Fear the Night

by John Lutz

  A dusty cab roared past. Its driver ignored Evans’s wave. Evans hadn’t seen a passenger in the back of the cab. He felt a tingle of anger.

  New York. Get used to it.

  Another cab without a passenger sped past. This time the driver glanced over at Evans but didn’t stop.

  What is it, the roof light’s on when they have a fare or a call, or is it off? Bastards probably don’t bother with it anyway.

  The light changed at the corner, and a cab in the far lane darted out ahead of the accelerating traffic and crossed in front of it at an angle, speeding toward Evans and his wife. The driver must have seen them waving for the other cab. This cab drew a few angry horn blasts as it veered toward the curb to pick them up, then coasted smoothly to a stop alongside where they were standing.

  Evans opened the back door and stepped back for Venus to enter first.

  She got into the cramped space, smelling leather and some kind of cologne or perfume from the previous passenger. The driver had classical music playing softly, a piano concerto, and it was warm in the cab.

  Venus worked herself across the slick seat to give Ralph room.

  He had one foot in the cab and was lowering himself to slide across the seat toward her, when she heard him grunt. Almost at the same time there was what sounded like a crack of thunder, but she couldn’t tell where it had come from, the way it echoed. People on the sidewalks seemed to stop or break stride, and the cabdriver hunkered down on the other side of the clear panel that separated him from his passengers.

  Ralph removed his shiny black shoe from the cab and she thought he was going to stand up straight so he could see what had made the noise. Instead he slumped down and fell forward so the upper part of his body was inside the cab, the lower half in the gutter. His head was in Venus’s lap, turned so she could see his face. He looked puzzled and scared.

  “Ralph . . . ?” she heard herself say. Something dark and heavy weighted his name and made it difficult to forge into sound.

  “Ralph?”

  He tried to answer, but when he opened his mouth blood gushed out.

  Venus began screaming his name over and over.

  The Night Sniper thought at first he might have missed, and his target would climb into the cab and be driven away.

  Then the target seemed to change his mind about getting into the cab with the woman. He removed the one foot he’d put inside and started to straighten up; then he bent forward and almost dived back into the cab, leaving his lower body outside the vehicle. The Night Sniper could tell by the way the target’s legs shuffled, as if he were dreaming of walking, then were still in an awkward, splayed position, that his bullet had found its mark.

  The target was dead.

  The Night Sniper had seen enough. He was satisfied. He backed away from the parapet and the steel framework supporting the billboard. It took him only a second to find the expelled brass casing and slip it into a pocket.

  Moving with practiced precision and speed, he disassembled the rifle and fit stock and barrel into his backpack. He was still zipping the pack closed as he strode across the roof toward the service door.

  He opened the door, then removed the rectangle of tape he’d used to block the spring lock.

  The heavy door closed itself silently behind him, as he worked his arms through the pack’s thick straps and wrestled its familiar bulk onto his back.

  He made it to the lobby unseen, and few people glanced at him as he stepped out into the street. Those who did glance would wonder what such a person was doing in the lobby; then they would forget him almost instantly, reject him.

  As he strode along the sidewalk, the people around him seemed slowed and erratic in their movements. Frightened.

  Not wanting to be noticeable, he made himself slow to below their speed and assumed his unsteady, shuffling gait.

  Sirens were wailing now, yodeling through the backed-up traffic. They didn’t bother the Night Sniper. The vehicles sounding the sirens were making their way toward the commotion down the block, where blinking and dancing red and blue lights dashed formless, flickering shapes against the buildings.

  Behind him.

  14

  Meg stood with Repetto and Birdy on West Forty-fourth Street, near the stain remaining on the sidewalk where Ralph Evans’s body had lain after it was dragged from the cab. Traffic slowed as it passed and drivers glanced over at the scene.

  They knew. It was obvious from their expressions. Less than an hour had passed since it had happened, and already what promised to be the latest Night Sniper murder was on the news. There were still several reporters and a cable TV camera crew milling around behind the police cordon. One of the journalists, an on-camera, handsome guy Meg recognized because of his cleft chin and million-dollar haircut, caught her eye, grinned, and beckoned her over, knowing she wouldn’t fall for it.

  Venus Evans’s story had been straightforward and simple: her husband was getting into the cab when he grunted and then collapsed half in and half out of the vehicle. She was back at her hotel now, being comforted by her other traveling companions.

  It was apparent that the Night Sniper had struck, so when the shot was fired no one assumed Evans had suffered a heart attack or some other sudden illness. Instead of good Samaritans rushing to his aid, everyone remained hunkered down, fearing a second shot, or had disappeared into shops or doorways. Only Venus and the cabbie remained near Evans, Venus screaming for help while the cabbie pulled Evans from the taxi and laid him on the sidewalk. The cabbie was ex-military and knew immediately that Evans was dead.

  “Doesn’t look like there are as many people on the streets as there should be,” Birdy said, glancing around.

  Meg looked up and down the block and thought he was right. “Murder will do that, I guess.” But the ambulance had left only fifteen minutes ago with Evans’s body, and she knew the theater district, the city, would soon return to normal. Normal considering there was a serial killer at large, randomly taking lives.

  Birdy buttoned his suit coat so the breeze wouldn’t cause it to flap open and reveal his holstered 9mm. “He’s like the Grim Reaper. I mean, he could harvest anyone at any time.”

  “Very biblical,” Meg said.

  “Where do you suppose the Grim Reaper concealed himself this time when he swung his scythe?” Repetto asked. He’d been figuring how the bullet must have entered Evans. It was difficult to judge the angle of the shot, since the cabbie had dragged the body from his taxi.

  “What witnesses we have all give the same story,” Birdy said. “There was the sound of the shot, echoing all over the place, and they ducked down or got to cover. When a few minutes passed, they poked their heads up and some of them heard Mrs. Evans screaming and saw Evans on the sidewalk with the cabbie standing over him.”

  Repetto had talked briefly to Venus Evans, who was in shock now that she’d come down from her hysteria. The Ohio couple who’d traveled to New York with the Evanses related how the four of them had come to the city, and told about the coin toss and that Ralph and Venus were on their way to TKTS to buy show tickets.

  It all had the ring of truth, Repetto thought. The shooting happened on the shortest route from the hotel to TKTS. Venus, wearing high heels and unused to so much walking, had talked her husband into hailing a cab.

  The cab hadn’t moved from where it was when Evans had been shot. Repetto stepped closer to it, opened its back door as it must have been when Evans was killed, and looked up and around him.

  Meg knew what he was thinking and said, “It’s impossible even to guess where the bastard was when he squeezed the trigger.”

  “We don’t even know if it was the same bastard,” Repetto said.

  Meg hadn’t considered that possibility.

  Repetto looked at her, smiling slightly so she wouldn’t feel she was back in the academy. “We won’t take anything for granted. We won’t guess.”

  “We won’t,” Meg said.

  “Nearest I can figure it�
�not a guess, a calculation—is with what we know from the direction of the shot, it could have come from any of those buildings.”

  Meg and Birdy looked down the block in the direction Repetto was pointing.

  “I count nine buildings and something like three hundred windows.”

  Repetto nodded. “And nine rooftops.”

  “Gonna take legwork,” Birdy remarked.

  “For lots of legs,” Meg said.

  “I’ll contact Melbourne,” Repetto said, “and get him to assign some uniforms to help us try to find the origin of the shot.”

  Birdy was still staring down the block. “All those buildings, but the shot had to come from somewhere. If there’s a shell casing, there’s no reason it can’t be found.”

  “Like Jimmy Hoffa,” Meg said.

  “Or the Titanic,” Birdy said. “They found the Titanic.”

  Meg thought of pointing out to him that the Titanic was considerably larger than a shell casing, or any other clue the Night Sniper might have left behind, but she glanced at Repetto and figured it was wiser to let Birdy top her this time.

  This time.

  “Admirable,” Repetto said, as they were climbing into the unmarked to call for more uniforms and begin the canvassing process.

  Meg knew what he meant.

  Melbourne got them half a dozen uniforms, and along with Repetto, Meg, and Birdy they worked the suspect buildings until ten that evening. They learned nothing from interviews or from entering and examining vacant apartments or offices with a view down the avenue. Just before they quit for the night, Repetto’s cell phone chirped and he got word from the lab that the bullet removed from Ralph Evans was a 7mm, and its markings matched those of similar slugs removed from previous Night Sniper murders.

  Repetto relayed the news before dismissing everyone. Nobody seemed surprised.

  “I know this looks almost hopeless, but we have to try for the information while the crime’s fresh. Tomorrow morning we’ll take up where we left off. It’ll be light out and we can examine the rooftops.”

  One of the uniforms rolled his eyes and looked like he was about to say something, then glanced at Repetto and remained silent.

  When they dropped her off outside her apartment half an hour later, Meg wondered if she’d be able to climb out of bed tomorrow morning, or if she’d be as dead as Ralph Evans.

  But she did make it out of bed, and three cups of strong coffee revitalized her enough to help in the continued canvassing and examination of the buildings along West Forty-fourth near where Evans was killed.

  A little after ten, they got word that a uniform had maybe found something on the roof of a building a block away from the crime scene.

  Repetto walked the short distance to the building. An ancient brass plaque to the left of the entrance said it was THE BERMINGALE ARMS. When he entered, he found it wasn’t as grand as its name and probably never had been.

  He crossed the barren tiled lobby and took the elevator to the top floor. At the end of the hall, he found the service door to the roof.

  The door was already open, wedged at the bottom by a black leather-bound tablet Repetto recognized as a cop’s notebook.

  He also recognized the uniform who greeted him on the roof. Officer Nancy Weaver, who’d been a homicide detective second grade before she was demoted last year for sleeping with an uptown sergeant who’d been kicked off the NYPD for also sleeping with the wife of a drug dealer, giving the dealer wide latitude. Weaver hadn’t been involved in the drug trade and remained a cop, but she was in uniform again. Repetto knew she was a good cop who slept around with other cops, which would have been okay, only she slept with cops without rank.

  Weaver also recognized Repetto. She smiled and nodded to him. She was an attractive brunette with a certain look in her eye that drew the wrong kind of man. Over and over. Repetto knew she’d been married to the right kind, a guy named Joe, who finally got tired of her shenanigans and ran away with a woman who’d been runner-up in a Miss Portugal competition. He heard it made Weaver mad if you spoke Portuguese around her. No problem.

  The breeze was strong on the roof, causing a lock of dark hair that had escaped from beneath Weaver’s cap to do a dance on her forehead. Repetto thought it must tickle, but she seemed unaware of it.

  “What’ve you got?” he asked.

  “The door,” Weaver said. “I didn’t have anything other’n my notepad to wedge it open.”

  Repetto’s gaze went to the small wooden wedge lying nearby on the roof. It looked like it had been there for a long time. “What about that?”

  “Didn’t want to touch it.”

  Repetto nodded.

  “But I don’t think it was used so somebody could get back in off the roof,” Weaver added. “The door’s the kind that locks automatically if you let it close. It’d trap you out here. But look at the latch.”

  Repetto did, and saw a faint rectangle. He touched a corner of it gently with the back of a knuckle. “Sticky.”

  “That’s what I thought. It looks to me like tape was put there to keep the door from clicking locked. That way it wouldn’t be wedged open and maybe attract attention. Then, when whoever was up here left, they removed the tape. Could be they left a fingerprint.”

  “More likely a glove print.”

  Weaver smiled again and nodded. “Our guy’s smart, isn’t he?”

  “Smart and evil go together all too often,” Repetto said. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, sir. I found where the shooter mighta sat or kneeled.”

  “Got an ejected shell casing?”

  “Never that lucky,” Weaver said over her shoulder, as she led Repetto toward where a billboard was mounted near the roof’s edge. “He had a good view from there,” she said. “Mighta fired through an opening in that rusty iron support gizmo. There’s a clear shot to where Evans was killed, and look how the gravel’s been disturbed.”

  Repetto looked. Weaver was right. The gravel that wasn’t embedded in the blacktop roof appeared to have been recently shifted around, perhaps by someone finding a comfortable shooting position.

  “Of course,” Weaver added, “we can’t be sure.”

  “True,” Repetto said, “but it’s something.”

  He went back to the service door and looked again where the door frame might have been taped so the spring latch couldn’t protrude and do its job. “I’ll get the techs to look at this,” he said. “Nice work. Keep an eye on the scene and don’t let anybody else up here.”

  “Yes, sir.” Weaver was staring at him, her head cocked to one side, the wind whipping the errant lock of hair.

  “You look good in uniform,” Repetto said, “but you look even better in plainclothes. I’ll see you get credit for finding this.”

  As he exited the roof, Weaver gave him her biggest smile.

  By that afternoon they had the lab information. There were no discernible foot- or handprints on the disturbed roof surface or on any part of the billboard or its support frame. The service door’s lock had been blocked at some point with a common brand of duct tape, but the only print on the doorjamb near the tape’s adhesive residue was a partial finger, wearing a rubber or latex glove. The small wooden wedge yielded nothing other than that it was pine and didn’t figure in the investigation.

  There was no way to prove it, but Repetto was reasonably sure they’d found the killer’s shooting position.

  He got Meg and Birdy, and with three uniforms they concentrated their efforts on the building’s tenants.

  No one remembered seeing anything unusual. Most had heard the echoing sound of the shot, but they weren’t sure what it was and weren’t concerned. Obviously it had come from outside the building. They were polite but seemed impatient for the police to finish with them and leave.

  When they were back on the sidewalk, Repetto said, “Nobody in the Bermingale Arms can see or hear.”

  “He came and went like a ghost,” Birdy said.

  Like the Grim Rea
per, Meg thought.

  15

  New York, 1989

  Joel Vanya swung himself up onto the back of the trash hauler and watched the fog of his breath stream out into the crisp winter air. The compactor roared and whined on the truck’s bed, the sound so many New Yorkers woke up to in the morning. Joel sometimes added to the din by banging metal trash cans, but they were becoming scarce, what with all the plastic containers and trash bags.

  Recycling, Joel thought. What a pain in the ass that is.

  He glanced around. This was a nice block, rich people still sleeping in, hours after he’d had to drag himself out of bed and into work. He wished he had some metal to bang now, maybe a pair of trash can lids he could use as cymbals. Wake up the rich snobs, let them know he had some control over their lives. Even things out. One thing Joel was sure of was that the world was rigged; once you were born down, or knocked down, everyone higher on the dung pile wanted to keep you down.

  With a roar, the truck lurched forward, rolled about fifty feet farther down the Lower West Side street, then hissed to a stop. Sal Vestamalo, the driver, dressed as warmly as Joel against the winter cold, opened the door and lowered himself to the street. A big man with a salt-and-pepper beard that seemed always to be crusted with frozen saliva or mucus, he swaggered around the front of the truck to start picking up the trash there, while Joel dropped back down to the street and headed for the mushroomed black trash bags piled at the curb behind the truck. It was a process they repeated, over and over, somewhere in the city almost every morning.

  Joel had long ago decided this was a shit job even when the weather was good, but now he had seniority and no other marketable skills, so he couldn’t afford to leave the Department of Sanitation. He was stuck working for the city. He didn’t enjoy his work. The truth was, more and more, he didn’t enjoy much of anything.