The Pride Trilogy: Kyle Callahan 1-3 (29 page)

Chapter 24

Tokyo Pulse

“I
haven’t been
in
the top fifty in five years,” Imogene said. “I’ll take forty-seven. This is progress.”

Imogene, Kyle and Lenny-san were gathered around Imogene’s desk while she fretted over the luncheon she and Kyle were attending. It was an annual event recognizing the best of New York women in media. There had been a time in her career when she would have been in the top ten, seated near the lectern and busy signing autographs outside the banquet room, but those days were long gone. She hadn’t even attended the luncheon for the past three years. She’d grown tired of being asked who she was and if she could please provide identification.

“Who’s forty-six?” Lenny-san asked. “Probably that cow from Wander Women, what’s her name?”

“Corrine,” Kyle said, naming the woman who had managed to start a successful YouTube channel featuring New York women’s travel stories. “Corrine Bradlaw.”

Imogene started to say she remembered Corrine when she was just an intern at the local ABC affiliate where Imogene sat at the weekend anchor desk, then she realized it would date her and left it unsaid.

“It doesn’t matter who’s number forty-six, forty-eight, or number one, really, we’re all in this together. Is that what you’re wearing?”

Kyle looked down at himself, sitting in his chair. He’d worn his usual work clothes: khaki slacks, a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up above his wrists. “No,” he said. “I have a suit in the closet for these things.”

“Thank God. You’re my assistant, Kyle, appearances matter.”

Lenny-san nodded, knowing all too well the truth of it. At sixty, he appeared to be what he was: the manager for an obscure, often cheesy, Japanese cable show that prided itself on including segments from America, produced as cheaply as possible. He also appeared to be forty pounds overweight, short of breath after walking across a room, and in need of a good teeth whitener. Leonard Baumstein had been in the business even longer than Imogene Landis. Their paths crossed often over the years but he had never expected to be her boss, which in this case meant joining her near the bottom of the media barrel. He considered himself a short timer now, with only two more years until he could start collecting social security to supplement his various 401(k)s. Then he could take a cruise every summer and spend his days reading autobiographies. Life at the bottom could be good, or at least good enough for Leonard Baumstein.

“I gotta make some calls,” Lenny-san said. “You look great, Imogene. And congratulations. You get, what, a plaque or something?”

“A certificate. Without a frame. These bitches are cheap.”

“Well, if anyone deserves a certificate without a frame, it’s you,” he said, and he turned and headed into his tiny office.

“I might have a story for you after all,” Kyle said when Lenny-san was gone. His tip on the Pride Lodge murders had resurrected her career and gotten her off a financial beat she hated. It was the story that all late-night Tokyo had talked about for a month, and was entirely responsible for her making her number forty-seven out of fifty named in today’s event program.

“More murders I hope,” she said. Then, realizing the insensitivity of it, “As long as no one gets hurt, of course!”

“Of course. No one gets hurt, just killed. Don’t worry, dead people don’t care what you say about them. But I get it. It goes with this business. I’ve run into that with my photography, finding myself in the position to taking a photo of something I think I shouldn’t.”

“Like that guy who got a shot of the man on the subway tracks, just before the train hit him. Gruesome. But great front page.”

“Yes, like that. It’s a fine line sometimes. I felt bad about poor Teddy dead at Pride Lodge, but he was gone and someone was going to tell the story.”

“So what’s the big mystery this time?” She swiveled around in her chair to face him.

“I’m not sure yet, but several people connected to the Katherine Pride Gallery have been killed, and more may be on the way. Which reminds me, I need to make a call.”

He took his cell phone and stood up. He had a landline but making personal calls in an office cubicle always made him self-conscious. Everyone pretended not to be listening when they were.

“I’m looking forward to your opening Friday,” Imogene said. “Lenny-san caved, I’m doing it as a gritty art world after dark piece. The Tokyo audience won’t know there’s nothing gritty about New York anymore.”

Kyle felt his stomach lurch. He had hoped Imogene would abandon the idea of covering his exhibit. It wasn’t news, and the Tokyo kids who so enjoyed laughing at Imogene (something she had never been told but that Kyle knew was among the show’s main attractions) would probably find it pointless. But he loved Imogene and Imogene loved him, and she had dogged their boss to do a short piece about the gallery show. Now she thought it might tie into some murders and get her another salary bump, maybe even a better offer.

Kyle excused himself and walked into the station’s kitchen. It was barely large enough to hold a table with six chairs, a microwave, and the Keurig machine Kyle had bought with his own money. He was a K-cup fanatic and even traveled with their least expensive model. The kitchen was usually empty mid-morning. He walked over to the window where he could look west toward the Hudson and called the familiar number on his speed dial.

“Linda here,” the voice said, answering on the second ring. “You need to unblock your phone, Kyle. You’re one of only two people I know who still has a blocked phone. It might as well read ‘Kyle Callahan’ when you call.”

“I’ll get around to it,” he said. “In the meantime …”

“In the meantime I’m waiting, Kate’s running late, it’s just me and the desk guy.”

He heard Corky correct her in the background.

“Corky,” she said, “more than a desk guy, very available for the right suitor. Does anyone say ‘suitor’ anymore?”

Kyle could imagine her rolling her eyes as she said it. “Listen,” he said, “I just thought of something else.”

“The limp.”

“Yes! How did you know? And please don’t say ‘elementary.’”

“It just makes sense. Maybe she turned down a dozen people for the show, but I’d bet only one of them walked funny.”

Kyle heard more chatter from Corky.

“Oh, sorry. I’m told I shouldn’t say ‘walked funny.’ People who walk funny might be offended.”

Kyle smiled. He knew there were things about living in a culturally sensitive world Linda needed to learn, or that, being Detective Linda, she might reject out of hand, like fretting about language when lives were at stake.

“I’ll remember to ask about the man who walks differently,” she said, “and soon. Kate just pulled up in a taxi.”

“I’ll let you go then. No phone calls until the lunch is over, but text me, I’ll keep it on vibrate. Meet me outside the Carlton Suites at 2:00. If it’s not over by then I’ll leave anyway.”

Kyle clicked off, wishing he could be there with her. The last place he wanted to be was a luncheon listening to Imogene whisper criticisms of the forty-six women ahead of her.

Chapter 25

The Katherine Pride Gallery

C
orky pegged the
woman as lesbian the minute she entered the gallery. Kate Pride had not told him to expect a Detective Linda Sikorsky, so when she walked through the door as if she had something terribly important to discuss with Kate, he switched to full screening mode. Filtering was part of the job; Katherine Pride was well known in the art world, especially its cutting edge, and plenty of artists tried to get their portfolios to her through improper channels. Pretending they were there for some other reason was a favorite and transparent ruse. It was like impersonating a doorman to give Taylor Swift a CD of your material as she stepped out of a limo. Corky was not easily fooled, and would have none of this “I have to see Kate Pride right away” business. Besides, information was power, and screening people who insisted they had booked time with Kate was one of his best ways of staying informed. To be informed was to have leverage, New York City’s most valuable currency.

Linda was patient by nature. It was a necessary trait in homicide investigation; you often had to wait for evidence to present itself, or wait for test results, or simply wait for someone you were questioning to stop crying and give you an answer. But even someone as calm as Detective Linda could lose it when faced with an obstacle like Corky. He didn’t seem to hear her when she said she needed to speak with Kate Pride right away. He began asking her where she was from and with whom she had made this alleged appointment. She told him she was a friend of Kyle Callahan’s, the photographer whose photos were on the walls, for godsake, and that the matter was urgent. He stalled some more, and Linda realized he was pumping her for information. Finally she pulled out her badge, something she refrained from doing outside her job unless it was absolutely necessary.

“I’m a homicide detective,” she said, holding out her shield. “New Hope Police Force.”

Corky’s eyes widened. This was definitely prime information. He felt his Twitter finger twitching already.

“Is this about Devin?” Corky asked, staring up at her.

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Where’s New Hope? Isn’t that California?”

Linda sighed heavily, wishing someone had told this young man she was coming.

“Listen,” Corky said. “I don’t know if it’s related, but there was this guy in here yesterday, really creepy. We never met but he knew my name, weird, huh?”

Before Linda could respond the phone rang. She saw it was Kyle and had a quick conversation with him that Corky interrupted to tell her he was not “the desk guy” and to poo-pooh her use of the words “walked funny.” She was about to slip into the parlor to escape the presumptuous young man when she saw Kate Pride pull up in a taxi and ended the call.

Moments later the door opened and Kate Pride came in, an oversized leather purse hanging from her left shoulder. She had a binder in her right hand that she handed to Corky when she got to the desk.

Corky took the binder without a word and said nothing more. Kate was the boss, and as much as she liked Corky, she had no patience for his prying. He was a very young man with a lot to learn; she was happy to teach him what she could, but on her terms and in her time. This was not one of those times.

Linda shook hands with Kate. “Linda Sikorksy.”

“Kate Pride.”

“Is there somewhere we can talk privately?” Linda said, glancing at Corky.

“Yes, certainly, I have a small office in the back.”

Kate led Linda to the back of the gallery. “Can we get you something?” she asked as they left the room. “Coffee? Water?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Linda said, disappointing the eavesdropping Corky. When Kate asked if ‘we’ could get her something, she meant Corky, and he was hoping for the chance to scurry to Breadwinner’s across the street, get some coffee or scones, and insert himself at least one more time into the conversation. Now he had been effectively shut out, and he started brooding. It took Corky all of ten seconds to switch from aloof to brooding, excited to brooding, any mood at all to brooding; if he was born to succeed, as he often insisted, he was equally born to brood.

He turned his attention to the binder. It was filled with photographs for the next exhibit. Kate was always three steps ahead. The photographer Kyle Callahan would have his moment in the sun, and within a few weeks there would be another one. A sculptor this time, Corky could see as he flipped through pictures of the woman’s pieces. Women sculptors remained a significant find in a medium still dominated by men. The most famous ones tended to be potters, but this woman, Geraldine Wenzel, did absolute wonders with heavy metal. Corky quickly forgot about the detective from California and the strange limping man and his horrible landlord harassing him for back rent, as he glanced at the amazing sculptures that would soon be placed around the Katherine Pride Gallery. So short was his attention span that he did not notice the same limping man watching him from Breadwinner’s as he enjoyed his last meal in New York City. Had the good detective asked for coffee, things might have turned out very differently. Corky would have gone across the street and seen the man he had tried to tell her about. But that is the dark side of serendipity. One man’s happy coincidence is another man’s misfortune. Bad luck appeared to be on a roll.

Chapter 26

The Stopwatch Diner

D
anny arrived at
the Stopwatch twenty minutes early, knowing Linus would not be late. He took a booth facing the front so he would be able to see Linus before Linus saw him. He wanted to observe the look on Linus’s face when he realized Claude was not the one waiting for him.

The bad blood between the two men went back a decade. Danny had first met Linus when he began working at Margaret’s Passion and Linus had dinner there one evening with several companions. He’d stared at Danny throughout the meal and at first Danny thought it was flirtatious; but then he sensed hostility in the restaurateur’s gaze, and finally something close to hatred. A hatred he had never understood, but that had become almost mutual. ‘Almost,’ because Danny was not the hateful sort, but he had witnessed enough destruction brought about by this venture capitalist to come close to hating him.
Despise
would be a better word. Linus left victims in his wake, starting up restaurants with an investor or two, then selling to some hapless dreamer and making off with a nice profit. More often than not the restaurant failed within a year, and the poor owner and his backers, who were usually family members, were left holding an empty bag while Linus was off to the next start up. That was his specialty: starting up, then leaving. He never stayed for the unhappy endings.

“You want a warm up?” the waiter asked, nodding at Danny’s coffee cup. He hadn’t seen the man scurry up to him, coffee pot in hand.

“No, I’m fine,” Danny said.

He looked over as the waiter disappeared and saw Linus Hern enter the front door. Hern scanned the restaurant for Claude Petrie, and after a few moments of puzzlement – he was not one to be kept waiting and knew Claude would be punctual – his gaze landed on Danny and he froze. He cocked his head, not sure if this was a chance encounter or if Danny was the one he was here to see.

Danny nodded: yes, Linus, I’ve been waiting for you.

While not exactly going pale, Hern’s face fell even further than its natural frown. He brushed past the maître de and walked to Danny’s table.

“I’m assuming Claude’s not coming,” Linus said.

“You would be correct,” Danny replied. “Please, Linus, have a seat.”

Hern hesitated and considered leaving, then decided the only way out of this situation was through it. Now that his plan had been found out he would have to sit and get it over with. He slid into the booth across from Danny. No sooner had he settled in than the waiter reappeared.

“Go away,” Linus said to the man, who’d had his share of rude customers and did not take it personally. He shrugged and shuffled off to another table.

“So. Danny Durban. I never anticipated this, if anticipation is the right word.”

“I think it is for you, Linus. The sweet anticipation of deceiving Margaret Bowman. She just turned eighty, but you know that.”

“Yes. I remember her birthday luncheon. I wasn’t invited.”

“Don’t worry, you’re on the list for her hundredth. Where was I? Oh, yes, tricking an elderly woman into signing over her building, in which both she and her very successful restaurant reside, only to find herself out of a home in a few months and that restaurant closed. Am I right? Did I get the plan down?”

“Close enough. But the eviction part’s off. I would never put someone that near the end of her life on the street.”

Danny sighed. He was tiring of the man already. “What I don’t understand,” he said, looking at Hern now as if examining him for his many imperfections, “is why Margaret? Why an old woman who has run a restaurant for thirty years? She’s not defenseless, but obviously vulnerable. Her mind’s not quite as sharp as it used to be, or she would have seen through your hired guns the moment they walked in the door. I’m sure it was Claude who told you about her financial problems, and there you were, like a snake that had lain patiently in the grass all this time.”

Linus thought a long moment, considering his reply. “It’s not Margaret,” he said, leaning across the table, inserting himself perilously into Danny’s personal space. “It’s you.”

Danny couldn’t help himself; he pushed back against the cushion wanting to distance himself from a much too close Linus Hern. Finally Linus eased away, the hint of a smile coming onto his face.

“Me?” Danny said.

“You really didn’t know, did you?” Linus said, waving over the waiter. “I’ll have that coffee now.”

Linus took the time they waited for his coffee to be poured to gather his thoughts. He felt a sudden peace come over him, if peace can relieve a malevolent man. He put creamer into his coffee, stirred it slowly, and carefully set his spoon down on a napkin.

“It’s a very short story,” Linus said finally. “I was in love once, very much so. He was younger than I, about ten years. Sal was his name. Salvatore Minelli.” He looked at Danny, waiting to see any indication the name meant something to him. “No,” he said. “I suppose you wouldn’t remember him.”

Danny had become intensely uncomfortable, regretting the meeting. He should have done it formally, in the company of witnesses, or in a letter, anything that would have given him distance; but it was too late now, Linus was at this table, in this diner, and he had no choice but to hear him out.

“Anyway,” Linus continued, “he was the only man I’ve loved, really. Certainly the only one for whom I’ve ever let down my guard. I honestly believed we’d be spending the rest of our lives together. Me, a successful restaurateur, Sal the manager of a very popular Gramercy Park restaurant.”

Hern watched Danny again, and this time something clicked.

Danny felt his stomach lurch. He did remember the name.

“I have to correct myself,” Linus said. “A moment ago I said this was not about Margaret Bowman, but it is. It’s about Margaret, her restaurant, you. All of it. You see, Sal was on the fragile side. It’s one of the things I loved about him. I was hard, he was soft. I was the storm, he was the calm. And one day he got fired from his job, for reasons that were never clear. It seems the old woman who owned the restaurant had found someone she preferred, someone she favored and has favored ever since.”

Danny knew now, he remembered. The blood flowed out of his face and his hands went cold.

“The other weakness Sal had, aside for a foolish trust in people, was drugs. He took the job loss hard. He took it personally. He had trusted the old woman, and she had betrayed him, threw him off for someone more pleasing to her.”

“It was just a job,” Danny said weakly.

“Oh, wonderful, then you shouldn’t mind at all losing yours, or care in the least what happens to Margaret. She’s just a woman who gave you … just a job.”

Linus let it sink in a moment, sipping his coffee. “Sal was inconsolable. He was hurt and angry, not safe emotions for someone with addictions. He didn’t believe he could take his anger out on Margaret, so he took it out on himself. Must I continue or do you remember him now?”

Danny waited, staring at Hern. “Yes,” he said. “I remember him. I never knew what happened to him.”

“Because you never cared,” Linus hissed, sending shivers down the back of Danny’s neck. “You never cared, that old woman never cared, nobody cared. He couldn’t get clean again, Daniel, and six months later he was found in the Hudson River. It was not an accident. It was not some fun murder for your husband to solve. It was a sad, broken man ending his own life. And for that I vowed to someday destroy Margaret Bowman, her restaurant, and the man she threw Sal away for. Now if you’ll excuse me - and even if you won’t - I’ll be leaving.”

Linus slid out of the booth, watching Danny a final moment while Danny’s gaze was frozen on the table. A ten dollar bill appeared in his line of sight as Hern threw it down. Danny looked up; he had never seen such hatred in a man’s eyes before.

“I’m sorry,” Danny said.

“Don’t be. It’s much too late. And don’t think this is the end of it. Consider it a pause, now that you know what this has been about, this animosity between us all these years.”

“No one ever told me.”

Hern cut him off, leaning down into his space again. “Because it’s none of their fucking business,” he said slowly. “This is not for some sad gossip page. This is personal, private. And I’ll be back. She’ll have to sell to someone, and whoever it is will regret the day they got in my way. People who do that don’t usually survive.”

Danny knew he meant it, and that Linus Hern, now that his reasons were out in the open, would be more dangerous than ever.

“Give Kyle my congratulations on the photo exhibit,” Linus said, turning to leave. “And my regrets. I’m previously engaged. I’ll have to read the scathing reviews in the New York Times. Don’t worry, their critic will be there, I made sure of that.”

Linus Hern left him then, striding out of the restaurant with a spring in his step. The air had been cleared between them, but to Danny it felt like the preparing of a battlefield. The clouds had parted, the sun had come out, and beneath them the artillery was now in place. The first shot had been fired long ago; today the war had begun.

Danny motioned for the check. He wanted to be away from here as quickly as possible. Linus Hern had left a chill in his wake and Danny needed to be warm again.