Fear the Night n-5 Read online

  Repetto nodded somberly and walked to the office door. “See?” he said, as he opened the door. “It isn’t a male thing.”

  Zoe almost shot back an answer before the door closed behind him, but she realized she didn’t have a good one. At least not one she should utter. Not yet.

  She knew Repetto was right, and she knew why he thought as he did. He felt he was partly responsible for what had happened to Dal Bricker, for someone else’s death.

  He and Alex Reyals had something in common.

  17

  Repetto was uneasy, as he often was after talking with Zoe. He wasn’t sure why, and he shied away from trying to figure it out. He had other things on his mind.

  He left her office and took a cab through the hazy morning to Penn Station, where he met Meg and Birdy at the Starbucks inside the terminal. Over coffee, he filled them in on his conversation with Zoe.

  When he was finished, Birdy said, “Sounds to me like our profiler doesn’t think either Reyals or Mackey are prime suspects.”

  “I’d like to think she’s right,” Birdy said, “considering they’re ex-cops. And we all know there’s really no such thing.”

  “She might be wrong.” Repetto used both hands to play with his coffee mug. “Profilers are wrong a lot.”

  “Mackey doesn’t sound likely,” Meg said. “Mostly because of his age. It almost rules him out.”

  “Almost.” Repetto looked out at commuters striding along the wide passageway from the tracks. Their ceaseless movement made a steady, rushing sound, but if you listened closely, you could hear the scuffing of hundreds of soles punctuated by the tapping of high heels. People in a hurry, turning the treadmill of the business world he’d never wanted to take part in.

  “But I don’t know why the profiler’s cool on Reyals,” Meg said. “He’s the right sex, the right age, lives in Manhattan, and has a sniper’s background. Also, some of his alibis for the times of the Sniper murders are thin.”

  “He lives alone,” Birdy pointed out. “I used to live alone and not see or talk to anyone for days. I had no alibi for anything. Somebody coulda shot the pope, and I woulda had time to fly to Italy and back. That wouldn’t make me a solid suspect.”

  Meg looked at him. “You don’t like the pope?”

  “I don’t think we’d like each other.”

  “But you wouldn’t shoot each other.”

  Birdy shook his head and stared into his coffee. “I guess not, unless he learned about some of my confessions.”

  Meg turned her attention back to Repetto. “I wouldn’t be so fast to step over Reyals.”

  “I dunno,” Birdy said beside her. “He’s ex-NYPD.”

  “That doesn’t put him above suspicion. A minute ago you were thinking the pope might take a shot at you.”

  “Here’s what we’ll do,” Repetto said. “Since Meg likes Reyals at least a little for the Night Sniper, she gets to interview him. You get Mackey, Birdy. I know he’s not likely as the doer, but serial killers don’t always run true to type-except in Zoe Brady’s mind.”

  “You’re being kinda hard on her,” Meg said. “She’s got a good reputation for accuracy.”

  Repetto shrugged. Maybe Meg was right. And maybe he was being hard on Zoe Brady for another reason. What might really be irking Repetto was that Zoe seemed to understand that very private part of him where he harbored and nurtured his grief.

  “You got addresses on these guys?” he asked his detectives. Mind on business.

  They both nodded.

  Repetto tossed down the rest of his coffee and stood up.

  “What about you?” Birdy asked. “What are you gonna do?”

  Repetto stared at him. “I get the pope.”

  Meg found Alex Reyals’s apartment near Washington Square. The old brick building wasn’t fancy, and the foyer had a cracked and stained tile floor. The walls might have had half an inch of enamel on them. At least the latest coat, a kind of putrid green, appeared fresh. A couple of mashed cigarette butts lay close together on the floor, and a faint scent of tobacco smoke hung in the air.

  There was an intercom button above each of the tarnished brass mailboxes. Some of the names suggested many of the units were occupied by college students, men with not very clever nicknames, like Boozemaster in 4-C, and young women trying to hide their gender with simple first initials. There was always hope that a determined stalker would think B. Tuttle was a big hairy guy named Bart, instead of little Beth or Brenda. Meg saw that Alex Reyals lived in 3-E and gave his intercom button a hard press. It was difficult to know if the button moved in the dried mass of aged paint.

  When she identified herself as the police, he buzzed her up immediately. Expecting me?

  The building had no elevator, so she had to trudge up flights of narrow, creaking stairs. On each landing was a small, dirty window that made faint inroads against the gloom. The glued remnants of rubber treads clung stubbornly to each wooden step and provided unpredictable traction. A radio talk show that had been audible on the first floor faded to silence, and Meg heard her own breathing as she climbed.

  Reyals was standing waiting for her with his door open.

  He appeared younger than she imagined and looked more like one of the building’s college students than a serial killer. Maybe Boozemaster. What she thought when she saw him was average: no hard edges or lines to his features, dark hair cut almost scalp short, military style. He was wearing loose-fitting faded jeans and a gray pocket T-shirt, brown moccasins.

  He smiled pleasantly and held out his hand. “Alex Reyals.”

  “Detective Meg Doyle.” She shook his hand briefly, noting he had a firm, dry grip, gentle but with contained strength. Noting also, now that she was closer, that his brown eyes were pools of agony.

  He was taller than she’d first thought. At a distance, the bulk of his shoulders and perhaps thighs made him seem at a glance shorter than he actually was. It was the kind of build Meg had seen on powerful and athletic men. He stood back so she could enter, then followed her in and closed the door. When she turned, he was next to her. He motioned for her to sit on the sofa, his arm tight and corded with muscle.

  The room’s furnishings were a mix of old, new, and flea market. On one wall were shelves holding books, a stack of magazines, and what looked like an expensive sound system built around a CD player. A small TV and a lineup of ceramic vases sat on one of the upper shelves. Near a window was a spectacular wooden desk, modern and asymmetrical. There was a phone and answering machine on it, a small brass lamp, a folded New York Times, and a black notebook computer. Lighter, polished wood was inlaid in an angular design on the desk drawers, and the sturdy legs were capped with brass. This was some piece of furniture.

  Meg lowered herself into a gray leather armchair instead of the sofa, not letting Reyals control the interview, and pretended to glance around for the first time.

  “Nice room. Wonderful desk.”

  He smiled. “I’m glad you like it. I made it.”

  “Made it?”

  “Upstairs in my shop. I rented that apartment and use it for my woodworking. It’s on the top floor, directly above this one and pretty much soundproof.”

  “Why soundproof?”

  “I hit my thumb with my hammer now and then, use terrible language.”

  “I suggest you take this interview seriously.”

  “Okay. My woodworking tools. Power tools. Some of them make noise and the neighbors might complain.”

  Meg was still disbelieving. “You make desks like that and sell them?”

  “Not like that. And not all desks. The furniture I make is half functional and half art. Every once in a while I show it in galleries, and decorators buy it for choice clientele.”

  “Rich clientele?”

  He grinned. “I do okay, though it was slow at first. I started doing it for artistic satisfaction. Then it became profitable. And it’s good. . relaxation.”

  She thought he’d almost said therapy.
r />   He sat down on the sofa and gave her his smile again. It was one that stayed with you, that smile. She saw now that his hands were callused as well as powerful, the nails clipped short on blunt fingertips.

  Meg warned herself not to be taken in by Alex Reyals, a charmer who might be a killer. She vaguely remembered some kind of deadly snake that mesmerized its victims by swaying gently and soothingly before striking. Charm was in the arsenal of so much that was deadly.

  Reyals crossed his legs, laced his fingers over one knee, and assumed a waiting attitude. She could tell he was appraising her, and not as a cop. Oddly, she almost blushed.

  “I’m here-”

  “To talk to me about the Night Sniper murders,” he finished for her.

  “What makes you think it’s not about all those unpaid parking tickets?”

  “I don’t have any unpaid tickets. I do have an NYPD background as a sniper, and you are NYPD.”

  “That’s what I told you. How do you know for sure who I am? I never showed you any identification.”

  He grinned. “Hell, you don’t have to. We’re talking cop to cop here, Detective. When I saw you, I knew you were real.”

  Meg felt more complimented than was comfortable.

  Reyals continued to appear completely relaxed, but for his eyes. “I assumed that sooner or later you or somebody like you would be here to talk to me, follow up on my conversation with the uniform who came around a few days ago. I don’t object. It’s logical that you’re tracking down former military and law enforcement snipers in the area, checking and double-checking them. From what I’ve read in the papers and seen on TV news, the Night Sniper’s a hell of a shot.” His expression changed to one of sudden concern. “Can I get you something to drink, Meg? Coffee, water?. . I know you won’t accept booze while on duty. Hey, I’ve got soda, straight and diet.”

  “Nothing for me, thanks.” He called me Meg, and I let him get by with it. Too late to correct him now. “I went over your statement and have a few questions.”

  “I would imagine. A couple of my alibis for the times of the shootings are pretty thin. I can’t help that. When a man lives alone, he doesn’t tend to have witnesses to his every action.”

  “You were married. . ”

  “My wife left me two years ago. You know why.”

  “No,” Meg said, “I don’t.”

  “After I shot that woman, I changed. My relationship with my wife changed along with me. She finally had enough of my brooding and temper tantrums and left. I don’t blame her.”

  “Temper tantrums?”

  “Not directed at her, if that’s what you’re wondering. And it is.”

  Meg smiled and nodded.

  “I’d be wondering, too. I don’t hate anybody except maybe myself. I’ve got no reason anymore to shoot people from hiding. In fact, these days the thought of it makes me physically ill.”

  “Everything I’ve learned about the shooting on the bridge suggests it was accidental.”

  “I notice you didn’t say it wasn’t my fault.”

  “But it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t kill the woman deliberately.”

  “No, I didn’t. It was more. .”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. You’re a cop, not a psychiatrist.”

  “Are you in analysis?”

  “I was until about six months ago.”

  Meg scribbled on her notepad.

  “Jesus!” Reyals said. “You’re writing that down, getting me to hang myself. Sniper leaves analysis and turns into serial killer.”

  Meg didn’t know if he was serious. “Mr. Reyals, you know how it works. I don’t think anything at this point.”

  “I do know how it works, and it’s bullshit. And call me Alex.”

  Meg was beginning to like this guy too much. “Alex, I’ve gotta say, some of your alibis aren’t worth diddly. People who thought they saw you taking a walk near the time of a murder that happened on the other side of town. A waiter who thinks he served you spaghetti in an Italian restaurant when a different murder was being committed.”

  “I’ve got the charge card receipt for the spaghetti dinner.”

  “Which proves somebody used your card and signed your name.”

  “Forged my signature perfectly, too.”

  “Our experts aren’t so sure that didn’t happen.” Meg didn’t know that. A little lie sometimes greased the skids.

  Reyals stood up and paced over to the CD player. For a second Meg thought he might switch it on. Then he turned and came back to the sofa, but he stood beside it instead of sitting down. The way the light hit his eyes, they had the same haunted sadness in them she sometimes glimpsed in Repetto’s eyes. The two men were a lot alike, both in their own ways victims of bullets.

  “You said I knew how it worked, Meg, and you’re right. We both know you have no solid evidence that I might be the Night Sniper, but that doesn’t matter. What you’re really here for is to size me up, to see if you get a feeling about me. It’s a kind of test.”

  Meg closed the cover of her notepad and sat back. “Yeah, I suppose it is.”

  “Do I pass, Meg?”

  She stood up also. “You get an incomplete.”

  He shot her his beautiful tragic smile. “That’s the best I could hope for. It means you might come back and we’ll talk some more.”

  “That’s not the game we’re playing, Alex.” Isn’t it?

  Still smiling, he said, “Well, I’m not going to go out and shoot somebody so I can see you again.”

  “That’s reassuring.” She gave him one of her cards. “Call if you think of something that might help.”

  He surprised her by reaching into his shirt pocket and producing one of his own cards. On it was his name, street address, phone number, and e-mail address, along with a red, artistic rendering of a handsaw. “And you call me if you think of something. Anything.”

  She couldn’t help returning his smile. Responding. How can he see into me? What does he know about me? She tucked his card in a pocket.

  When she moved toward the door, he went ahead to show her out. She noticed for the first time that he gave off a curiously appealing scent, as if he’d just taken a fresh shower and dried off in a steaming room. Meg knew she had to get out of there without looking into his eyes.

  Christ! I don’t want this! I don’t!

  “Good luck nailing this guy,” he said.

  Without thinking, she looked.

  She carried what she saw all the way downstairs and back to the car, where she sat behind the steering wheel and thought about what an idiot she might make of herself.

  Meg didn’t glance up at Alex Reyals’s window as she drove away, afraid he might be watching. Afraid she might look back and this time turn into a pillar of mush.

  She was sure he wasn’t the Night Sniper, but it had nothing to do with evidence. It was how she felt about him.

  Maybe it was how he wanted her to feel.

  Charm was definitely part of his arsenal.

  18

  New York, 1989

  Dante sat on the edge of the sofa in the living room, smelling the onions his mother was cooking on the stove. He listened to the buzzing coming from the kitchen. That was how it sounded to him when his mother and father argued, how he wanted it to sound. He didn’t want to hear the things they said to each other.

  But sometimes, like tonight, the words worked their way through the buzzing:

  “. . sold or pawned everything we owned!” His mother. Her hopeless voice, the one with fear in it. Dante recognized it because it was the same fear he felt. How a boat might feel breaking up on a vast and violent sea. Soon the protective shell would be gone and every fierce and terrible thing that lived in the wild ocean would have its way.

  “Like you can’t get a fuckin’ job!” His father. Joel. Dante still worshipped Joel despite the things he’d said lately to his mother. His father was sick (he’d heard his mother say). Para. . something.

  “I
don’t know anything, Joel! Not anymore.”

  “And what I know how to do, the city won’t let me do!” The city. That was what was keeping his father from going back to work. The city. “Different departments went ahead and hired the other guys that got axed. Guys with less seniority than I have. Me, I didn’t just get axed, I also got knifed-in the back.”

  “Nobody’s out to get you. It’s in your head, Joel. You’re paranoid and you need to get help.”

  Dante clamped his hands over his ears. He knew what was going to happen now. When his mother called his father paranoid, his father almost always went wild. That was when the real shouting began, when the neighbors might complain, when Dante heard fists striking flesh with a sound like he heard in the butcher shop; then the police would come.

  It was happening again, now, and he didn’t know if he could stand it. When his parents weren’t fighting about money, about what the city had done to his father, they were fighting about him, how he was skipping school and his grades were terrible for a boy so smart. It was such a waste, they always-

  “Joel!. .”

  His mother. There was a new horror in her voice.

  Dante waited for it to begin.

  But his father was silent for a long time.

  “Joel!. .”

  Joel had been finished arguing, finished fighting, finished with her, with everything, with life in a world that was so devious and unfair, unfair. He didn’t want to hit her. Not this time. He saw himself as if he were standing off to the side, watching, and he was somebody else at the same time, and that was how he understood. He understood it all, that there was no hope, it wasn’t going to change, nothing was going to change unless he changed it by ending it. Let them win. He surrendered. Let them win.

  He had no idea how he’d gotten in the bedroom, didn’t remember going there, opening the closet door, and finding the gun behind the folded winter sweaters on the top shelf, the gun he’d found in someone’s trash, and tell me that was an accident and see if I believe you, the gun he’d wanted to use on Dugan and Sal but didn’t and shouldn’t have because it wasn’t them, it was the city and the gun was no accident. Try and tell me that was an accident.