by John Lutz
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 the press as Repetto’s aide and confidante, and who herself had been fond of Repetto’s dead protege, 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.
A juicier target than either Lora or Amelia Repetto.
He switched off the TV and went into his combination office and collection room. With the practiced ease of a surgeon, he slipped thin, flesh-colored rubber gloves on his hands. From a cabinet beneath a bookshelf he got out the ancient Royal typewriter he’d bought at a roadside antique shop in New Jersey for twenty-five dollars. He’d made minor repairs on the manual typewriter himself, then bought a ribbon at an office supply store and fed it onto one of the old reels. The typewriter worked fine and was perfect for his purpose. Let the police trace the typeface of a fifty-year-old machine in the century of technology.
No point in wasting time. He placed the typewriter on his desk and got an envelope and sheet of paper from a bottom drawer. He addressed the envelope, then rolled the paper onto the machine’s platen.
The note he typed was brief:
Game changed. Stakes Higher.
When the paper was folded and sealed in the envelope, he placed the envelope in an inside pocket of one of his blue blazers. He removed the gloves from his hands and stuffed them into a side pocket.
After shrugging into the blazer, he lightly tapped its pockets to make sure nothing had fallen out.
Then he left to buy a theater ticket.
45
“Game changed,” Meg said. She dropped the copy of the latest Night Sniper theater note back on Repetto’s desk in their precinct basement headquarters. It caught a draft and almost slid off the back of the desk. “Do we all agree on what he means by that?”
“Next target’s gotta be the mayor,” Birdy said. He was perched on the desk corner, absently working one foot as if trying to shake something from his sole. “Why the idiot had to announce when and where he was gonna be is beyond sound reason.”
Repetto was standing over by the window, blowing on his coffee and waiting for it to cool. He shrugged. “It’s what mayors do.”
“Man’s got the brain of a piss ant,” Birdy said.
Meg grinned. She kind of liked the mayor, who wasn’t pure politician. “Are you politically motivated, Birdy?”
Birdy snorted, stopped with the foot, and began pumping his leg nervously. “I got enough trouble motivating myself to make it through the day.”
The air conditioner clicked on and a cool breeze wafted from the vents near the ceiling, bringing with it the scent of the booking area above: stale perspiration mixed with desperation. Repetto thought there really might be a smell of fear, and that it lingered.
“We all know the next line of the nursery rhyme,” Meg said. “Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief. That schedule of victims seems to have been abandoned. What the mayor did accomplish is to take a lot of pressure off doctors.”
“There are scads of doctors,” Birdy said, “only one mayor. No brain.”
“I stayed up late last night,” Meg said.
Birdy winked at her. “That mean you’re gonna be short with us?”
“It means I was busy.” She’d been waiting to tell what she’d figured out, knowing it would top whatever the amorous and ambitious Weaver had done lately.
Birdy started pumping his leg faster and grinned. “You gonna tell us about your love life, Meg?”
Odd thing for him to say if they were having a secret affair, Repetto thought. Maybe not. Probably not. He looked at Meg, waiting.
“I checked all the Sniper crime scenes,” she said. “Wanted to make sure of something. For each murder, the most likely area of the shot’s origin has been worked out. In each of those areas is a permanently or temporarily closed subway stop.”
Birdy stopped his leg and stared at her. She knew he hadn’t reasoned out where she was going.
It took Repetto a few seconds; then he smiled at her like a proud father.
“The muddy footprint on a dry night,” he said. “In the apartment after the restaurant shooting near the park. Lee Nasad.”
“Right. I didn’t want to say anything until I had all the facts. I obtained a sample of mud from the closed, partly renovated subway stop in that neighborhood yesterday and dropped it by the lab. Then I got confirmation this morning. It matches the mud left by the Sniper’s shoe.” Take that, Weaver.
Birdy stood up from the desk corner. He was chewing on his lower lip, turning over in his mind what Meg had done. He stopped chewing and looked at her admiringly. “I like it, Meg.”
She gave him a slight nod to acknowledge the compliment. “I bet our Sniper’s using deserted subway tunnels for shelter and to get around the city unseen.”
“Which would explain why we button up a crime scene area minutes after the shot, and he’s gone,” Birdy said.
“Uh-huh. Poof, like that.”
Repetto was facing away from them now, staring at the slender bar of sunlight fighting its way in through the narrow, ground-level window. “Maybe something’s turned,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe for once we can get out ahead of this bastard.”
“It’d make a nice change,” Birdy said.
“I’ll pass on this information to Murchison,” Repetto said, still staring at the light as if fascinated by it.
“Who’s he?” Birdy asked.
“Captain Lou Murchison. He’s going to be in charge of TBTC security.”
“Take Back The City rally?”
“Yeah. It’s already got an acronym.”
“No stopping it now,” Birdy said.
“Murchison’ll notify the mayor’s personal security so they and the NYPD can coordinate efforts.”
“Maybe the mayor will change his mind,” Meg said.
“No mind,” Birdy said.
“Something else,” Meg said. “Two blocks from Rockefeller Center there’s a subway stop closed for future renovations.”
Repetto turned back around. Birdy returned to perch on the desk and started pumping his leg again, faster and faster. He noticed what he was doing. Kicked the desk once, hard.
“Closed subway stop could be good or bad,” Repetto said.
“That’s what I thought,” Meg told him.
“Bad,” Birdy said.
A doughnut bag! That was good. Bobby wondered why so many people often threw away doughnut bags with one or two doughnuts still in them. Bought more than they could eat, maybe. Or calorie guilt caught up with them and they left a doughnut or two to reassure themselves they were still on their diets.
Bobby didn’t care. He reached farther down into the trash receptacle and pulled the crumpled white bag out from beneath a warped and water-stained old paperback somebody had thrown away. He glanced at the title: Six Rules for Sensational Sex. Self-help. Fuckin’ joke.
He ignored the book but did remove one of several discarded newspapers in the wire basket. This one, a Post, was barely used, as if whoever had thrown it away merely glanced at the headlines, then discarded it.
With the folded paper tucked beneath his arm, he opened the doughnut bag. Half a powdered jelly. Okay, that’d do.
Bobby shuffled down the block until he came to the doorway of an import shop that had its steel shutters down over the windows. He sat back so his lower legs wouldn’t be out on the sidewalk where he might trip somebody, then bit into the doughnut. Great. Still fresh.
It took him only a few seconds to down what was left of the doughnut. After swiping his hands together to brush away the sugar, he licked a stubborn glob of jelly from a knuckle, then leaned back against the shop door and unfolded the Post.
“Shit!” he said, loud enough that a guy in a dark business suit walking past turned his head and gave him a look.
Right there on the front page was more news about the Take Back The City rally, under the headline NEWYORKERSFIGHTBACK. Thousa
nds were expected to attend.
Thousands of targets, Bobby thought. No, one target, really. TBTC, as it had come to be known, had seemed to Bobby a bad idea from the beginning. Somebody should have talked to the mayor and made him see reason. He was taunting the Night Sniper, the deadliest killer the city had seen in years, and a real sicko. Bobby was no profiler, but there was no doubt in his mind a guy like the Sniper couldn’t pass up a challenge like this one.
Across the street, a young woman hurrying toward a bus stop casually left behind a plastic water bottle on a display window ledge. Even from this distance Bobby could see that it was almost half-full.
He was thirsty, after the doughnut.
He stood up and stuffed the crumpled, empty doughnut bag into his hip pocket to be thrown away later. (Bobby was neat; didn’t foul up his city.) The newspaper he refolded and tucked beneath his arm. He’d read it later in the park.
When there was a break in traffic, he crossed the street to get the water bottle, still thinking about the TBTC mass of humanity that was going to be in Rockefeller Center. A wonderful place to die.
The mayor had balls. Bobby had to give him that. Maybe Bobby would even register so he could vote for him in the next election, if they were both still alive.
“This is a nightmare,” Captain Louis Murchison said to Repetto. He was a tall man with the slimness of youth and steel-gray hair. Repetto had seen him around over the years, usually in uniform. Today he had on a well-tailored gray suit and looked more like a Wall Street baron than a cop. “We don’t have enough people to cover every rooftop and window the Sniper can use for cover.”
The two men stood on Forty-ninth Street, adjacent to Rockefeller Plaza, and surveyed the surrounding neighborhood. Repetto saw that Murchison was right; this was one of the busiest areas of Manhattan and was vertically developed. There were possible shooting points from overlooking buildings even blocks away, taller than the buildings between them and the Plaza.
“I’ve got something that might help,” Repetto said, and told Murchison what Meg had figured out about the Sniper using closed tunnels and stops in the subway system to move around town.
