Fear the Night

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.

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