The Pride Trilogy: Kyle Callahan 1-3 (31 page)

Chapter 30

Buenos Aires – Two Months Earlier

T
he Hotel Vista
was located in the Puerto Madera Waterfront section of Buenos Aires. Situated on a significant slice of the Rio de la Plata riverbank, the area was home to some of the best and most current architecture the capital city had to offer. One of the newest neighborhoods in the city, it boasted theaters, restaurants, shopping for any taste, with an emphasis on the expensive. It was also home to the Hector Guiterrez Galeria del Arte, the top rung on the art ladder in all of the country, some said all of South America.

The Vista was a luxury hotel by definition: 120 rooms, a third of them suites, overlooking the river on one side and the vast city on the other. Attendants were at each guest’s beck and call, and often showed up mysteriously and silently just when something was needed. There were two restaurants on the lobby floor, one that faced the street and catered to visitors to the area as well as hotel guests, and one tucked into the hotel with an entrance so discreet many people didn’t realize it was there. That was where Javier Velasco had eaten his last meal with Hector Guiterrez on a Wednesday night, expecting to attend the opening of his own show on Thursday. It was where he had enjoyed his fantasy of ever-greater fame and fortune, having moved quickly from the Katherine Pride Gallery to a show in San Francisco, and now this. It was like going from zero to sixty in five seconds, from selling paintings on the sidewalk outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art to having his work shown at the Modern. It was a rise that would have made most men’s heads spin, but Javier Velasco was not most men, and he was certainly not most artists.

He had gone to dinner at 7:00 o’clock with the eminent Hector Guiterrez in the hotel’s exclusive restaurant. Guiterrez had been attracted to Velasco’s paintings from the moment he saw them in San Francisco. And, Kieran believed, the old man had been attracted to Javier as well. Kieran was no fool. He had not made it this far in life with a gimp’s walk and the cruel whispers that followed it with contempt; he had not survived the brutality of children when he had been a child himself; he had not walked the gauntlet of a world bent on keeping him the butt of jokes, an object of ridicule, only to be run through by this “artist,” this fraud. He had come to view Javier as a charlatan, a keen observer of what people consider important and great, and a manufacturer of those very things: art designed for the admiration of other artists, critics and gallery owners who could further his career. (Kieran had read once that poets wrote for other poets, which he decided may explain why nobody reads poetry.)

He should have known better than to think he was more than a distraction for Javier Velasco. Despite the hip dysplasia, he was in very good shape, and God had given him more than bragging rights in the dick department. It was amazing how many flaws men overlooked at the sight of a cock that made those flaws mere inconveniences. Velasco was no different.
Correction
, Kieran thought, sitting on the hotel bed, staring at the clock that now read nearly midnight: Velasco had professed his love, and Kieran Stipling had believed him. Stupidly. Blindly. Fatally for one of them.

His Greatness had made several critical mistakes. He had not wanted to be seen with his disabled lover, so he had arranged (with thin excuses to Kieran) to have them meet at the hotel rather than arrive together; nor would Kieran’s name be on the registry. As far as the Hotel Vista was concerned, there was no Kieran Stipling, only a man they viewed later on security footage with his face obscured by a hoodie, and who limped as he walked to the room, then left in the middle of the night wheeling a large suitcase. Velasco had asked Kieran to go directly to the room. He had also neither introduced nor mentioned Kieran to anyone. It was as if Kieran Stipling did not exist. He certainly did not exist in the world in which Javier now moved. There was no room for imperfection in this world, and Kieran was quite imperfect. Except, as it turned out, when it came to evening the score: you treat me as a nonentity, I treat you as expendable; you treat me as an embarrassment, I leave you in a state of humiliation; you tell me you love me and then abandon me, I make sure you will never repeat that lie to anyone again.

Javier Velasco returned to the room just after 1:00 a.m. Kieran had been sitting on the bed for four hours. Javier wanted to go to bed, Kieran wanted to talk. More specifically, Kieran wanted to confront. What ensued was quick and brutal. Kieran Stipling knew his presence in the hotel was undetected and would only be discovered when they looked at the security tapes. That was why he had covered his face and kept it turned down. He had known what this would likely come to, and even though he had left room for a change in course, he hadn’t expected it and it hadn’t happened. What had happened was a fast, quick death. There could be very little argument, and no shouting. It would alert people. So Kieran had pressed his case very directly, accusing Javier of throwing him to the wolves now that he had moved into a world where wolves were plentiful and lambs like Kieran were free for the taking. He accused Velasco of preparing to dump him, to which an exasperated, egotistical and foolish Javier Velascao said yes, you’re right, we’re finished, now go.

Now go
. Two words, served over ice. He was being dismissed, in a foreign country! Once it happened, as he had known it would, snapping Javier Velasco’s neck had been, well … a snap. Kieran had sighed and agreed to leave. He had come up behind Javier, who was taller by four inches, and put his arms around him for one last touch, a final embrace. And as Velasco started to pull away, Kieran Stipling pulled him back and down, snaking one arm around Javier’s neck, and with his free hand quickly, ferociously, breaking his neck. It had been so easy, and so fast. Kieran hadn’t expected it to be over that quickly. He was disappointed. But he was also in a hurry to be gone now. He emptied the large suitcase Velasco had brought with him and managed to just squeeze the artist’s body into it. He hoped they would never find the suitcase with the corpse of the great Javier Velasco, but if they did, he would be long gone, back to New York City to deal with the people who had started it all, who had begun the whispers and brought about their own deaths.

Pulling the suitcase down the hall was awkward, and it kept nearly tipping over from the dead weight inside it. But Kieran was a strong man, and determined. An hour later he was on the southwest side of Buenos Aries in a massive and notorious landfill. He left his rental car parked near the landfill’s edge and trudged, step by shaky step, into the landfill, where Javier Velasco would be attending the closing of his final show. No critics would rave, no buyers would bid. Only birds would come to pluck and rats to dine. The great artist would be climbing no more, and the cripple would go back into the shadows.

Chapter 31

The Carlton Suites

W
omen in New
York Media had been handing out their Women EmpOwering Women (WOW) Awards for the past twenty years. Imogene Landis had been to the luncheon ceremony a dozen times and had given up the idea that they were going to honor her with some kind of special award for effort. She hadn’t even made the rather long short list in some time, so it was with humility, shock, and an I-said-I’d-be-back attitude that she went to the ceremony guaranteed a certificate. She knew half the women in the banquet hall of the Carlton Suites Hotel. They knew her, too, and as her career had driven slowly but inexorably into a ditch the last decade, they had begun to look away nervously when she came near. They would start to chatter about something inane, hoping that sad creature Imogene would hurry by and let them get back to real conversation. But not this time, oh no. This time she was number forty-seven out of fifty, and even though only the first ten were recognized from the stage, her name was in the program. Right there, between Sherri Vanguard, the pet reporter from Channel 7, and Elizabeth Darling, God rest her soul.

Kyle hadn’t wanted to attend the event at all. He’d been there with Imogene two years ago and had seen how depressed and angry it made her to be treated like the has-been she was at the time. The murders at Pride Lodge had changed all that, and now she was a minor local celebrity at home and a cult favorite in post-midnight Tokyo. The looks they gave her today had been of envy, not pity. It was a lunchtime Imogene clearly enjoyed, but that Kyle had quietly, nervously, endured, while he kept checking his vibrating phone.

Detective Linda had been hard and fast on the job, tracking down the other artists from the New Visions show and she had information she kept feeding him as the luncheon dragged on. They were in the banquet hall for ninety minutes total, by the end of which Kyle was nearly ready to bolt. First had come a text from Linda that the graffiti artists were alive, well, and causing a stir in Paris as conjoined pop icons. Then came word that Suzanne DePris was living in Seattle and working as a florist. Apparently the art bug had bitten her, caused a minor irritation and moved on. And finally a startling text about Javier Velasco, the last of them to locate. “When RU finished?” she texted. “Big news on Velasco.”

He had texted her back asking what the news was.

“Tell U in person,” she wrote back. “On the way to hotel now.”

Kyle looked at his watch. The last of the top ten recipients was at the podium carrying on much too long about her family and the job she would consider her most important forever and ever – that of mom to two precious sons, aged thirty-two and twenty-seven. He was about to lean over and tell Imogene that he had to leave, something urgent had come up, when applause broke out and for reasons he would never know the crowd stood to give the woman an ovation. She may have ended her speech with the announcement she was terminally ill, or given thanks to her stricken mother for setting an example. Something powerful that had them all standing and clapping, including Kyle, who mimicked the rest of them with no idea why.

“Thank God that’s over,” Imogene said, picking up her program as quickly as Kyle did before the applause had stopped. “They’ll mail my certificate to me, let’s get the hell out of here.”

The two of them made a hasty exit, Imogene holding the hem of her dress up with one hand while she flagged a taxi with the other. One of a half dozen hovering near the hotel like vultures quickly pulled up to the curb.

“I’ll be in later,” Kyle said, opening the taxi door for Imogene. “I’ve got a few things to do.”

“Of course you do,” she said. “Your big opening’s on Friday. I can’t wait! You must be a nervous wreck. In fact, take the day. I’ll see you in the morning.”

As the taxi sped off, Kyle looked up and saw Linda walking quickly up the sidewalk toward him.

“They found him,” she said, out of breath. She’d taken the subway and had dashed two blocks from the station to the hotel.

“Who?” Kyle asked, confused. “The killer?”

“No! Javier Velasco, the artist. They found him. Or what’s left of him.”

“Oh my God.”

“I don’t think God was anywhere in the vicinity when this happened.”

She pulled him aside, letting the flow of exiting guests get past them to the curb. More taxis had miraculously arrived, swarming the front of the hotel.

“Some kids playing in a landfill found him, outside Buenos Aires.”

Kyle’s face fell. He knew what was coming next.

“We’re dealing with a very dangerous man here,” she said, “Javier Velasco’s body was stuffed inside a suitcase. It hit the Argentine news over the weekend.”

“I’m surprised we didn’t hear about it here.”

“That’s because they didn’t know whose body it was! It was only identified yesterday. And if he’s as big a name in the art world as you say …”

“About to be.”

“About to be … then we’ll see something tonight, tomorrow at the latest. Javier Velasco is dead, and not by natural causes.”

Kyle’s head was spinning. The connections had been made and were pointing in only one direction.

“There’s more,” Linda said. “Kate Pride knew the limping man. Not well, she didn’t even speak to him, but he was at the New Visions show.”

“I looked at the photos …”

“You can’t see a limp in a photograph, Kyle.

She was right, of course. He’d been looking for a man he only vaguely recognized from across the street, and only glimpsed for an instant. “So who is he?”

“Javier Velasco’s partner. Boyfriend. Lover. All of the above.”

“Clearly now an ex. I don’t think they’ll be getting back together.” He took her by the arm and started walking west. “We have to see Kate, immediately.”

“Where are we going?” Linda said, glancing back at the dozen taxis and two dozen people trying to get them.

“Seventh Avenue, we’ll get a cab faster there. These people coming out of the hotel are ruthless.”

The two of them fast-walked along 56
^th
Street, cars passing them in the opposite direction as Kyle hurried toward Seventh. Time was escaping them and none could be spared. If the killer had started with Javier Velsaco, and Richard Morninglight was his most recent kill, he was getting very close, his death spiral tightening. Kate had to be warned … or saved.

They crossed the sidewalk at Seventh Avenue and Kyle led them into the street, raising his hand frantically. A taxi pulled to the curb and the two of them got in, leaving an irate woman with a suitcase on wheels shrieking at them for stealing her cab. Oh well, Kyle thought, that’s Manhattan. You win some, you lose more. He ignored the woman’s cries as they veered into traffic heading downtown.

Chapter 32

Twelve Floors Above SoHo

F
ew sights of
urban life are more breathtaking than the New York City skyline, among the most recognizable in the world. It had changed, admittedly, since the loss of the massive Twin Towers on 9/11, once magnificent bookends to the city’s panorama, but it remained a breathtaking vision, whether seen from across the river in Brooklyn or Queens, from a taxi driving in from an airport, or from twelve stories up in an apartment overlooking downtown Manhattan. That was the view Stuart Pride was showing off now, to a stranger who had yet to give him any real information about himself, except to say he’d gotten Stuart’s private number from an artist they both knew.

Stuart Pride was not superstitious or easily spooked, but something about the man made the hair on his arms stand up; it was an undefined chill, and he wrote it off to the building’s heat being low or the cool April air.

The apartment was spectacular, there was no doubting that, and Stuart was counting on its sale to provide his best commission of the year. New York City, Manhattan specifically, had not suffered nearly as much during the nation’s ruinous housing bust as the rest of the country. And while many Americans were priced out of a stubbornly high market, there were plenty of foreigners who saw property here as a steal and a sound investment. There would be no foreclosure crisis in the nation’s biggest city, except for the unfortunate ones who lost their jobs and should probably never have moved here in the first place.

They were currently twelve floors above Prince Street, in one of Manhattan’s most famous neighborhoods, SoHo. Shorthand for “SOuth of HOuston,” the area had for decades been a home to art galleries and the trendiest of the trendy, and while it now had competition from areas like the Meatpacking District and galleries like Katherine Pride’s, it remained a popular tourist destination and among the most expensive places in the city to live. The apartment Stuart was currently showing had three bedrooms, two and a half baths, a kitchen the size of most studio apartments, and a spectacular terrace overlooking downtown Manhattan. The asking price was a cool $2.5 million, a steal by anyone’s reckoning. Something about the client made Stuart wonder if he really had that kind of money. He had already cursed himself for not directing the man to his office where he could be properly screened. The thought of selling his most expensive apartment of the year had clouded his judgment; greed had gotten the best of him, and he made a mental note not to let it happen again.

“What is it you do again, Mr. Stipling?” Stuart asked. He seldom showed apartments to people carrying backpacks, and only when the occasional rock star came his way did they look so much like they would never see two million dollars in their lives. Make that two and a half million.

“Art,” Kieran said. He had been standing by the glass doors that opened out onto the terrace, looking up and around, as if he wanted to see how exposed it was to the views of neighbors.

“Ah, yes, art. My wife’s in the art business, but you must know that through Mr. Velasco. Kate doesn’t really see it as a business. She has the heart of an altruist. What part of the art world do you specialize in, may I ask?”

“Call me an accountant.”

Stuart thought it was a strange way to phrase it.

Kieran saw the look on his face and smiled ever so slightly. “I settle accounts, let’s put it that way.”

“For Javier Velasco?”

“He was one of them, yes.”

Was
one of them, past tense. Another odd choice of words. Stuart had become very apprehensive and wanted to get the showing over as soon as possible. The spacious apartment with the amazing views was suddenly stifling.

“Let’s take a look at the gym,” Stuart said. “The building offers quite an impressive one on the second floor. It’s free to tenants, of course.”

“I’d like to see the terrace,” Kieran said, as if he hadn’t heard him. Without waiting for a reply, he opened the sliding door and stepped out. He glanced quickly up and around, noticing that no buildings overlooked them: they were effectively hidden from view in a city of eight million people. It was too early for plants, but there were several large planters along the edge, where a black wrought-iron gate encircled the space. In the corner, overlooking Broadway, was a glass table with four chairs, all black iron to match the gate. A large umbrella that would fit into the table’s center lay on its side, waiting for warmer weather.

Stuart followed Kieran out. He’d never liked heights and stayed away from ledges, but he had a client to please, and the sooner that was done, the sooner they could leave.

“Oh, look!” Kieran said, leaning slightly over the railing and looking down. “You won’t see that anywhere but New York City.”

As Stuart crossed the terrace to where he was standing looking down, Kieran’s hand slipped unnoticed into his backpack.

Stuart stepped up next to him, leaned carefully over the gate, just enough to see the sidewalk twelve floors below. There was nothing of note to be seen. He was about to ask what Kieran had been looking at when then the thin rope slipped around his neck, looping quickly again in his first startled moments. Kieran pulled him back with it, as if it were a leash or the reins on a horse. Stuart stumbled and fell face down on the terrace floor, gashing his nose. Blood began to flow from a nostril and his eyes watered from the impact. He grabbed blindly at the rope around his neck, desperate to loosen it.

“Don’t worry,” Kieran said, pushing Stuart back down with a foot on his back. “I’m not going to kill you. Not yet.”

Stuart struggled to get up, one hand on the stone terrace trying to push himself up, the other grasping for the iron fence.

Kieran shoved him back down. He reached into Stuart’s pocket and dug around until he found his cell phone.

“I’m going to strangle you now,” Kieran said. “But don’t worry. It’s only enough to make you pass out. When you come to again you’ll be manageable. These chairs look very uncomfortable, but sturdy. In the meantime, I have a text message to send. What was your wife’s number? Oh wait, it’s on speed dial. I bet she comes when you call her.” Kieran laughed at his own crude joke and began searching for Kate Pride’s name in the contact list. “Imagine her surprise when you tell her Javier’s here.”

Stuart Pride thought desperately of a way out, a means of escape, but his thoughts were cut short as Kieran knelt beside him and tightened the rope. His air gone, his head feeling as if it would explode, Stuart Pride gave himself to the blackness.