Fear the Night n-5

by John Lutz

  “Because some profiler says so?”

  “No. Because I say so. You don’t know all the details or you’d agree.”

  The sigh again, like a rush of warm air in her ear. “Okay, Meg. But I’m glad you called. You don’t know how glad.”

  “I hope as glad as I am. When this is over. .”

  “Until then, do you want to have phone sex?”

  “Alex!”

  He was laughing.

  “Phone sex wouldn’t be bad,” she said, “but I’m too busy.”

  “Right after I met you, Meg, I bought a bottle of the best champagne I could find, and I’m keeping it iced up for as long as it takes until you’re back here with me. Until we’re together. Really together.”

  “Alex-”

  She heard a noise from the bedroom.

  “I have to hang up,” she said, almost in a whisper.

  “I understand. Call again when you can. Promise me.”

  Meg didn’t answer, but quickly broke the connection and slipped the phone back into her purse.

  The bedroom door opened and Amelia stood there. She was barefoot and her clothes were wrinkled from her time in bed. Her hairdo was flat on one side. Her eyes and forehead were reddened and she held the ice-filled compress in her right hand. She was squinting either from the comparatively bright light or because of pain, and had her head tilted back slightly as if from the weight of her long braid.

  “Headache better?” Meg asked.

  “Monstrous,” Amelia said. “I need more ice.”

  Meg rose to get it for her.

  An RMP car patrolled the blocks south of the Repetto apartment, while another drove regularly back and forth along the blocks to the north. All the while the precinct car regularly assigned to that area drove its usual routes, with the addition of several passes in front of the apartment containing Amelia Repetto and Meg. There were undercover cops borrowed from the Vice Enforcement Division at each end of the block, one hanging around the deli, the other in a parked cab that wasn’t really a cab. Inside the Repetto apartment with Amelia was Meg. Across the street in another, vacant apartment was Birdy, watching the street. Repetto oversaw it all, roaming the area in a five-year-old Dodge minivan borrowed from the Motor Transport Division. If anything suspicious occurred, more NYPD could be called in to seal off the area as quickly and completely as possible.

  The life of the neighborhood had to go on with at least the outward appearance of normality. Though darkness had closed in and there were fewer people and vehicles on the streets than there would be without the Night Sniper threat hanging over the city, the area seemed no different essentially from any other New York neighborhood. Delivery vehicles made their stops with takeout food, taxis haunted the streets like restless yellow spirits, the homeless wandered, lovers strolled, late workers straggled home from their jobs.

  Bumping along in the dirty white minivan that had been confiscated after a drug bust, Repetto knew it could all change in a moment. The trap was set.

  He didn’t like to think about the bait.

  Question was, how far could she trust Nancy Weaver?

  Answer was, she didn’t know but had to find out.

  Zoe sat at a corner table in P.J. Clark’s and waited nervously for Weaver. Before her was a glass of Guinness from which she’d taken exactly three sips. She desperately needed something to relax her, but she also desperately needed to have a clear head when Officer Weaver arrived.

  It was Zoe who’d requested the meeting. Zoe who’d been unable to sleep since the night the mayor was shot. Zoe who’d gotten rotten drunk at home when she realized what must have happened. Her finger touched the cold beer glass. Only touched.

  It was drink that had helped get her into this horrible mess. So easy to see now, when it was too late. But still she hadn’t learned.

  She shouldn’t have ordered the Guinness. But she couldn’t climb on the wagon all at once. She goddamn needed something.

  Maybe a bullet in the head, if she couldn’t convince Weaver to cooperate with her.

  She almost did take a drink when she realized the idea didn’t seem so far-fetched.

  Zoe hadn’t caught on at first when she learned the Sniper had fired at the mayor from a setback roof of the Marimont Hotel. She’d entered the same hotel shortly before the rifle shot. When the bullet had struck the mayor, she was cozily ensconced in the hotel’s plush restaurant, having her first cocktail.

  A coincidence. One not necessarily worth mentioning.

  Then, in a later report, she’d read the room number: 2233. She actually almost fell out of her chair.

  Zoe had known what it meant even before reasoning it out. Suite 2233 was where she and Otto (Everyone calls me Ott) Smith had gone after dinner and dancing in the hotel restaurant. It was where they’d made violent and passionate love. After their lovemaking he’d admitted to her his real name wasn’t Smith, but Eperrepinsi, an old Sicilian family name that became his German mother’s married name; he seldom used it because it was difficult to pronounce and confused people. There was also an old story about his grandfather being executed by the Mafia for conducting an affair with the don’s wife.

  It seemed to amuse him, finally letting her in on his secret. Now she understood why.

  She reached for the glass of beer with a trembling hand, then withdrew it. She was staring at the end of her career and the ruination of her life. What she needed wasn’t more alcohol-it was Weaver. Rather, Weaver’s understanding and cooperation. Zoe knew she’d better keep herself together for the most important conversation of her life.

  Weaver had come through the bar and was standing at the restaurant entrance. She wasn’t in uniform-working plainclothes for the assignment she’d been given of finding and questioning competition target shooters. She looked businesslike in a blue skirt, white blouse, and sensible black shoes. Her hair was short and dark and purposely mussed in a spiky way that made her look devilish. From everything Zoe’d heard about her, she was devilish. Devilish and ambitious. Not so unlike Zoe. Zoe was counting on that.

  Weaver saw her, smiled, and walked across the restaurant to the table. Male heads turned. She wasn’t exactly beautiful, but there was something about her; men sensed a vitality in her that was unmistakably sexual.

  By all accounts, Weaver made good use of it.

  She sat down opposite Zoe, placed a dark purse on the table, and nodded, still with the smile.

  “I’m glad you could come,” Zoe said. “Buy you a drink? Something to eat?”

  “Diet Coke,” Weaver said, playing it safe and not drinking alcohol on duty. A hovering waiter heard her and hurried off to fill her order.

  “How are you doing in your effort to track down target shooters in the area?” Zoe asked, after a few minutes of nervous small talk.

  “There are a surprising number, but a lot of them are connected with law enforcement or security, and we already vetted them. We’ve got some gun club members and skeet shooters in the new mix. Even a fast-draw artist.”

  “Cowboys and Indians.”

  “That’s what we play,” Weaver said, locking gazes with Zoe. Her expression said she was a busy woman and didn’t want to waste a lot of time here, if that was what was going to happen. “You said on the phone you have something to tell me.”

  “Share with you, I said.”

  Weaver took a sip of the Coke the waiter had delivered and nodded, waiting.

  Zoe took a deep breath and explained.

  Weaver sat unnaturally still and listened. She appeared as shocked as Zoe had been, when she’d fully absorbed what she’d just heard. What it must mean.

  “You’ve been fucking the Night Sniper,” she said in a stunned voice.

  Zoe was calmer, relieved, now that somebody else knew. “I would’ve put it a different way, but yes.”

  Weaver sat back and touched a finger to an earlobe, as if she were listening to some faint sound. Maybe the wheels of her mind turning. “He’s been pumping you for inf
ormation. Literally.”

  “Jesus!” Zoe said. “Can’t you think of a better way to put things?”

  “No,” Weaver said honestly. “I gotta tell you, you’re in deep … well, you’re in quicksand.”

  “And breathing through a straw.”

  “I’ve got my responsibilities,” Weaver said, still trying to digest this, figure it out.

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “I’m sure he never gave you his real name.”

  “He was just Otto-or Ott-for a while. Then that name he signed in with at the Marimont.”

  “He’s quite the gamester, our killer.” Weaver wondered if this information, sensational though it might be, was going to be useful, or simply embarrassing and destructive to Zoe. A police profiler sleeping with the killer she was profiling. An earthquake for Zoe, but maybe nothing much for the investigation. Simply another of the Sniper’s infuriating taunts.

  “I need your help,” Zoe said.

  Uh-oh. Weaver looked at her. “I think I know the kinda help you want. You don’t want to tell Repetto or Melbourne about this.”

  “Them or anyone else.”

  “And you want me to keep quiet.”

  “Yes.”

  “This is bound to come out, Zoe.”

  “Eventually, yes. Unless the Sniper is never caught, or is killed rather than be captured.”

  Weaver was still trying to get a handle on this, figure out where Zoe was going with it. “Why me? Why did you tell me?”

  “We’re both smart, ambitious women in more or less the same field.”

  “Wouldn’t deny it.”

  “We can help each other,” Zoe said. “This could be a career maker for you, and a way for me to solve my dilemma.”

  “The Sniper must know you’re on to him now.”

  “Yeah. I won’t see him again. I hope to hell I never see him.”

  “If you simply wanted me to keep mum,” Weaver said, “we wouldn’t be sitting here talking.” Another sip of Coke. “Why should I give you anything? And what do you want other than my silence?”

  “I think I can give you a direct way to discover the identity of the Night Sniper. You can make the collar every cop in the city dreams about. Think of the publicity and career advancement.”

  “I’m not agreeing to do or not do anything at this point, but I’m interested. You told me why, now tell me what.”

  “First I want information. Were my fingerprints found in that hotel suite at the Marimont?”

  “Not unless it’s being kept secret. Course, Latent Print Section isn’t done, but the room looked like it was wiped clean of prints with damp towels. Do you remember what you touched?”

  “Bathroom fixtures for sure. And the. . headboard.”

  “Headboard was wiped clean of prints. His must’ve been on it, too.”

  “They were,” Zoe said, looking at the table, yearning for a long pull of that Guinness.

  “Everything you touched that he might have, he wiped clean,” Weaver said. “He was thorough.” She was wondering if she’d already decided to agree to Zoe’s proposition. She leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “Listen, did you ever suspect this guy? I mean, all the time he was putting the wood to you. . the night he tried to kill the mayor?”

  “Never. And I’d had too much to drink that night. He saw to it.”

  Weaver leaned back and crossed her arms. “I’ve got another question.”

  “You don’t have to ask. Yes, we did it in my bed several times, but considering who he was-is-I’m sure he was just as careful about not leaving prints in my apartment.”

  “It’d still be worth a look. LPS can work miracles.”

  “I think we can keep it a more closely held secret than if we gave my apartment prints to the lab,” Zoe said. She reached down to where a plastic Barnes amp; Noble bag containing a laptop computer was leaning against her chair and lifted it to set it on the table. “I got up one night to use the bathroom and was sure my laptop had been moved. I felt it, and it was still warm from use. Didn’t think much of it at the time. Ott-he-was asleep, so I figured maybe he’d used it, but so what? He didn’t know my password to get online, but maybe he wanted to go online with his service, check his e-mail or something. I forgot to ask him about it in the morning. But I think now, since he was using me to gain information. .”

  “Yeah, it’s a sure bet he figured out a way to hack into your computer.”

  “He had to touch the thing all over, the case, the keys. But he’d figure I’d handle it and smudge all the prints within a few days. I didn’t, though. Not much, anyway. Soon as I realized what must have happened, I made sure I didn’t touch it again. It’s smooth plastic that’ll hold prints like glass. Even if he wiped it down carefully, there’s a good chance he missed a few prints. Gotta wipe it with the lid up, with the lid down. All those keys. It’s not easy to be sure you got everything. The rest of my apartment, if he didn’t wipe it, I did, while cleaning or accidentally, or at least I must have smudged everything over the past week or so.”

  “And I don’t suppose you two ever went to his place, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “Never. For obvious reasons, he always had an excuse. He made sure that when we parted I’d know nothing about him.”

  “So what’s the plan?” Weaver asked, already guessing but wanting to hear it from Zoe.

  “Mine and his are the only prints that should be on this laptop. You dust it yourself and take any prints you find other than mine and run them through records. If you get a match, you have the identity of the Night Sniper. Later, if you have to explain where you got a print to match, you can say you went to his house or apartment earlier as part of your search for amateur or pro competition shooters. He wasn’t home, and you lifted the prints from the doorknob or his mailbox. Very industrious of you, but you’ve got that reputation.”

  “I know my reputation. Is this guy a shooter-I mean, some kind of hunter or shooting sports competitor?”

  “I don’t know. He must be. And it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s got a gun collection. He’s got the money.”

  “You sneak a peek at his bankbook?”

  “I didn’t have to. I could tell. He was money. Not necessarily born to it, but money.”

  Weaver thought about it. The world might be opening up to her here. With even a partial print, she might be able to get a name and address or both; then she could make the collar, say she came across the suspect in her search for target shooters. He must be an expert shooter of some sort. She could spook him, then say his behavior under her questioning prompted her to arrest him. She could say he panicked and bolted and she’d stopped him. If he denied it later in court, who’d believe him? And she bet she could panic him. As for Zoe, he’d wiped the hotel suite clean of prints, so there’d be no evidence that she was ever there. And the laptop prints-if there were any-would be Zoe and Weaver’s secret.

  “Can we work together to the benefit of both of us?” Zoe asked. “My salvation and your career path?”

  Weaver carefully lifted the plastic bag containing the computer by its handle and stood. She smiled down at Zoe, looking surprisingly young and pretty in the restaurant’s soft light. “I think we should see where it takes us.”

  Neither woman had to tell the other they were in it together now.

  “I’ll keep you posted,” Weaver said. She turned and walked out the door with the laptop.

  The restaurant was starting to get busy now. People wanted to eat and get home before it became really dark. A waiter led two men in business suits to a nearby table. They were laughing and yammering about some kind of deal they’d pulled off. Some guy they referred to as a schmuck had signed a contract not in his best interest. Unwise arrangements were made all the time.

  Zoe knocked back the rest of her beer and got out of there.

  55

  Bobby noticed the police cruiser approaching but ignored it, continuing along th
e sidewalk with his dejected, shuffling gait. It wasn’t much of a stretch for him to act harmless, he realized ruefully. His joints did ache, especially his hip, and there was that recurring pain low in his gut that he suspected might be his appendix acting up. Medical insurance was a dream to Bobby, but at least if the damned thing burst he might be able to get himself to a hospital emergency room soon enough to stop the poison from spreading and killing him.

  He sensed rather than saw the cruiser slow as it passed him; then it picked up speed and turned the corner two intersections up. Bobby was sure the officers in the car hadn’t paid much attention to him; he wasn’t the only person on the block. It was even possible the car had slowed down so the cops could appraise the lean Hispanic man down the street, wearing jeans and a numbered sleeveless jersey, dribbling a basketball and dashing around as if to take shots at an imaginary basket fixed somewhere above the concrete stoop of the nearest building. Serial killers had adopted stranger disguises.

  Bobby continued to roam with apparent aimlessness, making circuitous routes around the Repetto apartment but keeping his distance. Everything in the neighborhood seemed normal, but he could feel something in the air. It was almost the way it felt years ago, just before a tornado touched down near him in Illinois. Or that time in Philadelphia, minutes before a big warehouse robbery and shoot-out.

  He knew this was different. And the Sniper seemed to want his prospective victims, the city itself, to sweat. He was a sadist, though he might not think so. And not stupid. Anxious, but not eager. Probably nothing would happen tonight.

  Yet there was that feeling. . Bobby’s cop’s instincts reawakened.

  With all the security for Amelia Repetto, the precinct basement office was deserted. Glad of the fact, Weaver sat hunched over the glowing computer on the desk. The air in the office was damp and stale and smelled faintly of insecticide or disinfectant, but she didn’t notice.

  Weaver hadn’t been able to lift any prints from Zoe’s laptop. But she wasn’t an expert, and now that she was in league with Zoe, she didn’t want to give up on their scheme. She decided to take someone else into her confidence, someone who couldn’t and wouldn’t reveal any involvement.