Fear the Night n-5

by John Lutz

  “He?”

  “The killer. He musta seen all the publicity about you when you stepped down. How you were like a combination bloodhound and avenging angel when it came to tracking serial killers. He wants you on the case. He said you were the only one of us who was a worthy adversary.”

  Repetto stared dumbfounded at Melbourne, then laughed. “Cease the bullshit, Lou. The answer’s still no.”

  “You think I’m kidding?”

  “I don’t care if you are. I don’t dance just because some maniac plays a tune. And I know you don’t either.”

  Melbourne removed the cigar from his mouth. “This one’s different, Vin. If you’d heard him on the phone. .”

  “The answer’s still no. I mean it. I’m not some pro athlete that can be talked into thinking he might have a little more gas in his tank. I’m retired.”

  “You might get winded a little easier and be a little grayer, but you’re not suited for retirement. You’re gonna go crazy without the job.” Melbourne pointed with the cigar. “You’re gonna rot.”

  “I’m rotting happily. I told you my situation. I’m not gonna double-cross Lora to work on one more case. Put Delmore on it.”

  “The killer laughed at Delmore. Called him up and laughed at him. He wants you, Vin. Only you.”

  “ ‘Only You.’ Isn’t that a song?”

  “Your song. Yours and the killer’s.”

  Repetto knew what Melbourne meant. When Repetto was thirteen years old in Philadelphia his mother had been murdered by a serial killer. It was what had made an older Repetto join the police force, then become a homicide detective. His mother had divorced his dad, a Philadelphia cop, and had custody of him, so Repetto was the one who’d found her in her bedroom when he came home from school. She was lying nude on the bed with her legs spread incredibly wide. There was the blood on the wall, his mother’s blood, the bloody numeral 6 indicating she was the killer’s sixth victim, the blood pooled beneath her body, the blood on her pale flesh and between her thighs.

  With his father gone, Repetto was the man of the house. He should have protected his mother. Somehow. Should have been there. Somehow. Even at thirteen he knew it wasn’t logical, but guilt still wrapped itself around his heart. Somehow, he was partly to blame for his mother’s death. He couldn’t get the image of all that blood, her blood, out of his mind.

  He remembered the word it had brought to his lips. Not Mother or Mommy or an expression of rage. Simply, Blood.

  Almost a year passed before he again spoke that or any other word. His father had died in a robbery shoot-out only a month after the death of his mother. For the young Repetto it was like being struck by speeding trains coming and going, and being left to die alone.

  Two of his aunts took him in and brought him back to being human again, raised him with kindness and love, saved him. Mar and Mol, short for Marilyn and Molly. Mol had died ten years ago. Mar was still alive, and would be in town for Repetto and Lora’s daughter Amelia’s twenty-first birthday next week.

  Mar and Mol, the blood … So long ago and still so vivid.

  Repetto swallowed. He thought he’d gotten past this kind of reaction, the thing that had made him stalk serial killers in a way that was legendary in the NYPD. The reason why Melbourne was sitting across from him now.

  “Jesus, Lou!” Repetto said. “So this guy doesn’t get what he wants. He’ll get over his disappointment.”

  “He’s not gonna quit, Vin. Not this one.”

  “I didn’t say he was gonna quit. Delmore can shut him down.”

  Melbourne seemed about to say something more, then plunked his cigar back in his mouth as if it might prevent him from speaking imprudently.

  “Sure you don’t want a drink, Lou?”

  Melbourne stood up. “No, thanks. This excellent Cuban cigar’s more’n enough.” He moved close to the desk and looked down at Repetto. “Listen, you’re probably right. You deserve a rest. Have a good retirement. Food, shows, booze, travel. Enjoy, old friend. I mean that.” He offered his hand.

  Repetto shook with him, standing up to show him out. He propped his cigar in an ashtray and walked around the desk.

  “Still raining,” Repetto said, when he opened the door to the street. “Take an umbrella. You can keep it as long as you want.”

  “No, thanks. Listen, I sincerely gotta advise you, if you don’t want a troubled conscience, better avoid reading the papers or watching TV news. This sicko’s deeply dedicated to his calling.”

  “Forget the umbrella offer,” Repetto said.

  “Kidding,” Melbourne said with a smile. “Don’t rot.” At the base of the steps, the rain already spotting his jacket, he looked back and up at Repetto. “Really. Don’t rot.”

  “That didn’t sound at all sincere,” Repetto said.

  He stood at the open door, watching Melbourne until he’d crossed the street and lowered himself into his car.

  Then he remembered the open den door, sniffed the air, and went back to extinguish his cigar propped in the ashtray.

  3

  “You said no?” Lora asked, after Repetto told her about Melbourne’s visit.

  “Sure I did.”

  She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips, then, after sniffing his breath, looked up at him with mock seriousness. Well, not completely mock. “Cigar?”

  “Half of one. With Melbourne. Being a good host.”

  “Ah.” She walked over to the window and stared outside. Repetto studied her. The beige dress she was wearing complemented her long, honey-blond hair. Lora was trim not from exercise, other than her daily walks, but from genetic good fortune.

  He thought she might say something else about Melbourne’s visit, but when she turned around to face him she smiled. It was what had first attracted Repetto, that smile. It changed her cool, blue-eyed impassive features into a warm and engaging signal to the world: I’m approachable and up for adventure. Repetto had learned it wasn’t a sexual invitation, but occasionally men took it for such. Lora was used to that response and knew how to fend them off without making enemies.

  “It’s still raining,” she said. “How ’bout I make us some tea?”

  “Fine.” The Melbourne matter was closed. If a maniac was murdering people one after another and might soon be terrorizing the city, that wasn’t Repetto’s problem. He was off the force for good. And it felt good.

  Lora must have guessed what he was thinking. “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “Meaning what you said to Melbourne.”

  She went into the kitchen to brew the tea. Repetto walked over and stared through the rain-distorted window out at the street. New York. The city he’d spent his life protecting. His city. A young couple who’d moved in last month exited the building across the street, laughing. The woman, a skinny brunette, ducked her head at the first raindrop, while her bulky, bearded husband squinted up at the sky and opened an umbrella. Watching them, Repetto remembered when he and Lora had moved here almost twenty years ago. It was odd, how the street didn’t change but the people did, generations playing out their lives on the same stage.

  It occurred to him that Lora, who was six years younger than Repetto and not carrying a partially collapsed lung, would almost certainly outlive him. Would she remain here? Wouldn’t she be lonely in this house that was too large for one person? Might she be afraid without him, a single woman living at street level in Manhattan? Their daughter and only child, Amelia, who was in law school and lived on the Upper West Side, might move in with her. Though probably not. Amelia was fiercely independent. Maybe Amelia would marry. Repetto and Lora had their ideas about whom they’d like as a son-in-law. Repetto smiled. Hopeless to expect that kind of wish to come true. But Dal Bricker-The woman beneath the shelter of the umbrella glanced over and saw him, and Repetto raised a hand in an understated wave so she’d know he wasn’t spying on the couple, simply happened to be at his window when they were going out.

  He stood awh
ile longer looking out at the drizzle and lowering light. A lamp came on behind him, and he saw Lora’s reflection on the windowpane and turned.

  She’d placed a tray with a tea set on the heavy table by the sofa. Repetto watched as she poured cream in her cup, part of the set that was Bavarian china, antique but not particularly expensive. They’d bought it together ten years ago at a shop in SoHo. She added a lump of sugar and stirred. He walked over, added a dollop of cream to his tea, then sat down on the sofa and sipped. The tea wasn’t quite hot enough to burn his tongue.

  Lora remained standing. She’d put on her old blue cardigan sweater over her dress and looked an odd combination of sophisticate and homebody that Repetto found strangely appealing.

  She sipped her tea appraisingly and smiled. “The critics like the new play at the Westside, Left Bank.”

  “Internet or newspaper critics?”

  “Both. Not rave reviews, but uniformly good. It’s about expatriates in Paris in the twenties, then later when they return to the U.S.”

  “Sounds political.”

  “It’s not. George Kearn plays the old Hemingway.” Kearn was one of their favorites. And the Westside Theatre, off Broadway but not far off, was also one of their favorites.

  “Sounds okay,” Repetto said. “You working tomorrow?”

  “Meeting a client for breakfast, then a display house tour.”

  “Maybe I’ll see if I can pick us up some tickets.”

  She took another sip of tea, then leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. Her lips were still warm from the tea. “I love you,” she said simply.

  He knew why she was saying it now. Because he’d refused Melbourne. He lifted her free hand and kissed it. He didn’t tell her he loved her, too. It didn’t seem quite the time, but he knew he should tell her more often and promised himself he’d do exactly that in his retirement.

  He watched her walk to the window with her tea. She sat down at an angle on the window seat so she could look out through the glass at the rainy street. She appeared comfortable and contented. Repetto was sure that if she were a cat, she’d curl up in the window and go to sleep.

  If she were a cat, he’d pamper her.

  The next morning, after Lora had left to meet her client, Repetto walked to the Bonaire Diner on Fourteenth Street and had eggs and a grilled corn muffin for breakfast. He liked the Bonaire for more than its food. It was brightly decorated, with red-vinyl-upholstered booths and stools, and a dark counter made out of the kind of granite that sparked silver when the light hit it just right. A lot of the customers were from the neighborhood, or were people who worked nearby. Regulars. Business drones, artists, tradesmen, along with tourists, and mothers with their kids.

  Carrie the waitress cleared away the dishes, then poured Repetto a second cup of coffee.

  He settled in to scan the Times.

  There was another favorable review of Left Bank. Nothing about a sniper shooting last night. Apparently Melbourne’s serial killer was still between murders.

  Why am I even thinking about this?

  He turned to the sports section and read about the latest Yankees acquisition, an expensive free agent pitcher who was almost a guarantee that the team would make the playoffs. Repetto read on about the pitcher and felt himself relax. When he was on the job, he’d always found solace in this part of the paper. The only murderers’ row in the sports section was the ’27 Yankees.

  The breakfast rush was falling off, so there was space at the counter and empty booths. Repetto took his time with the paper, then left Carrie the usual tip and paid the cashier on the way out.

  It was a great morning. The sky was clear and the air had been cleansed by last night’s rain. Repetto decided to stroll around for a while before returning to the house. Then he’d. .

  What?

  What would he do?

  How would he occupy his time?

  He felt suddenly alone. Lost and without purpose. He noticed that his mouth was dry and he felt slightly unsteady.

  Some kind of retirement panic, he told himself. Not to worry. There was plenty to do that was unconnected to police work. He grinned to reassure himself. Other people retired and found ways to spend their time. So could he.

  So would he.

  Melbourne was about to leave his office when his assistant, Lieutenant Mike Mathers, knocked twice, then opened the door. There was excitement on his flushed, Irish face.

  “For you on line two, sir. It’s him.”

  Melbourne didn’t have to ask who. He sat back down behind his desk, taking as much time as he dared before picking up the receiver. Not that it would help; this killer was aware that the police were tracing his call and knew exactly how long it was safe to stay on the line.

  When it was time, Melbourne lifted the receiver and identified himself.

  “You know who this is?” came the answering voice. Neutral, sexless, perhaps filtered through something that might disguise it.

  “I know. What do you want this fine morning?”

  “What did he say?”

  “He?”

  “Don’t play tricks to try keeping me on the line. That might cost somebody their life, and that would be on your conscience.”

  “He said no.”

  A laugh, as cold and neutral as the voice. “He’ll change his mind. I know him. Know about him. Captain Vincent Repetto. Hero and legend. Know him as well as I know myself.”

  “I’d say there’s a lot of difference between you two.”

  “Only the twists and turns of fate.”

  “Hardly. I know Vin Repetto.”

  “But you don’t know me.”

  “So tell me about yourself.”

  “I’ll tell you what I want, who I want, and that’s Captain Vincent Repetto. The only worthy opponent in your entire incompetent bureaucracy.”

  “He’s no longer part of the bureaucracy.”

  “He can be again.”

  “I told you, I asked him. He said no.”

  “Then ask him again. Be persuasive. Give him the third degree. I’ll accept no one other than Repetto.”

  “The choice isn’t yours to make.”

  “But it is, and I’ve made it.”

  “Listen-”

  “Better think of some way to give me what I demand, and soon. I’m patient, but I won’t wait forever.”

  Click. Buzzzzzzzzz.

  Melbourne replaced the receiver and looked at his watch. He knew the killer had cut the connection soon enough.

  Mathers stuck his head back in the office. “The call was from a cell phone, sir.”

  “Sure,” Melbourne said, knowing that if the phone were ever found, it would turn out to be stolen and wiped clean of prints. “We record the call okay?”

  “You betcha.”

  Instead of leaving his office, Melbourne sat behind his desk for a long time, thinking of ways to be persuasive.

  4

  At ten the next morning, Repetto was seated at his desk cleaning his father’s old.38 police special revolver, when the doorbell rang.

  Lora was upstairs selecting paint samples to show a client. Usually she didn’t hear the doorbell there. Repetto put down the container of bluing he was holding and wiped his hand on the rag the gun had been wrapped in, then made his way to the front door and peered through the peephole.

  A tall woman with long red hair stood on the concrete stoop. Repetto opened the door to get a less distorted look at her.

  Since it was a sunny April morning, she wasn’t wearing a coat. She had a good figure beneath a brown blazer with a matching skirt. Her face was angular, her eyes green and pink-rimmed beneath strands of hair the breeze had laid across her face. She appeared to have been crying, but he suspected her eyes were always like that, in the manner of some redheads. Her makeup was sparse but it was there, pale lipstick, paler green eye shadow. Repetto guessed her age at about forty.

  She smiled. Straight teeth, nice smile. She said, “Only an ex-homicide detectiv
e could size up a woman like that.”

  Repetto grinned, embarrassed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare. It wasn’t. .”

  “Lascivious?”

  “No. I mean, yes, it wasn’t.”

  “So what did you decide about me?” She cocked her head to one side as she asked the question, almost the way Lora did.

  “We haven’t met,” Repetto said. “You’re educated-that word lascivious-and well enough off financially but not wealthy.”

  She raised her eyebrows. There wouldn’t have been much to them were it not for eyebrow pencil.

  “Your clothes,” Repetto explained. “A good cop can judge clothes like a fashion expert, at least when it comes to price. Yours are in good taste, and medium-priced except for your shoes. They’re expensive.”

  “You can’t be too kind to your feet,” the woman said.

  “You’ve got a job, maybe a profession, that pays you well enough. You’re unmarried.” He saw her glance at her ringless left hand. “You’re well adjusted and reasonably happy, ambitious, and you want something.”

  She smiled. “What makes you think I want something?”

  “You’ve managed to stir my interest and keep me talking while you’re sizing me up.”

  “You can learn a lot about people from what they think about you,” she said.

  “If they’re honest.”

  “A former NYPD detective would be honest.”

  “Different kind of honest,” Repetto said.

  She seemed to think that over but didn’t say anything.

  “You don’t strike me as the type who’s selling something, so what do you want?” he asked.

  “My name’s Zoe Brady,” she said.

  “I wondered when we’d get around to that. You obviously know things about me, including my name, I’m sure.”

  “You’re Vincent Repetto. The legendary Repetto. Tough cop and true. Smart and every kind of honest.”

  “Now I know you want something.”

  “I’m a profiler in the NYPD,” Zoe said.