by John Lutz
“She didn’t exactly say that,” Meg told him. “I surmised that’s what she thinks.”
He gave her a look that bored into her. Somebody on the range got off a long volley with something large-caliber, overwhelming the staccato reports of smaller firearms. “You put much stock in profiling?”
“Some, is all.” Meg shrugged. A cloud moved away and she squinted against the sun. “Science, applied to a nutcase with a rifle, I don’t know how accurate that can be.”
“I’ll take a good cop’s hunch any day,” Repetto said. He nodded toward Bellman. “What Birdy said makes sense, about the game playing, the challenge. It means a lot to our sniper.” He reached again into his briefcase and removed a folded sheet of white paper. “This’ll make Birdy’s view of the Sniper seem even more accurate.”
The paper was a copy of a typed note sent to Repetto, care of the NYPD. It said simply, Now the Game begins.
There was no letterhead and no signature.
“Plain, cheap white paper and envelope,” Repetto said, before they could ask. “Sold in office supply stores and even drugstores. Same typewriter used on the envelope as on the note, probably a forty-year-old Royal manual. Mailed at the post office at Third and Fifty-fourth Street.”
“Busy place,” Birdy said.
“Latent Prints couldn’t lift anything from the paper or envelope, and there’s no thumbprint on the stamp. Not even DNA on the back of the stamp.”
“Careful guy,” Meg said.
“One who plans.”
“Profilers call the planners organized serial killers,” Birdy said.
“Fuck profilers.” Repetto realized as soon as he’d spoken that he’d overreacted. “Well, not really. We need to factor in what they say.”
“What Zoe Brady says,” Meg told him.
“Right. Let’s concentrate on our killer, not Zoe Brady.”
Meg and Birdy glanced at each other.
“He doesn’t use a sound suppresser,” Meg said. “He’s obviously an expert shot and must know something about firearms, so why doesn’t he use a silencer?”
“Maybe he can’t afford one,” Birdy said.
“He’d steal one. I think he knows that here in New York sound bounces around the buildings, and it’s impossible to know exactly where a shot came from. In each of the murders the sound of the sniper’s rifle echoed off all the hard surfaces so witnesses not only had no idea of the shot’s origin, some of them weren’t even sure if only one shot was fired.”
“He’d still be safer with a silencer,” Birdy said.
“Maybe,” Meg said. “But the rest of us would feel safer, and he doesn’t want that. We wouldn’t jump every time a car backfires or somebody drops something that makes a sudden sound like a gunshot. Our sniper likes the echoing crack of his rifle. It adds to the fear factor. He wants everyone to be on edge, afraid of him.”
Repetto cocked his head as if listening to the rattle of gunfire from the range, then looked at Meg. “You’re probably right that he’s primarily interested in gamesmanship and evoking a general kind of fear, rather than in sadism.”
“Only probably,” Birdy pointed out. “And he might be interested in a general kind of sadism.”
Repetto nodded. “We know about the game playing because of his contacts with the police, his insistence on me as an opponent, and the typed note. The rest of it’s speculation, but it’s worth keeping in mind.” He focused again on Meg. “What you surmise about the reason he doesn’t use a silencer fits in. Our man not only enjoys the fear factor, but it’s a strategic plus. It’s exactly the kind of thing I was hoping might come out of rereading the murder files.”
Meg felt a flush of pleasure at his approval. Why should I feel this way? I hardly know this guy. He’s not my father.
The shooter with the high-powered weapon opened up again. Meg thought she could smell gunpowder, though she knew they were too far away from the range unless the breeze was just right.
Repetto closed his briefcase and buckled a strap. “Let’s get to work revisiting the crime scenes and talking to witnesses, see if something new clicks. We do the grunt work. The we is you two. I’ve still gotta study these files.”
“So you’re the official Captain Repetto sometimes,” Meg said with a grin, trying a joke.
“All the time, actually,” Repetto said, not smiling. “But usually we’ll pretend otherwise.”
Jesus! She felt her insides shrivel. Make it better? Tell him I was kidding? No. Shut up. Don’t make it worse. The man’s virtual son was murdered days ago and he’s in mourning. I shouldn’t have played it light.
Or maybe he was amused and joking back. Possible …
“The work’ll keep us busy while we wait,” Repetto said, opening a rear door of the unmarked and tossing the briefcase far enough inside that he’d have room to sit.
“Wait for what?” Birdy asked, as he and Meg moved to get into the car.
In a nanosecond he realized it had been a dumb question.
They all knew what.
Vito Mestieri owned and worked long hours in Vito’s Screwdriver, his small appliance and TV repair shop on the Lower East Side. He’d gotten out of the army thirty years ago after Vietnam and inherited the shop from his father. Now Vito, slowed by age and hindered by rheumatic fingers, was considering selling the shop. He wished he had a son of his own to hand down the business to, but both his marriages had been bitter and childless.
He had friends, fellow Nam vets who met once a week to play poker and tell lies. But the Vietnam vets were gray and potbellied now, like Vito, and were slowly fading from the earth they way the World War Two guys had done. Vito knew that someday soon the Times obituary page would make a deal out of the last Nam vet dying. Maybe he’d be the one, but he doubted it. One thing was for sure: he wouldn’t read it.
Vito flipped the sign in the door from OPEN to CLOSED and stepped outside. He unclipped the ring of keys from his belt and by feel found the one that fit the dead bolt lock on the door.
The lock gave a satisfying metallic click. No one had broken into the shop for over a year, since Vito had changed the lock and had the alarm system installed.
He clipped the ring back on his belt and stepped away from the locked door, and felt a sudden, sharp pain high on his side, near his armpit. At first he thought a bee or wasp had stung him. Then he took a few steps, experienced a different, deeper pain, and felt for the source of the first stinging sensation.
His hand came away bloody and he was back in Nam. He knew he’d been shot.
Had to get help!
The narrow side street was deserted except for some people up near the intersection. Vito raised a hand, tried to call out. The pain stilled his voice.
Back inside. Call 911!
He turned back toward the door and felt an overpowering weakness.
Then from the corner of his eye he saw a car turn the corner and start down the street in his direction.
Someone to drive me to a hospital!
He turned back away from the door and staggered out into the street, trying to scream for the car to stop, trying to wave his arms. Helpless, bubbling gasps were the only sounds he made, and his arms, which he thought he was waving, were hanging limp at his sides.
The car had been picking up speed. Now the driver saw Vito and stomped on the brake pedal. Yanked the steering wheel to swerve around Vito.
Rubber screamed as the car skidded sideways. Vito tried to get out of the way but fell. The car did a 180-degree turn and the back wheels rolled over him.
The driver, an eighteen-year-old Hispanic kid, was slumped on the curb weeping when the police arrived.
He felt somewhat better a few hours later, when he learned that when the car had rolled over Vito, he was already dead from a gunshot wound.
9
After being up most of the night, Repetto met with Meg and Birdy around ten the next morning at the Hobby Hole in the West Village. In the evening the place served dinner and drink
s and was a lesbian jazz club. During the day it was breakfast and lunch and the clientele was more varied. All the time they served their specialty, warm biscuits with a sweetly flavored butter. It was within walking distance of Repetto’s house and he ate there often, whatever the time or sexual orientation. He didn’t give a damn; he was there for the biscuits.
Not this morning, though. He and Lora had eaten breakfast at home.
There was only one other customer, up near the front of the restaurant and out of earshot. A burned bacon scent hung in the air and would have made Repetto hungry if he hadn’t already eaten.
“I’m just having coffee,” he said.
“Us too,” Meg said, speaking for Birdy. “We had doughnuts just a few hours ago.”
Birdy tapped out a pattern with his fingertips on the table and nodded.
Meg hadn’t been in here before. She tried not to look at what seemed to be a collection of photos of nude women but for cowboy boots and hats on the wall near the bar. They seemed to be spinning lariats. The server, a slim young woman somehow feminine in boots, baggy jeans, studded leather vest, and a butch haircut, poured three cups of coffee, left a small metal pitcher of cream, then withdrew.
When she was out of earshot, Repetto said, “Let’s go over what we have on Vito Mestieri.”
Meg sipped her coffee. Birdy seemed to have nothing to say, so she led. “Central fact is he’s dead. Ballistics says the bullet’s misshapen from bouncing around his rib cage, so they can’t get a match on it.”
“Not that it would match anyway,” Birdy said. “Different gun for each victim. Our guy must have an arsenal.”
“Gun nut,” Meg said.
“Which is why we’re gonna start checking out gun merchants and collectors,” Repetto said.
“We’re still trying to find out where the shooter fired from, but it looks pretty hopeless. He knows the sound of the shot will echo and be impossible to trace.”
The baggy-jeaned server paused walking past their table and asked if anyone needed anything, looking at Meg.
Meg said maybe later.
Birdy winked at her.
Meg didn’t like what must be going on in his mind. She couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed the photos of the scantily clad cowpunchers. Or that he was gentleman enough not to mention them. The man seldom disappointed.
“Suppose he knows it enough to choose firing sites where he’ll get the most echoing effect,” Repetto said. “Let’s put ourselves in his head and check out buildings and rooftops surrounded by a lot of hard surfaces.”
“That’s just about every building in New York,” Birdy said dismally.
“Some more than others,” Meg said, sticking up for Repetto as if he needed it. Birdy began nervously pumping a knee, making the table vibrate. Were they ganging up on him?
“Mestieri would be the first,” he said.
Repetto and Meg looked at him.
“The first victim in the game,” Birdy said. “Since the Night Sniper said the game was beginning.”
“He’s right,” Repetto said. “The previous murders were prelude.”
“Warming up,” Birdy said, as if Meg needed explanation. “Like practice golf swings. Now it’s for real.”
“It was real for the people who got shot before Vito Mestieri,” Meg said.
Birdy stopped with the knee and nodded. “Yeah, but to our shooter the earlier victims were just a way to get Repetto into the game. Even Bricker. Especially Bricker.”
Meg gave him a cautioning look, considering Repetto’s expression at the mention of Dal Bricker. Birdy shouldn’t have gone there. He might catch hell now.
But the hardness in Repetto’s expression had nothing to do with Birdy’s insensitivity; it was about the Night Sniper.
“He made a mistake when he killed Dal,” Repetto said in a soft, easy voice.
Which gave Meg more of a chill than if his rage had shown on his face.
They were back out on the street, walking toward the car, when Birdy grinned over at Meg and said, “Whoopee ti yi yo.”
When they drove to their precinct basement office to check for any developments, and to pick up another city car so they could split up to check out gun dealers and collectors, they were surprised to find Assistant Chief Melbourne waiting for them.
Melbourne had arranged for the office, which was cramped and glum. The walls were pale green and the single window was narrow and at ground level, splattered with mud so it was difficult to see out and allowed only dim light in to relieve somewhat the relentless fluorescent glare of the cheap ceiling fixtures. The furniture and file cabinets were dented gray steel. A computer on the desk looked as if it had been upgraded over and over and was a technology basket case. Maps of all five boroughs, departmental notices with curling corners, a case chart, were pinned directly to the soft wallboard that covered concrete. The office was damp and smelled like a swamp. A patch of mold a few inches square grew in a corner of the ceiling. On one wall was a framed photo of former Police Commissioner Bernard Kerik in uniform, looking stolid and sincere and indestructible.
Melbourne was behind Repetto’s desk, seated in Repetto’s chair. Bulky as he was, he didn’t fill the chair the way Repetto did.
“You wanna know what we know,” Repetto said.
“That,” Melbourne said, “and I want you to know about this.”
Repetto saw that Melbourne was talking about a sheet of white typing paper on the desk.
“This is a copy,” Melbourne said. “Lab’s got the original and the envelope, but already they’re saying nothing’s coming out of them. Same cheap stationery, same postmark, same typewriter. That’s about it.”
At first Repetto thought the copy paper was blank, but when he leaned closer he saw the brief message: 7-F.
“That’s it?” he asked.
Melbourne nodded. “An apartment number, would be my guess. Our sniper wants you trying to find where he shot from, because he knows all that’ll happen is we’ll get more frustrated. That’s his game.”
“There’s that word again,” Meg said. “Game.”
“Here’s something else,” Melbourne said. He reached into a pocket and laid a small cassette on the desk. “Tape of the killer’s phone calls. Voice sounds disguised. None of these calls were traced to any phone that meant anything.”
“Male or female voice?”
“Can’t say for sure, but probably male. These calls won’t tell you much more than I told you about them.”
Repetto picked up the cassette and carried it to a recorder on top of one of the file cabinets. “Does this relic work?”
“Sure,” Melbourne said. “Sometimes the job calls for relics.”
Repetto ignored him and inserted the cassette into the old recorder.
The voice was disguised, as Melbourne had said, and was most likely male. There was something in it that created a cold spot on the back of Meg’s neck. Especially the last thing the killer said:
“I want Repetto and Repetto only. A man is judged by the quality of his enemies, and Repetto is to be my opponent. Repetto, Repetto, Repetto. I repeato, Repetto.”
“Jesus!” Meg said. “He has a sense of humor.”
“Most born killers do,” Melbourne said. “They’d just as soon see somebody die as see them slip on a banana peel. Same thing to them.”
“He seems to have switched from phone calls to notes now that Repetto’s on the case,” Birdy said.
Melbourne nodded. “His game, his rules.”
“So far,” Repetto said.
“Only so many apartment seven-Fs the killer could have fired from and hit Mestieri,” Melbourne said, turning his attention again to the note. “Thing to do is check them out.”
Repetto nodded, putting aside for the moment the canvassing of gun dealers and collectors.
“How many uniforms can you give us?” he asked Melbourne.
“Five. And they’re already down on the Lower East Side doing their jobs. They need you to s
upervise them.”
Repetto doubted it. The hunt for the Night Sniper wasn’t the kind of case that prompted standing around jerking off when there was work to be done.
Melbourne gave a wheeze and heaved himself up out of Repetto’s chair. “You want your desk?”
“Not now,” Repetto said, on his way back out the door. “You fly it for a while.”
Meg and Birdy followed, not glancing back at Melbourne.
Two apartment 7-Fs were found that provided clear shots to where Vito Mestieri had fallen with a sniper’s bullet in him. One was owned by an eighty-year-old retired woman who needed an oxygen bottle to breathe and hadn’t left the place in months. The other 7-F was in a steel and glass postwar monstrosity that had windows that didn’t open.
Repetto, Meg, and Birdy had spent another futile day. If this was a game they were playing, the Sniper was winning.
At dinner that night at Mama Roma, a neighborhood Italian restaurant that was one of their favorites, Repetto watched Lora ignore her favorite pasta and stare idly into the wine she was swirling in her glass. She was taking Dal Bricker’s death hard, as was Repetto. Dal, who had been like a son to them, and if dreams could come true, a son-in-law. For some reason Repetto thought Lora would emerge from her grief sooner than he would. He should have known better; she didn’t have as much opportunity as he to act on her pain and hunger for revenge.
“Did you see your client about the condo near Gramercy Park?” he asked.
“Canceled the appointment,” she said. “Somehow coordinating drapes and carpet doesn’t seem so important now.”
Repetto knew what she meant. “Dal?”
She stopped the swirling motion with her glass and looked at him. “Of course.”
“We’ll get his killer.”
“That sounds like a line from an old B-movie.”
“Maybe it does, but it’s true.”
She didn’t insult him by pointing out what they both knew: apprehending the Night Sniper wouldn’t bring back Dal. “Can you promise?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I know I won’t quit until we do get him.” When she showed no reaction, he said, “How’s Amelia taking Dal’s death?”