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 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
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,
“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.
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 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.
