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 wasn’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
“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.”
