Sam put his phone back on his belt. His hand was shaking slightly and Kyle realized how upsetting this was for him.

  “Thank you, Mr. Paddington, you’ve been very helpful.”

  “Have I?”

  “Yes, you have. We’ll let you get back to your job now.”

  “Are you going to see the museum? You paid full price, not everybody does. I’ve had people pay a dollar. Seriously.”

  “We’d love to,” Kyle said. “Linda’s never been here and I’m sure she’d like to spend a day walking around the exhibits, but we just don’t have time.”