The Pride Trilogy: Kyle Callahan 1-3 (23 page)

Chapter 10

The Hamilton Inn, Philadelphia

T
he Hamilton Inn
was located in the heart of Philadelphia’s gay neighborhood, an area of Philly’s Center City district that ran from Market Street on the north to Spruce on the south, and from 11th Street on its west edge to Juniper on the east. It was among the nation’s most well known and well liked concentrations of LGBT urban life that were once called gay ghettos. But unlike many such enclaves, Philly’s had not fallen on hard times; it had seen itself prosper, becoming and remaining one of the city’s most vital attractions.

Two of those attractions were the Gilliam Museum of Modern Perspective, and the Hamilton Inn, a storied old hotel that had remained gay-owned and mostly gay-populated for forty years. The late Marcus Gilliam founded his museum, which was really more of a midway point between a high-end gallery and a true fine art institution, in the 1980s during the height of the AIDS crisis. His longtime lover died from complications of the disease and left Gilliam with two dozen specimens of art so modern it wasn’t worth anything at the time. Gilliam had two objectives in launching his museum: to effectively erect a monument to Jonathan, his lover and partner, and to demonstrate his remarkable eye for an investment. Considering how much the art was now worth, his prescience could not be disputed. He had specialized in finding new artists, much like his peer Kate Pride in Manhattan, whom he had known for several years before his own death from prostate cancer in 2009. Since then a foundation had run the Gilliam, but it had not compromised his vision. The museum still featured a mix of established artists and those well on their way. It was just such a show that brought Richard Morninglight to Philadelphia that weekend; and where else would a gay painter on the verge of art world stardom stay in Philadelphia but the Hamilton?

The Hamilton Inn had been around since the 1920s. Its premiere suite, while no longer called Presidential, had seen its share of American Presidents resting their heads on its pillows. Just five stories high, the Inn had fallen on hard times in the 1970s and was very close to being demolished, when an entrepreneur and friend of the very same Marcus Gilliam who opened his hybrid gallery/museum decided to recreate the Hamilton as a specialty gay hotel. Back then “gay hotel” was something one could say, before the arrival of the acronym LGBT and before there were many people now called allies. The hotel no longer advertised itself as gay, and it made every marketing effort to welcome all visitors to the fine city of Philadelphia and this amazing neighborhood. But it was still gay-owned and operated, and rare was a visit from a guest who didn’t know it.

Richard Morninglight had checked into room 306 Friday night, just about the time a fellow artist named Devin was having his life stolen at the end of a knife blade. Richard’s last name was not Morninglight, but once he had decided on a career as an artist, long before he was anywhere near achieving it, he concluded that his last name Smith simply would not do. Even adding a middle initial, which remained popular among artists and writers for reasons he didn’t understand, would not make the name Richard Smith any more arresting. Ah, but he painted in the morning light; he studied effects of the morning light on canvas and the objects he painted; he had a vision one sunrise in the morning light, and that was that: Richard Morninglight was born.

Richard had few real friends. He’d been ambitious all his life, even as a child, and he had known instinctively that ambition was an all-consuming master. Given the choice between achieving his aims and having friends who wanted this or that part of him, let alone a lover who wanted it all, he had chosen achievement. He’d found soon enough that there seemed to be a ratio of friends to success (one increases with the other), and as for lovers, they came cheaply enough. Ads in local papers, profiles online. Why get into the mess of a relationship when all he really wanted was his needs attended to?

He wasn’t an unattractive man, and at thirty-two he was still young. He’d gained too much weight since the checks began coming in for his paintings, but not one young man had complained about the extra twenty pounds. He was middling height, with a pronounced nose, what might be called Roman, and brown eyes that were just the slightest bit crossed, something he’d had to deal with as a child wearing corrective glasses. He wore his thinning black hair long and in a ponytail – it just seemed to go with his name – and he’d gotten his first tattoo to commemorate the show at the Katherine Pride Gallery just a few months ago that had launched him into semi-fame.

Success had not come easy, but adjusting to it had. Richard had imagined the finer things for years; becoming accustomed to them felt natural, as if he had always been entitled to the best life had to offer. His artwork had been selling since he was in his early twenties, but the Pride show had taken it to another level, exposed him to people like the Gilliam’s curator, in town to see what was on the art horizon. While several of the artists for the show had gained attention, Richard was one of the two real breakout stars, along with Javier Velasco. Velasco was somewhere in South America these days, maybe Argentina, wowing whomever constituted the art world there, and here Richard was in Philadelphia, a nice enough town for a stepping stone. Now that he’d made it to the Gilliam, MOMA couldn’t be far behind.

He sipped his red wine and slipped off his robe. He’d had several emails back and forth with Kevin, the young hustler who called himself an escort and who must be on his way right about now. He had already laid out the scenario with him. Richard would be naked, face down on the bed, pretending to be sleeping. Kevin would let himself in through the unlocked door – how careless of me! – and Richard would be startled, feigning panic just as Kevin scrambled onto the bed and held him down. So helpless. So exciting. He eased down onto the bedspread, slipped his hands under the pillows, and waited for the sound of the door opening.

Kieran never cared much for Philadelphia. History was its only real selling point. If you didn’t care where the Constitution was signed or who the hell signed it, Philly was just another big city with funny accents and greasy food. He admitted to enjoying its skyline, though. He had a fondness for skylines; they represented for him a far away place he had almost arrived at, a destination of soaring towers and deep, shadowed canyons. For some it was as if they were going into a land of light, neon and fluorescence; for him it was a descent into night. He felt safest then, when no one could see him. His power of invisibility was strongest in the darkness, when onlookers strained to see and he became a shadow among shadows.

He arrived at the bus station just as the sun was setting. All bus stations seemed the same to him. On the upside, they tended to be seedy. Someone with a limp and a filthy backpack, unshaved and gaunt, was just another Joe coming off the bus. One among hundreds.

He made his way to the Hamilton Inn and stood outside looking up at its lush green awning. There was only a tasteful, polished brass plaque on the building to announce its presence in the neighborhood. Pretense, he thought, as he walked quietly and quickly along the side of the building to where he knew there was a service entrance. Once upon a time this is where the dark-skinned dishwashers and laundresses, the hotel maids and the chauffeurs, made their way to the hotel basement from where they would fan out on their duties, always around and always unseen until needed. He knew about the entrance from a reconnaissance trip two weeks ago. He knew as much about the people on his list as he needed to, which was much more than they would ever know about him. He knew where they went, when they went, and how often. He knew Richard Morninglight stayed at the Hamilton, and that he enjoyed the company of unfamiliar young men when he did. It had been easy; too easy, and he felt a certain disappointment that there wasn’t more effort needed. He would have to take his satisfaction in the killing itself and leave the challenge to the last one, the one who would see him in broad daylight. Unlike the fool Morninglight or the hapless Devin, startled by recognition into thinking he’d come as a friend and not an executioner.

There would be no description from the desk clerk because he did not stop at the desk. He pulled his hood over his head and made his way through the side entrance, down the cellar stairs and up in the freight elevator. He doubted anyone at the desk even noticed the elevator was moving, if they bothered to monitor it at all.

He got off on the third floor and walked quietly to room 306. As he stood in front of the door, he slipped his backpack off and reached inside for the set of six guitar strings. He carefully took out the thinnest of them, a slim, deadly piece of silver wire, held it in his left hand and walked into the room.

Richard heard the door open. He was on the bed, naked, as arranged, with his head turned toward the wall and his eyes closed. He could feel his heart race as he pretended to sleep, anticipating the “attack” they’d agreed on. The only person he’d ever told about these get-togethers had said it was dangerous, but he assured them, no, the men came by the desk, there were video recorders everywhere, nothing was going to go wrong.

Kieran stood over Richard, cocking his head and examining the artist’s body. It wasn’t much to look at, he decided. He wondered if Richard tipped the young men who played this game with him. He could use some extra cash and might have to take a gratuity whether it was offered or not. He gently laid his backpack on the floor and stretched the guitar string between his hands.

Something felt off to Richard. He’d expected a giggle, a word of hesitation. He feigned waking up and raised his head, turning to see someone he vaguely recognized, and it was not a beautiful young man come to play.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Kieran may be lame but he was fast and lean. Before any real resistance could be mounted, he jumped on the bed and straddled Morninglight, who was trying to turn over. It all happened so fast. In seconds he was firmly on top of the artist and he’d looped the guitar string over his head. All he had to do then was pull.

“You can’t talk now, can you?” he said to the frantic man trying desperately to throw him off. “No more whispers. No more looks. Who’s looking now? I am!”

Richard Morninglight flailed as best he could, but his attention was divided: his body was trying to buck the man on his back, while his hands were clawing at the metal string around his neck digging deeper and deeper. Nothing more was said; it was all done in a strangely silent tableau, with only the bouncing of the bed to make any noise. Soon it was over, and Kieran hopped off Morninglight just as blood from his nearly severed head began to soak through the sheets and mattress. For a moment he thought of taking the head as a trophy, but it would create problems and complicate what should be a swift, silent exit.

He left the guitar string embedded deep into Morninglight’s neck. He went through the artist’s wallet and took the $263 dollars he found there. And then, just as easily as he had come for the kill, he vanished. Paying no mind to the camera on the hallway ceiling, he was beyond that now. Back down the freight elevator, out the side door, and into the cool Philadelphia night.

Chapter 11

A View of the Cloisters

K
yle hadn’t been
this far uptown in years, not since he was looking around at apartments to buy just before he left his job at TriCore. It had been a whim, really; he knew he would have to take on a stifling mortgage to afford a co-op in Manhattan. He also knew he might not last much longer at the company he’d been with for six years, the last two of them miserable as he went from working for a man he cared about and who treated him well, to working for a group of mid-level managers when his boss was let go who considered him just another pool assistant. The kind of character you’d see in movies from the 1950s, women at typewriters churning out letters for a half dozen bosses who only knew them as outboxes. When Harry was let go, Kyle wanted to go with him, but the man he’d supported with the same kind of devotion he now showed Imogene Landis didn’t land anywhere. A bar stool, Kyle guessed, cursing his bad luck to get old in a workforce that discarded people over fifty. Harry had been a decade older than that, and despite getting a sizable severance package and reassurances he would do just fine, Kyle doubted his boss had what it took to claw his way back in a recession. He never knew, because Harry never told him. As close as they were from 9 to 5, they did not have an off-work relationship. He knew, too, that Harry was a proud man and chose not to keep Kyle informed of his fate. Maybe things had turned out all right, but maybe they hadn’t.

Kyle left the company before he could pursue buying an apartment. It was just as well; he’d called Brooklyn home since moving to New York and he was perfectly happy to stay there. Then he met Danny, and here he was – living near Gramercy Park, in a two-bedroom apartment with a partner and two cats.

This morning Kyle was riding the A train all the way to Inwood, to visit a woman he had never met who might have information for him, but who just as likely might slam the door in his face. Her wife had died recently in a most horrible way, falling from an empty subway platform beneath the wheels of an oncoming train. It had been very late at night and no one had seen what happened. Shiree Leone died as alone as anyone can, her last emotion stark terror as a monstrous train tried to stop, its wheels screeching like some demon from Hell’s basement, drowning out the sound of her screams. Alone, without a single witness, dead with no one to tell her goodbye.

The intercom in front of Shiree’s building didn’t work, so Kyle lingered out front in the small courtyard until someone came out. The woman looked at him with mild suspicion, either pegging him as another harmless middle-aged gay man, or simply not caring enough to ask him why he didn’t have a key. She was bundled up more than was needed on a cool late April morning; she clutched her oversized purse to her side, and even held the door behind her just long enough for Kyle to enter the building with a quick, “Thank you.”

The building was what New Yorkers called pre-war, meaning it was constructed before World War II. These buildings were strong, and often had the kind of detail and ornamentation not found in more recent buildings. Kyle was among the many who loved buildings like this: enormous lobby, high windows, most comprised of dozens of small panes, wide marble stairs for anyone not using the small, creaky elevator, and a fire escape at every landing. He stopped between floors and looked out to see the Cloisters not far away. He stared at the strange and magnificent museum. Built with an endowment from John D. Rockefeller to house his art collection, the Cloisters were designed to resemble a medieval European abbey. Many visitors who happened upon them and didn’t know what they were, assumed they had once been a monastery.

It was a breathtaking view, and Kyle forgot for a moment why he was here. He pulled himself from his thoughts and continued up the stairs to apartment 4J.

He knocked lightly and waited for an answer. When none came, he knocked again, more forcefully.

“Who is it?” he heard a woman’s voice call from inside.

“My name’s Kyle Callahan,” he said. “I’m with the Katherine Pride Gallery.”

He was telling the truth, sort of. He had a show coming up at the gallery and was friends with Kate.

“I don’t believe you,” the woman’s voice said. “You’re a reporter. I don’t fall for this kind of thing. I have nothing more to say.”

Kyle thought for a moment. If she assumed he was a reporter, then he wasn’t the only person who’d been around asking about Shiree Leone’s death.

“I’m really not a reporter,” he said, his face close to the door. “I’m … a friend of a friend of Shiree’s.”

The deadbolt sounded and the door opened a crack, held in place by a chain as a dark-skinned woman with short red hair and piercing brown eyes took measure of this man at her door.

“A friend of a friend,” she said. “So that means you knew Shiree exceedingly well, does it?”

“Well, no. I didn’t know her at all. But I care about how she died. And I am involved with the gallery. She did their last catalog.”

“I know that.”

“I have a show coming up there, and an artist who was part of the last one was killed over the weekend. Stabbed, in Brooklyn. I think it’s not a coincidence. Shiree dying in the subway, I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” the woman said. “But let me point something out to you, Mr. Friend of a Friend. You want me to speak to you about something that has been a profound tragedy for me, yet you’ve not even asked my name.”

Kyle blushed and looked down, as embarrassed as he could remember being. “Yes, you’re right. I’m so sorry. Are you Olive? Olive Washburn?” He had read her name in the news reports.

“Olivette. Please don’t use the diminutive. But I won’t hold it against you. And I could use company for a cup of coffee. That’s as much time as I’ll give you.”

“And that’s as much time as I’ll ask for,” Kyle said, as Olivette Washburn slid the chain back and welcomed this curious, gay, white, intrusive man into her home.

The apartment was cavernous, with high ceilings and arched doorways. Olivette led Kyle into the living room and offered him a seat on the couch. He glanced at a hallway leading back into the apartment and guessed there was at least one bedroom there.

A large black cat sauntered up to Kyle just as Olivette said, “Excuse me,” and headed into the kitchen.

“I’m Kyle,” Kyle said to the animal as it sniffed his hand. Its response told him it would not be remembering his name. The cat turned away, uninterested in the intruder, and hopped up on a brown leather recliner, curled into a ball and eased its head down on its paws.

“That’s Hector,” Olivette called from the kitchen. “Don’t pay him any mind. He won’t pay you any.”

Kyle was looking around at the room, curious at how sparse it was: one maple bookshelf with three shelves given to books, the other two to photographs and knick-knacks. The cat’s recliner and the couch Kyle was sitting on, which felt like a sofa bed. A plaid armchair opposite the recliner, with a coffee table between them. A few framed posters that appeared to be Shiree Leon’s artwork, and a cathode-ray television that looked not to have been used for several years.

Olivette came back in carrying two cups of coffee. Kyle quickly took stock of her again, taken by how lovely she was: short red hair, a flattish face, ebony skin, black hands with nearly pink palms, and eyes that knew she was being examined, knew the difference between a fool and a friend, and that Kyle was neither. She was wearing a red sweater and black jeans, with house slippers in the shape of tigers. She smiled slightly, setting Kyle’s coffee on the narrow coffee table in front of him, then taking her own to the recliner. She shooed the cat away and sat down.

“I’ve told the police everything I know,” she said. “But you’re not the police. So what is it you were wondering?”

“Well,” Kyle said, trying to gather his thoughts. “Do you think it was an accident?”

“They said she jumped, that’s the last I read about my wife’s death.”

“So you were married?”

“No,” she said, smiling again. “We always called ourselves married. One for the revolution, so to speak. I don’t need the state to validate my relationship. Do you? Assuming you have one.”

“I do, I do,” Kyle said. “My partner’s name is Danny. Sometimes I call him my husband …”

“But you think it’s not real until you go to City Hall and get a license. How did we make it the last few thousand years, with our fake relationships? Makes you wonder. Anyway, I’m just being contrary. What were you saying?”

“I got to thinking …”

“After Devin’s death.”

Kyle looked at her, surprised.

“I read the news, too. I don’t watch it. That TV’s a piece of crap and I won’t pay for cable. Shiree only kept it because she said it was an art installation. She was like that.”

Kyle could see the sadness in her eyes, even as she smiled at the thought of her beloved, gone forever.

“I didn’t think anything of it at the time, except how terrible it was,” she said. “But I read the news online and it did seem kind of strange. The whole three-deaths thing.”

“When two celebrities die, a third’s not far behind.”

“Crazy, I know, but I thought if Shiree was one, and this Devin was a second, maybe there would be a third. So I watched for it. But it’s only been two days, there’s still time.” She chuckled at the absurdity of it, then grew serious again. “He was a nice guy, Devin. He and Shiree weren’t close, but she got to know him when she did the catalog for the Pride Gallery show.”

“Well, that’s the connection,” Kyle said. “If there is one, I really don’t know at this point. But if there is, I think the killer may not be finished. You said Shiree and Devin were friends?”

“Not friends, unless you’re someone who thinks a few hundred people on Facebook are your friends when only about three of them really care what happens to you. Friendship used to be meaningful. There I go again … no, they were not friends. They formed a little group, a little bond, while the show was going. Shiree was a shy girl, and it helped her to have someone to talk to at these events. She also had to work with the artists to do the catalog. It was a short-time thing. Show closed, everyone moved on.”

“Not everyone, clearly. If that show is what connects them.”

“Do you think you might be next? Is that what you’re afraid of? I read you’re having an exhibit yourself there this week.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about. I wasn’t involved with the January show, and I don’t have any connection to the Katherine Pride Gallery, aside from being friends with Kate.”

She stared at him, waiting a moment for him to realize what he had just said.

“What?” he asked, then, “Oh my God. Friends with Kate. Is that his list? But she has so many friends, dozens of friends. He can’t be after them all.”

“If it’s about Kate Pride and the gallery, that narrows things down a bit.”

“It is and it’s not,” Kyle said, suddenly sure. “It’s about
that show
.”

“New Visions.”

“Yes, the New Visions show. Something about that show and the people involved.”

Olivette took a moment to weigh her words, caressing her coffee cup. “How well do you know Katherine Pride?” she asked.

Kyle was surprised by the question. “Not terribly well. She’s a friend, and a mentor, of sorts.”

“Yes, a mentor. That she is. She likes to encourage people.”

“Is there something wrong with that?”

Olivette shrugged. “Not if you’re the person she’s encouraging.”

Not if you’re the person she’s encouraging.
It was an enigmatic statement, and one Kyle decided not to question for now. It could have several meanings and he preferred to ponder it rather than pursue it and appear hostile.

“Was there anything different the last few days of Shiree’s life?” he asked. “Anything out of place that either of you noticed?”

“Like the man she said was following her?”

Kyle stared at her.

“She couldn’t prove it. She couldn’t even describe him. It was more a
presence
she felt, the last two, three days before … the fall. The slip. The push. The shove. Take your pick.”

“Did you tell the police?”

“Of course I told the police. But this guy was a phantom. She said he looked familiar, but she couldn’t say how. He wore a hoodie, she couldn’t see his face. It was the way he walked.”

“The way he walked?”

“Like a rooster, she said. Cocky like, but wrong, like he was off balance.”

“Was she close to other people involved with the January show?”

“Nah,” Olivette said, finishing her coffee. “Shiree was a freelancer and a loner, except for me. She did a job and moved on. She got friendly with a circle at the Gallery while it lasted. Devin. This cat named Richard Morninglight, whose real name was probably Jones. These artists can be so full of shit.”

“So you’re not an artist?” Kyle asked.

“No, no. I’m MTA. Transit Authority. I’m a bus driver.”

Kyle suddenly realized how much of our perceptions of others are built from assumptions. He would never have thought Olivette Washburn was a bus driver. He didn’t like making assumptions. Deductions, yes. Intuitive guesses, certainly. But assumptions were not only unfair, but could get you killed.

“I’m going to leave you now,” Kyle said, having gotten what information he could from Olivette.

“You’re on the right track,” she said.

“And what track is that?” Kyle asked, as he slowly stood from the couch.

“That Gallery. That show. Maybe even that woman.”

Maybe even that woman.
Did she have something against Kate Pride, or had Kate Pride wronged her somehow? And if she had, had she wronged a killer as well?

Olivette walked Kyle to the door. The moment she was out of the chair, Hector traded places, hopping up on her chair and curling into a ball on the warm cushion.

As Kyle was about to leave, he pulled a business card from his wallet and handed it to her.

“Japan TV3,” she said, reading the card. “Personal Assistant to Imogene Landis.”

Kyle cringed. He had never liked having that title on his card, but Imogene insisted.

“I dig that chick,” Olivette said. “Saw her on TV at my mother’s house. Did a story about some murders at a gay hotel.”