Fear the Night

several other files that were encrypted. He was confident he’d soon be able to break the encryption and read all of Zoe’s secrets. If he couldn’t solve the puzzle of encryption, he’d have to steal the computer and delve deeper into its system. There was always a way, though often it was time-consuming.

But that was a problem for the future, if it came up at all. Right now, a cursory look and a later, more careful examination of what he’d copied, would do for a start.

He was pleased to find Zoe’s links to NYPD databases. Pleased also that she had extensive clearance. It took only a few mouse clicks to see there was plenty of information on the Night Sniper case. Intrigued, he spent almost an hour linking to various NYPD sites.

When he was finished, he removed the zip drive and shut down the computer. The drive was small enough to fit into its slim leather case and be concealed in the inside pocket of his suit coat that was draped over a living room chair.

He rearranged the carefully folded coat, then went back behind the screen and closed the computer’s lid.

Back in the bedroom, he stood by the bed and studied the sleeping Zoe. Her left arm was still slung carelessly above her mussed red hair. One pale leg protruded from beneath the even paler white sheet. She was still breathing evenly. She hadn’t moved. She still smelled of recent and vigorous sex.

He lowered his weight gently onto the mattress, listening to the muted ping of bedsprings, then gradually moved his nude body so it was pressing lightly against hers. The slight contact with her seemed to ignite dreams.

Zoe shifted her hips in her sleep, sighed, and turned to face away from him. As he wedged up against her he could feel himself getting erect, but he decided to ignore the temptation. He slid a hand around her, over her smooth, rounded belly, and up to gently cup one of her breasts. His mouth was near her ear.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” he whispered. “Time for us to get up and you to go to work.” He kissed her ear gently, then flicked it with the tip of his tongue.

She opened her eyes, smiled, and turned her head so she could kiss him back.

Her warm body jerked and he knew she’d noticed the clock on her side of the bed.

“Damn! If I don’t get moving I’m gonna be late.”

“Told you so.”

“So you did.”

He kissed the nape of her neck. “Maybe we should share a shower, save water, save time.”

“I’m not so sure we’d save time,” she said. She wriggled out of his clutches, then sat up and winced. “God!”

“Headache?”

“Whole ache. And I feel like I could sleep another eight hours.”

“I warned you about drinking too much wine at dinner.”

“Did you? I don’t remember.”

He grinned. “Bad sign.”

Zoe stood up and held a hand to her forehead. “Ouch! You must have been right about that wine.” She began massaging her temples with her fingertips.

He got out of bed nimbly and moved to stand next to her, supporting her.

“I’m not gonna fall down,” she assured him, giving up on her temples and dropping her arms.

“You never know,” he said. “Could be dangerous. You shouldn’t be in the shower alone. C’mon.” He began leading her gently toward the bathroom.

“No funny stuff in the shower,” she said.

He laughed. “Do I have to promise?”

“Of course. I can’t be late. I really can’t.”

“I know. You’re working on an important case.”

“Nutcase who’s shooting people,” she said. A hint of irritation had crept into her sleep-thickened voice, either at the killer or at being unable to speak or think coherently so soon after waking.

Now that she was up, he didn’t want her to suspect anything. Best if she came all the way alert as soon as possible. “We’ll take a shower,” he said. “Then I’ll call for my car and driver so you won’t be late for work.”

She stopped moving and stared up at him, impressed as she often was by this man she barely knew. “You can do that?”

He gave her his perfect smile.

“For you,” he said, “I can do that.”

44

He was pleased by the results of his latest kill.

The Night Sniper settled back in the soft support of the leather sofa in his East Side luxury apartment, sipping expensive scotch and watching the plasma TV screen that took up much of the living room’s south wall. Local cable news was on, covering almost nothing other than the Libby Newland shooting.

The popular actress’s death had caused such outrage in the city that the police and political machines were running wild with frustration. The serious blond woman on the screen proclaimed this with exaggerated lip and chin motion, beneath eyes that were obviously reading. Many businesses were deserted after dark. They were reconciled to great financial loss and closed early every day. Serious Blonde segued to an interview with a mayoral aide, an angry-looking man with a shock of gray hair who said the city was considering shutting down the theater district. Those in the theater world could hardly object. Tickets were being scalped at a third of their box office price, and with Libby Newland’s death, fewer than half the seats were occupied. Tourism and business travel were dropping off precipitously. Aircraft were landing at JFK and LaGuardia with more empty seats than anyone had seen in a major airliner in years.

Wonderful!

The Night Sniper took a sip of aged single-malt scotch and congratulated himself. Things were going better than planned.

He stood up and carried his glass to the window that provided the broadest view of the night-bejeweled city and wondered who his next victim should be. The nursery rhyme required a doctor. He knew a doctor. In fact, he was currently having an affair with one.

Too close to the bone. Too risky.

Now wasn’t the time to increase risk; it was the time to reduce it.

Why not change the game at this point? Or at least the rules? The Night Sniper enjoyed the advantage and always would, if only he’d use that advantage. He who controls the rules controls the game.

He looked out over his vast view of the city and again pondered the identity of his next victim. Possibly his handpicked nemesis, Vincent Repetto?

No, not yet. Killing Repetto would almost be like destroying himself. Besides, it would precipitate a new game, and the Sniper was enjoying this one too much to end it and start over with new, untested opposition. Perhaps opposition that wasn’t up to the task.

Lora Repetto! There would be an interesting choice, the beloved wife who was now and then mentioned in the press as Repetto’s aide and confidante, and who herself had been fond of Repetto’s dead protege, Dal Bricker. Like a son to them. First a son, then a wife. Terrible loss. Poor Repetto.

But an even more terrible loss was possible. If Repetto couldn’t actually lose a son, he could lose a daughter. Amelia Repetto. Lora would blame her husband for their daughter’s death, and Repetto’s marriage would disintegrate before his eyes. First his daughter, then his wife would be lost to him.

Loss. The Night Sniper knew loss as Repetto never could. He caught a glimpse of his reflected self in the dark windowpane and felt his heart grow cold. Staring back at him was his other self, his true self.

He made himself smile, a death’s-head grin in the glass, and raised his tumbler of whiskey in a silent salute.