Fear the Night n-5 Read online

  What Joel said was, “Yeah. . Yes. I understand.”

  Dugan nodded, then sat back down at his desk and picked up his pen. He began to write. Joel was no longer a city employee. Joel wasn’t there.

  Goddamn unfair!

  Joel left the office. He felt empty inside. His life felt empty. Sal and Dugan had fucked him over, just as he’d been getting fucked over all his life. He should have expected it. In a way, he had expected it.

  As he trudged toward the lot where his ten-year-old Ford was parked, the gun in his lunch pail was heavy. He recalled the gun’s cold heft in his hand when he’d plucked it from the trash, how heavy it felt for its size. How deadly efficient it looked. How serious. How. . important.

  It was the only substantial thing in his world. It was his only source of comfort, though why it comforted him escaped him.

  As he drove home he thought about the gun, what he might have done with it in Dugan’s office, what he should have done. Guns made a difference, right when they appeared. They changed the game entirely. Power shifted. The magic changed hands.

  Not that he really would have used the gun.

  But it was something to think about as he negotiated the bumper-to-bumper New York traffic that he’d come to hate.

  When his father walked into the apartment, twelve-year-old Dante Vanya saw the look on his face and knew something was wrong. Something he’d done? He couldn’t be sure.

  “School was okay today,” Dante said.

  His father nodded, as if he’d barely heard. “Where’s your mother?”

  “Walked down to the store. She needed something for whatever she’s cooking on the stove.”

  For the first time, Joel noticed the pungent scents wafting from the kitchen. His nostrils actually twitched as he sniffed at the air.

  “She’s making some kinda stew,” Dante said.

  His father didn’t answer. He simply trudged toward the bedroom he shared with Dante’s mother. His shoulders were hunched and his head gave the impression of being bowed though really it wasn’t. What he looked like, Dante thought, was somebody with about a thousand pounds of lead stacked on his shoulders.

  After his father had disappeared down the hall to the apartment’s small bedrooms, Dante stood up and pretended he was going to his room. It was the last door at the end of the hall, and it had one of the apartment’s few windows that didn’t look out on the brick air shaft.

  He actually did go to his room, but first he paused in the hall and peered into his mother and father’s bedroom.

  The closet door was open and his father was standing on his toes with one arm raised. His back was to Dante. Dante saw that his father was placing his black metal lunch pail, which he usually set on the kitchen table when he returned home from work, on the top closet shelf. He was pushing the lunch pail back as if trying to make it as unnoticeable as possible, toward the rear of the shelf where shadows were dark and light didn’t play.

  An odd thing for him to do, Dante thought.

  An odd way for his father to act.

  He didn’t know his father’s unusual behavior had only begun.

  16

  The present

  The initial information on the Ralph Evans murder was mostly complete. Repetto could almost feel the case beginning to cool.

  He knew that from the Sniper’s point of view, that was how it was supposed to work. There would be nothing of substance for the police to grab hold of, no lead or clue of any sort. If they searched for a connection between killer and killed, they would find none until that fateful day of sudden, violent death. There would be no physical clues leading anywhere other than to a dead end. Normal activity on a busy New York street, then a thunderclap echoing among tall buildings, and almost simultaneous to the report of the rifle, someone would be dead. A clean kill. A clean getaway. Repetto didn’t like any of it.

  “Random murder,” Birdy remarked. “The hardest kind to solve.”

  “They only seem random,” Meg said.

  They were in the basement office the local precinct house had provided. It was a large enough room, with three green steel desks, a metal four-drawer file cabinet, and a table with an ancient but upgraded computer and printer on it. The printer was the kind that was also a copier and a fax machine and, for all Repetto knew, maybe ran out for coffee and gave massages. He had little idea of how to work the damned thing. There was a phone on each desk with buttons so people could listen in or talk on the same line. In the file cabinet drawers were the Night Sniper murder files, along with phone and cross directories, fresh folders, and whatever other office paraphernalia the detectives might need. On the wall behind the desk that Repetto used was a large city map with red-capped pins stuck where the Night Sniper murders had occurred. Like the murders themselves, the pins seemed to have been placed on the map randomly.

  Repetto was at the desk now, leaning back in his chair with his fingers laced behind his neck. Meg was at her desk, where she’d been working the phone. Birdy, with his tie loosely knotted and his shirtsleeves rolled up, was perched on the corner of Meg’s desk, absently pumping his right leg. He was staring past Repetto at the city map.

  “No murders in any of the other boroughs so far,” he said.

  “True,” Repetto said. “Manhattan seems to be his beat.”

  “It’s ours too,” Meg said, sounding proprietary. How dare a killer trespass in their territory? She knew she’d used the wrong tone. Very uncoplike. “One thing we can be sure of is he knows how to shoot,” she added.

  Repetto knew where she was going but said nothing, rocking slightly in his swivel chair and watching her. The chair made soft squeaking noises.

  “Maybe ex-military,” Birdy said. “A trained sniper.”

  Repetto continued watching Meg.

  “Maybe an ex-cop,” she said.

  Repetto smiled slightly.

  Birdy became still.

  “Maybe,” Repetto said, rocking forward in his chair so he was sitting up straight behind the desk. “Let’s run a check on our SWAT snipers, present and past, and see if they all have alibis for one or more of the Night Sniper hits.”

  “Like chicken soup for a dead man,” Meg said, “it can’t hurt.”

  “I’ll get some names,” Birdy said, moving to sit at the computer.

  “We won’t forget ex-military,” Repetto told them, “but that’ll take a little longer.”

  “I can log in to army and marine records,” Birdy said, already playing the computer keys, “soon as I’m done with the NYPD.” His touch was fast and nimble. The keyboard seemed to provide an outlet for his nervous fingers.

  Repetto and Meg exchanged a look. They were both more the street cop type and were glad Birdy was computer savvy.

  “Where’d you learn to be so good with one of those?” Meg asked.

  Birdy didn’t look away from the screen. “My son.”

  A week later Repetto sat in Zoe Brady’s office in One Police Plaza. She’d come out from behind her desk to make the meeting more informal, and sat in one of the matching brown leather armchairs. Repetto was seated in the other.

  The office was small but well furnished, and had a window with its vertical blinds pulled so only slits of light showed through. Most of the room’s illumination was from recessed lighting in the ceiling. There must have been a sachet around somewhere, or Zoe was wearing perfume, because there was a faint lilac scent in the office. Repetto found it kind of pleasant. Better than Melbourne’s office, which always smelled of the cheap cigars he secretly smoked in defiance of city law.

  Zoe had on a light beige dress and darker brown high-heeled shoes. Repetto heard nylon swish as she settled into the chair opposite him. He wondered idly for a moment if she was giving him a show as she crossed her shapely legs. She flicked a hand at her long red hair; he knew it was an unconscious gesture women made when interested in a man. Sometimes a conscious gesture. Whether she was flirting or it was simply his imagination, Repetto didn’t care. He was
n’t interested that way in Zoe Brady.

  “I understand you and my wife have been doing the lunch thing,” he said.

  She stared at him. “Lunch thing?”

  “Meeting for lunch.”

  “Yes. Do you mind?”

  “No, except that I don’t want her playing cop.”

  “Neither do I, to tell you the truth. But I’m learning Lora can be a very determined woman.”

  Repetto sat back, studying Zoe. “Are you using Lora?”

  She didn’t seem thrown by the question. “Only in the way I use everything. The Night Sniper case isn’t the only thing we talk about.”

  “Are you using her to learn more about me?”

  “Not unless you can get shoes or jewelry wholesale.” She sighed loudly, maybe with mock exasperation, maybe simply because he was, in her mind, exhibiting typical male behavior. “Look, Repetto, your wife and I are simply acquaintances who occasionally meet for lunch. Sure, it seems to help Lora to talk to somebody about Dal Bricker’s death, and the Night Sniper case, but if you think this is all about the case, or about you, I’ve gotta say you flatter yourself.”

  “I do that sometimes.”

  “I can’t stop Lora from ‘playing cop,’ as you put it, but I promise I won’t encourage her.”

  “Good enough,” Repetto said. It had to be. He knew there was no way to persuade Lora to stop meddling in the case. And she had provided the theater seat number key to the Night Sniper’s notes.

  “So can we get down to business now?” Zoe asked.

  Repetto thought it was a good idea.

  “Our checks on the gun collectors and dealers in the area haven’t panned out,” he said.

  “If the Sniper collects anything, he’d be doing it in secret, probably illegally,” Zoe said, “even if he doesn’t have to. He’s a secretive type in more ways than one. Secrecy is in his blood. Are there ways to illegally obtain a sizable gun collection?”

  “There are countless ways to obtain all sorts of guns illegally,” Repetto said. “If he does have a large collection, he might be using the guns one by one to confuse us, then disposing of them.”

  “I doubt if he’d be getting rid of them.”

  “Why not? The guns could be used to tie him to the murders.”

  “He’d be too arrogant to dispose of his collection. He doesn’t expect to be caught, or even suspected.”

  “You seem sure of that.”

  “I am. This guy is nothing if not arrogant. And he has the smarts to back up his high opinion of himself.”

  Repetto smiled. “You think he might be smarter than we are?”

  “Only in stretches.” She returned the smile. “And never more arrogant.”

  Repetto was tired of her verbal jousting and kept the conversation on business. “We eliminated most of the SWAT snipers as suspects,” he said. “The military cooperated and we tracked down half a dozen former snipers who live in the New York area. Three are Vietnam age and not suspects.”

  “True,” Zoe said. “Men over fifty usually aren’t serial killers. But there are exceptions.”

  “The other two former military snipers are Middle East vets, and both have tight alibis for at least one of the Night Sniper murders. We can get around to the exceptions over fifty later, if it’s necessary.”

  She gave him a look, and Repetto knew he’d been short with her again. He wondered why that kind of impatience had crept into his tone. He started to apologize, but she interrupted:

  “You said most of the SWAT snipers.”

  He found himself intrigued by the way she arched one eyebrow when she asked a question. It made her seem maybe more intelligent than she was. He nodded. “There are two former NYPD snipers, Sergeants Lou Mackey and Alex Reyals. In 1978 Mackey was shot in the side and had to have one of his kidneys removed. He’s in his fifties now, but may be one of those exceptions. Reyals is thirty-seven. He left the NYPD with disability pay three years ago. I haven’t been able to get a straight answer as to why.”

  “I know both of them. I interviewed Mackey once, and I was one of the consulting psychiatrists in the Reyals matter.”

  It was Repetto’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Reyals matter?”

  “Four years ago a fleeing holdup man was crossing the Queensboro Bridge in a stolen car. It got in a minor accident that caused a bigger accident that closed the bridge in both directions. The holdup man, a teenager named Joe Mustang-his real name-took an elderly woman hostage, held a gun to her head, and tried to walk with her off the bridge.”

  “Not much chance of that,” Repetto said, knowing how quickly the police would converge in that part of town.

  “Alex Reyals was one of three SWAT snipers who scoped in on Mustang and Iris Beadier, the hostage. Iris was a squeeze of the trigger away from dying from a bullet fired by Mustang’s gun, and the snipers had orders to fire if they got a clear shot at Mustang. If the aim of his gun momentarily strayed from Iris.”

  “And Reyals got the clear shot.” Repetto remembered the incident now, though not all the details.

  “He thought it was clear,” Zoe said. “He was in a window, near the ramp to Second Avenue. Something caught Mustang’s attention and he turned away from Iris for a moment, and the gun wasn’t pointed at her head. Reyals took the shot, as he’d been instructed. The bullet didn’t hit Mustang. It struck Iris in the ear and entered her brain. When she dropped, Mustang threw his hands up and surrendered without a struggle.”

  Repetto looked at Zoe. She’d told the story without emotion. He wondered what she thought of it. What she thought of Reyals. “Those guys almost always hit what they shoot at,” he said. “What made Reyals miss?”

  Zoe smiled sadly. “He doesn’t know. That’s his problem.”

  “He has a problem?”

  “He doesn’t think he should have missed. He thinks it’s his fault Iris Beecher is dead. So does Iris Beecher’s family. They let him know it. Then there were rumors that Reyals had been drinking when the call came in for him to go the bridge.”

  “Had he been drinking?”

  Zoe shrugged. “He says no. What happened is, he missed his shot. If it had happened on the target range, he would have walked away from it not knowing why he missed and not needing to know.”

  “This was a different kind of shot.”

  “That’s what Alex Reyals thinks. It’s why his nerve went. He was pensioned off with a mental disability. Last I heard he was in private analysis.” She sighed and ran her hands over her thighs. “It wasn’t, you know.”

  “Wasn’t what?”

  “A different kind of shot. It was simply one he missed. Maybe his eyelid twitched, or a gust of breeze altered the course of the bullet, or Iris moved in front of his target. He simply aimed at something and missed. It happens all the time, but he can’t think of it that way. He can’t forgive himself.”

  “Maybe he shouldn’t. A woman is dead.”

  Zoe stared at Repetto, her blue eyes amazingly steady. What a poker player she must be.

  “You think it’s a male thing,” he said.

  She smiled. “I know it is.”

  “What happened to Mustang?”

  “He went to prison and was killed a year later, in a fight with another inmate.”

  “Justice,” Repetto said.

  “I knew you were thinking that. You might be interested to know that so was I. Because of him a good woman was killed and a good man is living in agony.”

  “The kind of agony that could make him a serial killer?”

  Zoe stood up. She paced to the window and peeked out between two vertical blinds. Repetto still couldn’t see what was out there.

  When she turned around and faced him, she said, “It doesn’t add up. Reyals hates himself more than he could hate other people.”

  “You don’t know what else went on in his life.”

  “Some of it I do. From the hearing. From my interviews with him.”

  “Is this where you claim doctor-pa
tient privilege?”

  “Don’t be such an asshole, Repetto. We’ve got a serial killer in this city. If there were anything in our sessions, or in Reyals’s past, that might have the slightest bearing on that, I’d tell you in a second. There isn’t. So I don’t have to worry about doctor-client privilege.”

  “This means you’ll tell me all about him?”

  “Means I can’t, because it has nothing to do with the Night Sniper. I can give you general information. Reyals grew up in rural Illinois where he hunted and became a crack shot. He went to college on a football scholarship but hurt his knee after his second year and dropped out, worked at a series of jobs, went back to school, and got his degree. He worked for a financial firm in Chicago, was transferred to New York, then got downsized. That’s when he joined the NYPD. He had a great record until the incident on the bridge.” She crossed the office and stood near Repetto. “You could find out all that in his personnel file.”

  “I already have.” He stood up and, comparing his height to Zoe’s, was surprised to find that she was taller than she appeared seated behind her desk or stalking around the office. “Did you like Reyals?” he asked.

  “That didn’t enter into it.”

  “Yeah, but did you like him?”

  “Yes, I did. He struck me as a good and kind young man who had something terrible happen to him.”

  “Nothing happened to him. He did something to someone else. He acted and there was a consequence. He squeezed the trigger, and now he has to live with the result.”

  “For God’s sake, he made a simple mistake! His skill and his luck deserted him when he needed them most. It could happen to anyone.”

  “No argument there. Can you tell me for sure that Alex Reyals isn’t the Night Sniper?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Because you don’t want to wind up with the same kind of agony Reyals is suffering.”

  She glared at him, then relaxed and gave him her thin, irritating smile. “You’re right. Once I tell you he’s not a suspect, whoever else he kills, if he is the Night Sniper, the murders are partly my responsibility.”