Fear the Night (3 page)

“Forget the umbrella offer,” Repetto said.

“Kidding,” Melbourne said with a smile. “Don’t rot.” At the base of the steps, the rain already spotting his jacket, he looked back and up at Repetto. “Really. Don’t rot.”

“That didn’t sound at all sincere,” Repetto said.

He stood at the open door, watching Melbourne until he’d crossed the street and lowered himself into his car.

Then he remembered the open den door, sniffed the air, and went back to extinguish his cigar propped in the ashtray.

3

“You said no?” Lora asked, after Repetto told her about Melbourne’s visit.

“Sure I did.”

She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips, then, after sniffing his breath, looked up at him with mock seriousness. Well, not completely mock. “Cigar?”

“Half of one. With Melbourne. Being a good host.”

“Ah.” She walked over to the window and stared outside. Repetto studied her. The beige dress she was wearing complemented her long, honey-blond hair. Lora was trim not from exercise, other than her daily walks, but from genetic good fortune.

He thought she might say something else about Melbourne’s visit, but when she turned around to face him she smiled. It was what had first attracted Repetto, that smile. It changed her cool, blue-eyed impassive features into a warm and engaging signal to the world: I’m approachable and up for adventure. Repetto had learned it wasn’t a sexual invitation, but occasionally men took it for such. Lora was used to that response and knew how to fend them off without making enemies.

“It’s still raining,” she said. “How ’bout I make us some tea?”

“Fine.” The Melbourne matter was closed. If a maniac was murdering people one after another and might soon be terrorizing the city, that wasn’t Repetto’s problem. He was off the force for good. And it felt good.

Lora must have guessed what he was thinking. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Meaning what you said to Melbourne.”

She went into the kitchen to brew the tea. Repetto walked over and stared through the rain-distorted window out at the street. New York. The city he’d spent his life protecting. His city. A young couple who’d moved in last month exited the building across the street, laughing. The woman, a skinny brunette, ducked her head at the first raindrop, while her bulky, bearded husband squinted up at the sky and opened an umbrella. Watching them, Repetto remembered when he and Lora had moved here almost twenty years ago. It was odd, how the street didn’t change but the people did, generations playing out their lives on the same stage.

It occurred to him that Lora, who was six years younger than Repetto and not carrying a partially collapsed lung, would almost certainly outlive him. Would she remain here? Wouldn’t she be lonely in this house that was too large for one person? Might she be afraid without him, a single woman living at street level in Manhattan? Their daughter and only child, Amelia, who was in law school and lived on the Upper West Side, might move in with her. Though probably not. Amelia was fiercely independent. Maybe Amelia would marry. Repetto and Lora had their ideas about whom they’d like as a son-in-law. Repetto smiled.
Hopeless to expect that kind of wish to come true. But Dal Bricker—

The woman beneath the shelter of the umbrella glanced over and saw him, and Repetto raised a hand in an understated wave so she’d know he wasn’t spying on the couple, simply happened to be at his window when they were going out.

He stood awhile longer looking out at the drizzle and lowering light. A lamp came on behind him, and he saw Lora’s reflection on the windowpane and turned.

She’d placed a tray with a tea set on the heavy table by the sofa. Repetto watched as she poured cream in her cup, part of the set that was Bavarian china, antique but not particularly expensive. They’d bought it together ten years ago at a shop in SoHo. She added a lump of sugar and stirred. He walked over, added a dollop of cream to his tea, then sat down on the sofa and sipped. The tea wasn’t quite hot enough to burn his tongue.

Lora remained standing. She’d put on her old blue cardigan sweater over her dress and looked an odd combination of sophisticate and homebody that Repetto found strangely appealing.

She sipped her tea appraisingly and smiled. “The critics like the new play at the Westside,
Left Bank.”

“Internet or newspaper critics?”

“Both. Not rave reviews, but uniformly good. It’s about expatriates in Paris in the twenties, then later when they return to the U.S.”

“Sounds political.”

“It’s not. George Kearn plays the old Hemingway.” Kearn was one of their favorites. And the Westside Theatre, off Broadway but not far off, was also one of their favorites.

“Sounds okay,” Repetto said. “You working tomorrow?”

“Meeting a client for breakfast, then a display house tour.”

“Maybe I’ll see if I can pick us up some tickets.”

She took another sip of tea, then leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. Her lips were still warm from the tea. “I love you,” she said simply.

He knew why she was saying it now. Because he’d refused Melbourne. He lifted her free hand and kissed it. He didn’t tell her he loved her, too. It didn’t seem quite the time, but he knew he should tell her more often and promised himself he’d do exactly that in his retirement.

He watched her walk to the window with her tea. She sat down at an angle on the window seat so she could look out through the glass at the rainy street. She appeared comfortable and contented. Repetto was sure that if she were a cat, she’d curl up in the window and go to sleep.

If she were a cat, he’d pamper her.

The next morning, after Lora had left to meet her client, Repetto walked to the Bonaire Diner on Fourteenth Street and had eggs and a grilled corn muffin for breakfast. He liked the Bonaire for more than its food. It was brightly decorated, with red-vinyl-upholstered booths and stools, and a dark counter made out of the kind of granite that sparked silver when the light hit it just right. A lot of the customers were from the neighborhood, or were people who worked nearby. Regulars. Business drones, artists, tradesmen, along with tourists, and mothers with their kids.

Carrie the waitress cleared away the dishes, then poured Repetto a second cup of coffee.

He settled in to scan the
Times.

There was another favorable review of
Left Bank
. Nothing about a sniper shooting last night. Apparently Melbourne’s serial killer was still between murders.

Why am I even thinking about this?

He turned to the sports section and read about the latest Yankees acquisition, an expensive free agent pitcher who was almost a guarantee that the team would make the playoffs. Repetto read on about the pitcher and felt himself relax. When he was on the job, he’d always found solace in this part of the paper. The only murderers’ row in the sports section was the ’27 Yankees.

The breakfast rush was falling off, so there was space at the counter and empty booths. Repetto took his time with the paper, then left Carrie the usual tip and paid the cashier on the way out.

It was a great morning. The sky was clear and the air had been cleansed by last night’s rain. Repetto decided to stroll around for a while before returning to the house. Then he’d . . .

What?

What would he do?

How would he occupy his time?

He felt suddenly alone. Lost and without purpose. He noticed that his mouth was dry and he felt slightly unsteady.

Some kind of retirement panic, he told himself. Not to worry. There was plenty to do that was unconnected to police work. He grinned to reassure himself. Other people retired and found ways to spend their time. So could he.

So
would
he.

Melbourne was about to leave his office when his assistant, Lieutenant Mike Mathers, knocked twice, then opened the door. There was excitement on his flushed, Irish face.

“For you on line two, sir. It’s him.”

Melbourne didn’t have to ask who. He sat back down behind his desk, taking as much time as he dared before picking up the receiver. Not that it would help; this killer was aware that the police were tracing his call and knew exactly how long it was safe to stay on the line.

When it was time, Melbourne lifted the receiver and identified himself.

“You know who this is?” came the answering voice. Neutral, sexless, perhaps filtered through something that might disguise it.

“I know. What do you want this fine morning?”

“What did he say?”

“He?”

“Don’t play tricks to try keeping me on the line. That might cost somebody their life, and that would be on your conscience.”

“He said no.”

A laugh, as cold and neutral as the voice. “He’ll change his mind. I know him. Know about him. Captain Vincent Repetto. Hero and legend. Know him as well as I know myself.”

“I’d say there’s a lot of difference between you two.”

“Only the twists and turns of fate.”

“Hardly. I know Vin Repetto.”

“But you don’t know me.”

“So tell me about yourself.”

“I’ll tell you what I want,
who
I want, and that’s Captain Vincent Repetto. The only worthy opponent in your entire incompetent bureaucracy.”

“He’s no longer part of the bureaucracy.”

“He can be again.”

“I told you, I asked him. He said no.”

“Then ask him again. Be persuasive. Give him the third degree. I’ll accept no one other than Repetto.”

“The choice isn’t yours to make.”

“But it is, and I’ve made it.”

“Listen—”

“Better think of some way to give me what I demand, and soon. I’m patient, but I won’t wait forever.”

Click.
Buzzzzzzzzz.

Melbourne replaced the receiver and looked at his watch. He knew the killer had cut the connection soon enough.

Mathers stuck his head back in the office. “The call was from a cell phone, sir.”

“Sure,” Melbourne said, knowing that if the phone were ever found, it would turn out to be stolen and wiped clean of prints. “We record the call okay?”

“You betcha.”

Instead of leaving his office, Melbourne sat behind his desk for a long time, thinking of ways to be persuasive.

4

At ten the next morning, Repetto was seated at his desk cleaning his father’s old .38 police special revolver, when the doorbell rang.

Lora was upstairs selecting paint samples to show a client. Usually she didn’t hear the doorbell there. Repetto put down the container of bluing he was holding and wiped his hand on the rag the gun had been wrapped in, then made his way to the front door and peered through the peephole.

A tall woman with long red hair stood on the concrete stoop. Repetto opened the door to get a less distorted look at her.

Since it was a sunny April morning, she wasn’t wearing a coat. She had a good figure beneath a brown blazer with a matching skirt. Her face was angular, her eyes green and pink-rimmed beneath strands of hair the breeze had laid across her face. She appeared to have been crying, but he suspected her eyes were always like that, in the manner of some redheads. Her makeup was sparse but it was there, pale lipstick, paler green eye shadow. Repetto guessed her age at about forty.

She smiled. Straight teeth, nice smile. She said, “Only an ex-homicide detective could size up a woman like that.”

Repetto grinned, embarrassed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare. It wasn’t . . .”

“Lascivious?”

“No. I mean, yes, it wasn’t.”

“So what did you decide about me?” She cocked her head to one side as she asked the question, almost the way Lora did.

“We haven’t met,” Repetto said. “You’re educated—that word lascivious—and well enough off financially but not wealthy.”

She raised her eyebrows. There wouldn’t have been much to them were it not for eyebrow pencil.

“Your clothes,” Repetto explained. “A good cop can judge clothes like a fashion expert, at least when it comes to price. Yours are in good taste, and medium-priced except for your shoes. They’re expensive.”

“You can’t be too kind to your feet,” the woman said.

“You’ve got a job, maybe a profession, that pays you well enough. You’re unmarried.” He saw her glance at her ringless left hand. “You’re well adjusted and reasonably happy, ambitious, and you want something.”

She smiled. “What makes you think I want something?”

“You’ve managed to stir my interest and keep me talking while
you’re
sizing
me
up.”

“You can learn a lot about people from what they think about you,” she said.

“If they’re honest.”

“A former NYPD detective would be honest.”

“Different kind of honest,” Repetto said.

She seemed to think that over but didn’t say anything.

“You don’t strike me as the type who’s selling something, so what do you want?” he asked.

“My name’s Zoe Brady,” she said.

“I wondered when we’d get around to that. You obviously know things about me, including my name, I’m sure.”

“You’re Vincent Repetto. The legendary Repetto. Tough cop and true. Smart and every kind of honest.”

“Now I know you want something.”

“I’m a profiler in the NYPD,” Zoe said.

“And I know what you want.” Repetto stepped outside and closed the door behind him; it wouldn’t do for Lora to hear any of this. “Lou Melbourne sent you.”

“He okayed it. Coming here was my idea.”

“Whoever came up with the idea, it wasn’t a good one. I’m not going to change my mind about the sniper.”

“The thing is,” Zoe said, “he’s not going to change his mind about you. I’ve worked to get inside this guy’s head, and I’ve got some small idea of how he reasons—or thinks he reasons. He’s not going to give up on something he wants, and he wants you to engage in a contest with him.”

“He isn’t going to get what he wants.”

“Well, we want it too. Because we know how dangerous the sniper is. And we understand why he wants you as his nemesis. You’re legendary, and in his mind, he soon will be.” She stared earnestly at Repetto. “Have you at least given the matter any thought since Captain Melbourne talked with you?”

“I have,” he said. “I haven’t changed my mind. The game this sicko wants is one I’m finished playing.” He smiled at her. There was something he liked about her despite her mission, despite the fact she wasn’t really a cop. If only he didn’t have to get professionally involved with her. He’d never been crazy about profilers. In his experience they were more often wrong than right. And when they were right, it was about the obvious—male, certain age bracket, poor or unemployed, tough childhood ... “I’m sorry, Zoe, but I’m not subject to threats from a psychotic killer. Next time the sniper contacts you, tell him I said no, I don’t want to play.”

She shrugged. “Okay, I tried and failed. The AC was right about you. You’re a hard man.”

“Was I just insulted?”

She backed down the steps gracefully and grinned up at him. “Not by me. I like hard and proud. That way I know where I stand.”

“You’ll tell Melbourne what I said?”

“I’ll tell him.” She nodded to Repetto, then started to stride down the sidewalk. After a few steps, she stopped and turned. “I’ll also tell him that the way I size you up, I don’t think you’re likely to change your mind.”

“You’ve got me profiled.”

“Sure. You’re a cinch.”

Repetto smiled at her, nodded good-bye, then opened the door and went back inside to his wife and his new life and his father’s gun.