The Pride Trilogy: Kyle Callahan 1-3 (33 page)

“I told Javier he was lucky to have you,” Kate said. “No one wants to be alone in the world. Javier wanted someone to share his success with, that someone was you.”

“You don’t even know my name,” Kieran hissed. “And you’re a very bad liar. You all whispered to him, then you laughed and toasted your own cruelty. I saw you, just like I saw you yesterday. I’ve been watching you, Katherine Pride, watching and waiting.”

The sirens had grown louder, screaming down the street until they stopped in front of the building. It was only a matter of moments now.

Stuart Pride had been watching it all, trying to calm himself. He saw Linda begin to ease down. The two of them exchanged glances as she shook her head almost imperceptibly, telling him not to do anything stupid. He understood what she was doing and nodded, knowing he would ignore her anyway. The window of opportunity had opened just a crack and he had to act before it closed forever. Linda had her hand nearly to her ankle, and with just a minor distraction she would be able to reach it. He took a quick breath through his nose and flung himself to the side, crashing to the terrace floor and smashing his head on the tiles.

Kieran jumped back, and at that very moment Linda squatted down and slid her gun out from its holster. Faster than the eye could see, quicker than the mind could calculate, she had the gun raised and aimed squarely at Kieran Stipling’s chest.

“Drop the knife,” she said. “I’m a cop, I know how to shoot and I won’t hesitate.”

Kieran raised his hands, the knife still in his right fist, but he made no move to surrender.

“Do you know my name?” Kieran asked, as he began to step slowly backward.

“Stop,” Linda said, knowing what he was thinking.

“Who am I, cop lady? Call me by name.”

“You’re a man who needs understanding,” Linda said. She began to ease toward him, holding her free hand out. “Just give me the knife. We can get help for you.”

“You don’t even know my fucking name!” Kieran shouted, the rage in his voice echoing off the terrace floor, the apartment door, the rooftops around them, out, out into the sky. A cry of pain and anguish unlike anything any of them had ever heard.

It all happened so fast that afterward each of them told a slightly different version. A neutral observer would say that Kieran, knowing his time had come and there was no way out, no bus he would ever be catching to a back road somewhere to disappear, flung the knife at Linda, catching her off guard just long enough to sidestep to the terrace railing.

“Don’t do this,” Linda said in a last effort to stop him.

“What are my alternatives?” Kieran replied. He was strangely calm. It was the demeanor of a man who knew he had no options. But Kieran Stipling had always known that. His life was one of decisions made to survive, not to prosper, not to create a life that was anyone’s dream come true, least of all his. He had been thrown about by circumstances, and had only once believed things had gone his way. Once, with a man named Javier Velasco, who proved to be as cruel as the rest of them.

So fast. No negotiation, no possibilities. It was breathtaking, how suddenly and easily he went over the railing. Unbelievably fast and easy, so easy that Linda and Kyle kept staring at the space where Kieran had just been. Kate and Stuart Pride couldn’t see what happened, and stared up dumbfounded at the shock on their faces. It took Linda several seconds before she ran to the railing, leaning out and looking down.

Roscoe the doorman was already standing over the body. A young couple had nearly been hit by Kieran as he landed on the sidewalk, and the woman began to scream.

Chapter 35

Opening Night

M
ore had happened
in one week than in any week of Kyle’s life he could remember. Just six days ago his first love had gotten married, bringing Kyle both happiness for David, and sadness at such a clear sign of time passing. They had barely been men when they moved to New York City, and now, thirty-five years later, David had married, Kyle and Danny were in the planning stages of their own wedding, and youth for all of them was the stuff of reminiscence.

Then came the news reports of Devin’s murder, the arrival of Detective Linda, and the spiral of events that ended so horribly on a terrace in SoHo – and a sidewalk twelve stories below. Even the murders at Pride Lodge had not been such a jolt. And while all of it unfolded, this was always in the background waiting to happen, his opening night. It had gone on as planned, everyone was here, and yet it all felt surreal to Kyle as he sipped a glass of wine and listened to another compliment from another stranger on his beautiful photographs.

Kyle had been making his photos public for over a year on a Tumblr photoblog. The idea of people seeing his pictures was nothing new. But this was different, this was
official
, not quite professional, but very close to it. Professionals were born of gallery shows like this. Word would spread, but luckily for Kyle he was not a portraitist. He would not be taking calls from people looking for someone to shoot their wedding or their black tie event at the Met. His was a photography of isolation, pictures that featured angles, various forms of natural light,
vision
scapes as much as landscapes. The word approached his lips but he held it back, having been afraid to think it, let alone say it ...
art
. Did he dare call it that? He’d considered himself a shutterbug, nothing more. But to be an
artist
? He was uncomfortable with the term, as afraid to be pretentious as he was to be wrong.

He looked around the gallery. Margaret sat in a one of several chairs that had been provided, holding court with a handful of people. She seemed to know more guests among the crowd than nearly anyone else but Kate Pride herself. Nearly 200 people had shown up, only about a dozen of whom Kyle could address by name. Had it been wrong of them to still have the opening after everything that happened? Kieran Stipling’s suicide had been two days ago; it was still news, and Imogene Landis had already begun spinning it into her next big scoop. Kyle had promised her that, and no sooner had he and Danny given statements at the police station, than Imogene began calling to remind him of her exclusivity. Such was the stuff of love-hate relationships. It was horrific, yet seedy; tragic, yet someone must tell the story. Why not Imogene Landis? For all her faults, Kyle loved her.

His mother was another woman he loved, but whose faults were harder to name. Sally Callahan had arrived that afternoon, and rather than tell Kyle and Danny her big secret, she had brought him with her: Farley Carmichael, the man she had been seeing for two months without saying a word about it. No doubt she had wanted to wait until she was sure of her feelings, but it had come as a shock to Kyle. His mother was seventy-six years old and had sworn she would never love any man but Bert Callahan. Showing up with a boyfriend almost ten years younger and beaming non-stop since she arrived was not something Kyle had ever anticipated or even entertained. It wasn’t that he thought his mother was betraying his late father, that would be ridiculous. But Sally had been so sure she would live out her years as a single widow. His discomfort with it was only heightened when she told him she and Farley would be staying at the Westin. One room, one bed.

“They look great together,” Danny said, startling Kyle out of his thoughts. “And what better time to offer her ownership in a restaurant than now, when her life is so new?”

“Of course she’ll say yes,” Kyle said. “Be very careful what you wish for in this case, Daniel. She won’t be the silent partner you’re imagining.”

Kyle only called him Daniel when he was being extra serious. Danny knew they’d be continuing this conversation for years to come and he didn’t care right now. His beloved Margaret and her equally beloved restaurant would be safe. “Timing is everything,” he said, as much to himself as to Kyle.

“Appearances, too,” replied Kyle, quoting his boss. “They certainly appear happy.”

Sally and Farley were across the room, admiring Kyle’s “Lonely Blue Pool” photo. It seemed to catch everyone’s attention and he was beginning to think he could sell prints of it. Soon it might show up in every bargain-rate hotel room in the country and Kyle would be set for life.

“Why the secrecy?” Kyle asked. They had both liked Farley well enough on first inspection. Sixty-seven, tall, handsome with pure silver hair, still thick and brushed back; sensible half-frame gold glasses, the hands of a piano player, with long thin fingers, a gray moustache, and a very good dresser who knew how to be formal and casual at the same time. Farley Carmichael was retired, but comfortably so. He’d sold yachts for a living, and clearly made a profit. And then there was the adoration in his eyes as he stayed close to Sally. So affable, so likeable, so perfect for her. Something must be wrong.

“She knew it would be hard for you,” Danny said, sipping his Vodka martini. “Your relationship with your dad was a tough one, but he was still your dad. There’s a reason you wanted that desk.”

Kyle let it go. He’d told himself the desk was a keepsake, but he knew Danny was right. He knew it was more complicated than simply wanting a memento. And he knew his mother’s happiness was most important. Whatever misgivings he had, he would deal with later. Even if it meant more time on a therapist’s couch.

Kate Pride was working the crowd, truly a professional. Stuart had been too shaken by the events of the past three days and had bowed out. He’d taken time off from work as well and once the opening was over he and Kate were planning an unexpected trip to Paris. It was their favorite city, and Stuart, realizing how precious time is and how suddenly life can take a tragic turn, wanted them to go there again. It had been ten years since their last trip, and every spring they promised to visit, only to have it postponed for one thing or another. No more postponements, Stuart told her that morning. No more waiting for next year to do the things that matter.

Nothing new had been learned about Kieran Stipling since he plunged to his death from the SoHo terrace. It turned out the view wasn’t as hidden as he’d thought, and several frantic calls had been placed to 911 from people in distant buildings watching something frightening unfold twelve floors above Manhattan. He was an enigma, this damaged man projecting his suffering onto his victims, blaming them for a life he hated. The trail he left was a jagged one, crisscrossing the country over the course of twenty years, and it would be several months before a clearer picture of him emerged. Now, in the immediate aftermath, he remained a mystery, with a past as opaque as a fog rolling in off the Hudson. A man who had come from the shadows and quickly, instantly, returned to them. An invisible man whose existence was only proved by his body on the sidewalk.

Kyle felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see who it was. He didn’t know Detective Linda had any friends in New York City, and for a moment he wondered where she had been hiding this one as Linda started to introduce him to a woman nearly as tall as she was. Then it hit him before she even spoke: he was looking into the smiling face of Kirsten McClellan.

“Kyle and Danny, meet Kirsten,” Linda said. “Kirsten, this is Kyle and Danny.”

She was a looker, Kyle saw that immediately. Short brown hair with just hints of gray, lithe in her posture, like a cheetah, he thought, slim and dressed to kill in a navy pantsuit that had to have cost as much as most people paid for a month’s rent.

“I had to come,” Kirsten said. “After everything that happened.”

Detective Linda allowed herself a moment of weakness and slipped her arm around Kirsten’s waist. It was a public display she would not have been comfortable with under most circumstances, but it felt right. Here with her new best friends, in a city she had avoided most of her life for the loss it represented, being emotionally and physically supported by the woman she truly hoped would be the love of her life. Kirsten hadn’t waited to be asked to come once she knew what had happened. She’d called Linda from her car as she sped to New York City, assuring her she would be there in record time.

Kyle looked around again while Danny chatted with the women. It seemed so incongruous, that everything could end this way, feeling this good. He felt a moment of guilt for enjoying the night, when it had been preceded by danger and death. Survivor’s guilt, he supposed, something he knew well from losing so many friends to AIDS when he was himself a young man. He knew it was just part of living, that the lucky ones made it through the years and had to let go of those who did not.

“We made it,” Kyle said, talking to himself.

“What?” Danny asked.

Kyle turned to them, realizing he’d spoken his thought out loud. “Nothing,” he said. “Where were we?”

“You and Danny, a weekend in New Hope,” Linda said. “The Fourth of July sounds about perfect.”

“We can watch the fireworks,” Kyle said.

Danny caught his eye, nodding slightly toward Linda and Kirsten. “That we can,” he said, smiling. “That we can.”

Kyle sipped his wine again, glancing around the gallery. Everyone was there. Everything was in place. Everything was as perfect as it could be.

They had made it.

Death by Pride

Book III

Chapter 1

K
illing wasn’t as
much fun as it used to be. He expected to be a bit rusty after three years, but he had never anticipated this …
dullness
, this sense that, in the words of bluesman B.B. King, the thrill was gone. Maybe he had just been away from it too long; maybe he needed to get up to speed. The man whose body he deposited into the East River just before midnight was, after all, only the first in his current series. There would be two more before the week was out, and maybe the old rush would return with the next one. He had to trust it would, to believe as a child believes that Santa Claus is real and will come shimmying down the chimney every Christmas Eve. Or how Dorothy believed, clicking her slippers in that dreadful movie. That might be a more appropriate comparison, given the occasion. Click, click, click … and he was home.

He did not come all the way back to New York to resume his annual ritual for something as lackluster as this first kill. Had it been the young man himself whose death stirred so little response in him? What was his name? Victor? Victor Someone. Dense and inattentive; he had been too easy, and far too handsome.
Cute
, really. The kind of cute that becomes very sexual in manhood. Innocent smile, calculated shyness. Victor Someone knew exactly what he was doing flirting in the store that afternoon, and he had succeeded, much to his regret.

Unfortunately, Victor wasn’t nearly as enjoyable to kill as he was to look at. Too easy, too unchallenging. Like a cat who had no trouble capturing a wingless bird, he had not had fun with this one. He would have to analyze the experience, figure out why it had not been as satisfying as it was before, and what he might need to do to reignite his excitement. Did he need to be more brutal? Did he need to introduce tools into the game, a scalpel, perhaps, or a drill of some kind? He would think hard on it. A decision had to be made quickly; he’d already placed an online ad looking for the next one and the emails were flooding into his special account, the one no one would ever trace no matter how hard they tried. A phantom as elusive as he was deserved a phantom email routed through Chicago, then London and Tokyo, server after server erasing any clue to its origin.

Diedrich Kristof Keller III—D to everyone who knew him well (a thought that made him chuckle, since the only ones who truly knew him died with the knowledge) had only been back in his townhouse since March. His tenants, the ones he rented to when he left for Berlin to take care of his mother, had a lease through February and D had waited patiently for them to leave. A lovely young couple with two small children. He’d never met Susan and Oliver Storch—the rental had been arranged through an agent—but they had taken very good care of the place, he would give them that. And you would never know they had children; no stray toys were left behind, no evidence, really, that anyone had been there at all for the past three years. His kind of people.

He was so glad to be back. He’d hated Berlin, all of Germany for that matter, though he saw very little of it and had no desire to see more. For D being German was as meaningless as someone being Scottish who had never been to Scotland, spoke with no brogue, and was only tied to the land by name and ancestry. His parents were from Germany, but they had moved to Anaheim, California, before D was born. His mother, Marta, returned to Berlin a broken, bitter woman, but that was not his fault. She was a coward.
Cowardess
? he wondered, making a cup of tea at his kitchen counter. It was an island counter, surrounded by a stove and refrigerator large enough to impress and too large to be practical—there was almost nothing in the refrigerator, and he rarely cooked. The entire townhouse was furnished for show—the furniture, the artwork, the paintings and photographs of nonexistent family members and forebears. It had been carefully put together to deceive. Anyone who came into his home would think he was just another wealthy man in New York City with a long lineage, should one wonder where he came from. Men with paintings of their grandfathers above a fireplace surely belonged in Manhattan’s upper reaches and had unquestionable pedigree. That was the point, to be unquestioned. By the time anyone got around to questioning him, to wondering about his authenticity, it was too late. He answered their questions with a belt around their necks. The belt he kept especially for them.
You’re right, good man, I’m not who I appear to be. Please keep that to yourself.
And they did.

He was tired now. He’d worked out how to get the bodies out of his house unnoticed some years ago, but he was getting older, forty-two this coming September. It wasn’t as easy as it used to be. And this one had been heavier than he’d guessed when he chose him.

Note to self: never, ever, pick a customer from the store again. No matter how cute or handsome, no matter how liquid and shining the eyes or seductive the smile. Stay online, stay hidden behind a dozen re-routers
, change names each time, do not take this risk ever again.

He’d been away too long, losing his edge in his mother’s dreary Berlin apartment, saving himself for his return to the killing ground. He’d have to sharpen quickly; mistakes were something other people made. He’d made one this time—the only time in all his successes—and he would not make another one.

He would look at Victor Someone’s driver’s license in the morning. Sense memory was a beautiful thing, and nothing brought it back quite like his keepsakes. The license was his souvenir—his thirteenth. Lucky thirteen. The rest of the wallet stayed with the body. He wasn’t interested in making identification difficult. It didn’t matter if the police knew who had been killed, only that they would never find the man who did the killing.

It had been dark when he parked by the river. The new moon had worked to his favor, a first. No one had been around; he made sure no one saw a man with a heavy, strangely shaped object wrapped in black plastic trudging his way to the river’s edge. Then a simple heave and splash, and he was on his way home.

Bedtime at last. But before then, for a few minutes anyway, he wanted to go through those emails. He’d requested photos, knowing many of them would be old and meant to trick him, and that was okay. He was less interested in finding a man who looked exactly like his picture than he was in finding a man who made him want to kill. It was like falling in love with an image: he never knew which one it would be, but knew it when it happened.
This one. Oh yes. This one will be here soon
.

He turned off the kitchen light, took his tea cup with the little chain from the tea ball hanging over the side, and headed to his large master bedroom on the second floor. His laptop was open and waiting for him. He would sift through a dozen or so email responses and see if any of them struck his fancy. But first, the pictures of Victor. Victor Someone. He would enjoy those before sleeping. He always took pictures.