by John Lutz
“You talked to him?”
“No, I left it on top of the trash basket on the corner. He often rooted through its contents. I put the box right where he could reach it. He was almost always outside the restaurant when we came out. He stayed away until we were gone, like he was afraid to talk to us. Or like he was . . . ”
“Too proud?”
“Maybe.”
“And you never attempted to speak to him?”
“No. Never.” She sounded defensive.
Repetto smiled at her. “You showed him kindness. There’s no reason to think you should have done more. I’m sure he was grateful.”
She bent down and put on her other shoe.
Repetto wanted to make sure of what she was saying. “So Joseph was a fixture in the neighborhood, especially around the restaurant. And he regarded you as a benefactor.”
“I guess he could count on me for food, if that’s what you mean.”
“I do mean that, and it’s something.” Repetto had the information he wanted confirmed. The beggar man was a neighborhood fixture, and was usually outside the restaurant where Tiffany dined. Repetto wondered if the late and un-mourned Joseph DeLong had been in love with Tiffany. Probably, he thought.
He stood up. “I’ll leave you to concentrate on your performance. It’s been a real pleasure, and I’m sure I’ll see you uptown onstage sometime in the near future.”
She handed him back the morgue photos, having looked at only the top one, and with her smile melted him in a way he’d have thought unlikely. “I hope you’re right,” she said. “And I hope whoever killed Joseph ... you find him.”
“We will,” Repetto told her. “You can be sure of it.”
He didn’t tell her she and her beauty and generosity had been the magnetism that had kept Joseph near, and made him predictable prey.
“Good-bye, Detective Repetto.”
He told her good-bye, then almost gave her the traditional Broadway Good luck. “I won’t say it,” he said, pausing at the dressing room door.
She looked puzzled, then grinned. “Oh, that!”
“Your legs are too beautiful.”
Another breathtaking smile. This time with a touch of shyness.
Joseph DeLong hadn’t had a chance.
42
The view from the brick passageway between the leather goods shop and the closed Zippy Dog fast food restaurant remained the same. People passed without glancing into the shadowed passage, and if they did chance a look, all they saw were a few rubber trash containers and a pile of black plastic trash bags that had evaded months of pickup. The bags were old enough to be beyond odor, though a few rats that had scurried away must have scented something of value in them.
What the Night Sniper saw from where he sat, with his back resting against the mound of plastic bags, was the view across the street, into a similar but wider and well-lit passageway. Opening into that passageway was the unmarked steel door that he knew was the stage door of the Bellam Theater. Right now the door was closed flush with the building’s brick side wall. Its flat gray surface was unbroken. It had no knob and could be opened only with a key or from the inside.
Truly, no one sees the homeless, the Sniper reflected, slumped against the pile of trash bags. No one had so much as glanced at him as he’d shuffled down the street and entered the dark and dangerous access.
Before he’d discovered the passageway, he had taken a position on the sidewalk, seated on his folded thin coat, his chipped ceramic cup set out for donations. He had his feebly scrawled AIDS sign out, which not only elicited sympathy but also seemed to repel the police, but hours on the sidewalk had garnered him only a few dollars in his cup.
Not that he cared, sitting there watching New York stream past. His clothes were ragged and artfully stained, but clean against his flesh. They were the only part of his wardrobe he didn’t send out to be cleaned, but washed and dried in his condo’s laundry room off the main bedroom’s bath. He carefully maintained the garments’ threadbare, quasi-soiled condition and was sure they’d pass muster as throwaways even if someone with a trained eye looked closely at him.
Of course, in the evenings he’d spent on the sidewalk across the street from the Bellam Theater, no one had looked closely at him. That was the genius of his disguise. That and the fact that no one who knew him would ever dream he’d be sitting on the sidewalk in such a subservient position, begging.
Seeming to beg.
During the day he worked out of his condo or his Wall Street office, where he’d become one of the most highly regarded money managers in Manhattan. In only a few years he’d made dozens of clients rich, and himself even richer. Now he led the life of an Epicurean in the city made for dissolution, enjoying women, clothes, fine liquors, art collecting, and his secretly acquired gun collection, the basis of which had come to him by way of Adam Strong. He was now a model man, leading a model life of urban sophistication.
But occasionally he glimpsed his younger self on the street, and when he looked in the mirror he sometimes saw the scars and felt the unhealed wounds of the past. And felt the rage.
For a moment he considered using his vantage point as his sniper’s nest. A victim taken from street level. Something new and puzzling for Repetto and his detectives. So difficult for them, in the game that kept changing.
Then he decided the rooftop he’d scouted out and accessed twice, easily, would be the safest course of action, and would almost guarantee his escape. There were unacceptable risks here at street level. People were unpredictable. Coincidence might gain the upper hand. Besides, he couldn’t be sure of the echoing effect of the rifle’s report down low, how difficult it would be to guess its origin.
Play it safe. Take more of what luck has granted you. In everything, it’s imperative that luck and genius be friends and accomplices, so each can alleviate the others’ shortcomings.
He settled deeper into the concealing mound of formless plastic bags. They gave for him, welcoming him, their contents cooperating in his merging with them so he’d be invisible in the shadows. A feeling of power, of control, surged through him. What he attempted, he accomplished.
In the game whose rules he set and employed, and in which his pawns and opponents had no choice but to play, he was fate itself.
He smiled as he continued his watch on the Bellam Theater’s stage door, waiting, accumulating information on his target’s haunts and habits, becoming one with his prey.
She had no idea that her future had been decided, and that it was brief.
Meg sat in the unmarked across the street from Alex’s apartment building. She wasn’t sure why she’d driven here instead of home, but that shouldn’t surprise her, because she had no idea how she really felt about Alex.
She’d received another e-mail from him this morning, imploring her to see him again, this time in an unofficial capacity. She’d caught herself smiling after reading it, and deleted it immediately and left to meet Repetto and Birdy.
Who did Alex think he was? He’d been a cop, and he knew she was a cop. There was no way she should even consider beginning the kind of relationship he obviously had in mind. She also didn’t care for the way he assumed he could push her buttons and she’d respond. Meg figured she’d had her share of that kind of love.
Yet here she was with her motor idling—the car’s motor—and the air conditioner keeping the heat and humidity at a minimum. Meg had figured out which of the windows facing the street were Alex’s, and saw that a light was on inside the apartment’s living room. She was about to look away when a figure passed the windows, moving in a way that, even from this distance, left no doubt it was Alex.
Now she couldn’t drive away. Couldn’t look away. She knew why. She had to find out if he was alone.
An idiot. I’m acting like a jealous idiot. As if he doesn’t have a perfect right to see whoever he chooses.
Five minutes passed, and Meg’s neck was getting stiff from the way she had to sit to stare up at
Alex’s windows.
There he was again! Alone.
But the glimpse wasn’t enough. Meg stayed.
A minute or so later, Alex crossed the windows going the opposite direction. Alone again. Three times. That should be enough even for the most masochistic, jealous fool. And though she’d seen him only briefly each time and hadn’t absorbed detail from this distance, she was sure he was fully dressed.
She looked away, raising an arm and using her right hand to massage the back of her neck, then put the car into drive.
A final glance up as she was about to pull away from the curb stopped her.
Alex had crossed the window again—she was sure it was Alex. And he’d been carrying a long object. A rifle or shotgun?
A crutch? A closed umbrella? A saw?
This is stupid! This is goddamned stupid!
Enough!
She concentrated on the view out the windshield and accelerated away from the curb.
A horn blasted and made her jump when the car had traveled only about ten feet. A cab roared past her with another, abbreviated note of its horn, its driver chastising her with an automotive expletive.
She hadn’t checked the mirror or glanced over her shoulder before pulling out into traffic.
More careful now, remembering to look before stepping down on the accelerator pedal, she joined a string of vehicles that had just been set free by the signal at the corner.
Part of the flow of traffic now, Meg relaxed somewhat.
She was sure she hadn’t seen Alex carrying a rifle.
In retrospect, she couldn’t even be sure she’d been looking at the right window. The man—if it had been a man—carrying the long object might not even have been Alex.
The rest of the drive home she tried to put her mind at ease.
It didn’t work.
“You want the rest of this cinnamon bun?”
Repetto was seated across the table from Meg the next morning, in a maroon-upholstered window booth at the Harrison Diner on First Avenue. The place had a double door to form a kind of air lock, but each time someone entered or exited, a breeze played over his ankles. Since the air conditioner hadn’t yet chased away the heat left over from yesterday, it felt pretty good. The sweet scent of the oversize, overiced bun on his plate dominated even the grilled bacon smell permeating the diner.
“They heated it up,” he added.
Meg silently shook her head no.
Repetto had been studying her since she’d slid into the booth. Her hair wasn’t as neatly combed as usual, and her eyes had a weary, dreamy quality. He had to admit it made her more attractive.
Then it struck him. He knew the look. She was in love. Or something like love.
Not like Meg the terse. Meg the cynical.
A new Meg?
“You seeing someone?” Repetto asked, and took a sip of his coffee. Repetto driving to the point.
She looked sleepily at him. “Seeing—oh, you mean seeing someone.”
“Uh-huh.”
Her face reddened and he knew he’d struck a soft spot. “Does my personal life have something to do with my work?” He could see her confusion. She didn’t know what to say or do, so she feigned anger.
“You know it does.”
“Do I ask you if you’re seeing someone?”
“You can.”
“Are you?”
“No. My wife would kill me.”
Meg noticed the expression on his face didn’t change. What did his words mean? Men were such accomplished deceivers. It was fucking genetic. “Look,” she said, keeping her tone level, “if my personal life starts getting in the way of my job, I’ll let you know.”
“But will you know?”
“Whether I will or won’t, I just told you the way it is.”
Feisty but controlled, letting me know I crossed the line. He stared at her, trusting her. She might be in love or in heat—he knew the signs—but she wasn’t going to let it interfere with the investigation. That was all he should be concerned about and all he needed to know.
Repetto took a sip of coffee and sat back. Who might be her secret love interest? Since they’d teamed up, Meg had spent most of her waking hours with him or with Birdy.
Repetto felt a sudden alarm. Might Meg feel that way about him, Repetto himself?
No. He didn’t think so. Not judging by her reaction to personal questions that maybe he hadn’t had a right to ask.
Birdy?
It was difficult to imagine the fidgety, wary Birdy being involved in a secret extramarital affair with Meg. Nobody Repetto knew was more married than Birdy. Besides, he and Meg both knew the rules. They both knew what this investigation meant.
No, not Birdy.
But Repetto had seen unlikely relationships develop between seemingly incompatible partners on the Job. He knew how sex and love could turn people into ... other people.
He used the back of his forefinger to nudge his plate toward Meg. “You sure you don’t want the rest of this cinnamon bun? They’re really good. I’m just not hungry.”
“No means no,” she said, not smiling.
There was no part of that Repetto didn’t understand.
On the roof of the Myler Building, high enough above the turmoil of the Times Square area that it seemed isolated, the Night Sniper shifted his weight, achieving comfort and balance. The rare Azner Line Premium rifle was assembled, its scope adjusted, and it now rested against his thigh.
A cloud passed over the moon, then moved on quickly in a light-hazed night sky. A warning to the wise. This one would be an easy shot, so he mustn’t let himself become complacent.
He felt confident, though. Even smug. He remained a step ahead of Repetto and his team.
Where they might assume he’d leave his next note, was where they would, in fact, find his next victim.
Too late.
The entire audience in the Bellam Theater rose to its feet, applauding, shouting approval, exhorting the cast to come back onstage for yet another curtain call.
The cast obliged. The star of the hit Broadway musical American Cat Burglar in London, Libby Newland, was center stage, hands joined with the cast members on either side of her. She was smiling big and meaning it.
This was the way every performance of Burglar ended, with what in these uneasy times was a good house, more than half the seats sold, everyone on their feet and applauding. But Libby knew that financially the play was struggling to stay in the black. What a hit it would have been if the Night Sniper creep wasn’t out there somewhere, scaring the hell out of everyone as soon as the sun went down, holding people prisoner where they lived, or making them simply decide not to drive into the city after dark. Even Libby had to admit it wasn’t worth the risk, though she never shared that thought. She didn’t think you should let other people tell you how to live, especially people with guns. She hated guns.
The cast gave a final bow from the waist, then jogged offstage in a way that made it clear they were spent from the performance, but still spirited. Some of them waved their appreciation of the audience’s response, or maybe of the audience’s courage in attending the theater.
As the houselights came up, the audience, smiling and making favorable comments, began filing toward the aisles and exits.
“Another one down,” Libby’s leading man, Victor Tobin, said, as she made her way to her dressing room. He was a tall man with generous actor’s instincts and ever-present Listerine breath. Vic was a little short in the voice department but could dance like Najinsky. He was, more than anything, a pro. Libby thought sharing the stage with him was a pleasure.
“It’d be nice to play to full houses,” she said, stopping for a moment to let two black-clad stagehands pass with a plywood prop.
“It seems odd,” Tobin said beside her, “to be playing to full-house matinees and half-house evening audiences.”
“Night Sniper asshole,” Libby said, by way of explanation. She opened her dressing room door.
&n
bsp; Tobin grinned. “Dead on, Lib.” He bent down and gave her a peck on the cheek before moving on.
As soon as she was alone in her dressing room, Libby got a chilled bottle of carbonated water from the tiny refrigerator and downed half of it. It was too warm in the room, so she switched on the floor fan in the corner, wishing these old theaters would work on their air-conditioning.
There were three knocks on the door; then it opened and Beth from wardrobe entered.
The play had run long enough that there was no need for words between the two women. Their actions after each performance had become routine. The elderly, saturnine Beth helped Libby out of the tight black Lycra costume she’d worn in the closing dance number, then draped it over a padded hanger on the metal rack against the wall. After taking a few garments from the rack that needed cleaning or sewing, she waited to see if Libby required anything more.
Libby glanced around, smiled, and shook her head no, and Beth withdrew to help someone else with awkwardly placed Velcro or zippers.
Leaving the door open a crack to facilitate the flow of air from the fan, Libby sat down before her lighted mirror and looked at herself, the ultimate London cat burglar. Elfin, mischievous, even feline.
Anyone would pick me out of a lineup as a cat burglar. Maybe I missed my calling.
Nobody in the theater world would agree with that last part.
Time to disassemble the cat burglar. Libby carefully removed her wig and placed it on its form for Beth to comb tomorrow morning. Since the shedding of the Lycra dance costume, Libby was wearing only panties, no bra, and decided to stay that way to remain cool while she removed her makeup.
The door opened all the way and a male dancer named Edmund stuck his head in. “Oops! Wrong room,” he said. “Sorry.”
“You don’t seem sorry,” Libby said, smiling as the young man closed the door.
When she was in her street clothes, her dark, short-cropped hair a charming mess, she put on an ankle-length light raincoat, tinted glasses, and a jaunty denim cap. She had an appointment to meet her agent and a TV producer in Marteen’s Lounge, where they would have a few drinks and talk over a possible television series based on the success of Burglar.