by John Lutz
Three police cruisers were parked near the blackened area on the sidewalk where Dillon had lain, and techs from the crime scene unit were still busily measuring and photographing. Most of the cops were standing back. Two of them were smoking, one a cigarette, the other a cigar. They smoked for good reason. Burning tobacco created a different sort of smoke, with a different sort of odor that was definitely the lesser of two evils.
Repetto and Birdy were also keeping their distance because of the sweet scent of burnt flesh that hung in the air and became taste at the back of the tongue. The stench was still too cloying and evocative even at this distance. If Repetto had a cigar on him, he would have lit it.
“He comes to the surface, we’ll get him,” Birdy said confidently.
“He might branch off and take another tunnel,” Repetto said. He knew Melbourne and some other NYPD brass types would be second-guessing him if the Night Sniper-Dante Vanya-escaped capture or death tonight.
If they’d kept secret that they had the Sniper’s identity, he might have felt safe and returned to his apartment after his attempt to kill Amelia, and there encountered half the NYPD.
Repetto had understood his choice and made it. He’d opted to put out the killer’s identity while they had him inside the cordon, rattled and on the run. They had his name and description now; they’d soon track him down. Someone who knew him might call the police. And if he did slip the police tonight, there was always the chance he might still return to his apartment without knowing the media had spread his identity all over the city.
Odds. Everything was about odds.
“Wherever our guy is,” Birdy said, “I bet he’s covering ground fast. Gonna make it hard for us.”
Repetto pulled his cell phone from his pocket and pecked out the number for the Transit Bureau liaison, a lieutenant named Collingwood. He told Collingwood the situation.
“What he’s doing, running around in those dark tunnels, is damned dangerous,” Collingwood said in a grating voice.
“I wanna make it even more dangerous for him,” Repetto said. “How trapped is he?”
“Where he is, there aren’t many transfer points along the way,” Collingwood rasped. “Until he gets to. .” His voice trailed off as if he might be consulting a map. “. . Lexington Avenue.”
Repetto knew the stop, one of the major subway junctions in the city. If the Sniper shook himself loose there, he might slip away. “What trains travel along the tunnel he’s in?” Or at least entered.
“He’s following a route still used by the E and V lines.”
“What I want is to flood stops along those lines with cops, along with intersecting lines at transfer points. And soon as possible I want the subway system shut down temporarily for a police action.”
“I’ll pass along the order for the troops to be deployed,” Collingwood said, “but I think you oughta call Melbourne for authorization to shut down the line.”
“Not the line,” Repetto said, “the system. I don’t want there to be any possibility the Sniper can get into another tunnel or somehow board a train traveling who knows where.”
“The entire system? I dunno. . Like I said, you better call Melbourne.”
“I’ll call him,” Repetto said. “Then I’ll see your ass is called on the carpet if you don’t shut down the system.”
“Hold on, now. The whole system can’t be shut down just like that. What you’re asking-”
Repetto broke the connection and punched out his number for Melbourne.
“Problem?” Birdy asked, while Repetto was pacing and waiting to get through.
“Goddamn disconnect,” Repetto said.
“Phone, you mean?”
“Fuckin’ bureaucracy!”
“Ah,” Birdy said, understanding. He started to fidget, drumming his fingertips against each other, gazing up the block toward where Dillon had burned.
Still with the cell phone pressed to his ear, waiting for an answer, Repetto moved toward the car. “Let’s drive,” he said.
Birdy stopped fidgeting and stepped off the curb to walk around to the driver’s side. “Where to?”
Repetto was already lowering his bulk into the car, so Birdy got in behind the wheel before expecting a reply.
“Melbourne?” Repetto said, as his call was answered. Then to Birdy, his hand over the tiny phone’s flip mouthpiece: “Third and Lex.”
Approximately two minutes after his conversation with Melbourne, Repetto’s cell phone chirped.
“Collingwood,” said a phlegmy voice, after Repetto had identified himself.
Repetto waited, knowing the lieutenant had been contacted by Deputy Chief Melbourne. He didn’t want contrition out of Collingwood, only cooperation. And fast.
“Conductor on the V train called in a little while ago and said he felt resistance after seeing what looked like a bundle of rags near the tracks.”
“He say exactly where?”
“Not far from the stop where Officer Dillon was burned.”
Repetto felt his breathing pick up. Any aggravation he’d felt for Collingwood was suddenly gone. Minor. He knew what the bundle must have been. The two uniforms who’d gone into the tunnel after the Night Sniper might no longer be chasing him toward the next stop.
There’d be no one on the Sniper’s heels now. He’d no longer be panicked-if he ever had been.
He’d be thinking.
“Shut down the system,” Repetto said firmly, knowing Melbourne must have phoned this guy and reamed him out. He wouldn’t be so quick to question an order next time.
“We’re working on it,” Collingwood said, not wanting to give up everything at once.
Repetto broke the connection and pointed out the windshield toward a van that was blocking traffic on the narrow street. “Go around that asshole.”
Birdy touched off the siren, put a wheel up on the curb, and went.
Zoe took another sip of vodka and sat staring at the framed certificates on her office wall. The drapes were closed, the door locked. Private office. Right now it was private. Too warm, but she didn’t notice. Her mind was set in one direction, and she hadn’t had enough drinks for it to change course, or for the pressure that had become a headache behind her right eye to ease.
All the work she’d done, everything she’d lived for, given so much to accomplish, might be about to collapse in on her and crush her.
She felt crushed already.
Another sip. After putting down the glass, she used the tips of her forefingers to massage her temples. Her drinking was out of control and she knew it. Had been out of control for months. That’s what explained the fling with-she knew his name now-Dante Vanya.
She looked away from the framed affirmations and validations of her scholastic and professional triumphs and stared at the simple memo on her desk. It was from Deputy Chief Melbourne and, in his jagged but readable handwriting, asked if it was consistent with what she knew about the Night Sniper that he might sometimes wear a red wig.
Zoe didn’t think it likely, though possible. The Night Sniper, Vanya, her lover, wore a hairpiece as an instrument of ego, not as a disguise. She tried to imagine him with a bushy red wig askew on his head, standing nude at the foot of the bed, but she couldn’t. If she were sober, she might have laughed at the carrot-top wild image, but right now nothing could strike her funny.
Because of her headache that was like a knife behind her eye. Because of that damned memo.
When she’d phoned and asked Melbourne why he’d asked his handwritten question, he told her about the strand of red hair found in the Sniper’s suite at the Marimont Hotel. It hadn’t been considered important at the time, and probably it wasn’t. Which was why mention of it hadn’t been included in the material sent to Zoe to analyze after the attempted murder of the mayor. The hair found by the diligent crime scene unit probably belonged to someone other than the suite’s occupant, perhaps a maid or previous guest. Or maybe one of the investigating officers’ shoes had picked i
t up from the hall carpet and tracked it into the suite. A hair, so light and transportable. A breeze might have even carried it in from outside.
But Zoe knew the red hair was important. The single red hair that had been magnified, cut and sampled, photographed, locked away in the evidence room. God, yes, it was important!
Or would be if it were ever matched with one of hers.
Hairs were distinctive and easily compared under microscopes. Hairs carried DNA. Hairs made dandy evidence. Hairs sent people to prison and to hell.
If Vanya were captured rather than killed, Zoe was sure he’d implicate her. There was no reason for him not to if he were found guilty, as he surely would be.
As he was.
She of all people knew.
Of course, he wouldn’t be believed. Not at first.
Until someone recalled the red hair found in the suite at the Marimont Hotel. Or happened to question Weaver.
Weaver. Why had she confided in Weaver?
But Zoe knew Weaver wasn’t the problem. Lies were the problem. Telling them and living them.
Tangled webs. . lies. . webs of red hair …
Her headache flared.
She reached again for the vodka.
64
It was working out for the Night Sniper. The platform at the Fifty-third and Third stop wasn’t as crowded as usual when the train broke into the light and began to slow. And he was on the last car. Usually the train eased to a halt so the middle cars were more or less centered at the stop. The last car was accessible, but most passengers, especially if the platform wasn’t packed with riders, simply entered the cars most convenient to them, the middle cars.
The Sniper remained in his seat and glanced at the dead woman with the book. When the train finally lurched to a complete stop, she was jostled and almost went sideways. But she remained upright. Even if passengers did enter the car, the Sniper would already have exited; by the time someone realized the woman was dead, he’d be long gone. Possibly she’d topple from her seat when the train accelerated, but it would take time and distance for anyone in the car to raise the alarm.
The car’s doors hissed open.
The Sniper rose from his seat and moved quickly to the open door, then stepped out onto the platform.
The air was fresher there, and the surrounding wider space gave him an unexpected feeling of vulnerability.
He sneaked a quick glance around. Passengers were filing out of and into the cars ahead, but so far no one had decided to break from the pack and hurry toward the last car.
As he was about to walk away, satisfied he’d completed an important part of his escape, the Sniper froze as he noticed a tall, stolid figure in a rumpled brown suit.
Repetto!
Facing three-quarters away from him, but it was surely Repetto. And he was slowly turning around.
Most of the exiting passengers were on the platform, and the crowd ahead closed ranks as everyone slowed to board the cars. The figure was suddenly no longer visible.
But the Sniper knew it hadn’t been his imagination. Repetto was here!
The Sniper’s options presented themselves in fractions of seconds. He calculated the odds.
If he returned to his seat and stayed on board, Repetto was sure to spot him as the train rolled past, picking up speed.
The lesser risk might be to stay off the train and walk away from Repetto, toward a flight of steps leading to a side street exit. If he acted now, other exiting passengers might shield him from view.
He had to make up his mind.
He walked. As he headed for the steps, he listened for any commotion behind him and watched the faces of those walking in the opposite direction. Everyone appeared calm enough, displaying only the normal anxiety that was part of riding New York subways.
Feeling better, the Sniper continued to walk, careful not to listen to the interior voice shouting for him to run, to flee for safety. It was fight or flight. And this was hardly the time or place to fight.
Then he heard another voice. An announcement on the public address system saying that beginning immediately, subway service would be temporarily suspended for a police action. The crowd groaned collectively, but they kept moving. They’d been through these things before and knew that service might resume within a few minutes. It wasn’t yet time to change their plans, to consider returning to the surface for alternate transportation.
The Sniper hunched his shoulders. Now it was almost impossible not to break into a run. His back was alive with nerves and tense muscles, bracing for a bullet. A bullet from Repetto. He walked on. He was almost to the concrete steps that led to the surface and the concealing night.
The station was too warm and he was perspiring heavily. So much so that a few of the people walking past glanced at him curiously. One woman even hesitated and seemed to consider asking if he was all right. But when she noticed his ragged clothes, what he was, what he wasn’t, she hurried on her way.
He made his legs move with great conscious effort, one step, the next, another. . The rifle beneath his coat was bumping his right leg painfully, and it was all he could do not to let it alter the rhythm of his gait and draw attention.
Almost to the stairs.
Almost to the cool, safe night.
Passing faces. . still the same. . Repetto close behind. .
Almost to the stairs.
Bobby was seated with his back against a steel support, facing the tracks so he wouldn’t be noticeable. He’d come to the Fifty-third and Third stop because it was one of the busiest, and he was desolate and broke. Because of the Night Sniper, there were fewer and fewer places in the city that were crowded after dark. The Sniper was bad for business, all right, from Wall Street all the way down to people like Bobby, who begged a meager living in the streets.
His illicit panhandling in the subway stop had netted him six dollars and seventy cents. Not much, but something. After ditching the stolen cell phone and giving up on trying to get the police to believe him, Bobby had walked most of the way across town. He was exhausted.
He heard the announcement about the subway system standing down for a police action. It didn’t matter much to him. There must have been some kind of emergency, a heart attack, a murder, some poor soul falling onto the tracks in front of an oncoming train. He rested the back of his head against cool steel and sighed. None of it seemed worth worrying about now, or even thinking about. He had no plans beyond the moment.
That was when he happened to glance down the platform and see the homeless man he’d been following earlier that evening. The man who didn’t belong.
Bobby struggled to his feet and limped after him, his gaze fixed on the figure in the long tattered coat. The man wasn’t exactly hurrying, but he was still walking faster than anyone else on the platform.
Suddenly Bobby wondered if the man was real. Or even if he was real, was it the same man? After all, this time he’d only seen him from behind.
“Hey!”
The shout had hurt Bobby’s throat. He coughed and tried again. “Hey! Hey, bro!”
But the man hadn’t heard him over the repetitious public address announcement about the subway system being temporarily shut down.
Or had he heard? He was walking faster now.
He was running.
Bobby began to run after him. The hurrying man wasn’t going to escape. Not this time.
The Night Sniper heard the voice calling behind him. He couldn’t be sure if it was meant for him.
Even as he made up his mind that he was close enough to the exit to make a run for it, he was sprinting. His right arm held the concealed rifle tight to his body, while his left swung to keep his balance and to intimidate or knock aside anyone blocking his way. He pushed past a man strolling and reading a paper, elbowed aside a woman walking with her head down and dragging a small suitcase on wheels.
He was going to make it. He was sure now he was going to make it!
At first he didn’t notice the unifor
med cop who came down the steps and was striding toward him.
When he did see him, there was no question in the Night Sniper’s mind. No hesitation.
He smoothly swung the rifle out from beneath his coat, aimed, and fired at the blue uniform.
Repetto heard the shot and whirled toward its source. At the crack of the rifle, everyone on the platform had dropped low or run for cover, so there was nothing to obstruct his view of a uniformed cop lurching along and pointing toward a hunched, hurrying figure in ragged clothes, a long coat and worn baseball cap. The cop stumbled and fell. The hurrying, hunched figure turned, and Repetto saw the rifle swinging up from beneath the coat to point at him.
A bullet snapped past Repetto’s ear as he struggled to unholster his revolver. His hands, his fingers, felt clumsy and insensitive. He seemed to be in a different, slower time frame than the man with the rifle.
Another shot-not as loud.
The wounded cop was sitting up, firing his 9mm at the Sniper. The gun was bucking in his hand.
Suddenly realizing he was in a cross fire, the Sniper leaped from the platform onto the tracks and sprinted toward the adjacent platform for trains running the opposite direction.
A play of light and press of wind, and Repetto realized a train was roaring in from that direction on momentum, trying to make its last stop as the system shut down.
He realized it was a break for the Sniper. If he made it to the opposite platform, he’d be on the other side of the incoming train and could make his getaway.
And he was going to make it.
Not only that, he was on a lower plane now and Repetto couldn’t get a bead on him through the people lying and kneeling on the platform. Both he and the wounded cop had stopped shooting. There was no choice. Repetto had completely lost sight of the Sniper now.
