by Mark McNease
“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 Twenty-Six
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.
“No,” D said, shaking his head. “I don’t know this man. Do you always carry photographs of your friends?”
“Only the dead ones,” Linda said.
“I see.” D noticed the slight bulge against her jacket and knew there was a gun holster beneath it. “You’re with the police?”
“For the most part,” said Linda.
Hmm, thought D, for the most part. They must be private detectives, or one of them was. Why the charade? To see how he reacted?
“Take another look, please,” Kyle said, holding out the photograph again. “He was found in the East River sometime between midnight Monday and early Tuesday morning.”
D pretended to look closely, to scan his memory. “No, I’m sorry. Did he s
ay he was here?”
“He said he was coming here.”
“I wish I could help you, but I’ve never seen this man.”
Kyle glanced around the store. “Do you work here alone?”
“I own Keller and Whitman,” D said. “My name is Diedrich Keller. Mr. Whitman, my uncle, passed away some years ago. And yes, I work alone here, unless I need assistance. I have a part-time worker for busy days but Monday was not one of them. I was alone here all day. This man did not come in.”
Kyle hoped his disappointment wasn’t visible. He’d seen no indication in Diedrich Keller’s reaction that he was lying. Somehow, somewhere along the way, as Victor Campagna traveled from Cargill’s bar to this store, he was detoured. But why, and by whom?
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Keller,” Kyle said, putting the picture of Victor back in his shirt pocket. He took his wallet out and pulled out a business card from Japan TV3. It listed his name, his title of Personal Assistant to Imogene Landis (she had insisted on this and Kyle still hated it after six years), with his office phone and cell number. He handed it to D. “If anything jogs your memory …”
“He wasn’t here, I’m so sorry.”
“Still, if anything comes up, or you hear of anything, please call my cell number.”
“Will do,” said D. Then, to Linda, “Are you a private detective, by any chance?”
“No,” Linda said. “Retired homicide detective, from the New Hope police force.”
“Pennsylvania?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve never been to New Hope, but I’ve heard so many good things about it.”
“Visit us sometime, everything you’ve heard is true. It’s a great place.”
Kyle and Linda headed for the door. Linda stopped as they were about to leave, turned back to D and said, “Why did you think I was a private detective?”
“I noticed your firearm.”
Linda looked surprised.
“I’m a tailor by profession,” D said. “I notice everything about a man’s clothes. Or a woman’s.”
“Thank you again for your time,” Kyle said. He opened the door and held it for Linda. A moment later they were out on the sidewalk.
D watched them walk south on Lexington Avenue. His smile vanished the moment they were out of sight. How did they know about Victor Campagna coming to the store? Who else knew? He had just been visited by a man tracing the steps of his victim, and a woman who carried a gun. Would they let it go and move on? Or would they come back, forcing him to act? And what exactly would he do if it came to that? Choosing Victor Someone from his customers was a stupid mistake. Stupid, stupid, stupid mistake, he thought.
He felt himself sweating despite the coolness in the air-conditioned store. This was bad. Diedrich Kristof Keller III never sweated. He would have to do something about this, he just didn’t know yet what that was. He glanced at his watch: 11:00 a.m. Thank God Jarrod had a doctor’s appointment that morning. He would be in soon, and D would need to take leave. He wasn’t feeling well. Jarrod would understand. Such a good, clueless, devoted man Jarrod was. It would be a shame to kill him. Perhaps D could send him on a surprise vacation somewhere, in appreciation for his years of remarkable service. A sudden, surprise holiday somewhere far away.
If these two found him, the police might not be far away. Time had been on his side all these years. Time had been his friend, but now it was staring him down.
He would not blink.
CHAPTER Twenty-Seven
Kyle and Linda walked down a half block from Keller and Whitman. Kyle stopped near the corner and took a seat on a bus bench. It wasn’t like any bus bench Linda had seen: a single, curved piece of aluminum with low handles strategically placed to create three seats. Kyle took one end, Linda the other.
“This is a bus bench?” Linda asked, wondering how uncomfortable it must be for anyone who didn’t fit between the handles.
“It’s the new thing in urban architecture,” Kyle said. “You’ll notice there’s no enclosure, either. When it rains, you get wet. Bus benches designed for comfort and shelter have gone the way of pay phones. Now it’s all about the homeless.”
Linda looked down at the bench they were sitting on. “The homeless?”
“Think about it.”
Linda quickly understood. The benches were impossible to lie on, being both spiked and rounded. Only an infant might be able to lie between seat handles. And the absence of any shelter made them distinctly temporary: you were meant to sit here, if you sat at all, only until the next bus came.
“New York has changed so much since I moved here thirty years ago,” Kyle said. “It’s for the wealthy now—at least Manhattan is, and good luck finding much affordable in the outer boroughs. They don’t want poor people here, and the homeless are treated like pigeons. At least people feed the pigeons, but I think it’s against the law. Pretty much everything is.”
Linda liked what she’d seen of Manhattan so far and wasn’t sure she would prefer it the way it had been. She’d read about the success the city had with Times Square, turning it from a dangerous playground for degenerates and criminals into a place you could bring a family. Was it better then, she wondered. Kyle thought so, but Linda had her doubts.
“What did you think of his story?” Linda asked, referring to Diedrich Keller.
“It wasn’t much of a story. He said Victor never came in, and there’s no reason to doubt him.”
“So where did he go?”
“That’s the million dollar question. He was at Cargill’s, we know that. He left and headed here but never made it.”
“And there was no more communication with anyone after that.”
“We don’t know that,” said Kyle. “We don’t have his phone. We don’t know if anyone has his phone. The police might have it. The killer might have it.”
“Or,” said Linda, “he may simply have turned it off, or ignored it. I do that sometimes. I hate a vibrating phone, it’s like Pavlov calling to his dog. Vic’s brother said he liked to disengage. Anything could have happened that afternoon and evening.”
“Correction,” Kyle said. “Something did happen. Victor Campagna was killed. But he had to get there, wherever ‘there’ is. He had to go somewhere after he left Cargill’s, and the most obvious direction for him to head was here, where he intended to go. I mean, for godsake, it’s only six blocks!”
“Did you see the moving Vanishing?”
“What?”
“Vanishing,” Linda said. “It was about this couple who stop at a gas station. The woman goes inside to buy something and never comes back.”
“No, sorry, I didn’t.”
“Well, we seem to be looking at something like that. My point is that no one simply disappears. There’s always somewhere they went, or someone who took them—willingly or not.”
They sat in silence another minute. A bus came by and stopped in front of them, letting two people off. Linda gave a small wave to the driver and watched as an elderly woman with a cart on wheels climbed up into the bus and took a seat in front. The bus pulled away.
“Let’s walk it,” Kyle said.
“Walk where?”
“From Cargill’s to here. Let’s go back to Cargill’s, imagine we’re Victor and follow in his footsteps. We have his picture. I say we stop in every store and ask if they saw him, or if they saw him talking to someone.”
Linda did a quick calculation in her head. “That’s probably thirty stores, on one side of the street. Sixty if we hit both sides.”
“We’ll be logical about it. We’ll go back to Cargill’s, which is on the south side of the street. We take an immediate right, which most people would do. We walk up to Lexington, cross to the east side—the side we’re on—and head north.”
The directions meant nothing to Linda. She knew most of Manhattan was designed in a grid, which made navigating the city very easy once you understood the ‘north, south, east, west’ business, and the whole ‘uptown,
downtown’ thing. Generally speaking, Fifth Avenue was the dividing line between east and west. She had no idea if there was one for north and south, but she knew if you were going downtown you were going south, and if you were going uptown you were going north. And to know you were going in one of those directions was as easy as looking at the street signs: the numbers only went up or down! Cargill’s was near the corner of Lexington and 72nd Street. Keller and Whitman was on Lexington near 78th. Six blocks. Thirty stores.
They stood from the bench. Linda looked at it again, wondering who sat in a room and came up with the idea for bus benches that could only be endured for very short periods of time and could never provide comfort for the homeless or weary. Subtly sadistic. Maybe Kyle was right. Maybe New York was now a place that welcomed only money. She was beginning to be glad she hadn’t come here for thirty-five years until last spring. She had no before-and-after comparisons to make. She knew only the magical city she’d been to with her parents when she was eight years old. That was the New York City she had wanted to remember. Now, all these years later, it was its own version of pristine. There was still garbage everywhere, and scaffolding covering what looked like half the buildings. But it did not feel dangerous anymore. Clearly the victims of the Pride Killer found out it still was.
Her hand unconsciously dropped down to pat the gun beneath her jacket. It was an automatic gesture, making sure it was still there, seeking comfort in its bulk and its lethality. Some people sought food for comfort, some sought booze, some sought the embrace of a lover for the night or a lifetime. Linda sought the grip of a Colt .45.
CHAPTER Twenty-Eight
D watched from the corner of the store. He’d seen them walk to the bus bench and sit down. He thought they might be going downtown, but then a bus pulled to the curb and they did not get on. They were talking. What were they talking about, he wondered. Were they comparing notes? Were they preparing to come back and ask him more questions?