by John Lutz
Libby was sure nothing would come of the idea, but she knew this was the way it went in her business. Meet someone over drinks or food, then listen, talk, listen, forget it, take a phone call six months later, and you had work. The acting life. She loved it, and finally it was starting to love her back.
She adjusted the angle of the denim cap that made her look sixteen and as if she should be hawking newspapers, then lowered the dark glasses on her nose so she could peer over the tops of the frames at her image in the mirror.
Nothing left of the cat burglar.
“Good to go,” she said to herself, then left the dressing room and made her way to the glowing red exit sign, saying good night to people as she went. She was sure no one would recognize her on the street when she left by the stage door on the side of the theater.
She was wrong.
After closing the heavy steel door behind her, she turned around and felt a terrible pain in her chest. Her thoughts went flying. Her heart began a wild hammering.
Beyond the mouth of the passageway, almost everyone dropped flat or sought cover at the crack of the shot Libby had barely heard in her sudden shock. She felt dizzy, completely . . . disoriented. She heard someone whimper—probably me—and with a dancer’s grace she sat down cross-legged on the hard concrete.
Libby lost her grip on time and didn’t know how much of it had passed. Her heartbeat was deafening and becoming more irregular, and that terrified her. She was only about ten feet back from the sidewalk and tried to call for help, but she could make no sound other than the soft whimpering.
Several minutes had passed since the echoing report of the rifle, and out on the street and sidewalk people were beginning to raise their heads and look around, or stand up uneasily and move on. None of them seemed aware that Libby had been shot. None of them happened to glance into the lighted passage where she sat bleeding.
Warm . . . warm . . . Am I bleeding?
She extended her forefinger and tried to touch the wavering red brilliance spreading all around her. She couldn’t reach it. Much too far away.
When she looked up she saw on the other side of the street a ragged derelict staring directly at her while hurrying along under the burden of a dark backpack.
He knows I’m here!
The way he’s staring at me . . . we both ...
Nothing more.
43
“We got trouble,” Melbourne said.
He was standing behind his desk in his spacious office. The desk was a slate-topped, massive mahogany affair he’d paid for himself. There was a bank of file cabinets along one wall, and a smaller desk nearby on which sat a closed notebook computer and a neat stack of green file folders. The other walls were festooned with photographs, framed news items, commendations, trophies, and personal letters from celebrities. The rewards of ambition and political acumen.
Repetto sat in one of the burgundy leather chairs facing the desk, his legs extended and his ankles crossed. His heels were dug into the plush carpet. “I guess by that you mean more trouble.”
“We should never have clued in the media on the nursery rhyme thing.”
“We had no choice,” Repetto told him. “They would have caught on to it anyway. Besides, would you want to take the heat if people were killed and we might have warned them?”
Melbourne ignored the question. He glared at Repetto from beneath eyebrows his barber had obviously forgotten to trim; then he leaned forward and supported himself with the knuckles of both hands on the desk, the way an alpha gorilla might stand. “The Night Sniper chose one hell of a victim last time out.”
“The thief,” Repetto said.
“So all the morning papers tell me. But Libby Newland wasn’t your ordinary thief. She was a scene stealer. The public loves—loved—her. The public is pissed off. That piss gets on the pols, who pressure the department higher-ups—”
“You,” Repetto interrupted.
“Me. Who, in turn, diverts all that piss and pressure to?”
“Me?”
“Uh-huh. The downhill theory.”
“More than a theory,” Repetto said.
“Right you are, there at the base of the hill. The stakes have been raised. We have to nail this guy, Vin.”
“Or I re-retire?”
That seemed to sober Melbourne. “No, no . . . But I need something for the wolves that are snapping at me, so they can play show-and-tell with the others. Some meat to throw them.”
“Like the Night Sniper himself.”
“That’d be prime steak. Are you any closer?”
“With every victim,” Repetto said, “but it’s a hell of a way to gain ground.”
“Why couldn’t you figure out he might kill somebody in a Broadway show with Burglar in the title?”
“Because in the past he only used theater and play references to give us clues so we could find his messages.” Repetto uncrossed his legs. He stared at the photographs of Melbourne receiving awards, Melbourne posing with NYPD elites and the city’s top political figures. Not a stupid man, Melbourne. “You ask a good question, though,” Repetto said. “He took a chance killing such a famous thief, gambling that we wouldn’t anticipate it and be ready for him.”
“You haven’t figured out how he thinks,” Melbourne said, “but he’s figured out how you don’t think. He’s inside your mind, and at this point you’re supposed to be inside his.”
“I am to an extent,” Repetto said. “He’s not the sort to take that kind of chance.”
“But Libby Newland’s dead. She had no police protection, and the Sniper’s escaped as usual.”
“I don’t buy that knows how we don’t think premise of yours,” Repetto said, “but at the same time, I agree with you. It’s as if he knew we weren’t thinking along those lines. As if he could be confident there wouldn’t be any sort of trap if he tried for Libby Newland.”
Melbourne straightened up, then sat down hard in his padded desk chair and stared hard at Repetto. “You saying what I think I hear?”
“I don’t know. But maybe the Sniper has police contacts, knows somebody in the department, has at least some inkling of how we’re playing the game.”
“That word again.”
“That’s how he sees it—a game. And it’s one that, right now, he’s winning.”
Melbourne let out a long breath. “I won’t tell you the NYPD doesn’t leak. Do you have any facts to base your theory—”
“Not even a theory.”
“—your notion on?”
“No.”
“Then don’t let it get outside this office. I—we have enough pressure. Libby Newland was one of the most popular celebrities in New York, a city that worships celebrities. Media and political pressure have intensified like water trying to reach a boil. There’s growing economic pressure here, too, Vin.”
“I’ll bet.”
“They think business is bad now, it’s gonna grind to almost a dead stop after dark. The city at night belongs to the Sniper.”
To sudden, random death, Repetto thought.
Melbourne stood up again behind his desk, so Repetto stood also.
“We’ll take back the city,” Repetto said flatly.
Melbourne gave him a crooked smile, like the one in all the wall photos. “I’ll tell the mayor that when I see him.”
“Quote me,” Repetto said, and left the office.
Zoe Brady was asleep when she should have been showering and getting ready to go to her office. Her latest produce department conquest lay beside her and listened to her breathing. He was an expert on the breathing of sleepers; he’d crept out of dozens of apartments while women lay sleeping. And he had lain beside them weeping as they slept.
He wasn’t leaving this apartment. Not yet.
He looked over at Zoe’s relaxed features, her slightly open mouth near the top of the thin sheet, as if she were about to nibble at the linen. Her rhythmic breathing made the edge of the sheet near her lower lip flutter in ti
me to her exhalations. Besides the three glasses of wine she’d had for dinner, Zoe had consumed, in the plastic bottle of diet cola he’d brought her after sex, two powdered Ambiens that he’d crushed between two spoons. He thought it would be at least ten o’clock before she woke up on her own.
Confidently but quietly, he eased onto his side, then swiveled his nude body so he was sitting on the edge of the mattress. The slight stirring of air brought scents and memories of last night. The woman was perspiring slightly and still smelled of sex. She moaned softly in her sleep as if sharing his recollection.
He stood up slowly and moved away from the bed, then padded barefoot into the living room. Zoe kept her laptop computer on her desk that was concealed behind a four-panel Chinese screen. During his last visit he’d discovered her ISP password, along with various Web site passwords, written on a piece of paper hidden beneath the base of the brass desk lamp. So many of them hid passwords beneath nearby lamps.
He booted up the small but powerful Toshiba computer and within a few minutes was online and had access to all of Zoe’s files.
Her document files were informative. They included working notes as well as personal letters, and summaries of conversations concerning the Night Sniper. He simply scanned the documents, then plugged the zip drive he’d brought into the computer’s USB port and copied them. He would peruse them later in his apartment, along with several other files that were encrypted. He was confident he’d soon be able to break the encryption and read all of Zoe’s secrets. If he couldn’t solve the puzzle of encryption, he’d have to steal the computer and delve deeper into its system. There was always a way, though often it was time-consuming.
But that was a problem for the future, if it came up at all. Right now, a cursory look and a later, more careful examination of what he’d copied, would do for a start.
He was pleased to find Zoe’s links to NYPD databases. Pleased also that she had extensive clearance. It took only a few mouse clicks to see there was plenty of information on the Night Sniper case. Intrigued, he spent almost an hour linking to various NYPD sites.
When he was finished, he removed the zip drive and shut down the computer. The drive was small enough to fit into its slim leather case and be concealed in the inside pocket of his suit coat that was draped over a living room chair.
He rearranged the carefully folded coat, then went back behind the screen and closed the computer’s lid.
Back in the bedroom, he stood by the bed and studied the sleeping Zoe. Her left arm was still slung carelessly above her mussed red hair. One pale leg protruded from beneath the even paler white sheet. She was still breathing evenly. She hadn’t moved. She still smelled of recent and vigorous sex.
He lowered his weight gently onto the mattress, listening to the muted ping of bedsprings, then gradually moved his nude body so it was pressing lightly against hers. The slight contact with her seemed to ignite dreams.
Zoe shifted her hips in her sleep, sighed, and turned to face away from him. As he wedged up against her he could feel himself getting erect, but he decided to ignore the temptation. He slid a hand around her, over her smooth, rounded belly, and up to gently cup one of her breasts. His mouth was near her ear.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” he whispered. “Time for us to get up and you to go to work.” He kissed her ear gently, then flicked it with the tip of his tongue.
She opened her eyes, smiled, and turned her head so she could kiss him back.
Her warm body jerked and he knew she’d noticed the clock on her side of the bed.
“Damn! If I don’t get moving I’m gonna be late.”
“Told you so.”
“So you did.”
He kissed the nape of her neck. “Maybe we should share a shower, save water, save time.”
“I’m not so sure we’d save time,” she said. She wriggled out of his clutches, then sat up and winced. “God!”
“Headache?”
“Whole ache. And I feel like I could sleep another eight hours.”
“I warned you about drinking too much wine at dinner.”
“Did you? I don’t remember.”
He grinned. “Bad sign.”
Zoe stood up and held a hand to her forehead. “Ouch! You must have been right about that wine.” She began massaging her temples with her fingertips.
He got out of bed nimbly and moved to stand next to her, supporting her.
“I’m not gonna fall down,” she assured him, giving up on her temples and dropping her arms.
“You never know,” he said. “Could be dangerous. You shouldn’t be in the shower alone. C’mon.” He began leading her gently toward the bathroom.
“No funny stuff in the shower,” she said.
He laughed. “Do I have to promise?”
“Of course. I can’t be late. I really can’t.”
“I know. You’re working on an important case.”
“Nutcase who’s shooting people,” she said. A hint of irritation had crept into her sleep-thickened voice, either at the killer or at being unable to speak or think coherently so soon after waking.
Now that she was up, he didn’t want her to suspect anything. Best if she came all the way alert as soon as possible. “We’ll take a shower,” he said. “Then I’ll call for my car and driver so you won’t be late for work.”
She stopped moving and stared up at him, impressed as she often was by this man she barely knew. “You can do that?”
He gave her his perfect smile.
“For you,” he said, “I can do that.”
44
He was pleased by the results of his latest kill.
The Night Sniper settled back in the soft support of the leather sofa in his East Side luxury apartment, sipping expensive scotch and watching the plasma TV screen that took up much of the living room’s south wall. Local cable news was on, covering almost nothing other than the Libby Newland shooting.
The popular actress’s death had caused such outrage in the city that the police and political machines were running wild with frustration. The serious blond woman on the screen proclaimed this with exaggerated lip and chin motion, beneath eyes that were obviously reading. Many businesses were deserted after dark. They were reconciled to great financial loss and closed early every day. Serious Blonde segued to an interview with a mayoral aide, an angry-looking man with a shock of gray hair who said the city was considering shutting down the theater district. Those in the theater world could hardly object. Tickets were being scalped at a third of their box office price, and with Libby Newland’s death, fewer than half the seats were occupied. Tourism and business travel were dropping off precipitously. Aircraft were landing at JFK and LaGuardia with more empty seats than anyone had seen in a major airliner in years.
Wonderful!
The Night Sniper took a sip of aged single-malt scotch and congratulated himself. Things were going better than planned.
He stood up and carried his glass to the window that provided the broadest view of the night-bejeweled city and wondered who his next victim should be. The nursery rhyme required a doctor. He knew a doctor. In fact, he was currently having an affair with one.
Too close to the bone. Too risky.
Now wasn’t the time to increase risk; it was the time to reduce it.
Why not change the game at this point? Or at least the rules? The Night Sniper enjoyed the advantage and always would, if only he’d use that advantage. He who controls the rules controls the game.
He looked out over his vast view of the city and again pondered the identity of his next victim. Possibly his handpicked nemesis, Vincent Repetto?
No, not yet. Killing Repetto would almost be like destroying himself. Besides, it would precipitate a new game, and the Sniper was enjoying this one too much to end it and start over with new, untested opposition. Perhaps opposition that wasn’t up to the task.
Lora Repetto! There would be an interesting choice, the beloved wife who was now and then mentioned in th
e press as Repetto’s aide and confidante, and who herself had been fond of Repetto’s dead protégé, Dal Bricker. Like a son to them. First a son, then a wife. Terrible loss. Poor Repetto.
But an even more terrible loss was possible. If Repetto couldn’t actually lose a son, he could lose a daughter. Amelia Repetto. Lora would blame her husband for their daughter’s death, and Repetto’s marriage would disintegrate before his eyes. First his daughter, then his wife would be lost to him.
Loss. The Night Sniper knew loss as Repetto never could. He caught a glimpse of his reflected self in the dark windowpane and felt his heart grow cold. Staring back at him was his other self, his true self.
He made himself smile, a death’s-head grin in the glass, and raised his tumbler of whiskey in a silent salute.
But the transparent figure in the glass didn’t raise his drink in response, and now appeared to be weeping. Loneliness. The glittering night world of the city was spread out behind him, and he was alone, fragile as the glass itself.
He turned away, swiping a tear from the corner of his eye with a finger of his free hand.
There on the TV was another City Hall spokesperson, this one a severe-looking middle-aged woman with dark bangs. She was speaking earnestly into a microphone held by one of the male journalists who appeared regularly on local TV, but too softly to be understood. The Night Sniper went to the sofa, picked up the remote, and increased the volume:
“. . . for the Take Back The City rally,” the woman was saying. “It will be at Rockefeller Center on a date to be determined. Its purpose will be to demonstrate that life can go on as usual in New York despite the Sniper murders.”
“Has the mayor okayed this idea?” asked Media Man with the microphone, a male version of Serious Blonde.
“Not only has he okayed it,” said the woman with the bangs, “he’ll personally speak at the rally.”
The Night Sniper suddenly became as still as if he were sighting in on a difficult target.