by John Lutz
Perfection.
The Night Sniper worshipped perfection.
And he’d found the perfect sniper’s nest, high enough to be unnoticeable from the street during the few seconds he’d be sighting in and vulnerable. Low enough so the angle of his shot was a good one. He had an unobstructed view of the corner of East Fifty-second and Park Avenue, and the entrance to the Four Seasons. The night was clear, and even on the rooftop the breeze was no more than a velvety caress of his bare wrists. Perfect.
His wrists had always been sensitive to even the slightest movement of air, which is why he always shot with his sleeves turned up.
They weren’t turned up now, because he had plenty of time. He glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. He was wearing his Tag Heuer chronograph tonight. It kept perfect time, and it indicated precisely fourteen minutes before 8:30.
Approximately fourteen more minutes for his target to live.
And counting.
Jason had fallen in love with a scaled-down radio-controlled model of the red Ferrari Formula One race car driven by his hero, Michael Schumaker. Kelli knew it probably cost more than Warren would have approved of on the spot, but since it was for Jason and it was a fait accompli, he wouldn’t be upset. The agreement between Jason and his mother was that Jason would carry the car, and it would remain in the box until they boarded the Dream Waver.
He didn’t have to carry the car far, because three cabs were lined up outside the toy store. No doubt the drivers knew that almost every adult who entered the store with a child would emerge with at least one bag or package. Pay or schlep.
When she bent over and climbed into the back of the cab after Jason, Kelli noticed the dashboard clock. Ten minutes past eight. They might get to Four Seasons before Warren, but that was okay. They could have something cold to drink while they waited for him, water or Sprite for Jason, a Bloody Mary for Kelli.
As the cab pulled slowly away from the curb, then lurched slightly as the driver nosed into the flow of traffic and accelerated, Kelli smiled.
Usually Warren chided her about arriving late for restaurant dates.
Not this time.
Repetto, Lora, and Zoe were halfway through their drinks, which were in oversize martini glasses. They were in the Campbell Apartment in Grand Central Station, a plush, secluded bar specializing in creative drinks. Repetto had ordered a regular gin martini. Lora and Zoe had drinks with chunks of fruit on toothpicks in them. Repetto had been here before and liked the ambience, lots of rich wood paneling, soft light, and a patina of wealth and excellence from a time when railroads ruled. Chairs comfortable enough to sleep in were arranged around low, generous tables where conversation came easily for lovers or various other kinds of people on the make. However, the conversation around this table had been strained, probably mostly because of Repetto. He’d been quieter than usual, wondering where the evening was going. He knew there was a reason Lora had pushed for this meeting with Zoe.
It was Zoe who’d chosen the place they were to meet. Through Lora, she was having too much influence on the Night Sniper case. And surely the case was the reason they were here. He thought he might as well be the first to mention the subject.
“Are you still sure our killer won’t shoot a child?” he asked, sipping his martini. He studied Zoe as he sipped. She seemed relieved that she hadn’t had to broach the subject. Lora was looking warningly at Repetto.
“Still am,” Zoe said. “He’s simply not a child killer. Or if he is, he breaks the pattern.”
“New patterns are made all the time,” Repetto said.
“No, not often.” Zoe reached for her stemmed glass and almost drained what was left in one long series of swallows. She’d gotten here before them; Repetto suspected it was her second drink. Did she need nerve for this conversation? “Serial killers are trapped in patterns along with their victims.”
“Profilers can be trapped in patterns along with serial killers.”
Zoe smiled to show him she wasn’t perturbed. “Along with cops.”
Repetto could have cut rope with the look Lora gave him.
Zoe hadn’t taken her eyes off Repetto. “I wanted to talk to you about another aspect of the case.”
“Another insight into the killer?”
“Into his motive.”
“Well,” Repetto said, “that’s the heart of it.” More speculation. “But remember, if we’re a few degrees off when we sail, we could wind up on another continent.”
“What does that mean?” Lora asked.
Zoe looked at her and smiled. “Your husband’s telling me to be careful with my assumptions. And it’s good advice.” She again focused her attention on Repetto. “It occurred to me there was something interesting about the crime scenes and the victims. The murders all occurred in different parts of town, and to a variety of people. The victims seem to have had absolutely nothing in common, and that in itself is unusual.”
She did have Repetto’s interest. “You think the shootings aren’t random?” he asked.
“They might not be at all random. The shooter never happened to kill . . . say, two unemployed men, or two recently engaged women, or two garage mechanics or insurance salesmen or whatever. Isn’t that worth noting?”
Repetto thought about it. “I’m not sure.”
“There is some coincidence in the world,” Lora said.
Repetto looked from one woman to the other. “I assume you two have talked this over.”
They both nodded.
“The victims are representative,” Zoe said.
“Of what?”
“Different worlds,” Lora said, “but all clustered together here in New York. So, in a sense, one world.”
Repetto stared at her, trying to figure out exactly what she’d said.
“The victims are various ages, races, and stations in life,” Zoe said, “composing a diverse cross section of people living, working, or visiting New York City. And they were shot in different neighborhoods. It’s as if the sniper wants to stop tourism and local commerce, as if he has a grudge against the city.” She played with the stem of her martini glass. “Viewed in that light, the murders fit the pattern of revenge killings.”
Repetto sat back in soft, padded leather. “It’s a possibility, if the killer hates everyone enough to kill them.”
Lora smiled.
Zoe didn’t change expression. “Just almost everyone—the people who represent the city’s makeup. He’s attacking, in his own way, the city itself.”
“You really believe that?”
“I believe it enough to press.”
At least she was being honest. “What exactly do you want?” Repetto asked, getting to what he knew was the real reason for this friendly meeting over drinks.
“For you to take the theory to Assistant Chief Melbourne. Get him to use his authority to open confidential city records so we can search for anyone who might have a grudge against New York City.”
“That’d be half the goddamn country,” Repetto said.
“You know what she means,” Lora said, throwing in with the enemy. “Personnel files.”
Zoe leaned forward. “We need to find out about seriously disgruntled employees, but just as importantly, former employees. People who left under the worst circumstances, and carrying a load of acrimony.”
“You’re asking for a lot of time,” Repetto said. “A lot of work hours.”
“It might be worth it,” Lora said.
“What about Zoe’s previous theory that the killer’s insisting on game playing, so we should concentrate on that aspect of his personality?” He was asking Lora, not Zoe. Lora the turncoat.
“It could still be true,” Lora said. “So could this theory.”
“It could also be true that the Sniper might start killing children.”
“The two theories could coexist,” Zoe admitted. “We’re talking about probabilities.”
“You are. I deal in hard facts, then put them together to mak
e an arrest that’ll stick in court.”
“I’m suggesting a way to get at the facts,” Zoe said.
Repetto finished his drink and signaled the waiter for another.
“Better go easy,” Lora said, touching the back of his hand. “I love you and don’t want to have to wrestle the car keys from you.”
Repetto had to smile. What chance did he have?
“Okay,” he said, “I’ll talk to Melbourne and see what he thinks about raiding the department’s confidential personnel files.”
“Not just the NYPD files,” Zoe said.
Repetto waved a hand like a surrender flag. “I know, I know. . . .”
Zoe grinned. Lora sighed with satisfaction. She was a woman who reveled in manipulating and outmaneuvering her mate. Or was that all women?
Zoe said, “Thanks,” looking at Repetto. Then she glanced at her watch. “Almost eight-thirty. I’ve gotta meet somebody at nine for drinks on the other side of town.” She dug some bills from her purse and laid them on the table to pay her part of the check. “You two stay and finish your coffee.” She stood up.
“A date?” Lora asked.
“A date,” Zoe confirmed.
That didn’t sound right to Repetto. He never imagined Zoe with any kind of social life, though she was single and certainly attractive. There was probably a lot about Zoe he didn’t know.
Zoe nodded good night to Repetto, then leaned toward Lora. Repetto thought she was going to peck her on the cheek. Instead he heard her whisper, “Your husband’s a hardhead, but he’s actually quite nice.”
She didn’t look back at them as she walked away. However many drinks she’d had, she was moving in a straight line and with a hip switch and grace that could only be called sexy.
“A seductive redhead,” Lora said, probably reading Repetto’s mind. “I’ve sometimes thought of dying my hair red.”
“What did she just whisper to you?” Repetto asked his wife, refusing to be distracted by her diversion.
“You know what. You overheard. I was watching and could tell by your expression.” Lora rested her hand on Repetto’s arm. “I’m proud of you. You handled that well.”
“Well, I handled it,” Repetto said.
24
It was almost 8:30, and the cab was caught in stop-and-go traffic on East Fifty-second Street. Kelli was sure that getting out and walking would get them to Four Seasons earlier than if they stayed in the cab and gained ground ten feet at a time. Besides, Jason was beginning to fidget, his fingers absently working on the box containing his new radio-controlled car. No doubt he was thinking that Michael Schumacker in his red Ferrari race car would figure out a way to roar through or around this traffic.
“We’ll get out here,” Kelli told the driver, as the cab rolled forward a few feet, then lurched to a stop inches from the rear bumper of the car ahead.
“We’re almost there, lady. Another block.”
“Here’ll do fine,” Kelli said, digging in her purse. She handed the driver a ten-dollar bill and told him to keep the change.
She climbed out of the cab first, standing holding the door open while Jason slid across the backseat and scampered out, still tightly gripping the box from the toy store. Heat was rolling out from under the cab, warming her ankles, reinforcing her decision to leave the cab now; the vehicle could overheat if traffic didn’t start to move soon.
Kelli made sure Jason was clear, then shut the cab door and stepped up on the curb. They began walking the block and a half to the restaurant. After sitting cramped in the cab for so long, it felt good to Kelli to be stretching her muscles. She really should exercise more. She’d been slacking off lately, skipping some of her scheduled workouts. Her chiropractor had given her a large inflatable ball to use for low-impact exercises. It made working out seem like play and might help her resolve.
They were standing on the corner with a man and three women, waiting for the signal to change so they could cross Park, when Kelli released Jason’s hand and touched her chest high between her breasts. She’d felt a sudden, sharp pain and was having difficulty breathing.
Heart attack?
Not in my family.
The light changed to WALK and the people around her began crossing the street. Someone behind bumped her hip as they danced around her, a large woman in a hurry and not slowing down or saying excuse me.
“Mom?”
Jason. Why did he sound so far away?
She started to look down at him and noticed the bright red on her soft brown mink jacket.
What on earth ... ?
“Mom?”
Kelly touched the red brilliance and stared at her stained fingers when she withdrew her hand from the wet fur.
Blood?
“Mom?”
Blood?
Before she could figure it out, she was dead on the sidewalk.
“A vendetta against the city?” Meg said, when Repetto called and told her about Zoe’s revenge theory. It was almost nine o’clock. The windows were black mirrors. She’d been dozing when the phone rang. Now she was sitting on the edge of the sofa, clutching the receiver and watching on TV a man in a dark suit, a vaguely familiar political pundit, frowning fiercely and waving his arms behind the yellow letters MUTE.
“That’s the angle we’re going to start working tomorrow,” Repetto said. “Disgruntled former city employees.”
Meg tried to shake off her sleepiness. “If Melbourne goes for it.”
“Melbourne will go.” Repetto was at his desk in his study, thinking about smoking a cigar, thinking maybe he shouldn’t. Things were going more smoothly with Lora now that he’d agreed to lay out Zoe’s theory to Melbourne and request additional help.
“There must be a lot of disgruntled former city employees,” Meg said. “Just cops alone . . .”
“Not a lot of them with the makeup of a serial killer.”
“How we gonna know we’re looking at that makeup if we come across it?”
“There’s the question.”
“You think there’s actually anything to it?” Meg asked. “The revenge motive?”
“Might be. There’s enough to it that Melbourne will have to cover his ass and send us searching.”
“Seems like a fuckin’ waste of time,” Meg said, thinking about a disgruntled former city employee with the skills and makeup of a long-distance killer. Comes back to Alex.
“It’s what profilers do.”
There was a god-awful taste in Meg’s mouth. She ran her tongue over her lips and teeth and made a face. She’d fallen asleep too early and would have a restless night. Nothing to read. Nothing on TV but the same news over and over, the same conversations about the same subjects, sandwiched between the same commercials. That was the news: everything’s going to hell in the same way.
“Wait a minute,” Repetto said. “My cell phone’s ringing.”
Meg could hear it faintly in the receiver. Repetto’s phone wasn’t ringing, it was chiming, the first seven or eight notes of a tune she couldn’t quite place. Some kind of march. Figures. Repetto must have pressed a button and the musical alert stopped.
Now Meg could hear him talking on the other phone but couldn’t make out what he was saying.
A few minutes later he was back on the line with her. “That was Melbourne. Another Night Sniper victim. A woman. Shot on East Fifty-second near Park.”
“Melbourne say it was our guy?”
“No,” Repetto said, “but it was. Can’t you feel it?”
Strangely enough, she could.
Kelli Wilson’s body was lying beneath a black rubberized tarp large enough to cover most of the bloodstain. Something on the order of a hundred people were crowding the yellow crime scene tape, staring at the lumpy black material. Repetto thought there would have been more if the streets in this area were as traveled as usual.
He elbowed his way through the crowd, past a uniform who recognized him and nodded deadpan, big man in his forties, with a receding chin a
nd droopy eyelids. Meg and Birdy followed in Repetto’s wake. An assistant ME Repetto knew, a tall, husky woman named Charlize, was standing with her fists on her hips, talking with a couple of white-uniformed EMS attendants. About ten feet from them, a female uniform was down on one knee, obviously consoling a dark-eyed boy about ten who was in apparent shock.
Repetto prayed the dead woman wasn’t the boy’s mother.
Charlize left the EMS guys and walked over. She cocked her head briefly toward the boy. “His mother’s the one on the sidewalk.”
“I was afraid of that,” Repetto said.
The uniform who’d recognized Repetto joined them. “I’m Calvin. Me and my partner Len were first on the scene.”
“What do you know?” Repetto asked, making sure Meg and Birdy were within earshot.
Calvin gave them the woman’s name, along with the name of her son. “The kid says he and Mom were on the way to meet hubby at Four Seasons.”
“They almost made it,” Meg said.
“They were gonna have dinner, then spend the night on their boat.”
Repetto glanced at him. “Boat?”
Calvin shrugged. “So the kid said. It’s supposed to be docked at the Seventy-ninth Street Basin.”
“Hubby hasn’t arrived?”
“Not yet. Len’s at the restaurant waiting to intercept him, then bring him here so he can get the bad news.”
Birdy looked at his watch. “Hubby’s late, or the vic and her son were half an hour early.”
“I’d guess he’s late,” Calvin said. “While the ME was examining the body, the dead woman’s cell phone in her purse started to ring. By the time we got to it, the ringing had stopped.”
Meg must have known what Repetto was thinking. “The killer wouldn’t call,” she said.