The Pride Trilogy: Kyle Callahan 1-3 (41 page)

Chapter 16

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 17

T
he 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.”

They waved goodbye to Sam Paddington as Kyle led them back out onto the front steps. As they descended, he said, “Something happened.”

“Yeah, he got killed!”

“No, I mean something happened either before he got to this Keller and Whitman store, or after he left.”

“Maybe something happened
at
the store.”

“Right,” Kyle said, a little too dismissively. “He goes into a fitting room and runs into the Pride Killer. I doubt that.”

“I’m just offering ideas, Kyle. Something to think about.”

“Good, really. We need ideas.”

“So are we going there? To the store?”

Kyle led Linda to the taxi line. “Maybe tomorrow,” he said. “We have dinner with Danny tonight. It’ll give us a chance to think this all through.”

“Can we afford to wait?” Linda was worried they could lose their momentum.

“If his pattern holds, his next victim will be Thursday or Friday night. That gives us tomorrow to kick this into high gear. I’ll find out when this Keller and Whitman store opens and we’ll be first in the door.”

They got into a taxi and headed south on Fifth Avenue. No sooner had they pulled away from the curb than the driver began chattering in a low voice. He was not talking to himself.

“You said it’s illegal,” Linda whispered in the back seat.

“So is jaywalking, and look around you.”

Kyle was right. New Yorkers all seemed to do as they please.

One in particular was about to do it again.

Chapter 18

J
ust as Kyle
and Linda were heading home for dinner at the apartment, D was walking into Pianissimo, a piano bar on 46th Street in the Theater District. Pianissimo had been around since the mid-1960s and remained a favorite haunt of locals in the know, as well as a steady flow of tourists looking for real New York flavor. More than a few big names in the cabaret scene had developed their chops standing on its small stage, singing standards and the occasional original song they hoped would become one.

D had never been here. He was careful not to meet his candidates in bars where he would be recognized. Described, okay, if it came to that, but not someone known by name or habit. He’d chosen this place because it was on the west side, in a busy area where two men meeting for a drink would blend in with fifty others. He’d also chosen it because he knew it would be quiet, even if someone was at the piano—no video screens here looping dance music clips, no loud pop blaring from suspended speakers—and because it was not a place men their age would stand out. Many of the gay bars in Manhattan catered to a younger crowd and it would be too easy for a bartender or server to remember “the two old guys” sitting at a corner table.

Still, he took his time approaching the bar, looking at his surroundings. He liked to arrive early so he would be in place and he could observe the candidate as he walked in. A lot could be learned from a gait, the way a man carries himself. More than once D had passed on one of them, his instinct telling him this was not a perfect choice and might make the kill difficult. He did not like difficult kills.

He was pleased, then, when he saw Scott walk through the door five minutes late. D had been sitting at a small table along the wall that faced the entrance. He had a glass of white wine in front of him, and when Scott came in looking around at the two dozen customers, D waved at him.

Not bad
, he thought,
not bad at all
.

Scott Devlin was fifty-three years old and conscious of his appearance: he was thin, with just a hint of middle-aged paunch. He was middling height, five-nine if one were to guess. He had close-cropped brown hair liberally sprinkled with gray. He was dressed well, in new-looking jeans and a blue-and-white striped shirt covered by a navy sport coat—a little warm for June, but it spoke of a man who wanted to make a good impression.

“Phillip?” he said, walking up to D.

D had accepted at the outset that the only time they would ever know his true name was when they would no longer be able to tell anyone. Sometimes he never did tell them and they died believing he was Phillip or David or Leo.

“Indeed it is,” D said. He stood and shook Scott’s hand. Firm, he thought, but not too. It was not the handshake of a man he would have trouble overpowering. “And you must be Scott.”

“Nice choice,” Scott said as he sat at the table. “I’ve never been here, but it’s famous.”

“A favorite of mine. I thought you might like it. There’s no reason not to, really, and it’s quiet enough to talk. That’s always a plus.”

“I like quiet, too,” said Scott. A waiter came over and took his drink order: Scotch and water. A mature man’s drink, thought D as he settled back into his chair.

“So tell me about yourself,” D said, knowing everything he was about to hear might be a lie.

“Well, I’m between jobs right now. I don’t consider myself unemployed, just in transition. It’s all in the attitude.”

“And what do you do? When you’re not in transition.”

“I’m a bookkeeper. I worked for the last eleven years at a large bakery in Long Island City that just closed down.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It happens. At least I wasn’t the only one let go. We all were.”

“And where do you live?”

“I thought I mentioned that in my email.”

“You probably did,” D said. “My apologies.”

“No need,” said Scott, eyeing D and smiling. “A man as attractive as you must get quite a few responses.”

D feigned embarrassment, shrugging. “It’s not that at all. I just don’t remember as well as I used to.”

“You don’t look old enough to be forgetting things yet.”

“Call it early onset Chardonnay.”

Scott laughed just as his drink arrived. He thanked the waiter and took a sip. “I live in Washington Heights.”

“Quite a long subway ride.”

“I’m used to it. And what do you do, Phillip?”

D hesitated.

“Are you in transition, too?” Phillip asked, sensing D’s reluctance.

“No, not at all. I work with the dying.”

Phillip was surprised. “Hospice?”

“Something like that.”

D sipped his wine. He’d only had half a glass and intended to keep it that way.

“Listen,” D said, “I was wondering if we could have a proper conversation over dinner tomorrow night.”

“So I passed the test,” Scott said. “I’m impressed … that you’re impressed! I’d love to have dinner, but I have plans tomorrow.”

D was not happy with the information. He didn’t want to have to start over, look for another candidate in such a hurry. Hurrying invites miscalculations.

“But I’m free tonight.”

Free tonight
, D thought.
That changes things without really changing them. It’s not the schedule I had, the plans I’d made, but it will do
.

“Unless you’re not, of course, and I would completely understand. There’s always next week.”

“No, no,” D said, “next week is a week too long. I was only planning to finish up some work at home tonight. But if you’ll indulge me an hour or so we can just stop there. I have magazines and books you can read, or watch the evening news if you like. I’ll wrap things up and we can have a lovely dinner this evening. It just might be the dinner of a lifetime.”

Scott was obviously pleased. He smiled and waved at the waiter, about to order another drink.

“Hold off on that,” D said. “Let’s have a second drink at my townhouse. I have Scotch that’s been sealed and waiting for you for seventy-five years.”

“Seventy-five-year-old Scotch? You really shouldn’t.”

“Please, that’s what it’s for. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion, and something tells me that occasion has arrived.”

D let his leg slide against Scott’s under the table. Scott pressed back and a moment later D felt Scott’s hand resting on his knee.
How easy they are
, he thought.
How easy
.

The waiter came over, expecting to fill another drink order. Instead, D said to him, “Check please,” as he took out his wallet. Scott reached for his and D said, “This one’s on me. Now think of where you’d like to have dinner and we’ll decide in the taxi.”

Scott couldn’t believe his good fortune. Meeting Phillip had relieved him for an evening of his worries. No thoughts of being in “transition,” no thoughts of dipping into his savings for months as he looked for another job, no thoughts of yet another night alone as so very many of his nights had been. He was feeling especially lucky as they stepped outside and Phillip raised a hand to flag a cab. Soon he would be sipping on Scotch that had waited seventy-five years for him to taste it! It was going to be an evening to remember.