Fear the Night

of nervous small talk.

“There are a surprising number, but a lot of them are connected with law enforcement or security, and we already vetted them. We’ve got some gun club members and skeet shooters in the new mix. Even a fast-draw artist.”

“Cowboys and Indians.”

“That’s what we play,” Weaver said, locking gazes with Zoe. Her expression said she was a busy woman and didn’t want to waste a lot of time here, if that was what was going to happen. “You said on the phone you have something to tell me.”

“Share with you, I said.”

Weaver took a sip of the Coke the waiter had delivered and nodded, waiting.

Zoe took a deep breath and explained.

Weaver sat unnaturally still and listened. She appeared as shocked as Zoe had been, when she’d fully absorbed what she’d just heard. What it must mean.

“You’ve been fucking the Night Sniper,” she said in a stunned voice.

Zoe was calmer, relieved, now that somebody else knew. “I would’ve put it a different way, but yes.”

Weaver sat back and touched a finger to an earlobe, as if she were listening to some faint sound. Maybe the wheels of her mind turning. “He’s been pumping you for information. Literally.”

“Jesus!” Zoe said. “Can’t you think of a better way to put things?”

“No,” Weaver said honestly. “I gotta tell you, you’re in deep … well, you’re in quicksand.”

“And breathing through a straw.”

“I’ve got my responsibilities,” Weaver said, still trying to digest this, figure it out.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“I’m sure he never gave you his real name.”

“He was just Otto-or Ott-for a while. Then that name he signed in with at the Marimont.”

“He’s quite the gamester, our killer.” Weaver wondered if this information, sensational though it might be, was going to be useful, or simply embarrassing and destructive to Zoe. A police profiler sleeping with the killer she was profiling. An earthquake for Zoe, but maybe nothing much for the investigation. Simply another of the Sniper’s infuriating taunts.

“I need your help,” Zoe said.

Uh-oh. Weaver looked at her. “I think I know the kinda help you want. You don’t want to tell Repetto or Melbourne about this.”

“Them or anyone else.”

“And you want me to keep quiet.”

“Yes.”

“This is bound to come out, Zoe.”

“Eventually, yes. Unless the Sniper is never caught, or is killed rather than be captured.”

Weaver was still trying to get a handle on this, figure out where Zoe was going with it. “Why me? Why did you tell me?”

“We’re both smart, ambitious women in more or less the same field.”

“Wouldn’t deny it.”

“We can help each other,” Zoe said. “This could be a career maker for you, and a way for me to solve my dilemma.”

“The Sniper must know you’re on to him now.”

“Yeah. I won’t see him again. I hope to hell I never see him.”

“If you simply wanted me to keep mum,” Weaver said, “we wouldn’t be sitting here talking.” Another sip of Coke. “Why should I give you anything? And what do you want other than my silence?”

“I think I can give you a direct way to discover the identity of the Night Sniper. You can make the collar every cop in the city dreams about. Think of the publicity and career advancement.”

“I’m not agreeing to do or not do anything at this point, but I’m interested. You told me why, now tell me what.”

“First I want information. Were my fingerprints found in that hotel suite at the Marimont?”

“Not unless it’s being kept secret. Course, Latent Print Section isn’t done, but the room looked like it was wiped clean of prints with damp towels. Do you remember what you touched?”

“Bathroom fixtures for sure. And the. . headboard.”

“Headboard was wiped clean of prints. His must’ve been on it, too.”

“They were,” Zoe said, looking at the table, yearning for a long pull of that Guinness.

“Everything you touched that he might have, he wiped clean,” Weaver said. “He was thorough.” She was wondering if she’d already decided to agree to Zoe’s proposition. She leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “Listen, did you ever suspect this guy? I mean, all the time he was putting the wood to you. . the night he tried to kill the mayor?”

“Never. And I’d had too much to drink that night. He saw to it.”

Weaver leaned back and crossed her arms. “I’ve got another question.”

“You don’t have to ask. Yes, we did it in my bed several times, but considering who he was-is-I’m sure he was just as careful about not leaving prints in my apartment.”

“It’d still be worth a look. LPS can work miracles.”

“I think we can keep it a more closely held secret than if we gave my apartment prints to the lab,” Zoe said. She reached down to where a plastic Barnes amp; Noble bag containing a laptop computer was leaning against her chair and lifted it to set it on the table. “I got up one night to use the bathroom and was sure my laptop had been moved. I felt it, and it was still warm from use. Didn’t think much of it at the time. Ott-he-was asleep, so I figured maybe he’d used it, but so what? He didn’t know my password to get online, but maybe he wanted to go online with his service, check his e-mail or something. I forgot to ask him about it in the morning. But I think now, since he was using me to gain information. .”

“Yeah, it’s a sure bet he figured out a way to hack into your computer.”

“He had to touch the thing all over, the case, the keys. But he’d figure I’d handle it and smudge all the prints within a few days. I didn’t, though. Not much, anyway. Soon as I realized what must have happened, I made sure I didn’t touch it again. It’s smooth plastic that’ll hold prints like glass. Even if he wiped it down carefully, there’s a good chance he missed a few prints. Gotta wipe it with the lid up, with the lid down. All those keys. It’s not easy to be sure you got everything. The rest of my apartment, if he didn’t wipe it, I did, while cleaning or accidentally, or at least I must have smudged everything over the past week or so.”

“And I don’t suppose you two ever went to his place, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Never. For obvious reasons, he always had an excuse. He made sure that when we parted I’d know nothing about him.”

“So what’s the plan?” Weaver asked, already guessing but wanting to hear it from Zoe.

“Mine and his are the only prints that should be on this laptop. You dust it yourself and take any prints you find other than mine and run them through records. If you get a match, you have the identity of the Night Sniper. Later, if you have to explain where you got a print to match, you can say you went to his house or apartment earlier as part of your search for amateur or pro competition shooters. He wasn’t home, and you lifted the prints from the doorknob or his mailbox. Very industrious of you, but you’ve got that reputation.”

“I know my reputation. Is this guy a shooter-I mean, some kind of hunter or shooting sports competitor?”

“I don’t know. He must be. And it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s got a gun collection. He’s got the money.”

“You sneak a peek at his bankbook?”

“I didn’t have to. I could tell. He was money. Not necessarily born to it, but money.”

Weaver thought about it. The world might be opening up to her here. With even a partial print, she might be able to get a name and address or both; then she could make the collar, say she came across the suspect in her search for target shooters. He must be an expert shooter of some sort. She could spook him, then say his behavior under her questioning prompted her to arrest him. She could say he panicked and bolted and she’d stopped him. If he denied it later in court, who’d believe him? And she bet she could panic him. As for Zoe, he’d wiped the hotel suite clean of prints, so there’d be no