by John Lutz
“Not well. But she’s losing herself in her studies. She’s strong and can cope.”
“Hard work as therapy.” That was something Repetto believed in, so why not his daughter?
“Maybe she’ll start seeing-”
“Someone else?” Repetto interrupted, almost angrily.
“She never did see Dal quite the way we would have liked.”
“No,” he admitted, “she didn’t.”
Lora artfully twirled a few strands of angel-hair pasta on her fork into a small tangle, put it in her mouth, and chewed. A sip of wine. “I had lunch today with Zoe Brady.”
After Zoe’s initial visit, Repetto was surprised when Lora had told him the two women had met, at a police banquet, and through an unexpected encounter in an antique shop when Lora was searching for a particular piece of furniture for a client. He was equally surprised they’d met for lunch. They didn’t exactly strike him as soul sisters.
“I called her,” Lora said. “I wanted to talk to her about the Night Sniper.”
“Why?”
“I need to know what’s going on. I need … to do something. To help. For Dal.”
“For you, you mean.”
“That’s true. Dal’s gone.”
“You’re a decorator, Lora, not a cop. For that matter, Zoe’s not a cop either.”
“Zoe can help me understand. She can tell me about the man who killed Dal, the man my husband is trying to kill.”
“Catch,” Repetto corrected her. “It isn’t my job to kill him.”
“I wasn’t talking about your job.”
“I was only talking about my job.” He took a large swallow of wine, dribbling some of it on his tie.
“Red wine,” Lora said. “It’ll stain.”
“We changing the subject?” Repetto asked, dabbing at the stain with his napkin.
She smiled sadly. “Sure.”
“I don’t want to have to worry about you, Lora.”
“This isn’t 1890, and I’m not some wilting flower who’s going to swoon under stress.”
“I know that. It’s the twenty-first century, and life is cheaper.”
“Are you going to forbid me to help?”
He had to grin. “I wouldn’t do that. It wouldn’t work anyway. The thing is, I don’t know any way you can help.”
“Maybe there isn’t one, but I can at least help myself. It makes me feel better to talk with Zoe.”
“Not me,” Repetto said. “I don’t have as much faith as you do in profilers.”
“Still, she’s making the killer real to me.”
“Somebody to disturb your sleep.”
“Somebody I can hate.”
Repetto understood how hate could supplant grief. He poured some more Chianti and took a sip, being more careful this time.
“I’ll take the tie to the cleaners,” Lora said. “We’ve got some other things that need to go.”
They didn’t talk about Dal or the Night Sniper the rest of the evening.
Everything but.
The next morning, after Repetto left the house, Lora was gathering clothes to take to the dry cleaner. She checked one of Repetto’s suits to make sure the pockets were empty.
Deep in one of his suit coat’s inside pockets, she found a ticket stub from a week ago, when they’d last attended a play.
No surprise; Repetto was forgetful.
As she set the ticket aside to be thrown away later, she saw that it was for an orchestra seat, six rows back and seven off the aisle.
Seat 7-F.
10
Ralph Evans moved aside and let his wife, Venus, enter the elevator first. They both stood against the elevator walls so the bellhop would have room with their luggage. They’d just checked into the Melrose Plaza Hotel on the edge of Times Square. Pattie and George Neverton, also from Columbus, Ohio, had checked in minutes before. The Evanses had known the Nevertons for almost twenty years. Venus had gone to high school with Pattie. The two girls had dated the same boys, made the same mistakes, fallen into the same resignation they’d decided was happiness.
Ralph, a buyer for Adcock’s, an upscale men’s clothing store chain, was in New York on business, but his appointments weren’t scheduled till tomorrow. Plenty of time for talking with designer reps and feeling bolts of fabrics. Tonight the four Ohioans were going to have dinner at a good restaurant, then take in a show. That was why Ralph and Venus had invited their old friends the Nevertons to come along and play in fun city.
As soon as Ralph had tipped the bellhop and they were settled in their room, he called the Nevertons, who were also on the thirty-first floor. George and Pattie said they were right down the hall and would come over; they wanted to compare rooms, see if Ralph and Venus had a phone in the bathroom.
Venus, a plump former cheerleader, wandered over to the window and looked out at the city. “It’s so big and busy. More so even than you said.”
Ralph looked at her framed by the light, twenty pounds overweight (but so was he), still with the bright blue eyes and wild mop of blond hair. Somehow they came to be in their midforties, he a middle-aged cloth and clothing buyer, she a stereotypical housewife in Ohio. Both of them were stereotypes, Ralph thought. It wasn’t so bad.
“Why are you smiling?” Venus asked.
“I still love you more than I can express.”
She smiled back and started toward him, the fading light from the window catching a glint of tears in her eyes.
There was a knock on the door. Venus went to it and opened it.
“Hey, your room’s bigger’n ours!” Pattie exclaimed in mock outrage, as soon as she and George were inside.
Ralph and Venus glanced at each other. Ralph knew what her look meant: we’ll take up later where we left off.
“No phone in the bathroom, though,” Ralph said, though he wasn’t sure about that.
“Ah!” George said. “It’s all fair then.” He was a big man with sandy hair and horsey yellowed teeth that showed too much when he smiled.
Pattie had gone to the window and was looking out. “Where’s that place where you can line up and get cheap play tickets, Ralph?”
“Just a few blocks away. TKTS.”
“Why don’t we walk over there and see what we can get for tonight?”
Ralph would have preferred going to a theater box office, or calling Telecharge, but he knew Pattie and George were watching their pennies. “Tell you what, why don’t Venus and I walk over while you two unpack? Then we can meet downstairs for a drink.”
“That wouldn’t be right,” Pattie said. “We can all go.”
“You two oughta unpack,” Ralph said. He couldn’t think of why they should unpack first; he simply wanted to be alone with Venus, so they could choose the play. Pattie would want to see something serious and sappy that would put them all in a somber mood, and he knew Venus would prefer a big musical. Then, tonight when they returned from the theater …
“You two unpack,” Pattie said. “We’ll go get the tickets.”
“Ralph’s the only one knows right where the place is,” George reminded her.
“So let’s flip a coin,” Venus said.
Pattie was thinking it over, but Ralph already had a quarter out of his pocket.
“Heads we go,” George said.
Wishing there were some way he could cheat, Ralph flipped the coin high so it would land on the bed. It bounced twice before settling on the taut spread.
Ah! Tails.
“Good,” he said. “We’ll go. That’s how it should be. You’re sort of our guests. You two unpack and we’ll phone up to you from the lobby when we get back with the tickets.”
The Nevertons agreed, Pattie reluctantly, and went back to their room.
When the door was shut, Venus kissed Ralph on the lips and stroked his chest. “Our lucky night,” she said.
He smiled down at her and kissed her forehead. Lucky life.
They left the suitcases where the bellhop had placed the
m; then they left to get play tickets.
For a musical, Ralph hoped. They’d enjoy a good dinner, then a loud, colorful musical with lots of dancing; then they’d have drinks with their best friends and talk about the show. Then it would be back to the hotel and to bed.
He followed Venus out and made sure the door was locked behind them.
Lucky life.
11
Zoe Brady watched the balding guy in the produce department as he fingered some arugula. He was in his late thirties, a little overweight, nice clothes and an expensive-looking ring that wasn’t a wedding band on his left hand. He’d be fairly good looking without his glasses-if he ever was without them.
Maybe a keeper.
As he examined a pyramid of apples, he glanced her way. He was aware she’d been staring at him.
Zoe had picked up men before in her neighborhood grocery store. What better place to troll for men, to snare them unaware while they were thinking about food? Of course, they thought they’d picked up her. It was a game she knew and played very well.
She went to the zucchinis and touched one, then another, leaning forward so her skirt rose slightly in back. Give the guy a leg show. When she straightened up, she shook her head helplessly and approached him.
“I’m really sorry I have to ask,” she said, “but do you know what arugula is? I think it’s like a lettuce.”
He smiled, a little shy, and not quite believing his luck. “Sure. It’s right over there.” He pointed. “The ruffly-looking stuff.”
“Ruffly. That’s just what it looks like. Are you a writer?”
He laughed. Nice teeth. “No, I’m an accountant.”
“Oh. I thought, the way you knew about and described arugula, maybe you wrote advertising.” She gave him her best hesitant smile. She could play shy, too. “Thanks.”
“Thanks?”
“I mean, for knowing about the arrugla. I’ve got to buy this stuff to take to a dinner party where we’re all supposed to bring something. I’m bringing salad, and the host asked specifically for arugula.”
“She can keep it. It’s kind of bitter.”
“Really? Maybe she wants it because of her religion or something. Or for her health.” Zoe doing naive now. “I don’t know her well.”
“I don’t know you well, either,” he said, “but I’d like to.”
“You don’t know me at all.”
“True, but I want to change that.” He reached into a wallet he carried inside his sport jacket instead of on his hip-sometimes a sign of wealth-and handed her his business card. It said he was Herb Closeman and confirmed that he was an accountant, for a firm Zoe had never heard of.
“Mr. Closeman-”
“It’s Herb.”
“Okay, Herb.” She slid his card into a pocket. “It’s funny,” she said, “your name’s Herb and we met when I asked you about a herb.”
“Clearly it’s fate.”
“Clearly. I wouldn’t want you to think-”
“I’m not even going to ask for your name and phone number,” he said. “You have mine. Think about it, and if you’re at all interested, call me.”
She grinned and shrugged. “Well, that’s a safe enough proposition.”
“I’m a safe enough guy. Really.”
She held out her hand and they shook. “I’m Zoe.”
“A nice name for a nice woman.” He seemed to catch himself; nice hadn’t been strong enough. “And a beautiful woman.”
“So now we know each other,” Zoe said, “however slightly. But I have to buy my arugula and get out of here or I’ll be late for that dinner party.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” Closeman said. “Take a chance and call me, Zoe.”
“Okay, Zoe,” she said with a big grin.
Herb appeared confused for a moment, then grinned back.
She favored him with her brightest smile, chose a plastic container of arugala, and left the store.
On the way to her apartment, she tossed the stuff in a trash receptacle.
An hour later she sat, brushing her hair and getting ready to meet some friends at a restaurant for dinner and drinks. She was proud of her long red hair, so thick and slightly wavy, what some men might call luxurious. Some, in fact, had called it that. Herb Closeman was right, she thought, observing her reflection in the mirror. Beautiful wasn’t too strong a word for her.
Neither was smart. And ambitious certainly applied.
She forgot about Closeman as she continued to brush, absently counting toward a hundred. Her mind drifted to Lora Repetto’s discovery of the theater stub in the pocket of Repetto’s suit. The seat number hadn’t been a wild coincidence.
The Night Sniper must have been shadowing Repetto, studying him, and followed him into the theater, maybe even sat near him. Repetto had been in seat 7-F in the Bernhardt Theatre, and now there was no doubt as to the reference in the Night Sniper’s message. This, Zoe thought as she brushed, was definitely creepy.
Taped unobtrusively on the bottom of the seat, where Repetto had sat a week ago to see War Bond Babes, a musical about New York debutantes during World War Two, police had found a small, folded note. Its typed message was simple and cryptic: Detective Repetto, perhaps this will help you find rhyme and reason.
The lab had matched the typeface with that of the Night Sniper’s previous message. The typewriter used was the Night Sniper’s. The meaning of the note had yet to be figured out.
The killer playing his game.
She closely examined her image in the mirror. There were crow’s-feet at the corners of her blue-green eyes, if she looked closely enough. The beginnings of bags beneath her eyes.
Is it age or booze? Am I drinking too much lately?
She pushed such a notion from her mind and thought not of Herb Closing but of Repetto. Maybe he intrigued her because he held a certain contempt for her. Men who disdained her for some reason attracted her. They frightened her, too, which was also an attraction.
Zoe had heard about Repetto, of course. Everybody in the NYPD had heard of him. She’d even been introduced to him once, at a police awards dinner about a year ago, and had struck up an acquaintance with his wife, Lora. Now, during her lunches with Lora, she tried to learn about Repetto while Lora tried to learn about the Night Sniper.
But like a cop’s good wife, Lora didn’t reveal much about her husband.
Zoe continued using the brush beyond a hundred, maybe because she was preoccupied thinking about Repetto.
Repetto had earned a rare respect from hard men. She’d expected him to be a macho type, and she supposed he was. But there was something else about him, after Dal Bricker’s death, that touched her. The pain in him was like an aura. So palpable was Repetto’s grief that Zoe felt she might extend a hand and touch it. A man who grieved for a friend so intensely, there must be a certain worth to him. And there was something more in him than pain and grief; there was a quiet rage, tightly sprung and dangerous, that she knew so well.
She’d seen it in some of the killers she interviewed in prison, the ones who, when pressed, would admit that if free they would kill again. They were way past any sort of identity crisis. They knew precisely who they were and what they must and would do. The dark power that drove them was a simple and accepted fact, and a commitment that lent them a terrible calculating strength.
Repetto wasn’t a killer. At least not that kind of killer. Zoe had met enough killers to know that about him. He wasn’t like the sick, delusional animals with pieces of themselves missing, who could freeze other humans with their utter contempt or disregard.
Repetto was simply a good man who had made up his mind to kill. There was a difference.
Zoe listened to the brush’s stiff bristles sigh through her hair and told herself there was a difference.
Meg had dropped in at Kung Foo Go and was going to eat Chinese carryout in her West Side apartment. She didn’t mind living alone or eating alone. It had been two years since her divorce from Chip and s
he still hated the bastard. Who did he think he was? Swinging on me? Thinking he was going to beat me like the other pitiful women I see every week in my job?
She remembered slipping Chip’s second punch, after the first had broken her nose, then grabbing his arm and jerking him off balance, bending the arm back and back, hearing him scream as his elbow slipped its socket.
Meg could still hear that scream sometimes at night. It made her feel better.
Since Chip, Meg was off men. Couldn’t trust the bastards. It was built into them. Now distrust was built into her. She knew it and couldn’t care less.
She was attractive in a tomboy, scruffy way, so she’d had to get used to rebuffing men who were drawn by her dark eyes, the way her short black hair curled and made her face seem even more elfin despite her now habitual deadpan expression. She knew she looked like a somber leprechaun, but apparently some men liked that.
Like this character, young and fresh-faced, handsome in a naive way, with curly blond hair and a loping way of walking that reminded her of a big friendly puppy. He’d been watching her at the carryout counter in Kung Foo Go, and here he was loping along behind her like some amiable stray hoping for a scrap of food.
Meg turned. “Do we know each other?”
The kid stopped and looked stunned. “No. I, uh, saw you back in the restaurant and I. . I just wanted to talk to you.” He tried a smile but it died in a hurry.
“So talk.”
Hope flared in his wide, puppy eyes and his smile was back. “I-”
“Yeah, you,” Meg said impatiently.
“I found you so pretty I wanted to talk to you.” He raised a hand palm out. “Don’t get the wrong idea.”
“So what’s the right idea?”
“I was-I am-lonely, and there was something about you that made me think you, uh, might wanna talk, is all.”
“What’s your name?” Meg asked.
“Daryl.”
“Listen, Daryl, you’re fucking with a cop here.”
“Cop?” He backed up a step, stunned. “You?”
“Me. You know those big red peppers they put in Chinese food?”
“Yeah.”
“You bother me again and I’m gonna shove one up your ass.”