The Pride Trilogy: Kyle Callahan 1-3

by Mark McNease

  There was a moment of silence, then Diedrich Keller said, “Go on, Jarrod. What did they want to know?”

  “They were asking about that young man who was murdered this week. I didn’t tell them anything.”

  “Of course not, there’s nothing to tell. Is there?”

  Jarrod hesitated. He was questioning his own memory. Maybe he hadn’t seen Mr. K talking to the young man, maybe it was a different young man entirely. “No, nothing to tell, Mr. K.”

  “What else did they want to know?”

  “If you’d ever been away from the store for an extended period—you know, like your time in Berlin.”

  “And what did you tell them?”

  Jarrod proceeded to inform Diedrich Keller of everything that had transpired with the couple—that the woman claimed to be a private detective, that they wanted his home address (which Jarrod did not give them), and that odd question about any extended absence.

  D remained calm through it all. A sense of peaceful finality had come over him. He was glad Jarrod had not given them his home address. It was a home he would be leaving very soon, but he had one more task at hand, one more mission to accomplish. He told Jarrod he’d done well and that he would see him in the morning. It was a lie. He intended never to see Jarrod Sperling again.

  Chapter 32

  A peace had come over Danny since he’d arrived at Margaret’s Passion that morning. He knew it was part of an inevitable acceptance—accepting that Margaret Bowman was leaving, accepting that a large part of the world he had known and loved was changing. Margaret had lived a long and fruitful life. She’d achieved her dreams and touched so many people’s lives. She had loved her husband, Gerard, with the same passion that gave her restaurant its name. Danny had never met Gerard Bowman, who died in a freak traffic accident just outside the restaurant two years before Danny was hired. He’d been a smoker, something Margaret disdained but indulged provided he went outside. So several times a day Gerard Bowman could be seen on the side street smoking a cigarette. One day he stepped off the curb to stamp out his cigarette butt in the gutter, and a taxi came flying through the light to make it across before it turned red. The driver saw Gerard in the street, was startled by the sight and swerved, losing control of the taxi. Ten seconds later Gerard Bowman was dead.

  Margaret had carried on. She met Danny, hired him, and eleven years later she was leaving him. That was the part—the feeling—he had finally managed to make peace with. She was eighty-one years old. She was more than entitled to spend her last few years with her sister who was almost ninety. The restaurant was Danny’s, and now Margaret had completed the transfer of the only thing that had kept her here by deeding the building to him. She was passing it all on, saying, Here, it’s yours now. I’m entrusting it to you. I know you’ll make me proud.

  Danny was thinking of that—making Margaret proud by surviving in the business, being a landlord soon, and giving the old woman the most amazing going away party New York City had ever seen—when a man walked into the restaurant. It was almost two o’clock. The kitchen stopped serving lunch at two, but Danny had never told a customer it was too late, not until the kitchen was actually closed. The man had fifteen more minutes, which meant he would be seated, he would be given a menu, and he would be served.

  “Good afternoon,” Danny said. Chloe was in the back room stocking shelves and Trebor was behind the bar. There were two women on stools finishing an early afternoon glass of wine. No one else was there.

  “Good afternoon,” D said. “I hope I’m not too late for a small bite. I’ve just come back from Berlin and I’m famished.”

  “No, no, not at all, please come in. Any table you’d like.”

  D chose a table well away from the window—unusual during the day, Danny thought, but some people didn’t like the light. Danny walked with the man to a two-top near the bar and handed him a menu once he sat down.

  “Your waiter will be with you in a moment. In the meantime, is there something you’d like from the bar?”

  “Just water,” D said. “Thank you.”

  D watched the man disappear around the corner of the bar. He didn’t know if he’d bring the water himself or if a waiter would do that. He looked around the restaurant and was quite pleased with what he saw. He’d heard of Margaret’s Passion, of course. One does not own a high-end clothing store with upper crust clients without hearing of the places they patronize. The Plaza. Elaine’s, when there was an Elaine. The 21 Club. And Margaret’s Passion. It was comfortable in a way newer eateries catering to the nouveau riche and the hangers-on were not. The trend these days, dismaying to people like Diedrich Keller, was for deafeningly loud restaurants where shouting was the only way to be heard by the person sitting across a small table from you. No, this was much more … classy. More stylish, for those who knew what true style was.

  He watched the man go into the kitchen, then return looking perplexed. He spoke briefly to the bartender, retrieved a glass of ice water and returned with it to the table.

  “I’ll be taking your order today,” Danny said. He’d gone back to find Clarence, the waiter he expected to still be on duty, but was told by the cook that Clarence had taken off early, expecting no one else to come in. Chloe was still working on the dinner set up and Danny didn’t want to bother her, so he decided to take the man’s order himself. Danny set the water glass down. “Have you had a chance to decide?”

  “Not quite yet,” D said. “By the way, my name’s Diedrich Keller. And you are?”

  Danny was embarrassed. Introducing yourself was the first lesson of table service, but he had not taken anyone’s order in a very long time.

  “Danny Durban,” he said. “My apology for neglecting to introduce myself.”

  “No apology needed. Are you the maître d?”

  “No, no. I’m the owner.”

  “Ah,” said D. “I feel special now.” He glanced around. “I’d foolishly assumed someone named Margaret would be the owner of Margaret’s Passion.”

  “She was, until very recently. Margaret Bowman.”

  “Is she deceased?”

  “No. I … my partner and I bought the restaurant from her. But she’ll be moving away soon. The restaurant won’t be the same without her. We’ll survive, but there’s only one Margaret Bowman.”

  D pretended that a thought had suddenly come to him. “You and your partner, you say?”

  “Yes, his name’s Kyle.”

  “What a small world! I met him just this morning. He said you were looking for a new suit.”

  Danny sighed. He remembered Kyle saying they were going to a men’s store and assumed Kyle had taken it upon himself to suit shop for him. Kyle knew he was looking for something special for Margaret’s party. “I am, yes,” Danny said.

  “Well then,” said D, taking out a business card from his wallet. “I’m just the person for you. I’m a business owner myself. Keller and Whitman, clothing for the gentleman’s gentleman.”

  The name rang a bell this time. Some of the customers at Margaret’s got their clothes there—impeccably tailored suits, and shirts that cost enough as a dinner for four. It wasn’t a place Danny would ever shop given the prices, and why he hadn’t remembered it when Kyle said they were going there that morning.

  “Here,” D said, taking a pen from his jacket pocket and writing his cell number on the card. “I’ll tell you what, call me anytime and we’ll do a private fitting. I know this event is important to you—how could it not be?—and I’d like you to look your absolute best. I’ll measure you myself and get you something done by the time of your party.”

  “It’s a month from now,” Danny said.

  “Then we have plenty of time.” D handed him the card. “Promise you’ll call.” Then, as if he’d just remembered something urgent, he said, “Oh, my …”

  “What?”

  “I have to leave for London Friday. I won’t be back until August. I’m looking at store locations there. But I don’t do t
he stitching myself, of course!”

  “Of course not,” Danny said.

  “I could size you and get an order in before I go. How about this afternoon?”

  Danny hesitated. He’d never met this man before, but he knew the store’s reputation. And it would be amazing to show up at Margaret’s party in a suit from one of the city’s best men’s stores. “I’m not sure, I was planning …”

  “I’ll give you a discount,” D said, smiling. “A very deep discount.”

  How could Danny say no? It might even lift his spirits and put him in the frame of mind he wanted to be in: to view and experience Margaret’s going away as a celebration, not a funeral procession or a wake.

  Danny took the card. “It’s a deal,” he said. “Just let me get things wrapped up here and I’ll call. Shall I meet you at the store?”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Durban. This will be a private fitting. Just give me a call and I’ll provide directions.”

  Danny put the card in his shirt pocket. “And now,” he said, “order anything you’d like. Lunch is on the house.”

  “Very, very kind,” D said, turning his attention to the menu. He was hungry now, and planned to eat a hearty meal before heading back to his townhouse to wait for a phone call. It was going to be an excellent evening, an intimate affair—his own going away party for two.

  Chapter 33

  Few things unnerved Kyle more than speeding through Manhattan in a taxi. The drivers obeyed few rules, except the ones that could get them ticketed, and even those they skirted as often as they could. Lanes meant nothing to them, and they would veer wildly from side to side, maneuvering at high speeds through a sea of cars, trucks and buses. Double parking was common, especially during the week, and the flow of vehicles often made him think of clotted arteries, with cars as blood cells making their way around stops and knots.

  This afternoon it was the opposite problem that had him fretting in the back seat with Linda: the President of the United States was in town, and traffic had come to a stop. They were idling at the corner of 49th Street and Lexington Avenue as traffic cops held everyone at a standstill, their arms out stiff and their whistles blowing.

  “What the hell is that?” Linda asked, as they watched the longest motorcade either of them had ever seen turn onto Lexington Avenue and head south. The avenue had been closed to traffic, with police cars and motorcycle cops stationed at every street crossing.

  “That,” Kyle said, “is the Presidential motorcade.” He knew this because his boss Imogene was scheduled to do a segment for Tokyo Pulse from a gala at the New York Public Library that night, with the President as the featured guest. Had he been working he might have been able to go as her assistant, but even the President of the United States couldn’t keep him from taking time off to spend with Detective Linda. After all, there would always be another president.

  They waited nervously in the back seat as the motorcade seemed to go on forever. Even the cab driver was impressed, gawking at block after block of black SUVs, many with SWAT types perched in the open backs, ready to jump out and fire in the event of an attack.

  “What do we do now?” Linda asked, resigned to waiting for the motorcade to pass, the way one sits at a railroad crossing watching freight cars go by in a crawl.

  “We re-group,” Kyle said. “We go back to the apartment, we talk it through.”

  “When do we go to the police?”

  “Today, I imagine. I just want to consider everything. I don’t want to accuse a man wrongly, I don’t want to assume that just because he spoke to Victor he killed him.”

  “But that’s what you think.”

  “That’s what I think, yes. If he didn’t do it, if he’s not the Pride Killer, then he’s involved somehow.”

  “You mean he doesn’t work alone?”

  “It’s not unheard of. And remember, if we move too quickly, we tip our hand. Who knows what might happen then. He might vanish again and we’d never catch him.”

  Kyle watched as the end of the motorcade finally passed by. They waited awhile longer as the traffic slowly started up again. Kyle felt his foot twitching furiously—they’d lost precious time waiting for the most powerful man in the world to pass by in one of those dozens of black SUVs (surely not the sedan with the Presidential flags flying from the hood, that had to be a decoy).

  “It takes them awhile,” the driver said, sensing his passengers’ impatience. “They block all these streets, then they have to open them again, maybe five more minutes. You in a hurry?”

  “Yes,” they both said from the back seat.

  “Let’s just walk,” Kyle said. “We can talk along the way. It’s good for the thought processes.”

  “But it’s twenty blocks.”

  “This is New York City. Twenty blocks is like walking across the street. Come on, we can bounce ideas off each other.”

  Kyle told the driver they were getting out. He handed a ten dollar bill through the plastic divider separating the front and back seats and opened the door. They could walk almost as quickly as the cab would get them there, especially if there were any more delays. And they could talk. They had the Pride Killer in their sights with one good shot at him and could not afford to miss.

  Chapter 34

  Danny’s usual routine was to go home for the break between lunch service and dinner. The bar at Margaret’s Passion remained open starting at noon, but meals were only available for the two sittings. It had always been this way at the restaurant and always would be. Bar food was for bars, and Margaret’s was definitely not in that class.

  Once the kitchen closed each day, Danny would walk the fifteen minutes it took him to get home around two-thirty in the afternoon, then return at five to oversee the beginning of the dinner shift. He did not stay the entire evening—he never had, he was the day manager for all those years before he became the owner—but he liked being there for an hour or so ahead of time, especially now that Margaret’s was his. His night manager, Patrice, did a terrific job and had been Danny’s right hand for six years now. Combined with his recent promotion of Chloe to day manager, the pair gave Danny the level of comfort he needed with the business.

  He couldn’t hear Margaret upstairs; the staff had never been able to hear the Bowmans in the apartment above them. But he knew she was there, puttering around, most likely starting to slowly pack for the move to Florida. He thought about going up to see her for a few minutes, but he’d been upstairs once already today and didn’t want to be a nuisance. Besides, he knew the impulse to spend time with her would only become more frequent as the time drew closer for her to leave. He thought about calling Kyle to let him know he was going for a private fitting but decided against it. The last text he’d had from Kyle was an hour ago, when they were canvassing an Upper East Side neighborhood to see if anyone recognized the photo they had of Victor Campagna. Poor Victor, Danny thought, as he stared another moment out the window onto 3rd Avenue. Poor Vinnie! The brothers were very close. The entire Campagna family must be in terrible distress. There’d been nothing more on the news about the two murders. Danny wondered if the Pride Killer—assuming that’s who was behind this—would once again slip into the shadows.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” Chloe said, startling him.

  Danny turned around to see her drying her hands on a towel. Chloe had not changed a bit since her promotion. She would still bus a table if needed, bartend or wash dishes. It was in her nature.

  “A penny won’t get you much anymore,” Danny said.

  “A dollar then.”

  “Just sad, that’s all. But it’ll be this way for the next month until she’s gone.” He nodded at the ceiling. “And for quite some time afterward, I imagine.”

  “Is there anything I can do? Short of talking her into staying.”

  “Nothing, but thank you.” Danny took the business card out of his pocket. “Say, listen, I’m going out for a fitting …” Chloe looked at him curiously. “For a suit.”

&nb
sp; “Ah.”

  “If Kyle calls, don’t tell him. It want it to be a surprise. He went looking for a suit for me, you see, and I … oh, never mind. Just tell him I’m running some errands. I’ll be home by five. We’re having dinner out tonight with our friend Linda.”

  “Will do.”

  Danny took the card in hand, pulled out his cell phone and dialed the private number Diedrich Keller had written on it. He figured two and a half hours was plenty of time to get to where Keller lived, be fitted for a fabulous new suit, and make it back to Gramercy Park by five.

  Keller picked up on the second ring.

  Chapter 35

  D had barely settled into his living room after a taxi ride home when his cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and saw Margaret’s Passion listed. He let it ring twice before answering, staring at the phone as his smile grew wider. He’d been successful in enticing Danny Durban with his gracious offer of a private fitting. He’d been imagining it all the way back in the cab and here it was, about to become a reality.

  “Diedrich Keller,” he said, putting the phone on speaker so he could hold it in his lap.

  “Yes, Mr. Keller, this is Danny Durban, from the restaurant.”

  “Mr. Durban! Let me guess, you’d like that fitting after all. And that deep discount! I’m so glad you took me up on my offer. Unless of course I’m mistaken and there’s some other reason you’re calling.”

  “No, you’re absolutely correct. I’ve just finished up for the afternoon here and I was wondering if this would be a good time to stop by.”

  “Let me check my calendar,” D said. He counted to five, then said, “Fortunately, I have nothing going until this evening. How soon could you be here?”

  “As soon as a taxi can get there. By the way, I’ll need to know where ‘there’ is.”

  D thought about it moment. Should he stick to protocol and give this man a false address several blocks away, then feign stupidity and walk him back? Or did it not matter, considering he would be on a plane by midnight? Danny, unlike like all the others, would not be in the East River but left in the basement as a grand farewell—he’d decided to let them find out who he was, who he had been. This was his pièce de résistance, his big going-away, after which he would be leaving for Europe. First stop: Berlin. He’d already checked into flights and booked one late that night. Yes, he hated Berlin. He hated the country, the people and the language, but he was no fool. He’d survived as the Pride Killer for seven years—albeit three in absentia—and he would reemerge again, somewhere, when the time was ready. But this was his last hurrah in a city he’d grown tired of, his curtain call as Diedrich Keller, owner of Keller and Whitman, master of etiquette and the slow kill.