Fear the Night (30 page)

The Sniper and his companion would sip champagne and dance and stay late and have a grand time.

Zoe would get a little drunk.

The Night Sniper wouldn’t.

49

Captain Lou Murchison was standing back beyond the podium where the press couldn’t get to him. Even from this distance he looked as if he’d just been sentenced to be hanged. The cops around him were keeping their distance; they knew what Murchison had and didn’t want to catch it.

Melbourne sat in one of the radio cars behind the wheel. Repetto was beside him, Meg and Birdy in the back. Meg didn’t much like it, sitting back where the suspects rode.

The least of her troubles.

“Looks like the mayor’s got a slim chance,” Melbourne said. “Bullet entered his side and missed the heart. It’s still in a lung. Nicked an artery, and they’re trying to stop internal bleeding. Touch and go.” He was staring out the windshield at the stragglers who were left after the Plaza was cleared, at the techs and plainclothes detectives milling around up on the podium. “Fuckin’ mess!”

“Murchison did what he could,” Repetto said. The car’s police radio was on low, like background conversation in a restaurant, only more abrupt and with the occasional crackle of static.

“Fuck Murchison.”

Repetto knew that pretty much summed up what was left of Murchison’s career.

“What about the subways?” Melbourne asked.

“Locked down tight as soon as the shot sounded. The Sniper would have had a hard time using the subways to get out of the area.”

“He didn’t have to go underground,” Melbourne said. “The way all hell broke loose and there were people running every which way, he could have simply joined the crowd.”

“Could have,” Repetto said, “but I doubt he’d have counted on it ahead of time.”

Melbourne was staring at Murchison again. “Murchison was supposed to prevent this, or at least nail the bastard that did it right after.”

Repetto said nothing, simply sat watching two of the plainclothes detectives on the podium stare up and around, trying to figure out where the shot might have originated. They might as well have been figuring the odds on rain.

“Ball’s in your court now, Vin,” Melbourne said. The threat was implicit. Repetto could become the next Murchison.

“I’ve already got the uniforms you gave me canvassing the surrounding buildings.”

“And doesn’t that sound familiar?”

“I need more people,” Repetto said. “Maybe more than you can give me.”

“For this I can supply warm bodies.”

“We’ll keep on the surrounding buildings, even the ones we had covered before the mayor’s speech. Also question the NYPD sharpshooters stationed around, see if they spotted anything unusual. If we don’t find anything tonight, tomorrow when it’s light out, we’ll use the extra uniforms to widen the circle of our investigation to take in even the unlikely places the Sniper might have been when he squeezed the trigger.”

“I thought we had everything covered that was on a line from the lectern and within range. That’s what Murchison assured me.”

Repetto wished Melbourne would get off Murchison. “Maybe the Sniper’s even more of a marksman than we thought.”

“If he can shoot through solid walls, he is.”

“We’ve been looking into former SWAT snipers and ex-military types. Professionals. Possibly we should be looking at amateurs.”

“Amateurs?” Melbourne looked first disbelieving, then nauseated. Or maybe it was the reflected alternating red and blue light from outside the car.

“Competition shooters,” Repetto explained. “Olympic athletes. They might be better shots even than the SWAT or military snipers. We got any present or former Olympic-caliber target shooters in the area?”

“We’ll sure as hell find out,” Melbourne said. “If we have anybody left tomorrow who’s not out examining buildings for blocks around.”

Repetto thought about suggesting Melbourne set Murchison to the task.
No, no . . .
He rested his arm on the seat back and twisted around so he could see Meg and Birdy.

Meg came hyperalert, knowing Repetto was looking for suggestions. Or volunteers.

“How ’bout that uniform’s been so capable,” Birdy said, “Weaver? She’s a smart one.”

Meg glared at him.
Prick!

“Officer Nancy Weaver,” Repetto explained to Melbourne. “She’s hot to get out of uniform and back into plainclothes, and she’s got good skills and instincts.”

“Give
that
one a list of top amateur shooters in the area and she’ll have ’em lined up like ducks in a gallery,” Birdy said.

Such enthusiasm. Meg wondered if Birdy was sleeping with Weaver. Or was he just in line?

“You like Weaver for it, put her on it,” Melbourne said to Repetto. “I’ll get the computer whizzes on the hunt, soon as I make a phone call. We’ll sic this bloodhound Weaver on the names tomorrow morning.”

Bloodhound.
Meg liked that.

“I don’t exactly see her as any kinda hound,” Birdy said. “’Specially since she’s pretty much a looker.”

Repetto locked eyes with him in the car’s outside mirror until Birdy looked away.
Might Birdy be sleeping with Weaver?

“Then she’s a pretty little poodle,” Melbourne said. “Long as she can do the job, I don’t care what breed she is.” He worked the handle and opened the door. “I’ll call you when we have the list for Weaver,” he said to Repetto. “Right now I’m gonna meet with the commissioner and activate the entire available force. You’ll have plenty of uniforms, plainclothes, and undercover cops here at your disposal before you know it.”

He climbed out of the car, then leaned down and stuck his head back inside before shutting the door. “Anybody asks, tell ’em nobody in the NYPD better even think about sleep until I sleep, and I’m not gonna sleep for a long time. The mayor’s been shot. Sleep’s not an option.”

They watched Melbourne hurry away to avoid a pursuing woman who looked like a journalist.

“Sleep is not an option,” Repetto reiterated.

“Guess we’re gonna have to catnap,” Birdy said.

“Not unless you have nine lives,” Meg told him.

By the time she’d heard the mayor was shot, Zoe had already consumed one gin martini and half of another, while waiting for her dinner date to arrive in the Pot-O-Gold Room on top of the Marimont Hotel.
The mayor shot.
She should go in early tomorrow, or possibly cancel the dinner and leave the posh restaurant right now. Such a momentous occurrence, it didn’t seem right to be sitting here sipping drinks and looking forward to a romantic evening. She could leave a message with the maitre d’. On the other hand, she was a profiler, not assigned or needed to respond to emergencies.

All thoughts of cancelation left her when her date walked into the restaurant. Not a few women’s heads turned so they could stare at him. He looked more handsome than Zoe had ever seen him. He was fit, tanned, and downright gorgeous in an obviously expensive dark suit, white shirt, and a tie that matched the handkerchief peeking out of the suit coat pocket. When he walked, the swing of his arms made gold cuff links glitter.

Rich, Zoe thought. That was the word that came to mind when she looked at him.
Rich.
That and another word.

“Been waiting long?” he asked, sliding onto the chair opposite hers. The petite tables were round, with yellow and white china, silver flatware, and cut crystal glittering on white cloth. They were small enough so that two people seated opposite each other could lean forward and kiss, made for romantic assignations.

“Awhile,” Zoe said, “but it was worth it.”

In so many ways!

The evening progressed with a smile and a peck on the cheek, another drink, smooth conversation, a white and a red wine with a delicious meal, then an after-dinner port.

Zoe consumed another drink gradually, then champagne between dances. She tried to stretch the time between sips, but slowing down didn’t help. The alcohol had her now, and she knew it.

The mayor shot . . . mayor of New York . . .
The concept knocked on the door of her consciousness from time to time, but she didn’t invite it in.

She danced, she drank, she gazed hypnotized into eyes like blue ice. God, he was handsome! He could even dance well. He was perfect!

By the time they rode the elevator up to his floor, she thought tomorrow would be soon enough to worry about the mayor.

At 3:00
AM
Repetto crawled into bed alongside Lora, trying not to make the springs squeak. A calmer Melbourne had relented on his rash and impractical no-sleep policy. When mind and body were dead tired, both were trudging along in place, not tending to business but trying to ride the treadmill to some future respite that never quite arrived.

The area around Rockefeller Plaza was frozen, cordoned off by yellow crime scene ribbon, isolated from pedestrian and vehicular traffic by NYPD sawhorses and sleepy cops in parked patrol cars. What a nightmare the rerouted traffic would cause tomorrow morning, when people tried to make their way to work.

In the morning the investigation would begin again full force. The search area around the Plaza would be widened. The Night Sniper might seem like a phantom, but the bullet that struck the mayor was real and had to have come from
somewhere.
And
somewhere
could be found.

Repetto hadn’t been this exhausted in years. He sighed as he settled down on the mattress and pulled the light sheet up around him. Cool air from the vent near the ceiling flowed lightly over him, soothing him through the thin linen.

Lora stirred beside him. “You just get in?”

“A few minutes ago,” Repetto said. “I made straight for the bed.”

He heard her roll onto her side and felt the sheet pull taut. “So how’s the mayor?”

“They think he might make it.”

“Good. He’s not a bad guy. Not that I’m gonna vote for him.” She raised her upper body, dug an elbow into the mattress, and cupped her chin in her hand, staring down at Repetto. “Any progress finding out who shot him?”

“Not so far.”

“Others still working?”

“No. Skeleton crew’s got the area secure. It all starts again tomorrow morning.”

“It’s already tomorrow morning.”

“Um.”

She was silent for a while, unmoving. “I take it you don’t want to talk.”

“Too tired.”

Her lips were cool on his forehead, and he heard and felt her lie back down beside him.

Weary as he was, Repetto knew he wouldn’t fall asleep easily. Still too much adrenaline in his system.

“I’m worried about Meg,” he said.

Linen rustled, Lora sitting up now.

“She’s acting peculiar,” Repetto said. “Like she’s . . .”

“In love?”

Repetto didn’t lift his head from the pillow, but craned his neck so he could look at Lora in the dimness. “Why do you say that?”

“I’ve had lunch with her a few times recently. I know the signs.”

Women and lunch, Repetto thought. If Lora wasn’t lunching with Zoe Brady, she was lunching with Meg. He really didn’t mind now, perhaps because he knew he was helpless to control the female tradition that kept so many Manhattan restaurants in business. Besides, food and gossip could be a revealing combination, and he was curious about both women.

“Also,” Lora said, “I shouldn’t tell you, but she mentioned to me she might have found someone.”

Repetto was wide awake now. “Ah! She say who?”

“No, she was very secretive.”

“That’s it?” Repetto asked. “Meg told you that much, then stopped talking?”

“About that subject, yes.”

“So why did she mention it to you in the first place?”

“She’s a woman. We all like to share the good news.”

Repetto lay for a few minutes listening to the faint and distant traffic sounds drifting on the night. New York. Never completely silent or completely still. Never completely predictable. Like people.

“What about Birdy as Meg’s secret suitor?” he asked.

“Be serious. Anyway, he’s married.”

“They spend a lot of time together.”

“Okay, they do. And love can be random. Do
you
think Meg might be involved with Birdy?”

“No.”

“I can tell you one thing for sure,” Lora said. “She’s hooked.”

We’re all hooked,
Repetto thought. He listened to a siren wailing off in the distance. Trouble never let up, never eased up on people.

Resting a hand on Lora’s thigh, precious contact with the person he loved more than his life, he dropped into dreamless sleep.

Sooner or later, one way or another, we’re all hooked. . . .

Safely back in his suite, lying beside the sleeping Zoe, the Night Sniper watched the silent TV screen beyond the foot of the bed. Zoe’s bare foot extended from beneath the sheet so that her toes blocked his view of the screen’s lower right quarter.

A muted blond anchorwoman with seriously collagened lips was smiling widely as she soundlessly mouthed the news. The TV was set for closed caption. He read in white capital letters on a black background that the mayor was expected to survive.

The Sniper had to contain himself to keep from cursing out loud and waking Zoe.

No, she wouldn’t wake up. Not after all the alcohol she’d taken in tonight. Zoe was a smart, competent woman, but early in their relationship he’d noticed she liked to drink, maybe even had a developing problem. It was a weakness he’d homed in on, knowing its usefulness.

It hadn’t been difficult to accelerate her drinking. After a while it was no longer even necessary for him to be subtle. Zoe might have an understanding of the criminal mind—the
average
criminal mind—but like so many people, she was blind to her own vulnerabilities.

Her drinking made her easy to convince, and to manipulate. Usually they ended their dates in her bed, and while she lay in an alcohol- and sex-induced slumber, he would log on to her Toshiba laptop and learn what he could about the NYPD’s progress in the Night Sniper case. Those files he thought might be of further use to him, he copied.

Zoe snored softly, and her breathing became even deeper and more regular. She was hours away from so much as fluttering her eyelids.