Fear the Night

“Collingwood,” said a phlegmy voice, after Repetto had identified himself.

Repetto waited, knowing the lieutenant had been contacted by Deputy Chief Melbourne. He didn’t want contrition out of Collingwood, only cooperation. And fast.

“Conductor on the V train called in a little while ago and said he felt resistance after seeing what looked like a bundle of rags near the tracks.”

“He say exactly where?”

“Not far from the stop where Officer Dillon was burned.”

Repetto felt his breathing pick up. Any aggravation he’d felt for Collingwood was suddenly gone. Minor. He knew what the bundle must have been. The two uniforms who’d gone into the tunnel after the Night Sniper might no longer be chasing him toward the next stop.

There’d be no one on the Sniper’s heels now. He’d no longer be panicked-if he ever had been.

He’d be thinking.

“Shut down the system,” Repetto said firmly, knowing Melbourne must have phoned this guy and reamed him out. He wouldn’t be so quick to question an order next time.

“We’re working on it,” Collingwood said, not wanting to give up everything at once.

Repetto broke the connection and pointed out the windshield toward a van that was blocking traffic on the narrow street. “Go around that asshole.”

Birdy touched off the siren, put a wheel up on the curb, and went.

Zoe took another sip of vodka and sat staring at the framed certificates on her office wall. The drapes were closed, the door locked. Private office. Right now it was private. Too warm, but she didn’t notice. Her mind was set in one direction, and she hadn’t had enough drinks for it to change course, or for the pressure that had become a headache behind her right eye to ease.

All the work she’d done, everything she’d lived for, given so much to accomplish, might be about to collapse in on her and crush her.

She felt crushed already.

Another sip. After putting down the glass, she used the tips of her forefingers to massage her temples. Her drinking was out of control and she knew it. Had been out of control for months. That’s what explained the fling with-she knew his name now-Dante Vanya.

She looked away from the framed affirmations and validations of her scholastic and professional triumphs and stared at the simple memo on her desk. It was from Deputy Chief Melbourne and, in his jagged but readable handwriting, asked if it was consistent with what she knew about the Night Sniper that he might sometimes wear a red wig.

Zoe didn’t think it likely, though possible. The Night Sniper, Vanya, her lover, wore a hairpiece as an instrument of ego, not as a disguise. She tried to imagine him with a bushy red wig askew on his head, standing nude at the foot of the bed, but she couldn’t. If she were sober, she might have laughed at the carrot-top wild image, but right now nothing could strike her funny.

Because of her headache that was like a knife behind her eye. Because of that damned memo.

When she’d phoned and asked Melbourne why he’d asked his handwritten question, he told her about the strand of red hair found in the Sniper’s suite at the Marimont Hotel. It hadn’t been considered important at the time, and probably it wasn’t. Which was why mention of it hadn’t been included in the material sent to Zoe to analyze after the attempted murder of the mayor. The hair found by the diligent crime scene unit probably belonged to someone other than the suite’s occupant, perhaps a maid or previous guest. Or maybe one of the investigating officers’ shoes had picked it up from the hall carpet and tracked it into the suite. A hair, so light and transportable. A breeze might have even carried it in from outside.

But Zoe knew the red hair was important. The single red hair that had been magnified, cut and sampled, photographed, locked away in the evidence room. God, yes, it was important!

Or would be if it were ever matched with one of hers.

Hairs were distinctive and easily compared under microscopes. Hairs carried DNA. Hairs made dandy evidence. Hairs sent people to prison and to hell.

If Vanya were captured rather than killed, Zoe was sure he’d implicate her. There was no reason for him not to if he were found guilty, as he surely would be.

As he was.

She of all people knew.

Of course, he wouldn’t be believed. Not at first.

Until someone recalled the red hair found in the suite at the Marimont Hotel. Or happened to question Weaver.

Weaver. Why had she confided in Weaver?

But Zoe knew Weaver wasn’t the problem. Lies were the problem. Telling them and living them.

Tangled webs. . lies. . webs of red hair …

Her headache flared.

She reached again for the vodka.

64

It was working out for the Night Sniper. The platform at the Fifty-third and Third stop wasn’t as crowded as usual when the train broke into the light and began to slow. And he was on the last car. Usually the train eased to a halt so the middle cars were more or less centered at the stop. The last car was accessible, but most passengers, especially if the platform wasn’t packed with riders, simply entered the cars most convenient to them, the middle cars.

The Sniper remained in his seat and glanced at the dead woman with the book. When the train finally lurched to a complete stop, she was jostled and almost went sideways. But she remained upright. Even if passengers did enter the car, the Sniper would already have exited; by the time someone realized the woman was dead, he’d be long gone. Possibly she’d topple from her seat when the train accelerated, but it would take time and distance for anyone in the car to raise the alarm.

The car’s doors hissed open.

The Sniper rose from his seat and moved quickly to the open door, then stepped out onto the platform.

The air was fresher there, and the surrounding wider space gave him an unexpected feeling of vulnerability.

He sneaked a quick glance around. Passengers were filing out of and into the cars ahead, but so far no one had decided to break from the pack and hurry toward the last car.

As he was about to walk away, satisfied he’d completed an important part of his escape, the Sniper froze as he noticed a tall, stolid figure in a rumpled brown suit.

Repetto!

Facing three-quarters away from him, but it was surely Repetto. And he was slowly turning around.

Most of the exiting passengers were on the platform, and the crowd ahead closed ranks as everyone slowed to board the cars. The figure was suddenly no longer visible.

But the Sniper knew it hadn’t been his imagination. Repetto was here!

The Sniper’s options presented themselves in fractions of seconds. He calculated the odds.

If he returned to his seat and stayed on board, Repetto was sure to spot him as the train rolled past, picking up speed.

The lesser risk might be to stay off the train and walk away from Repetto, toward a flight of steps leading to a side street exit. If he acted now, other exiting passengers might shield him from view.

He had to make up his mind.

He walked. As he headed for the steps, he listened for any commotion behind him and watched the faces of those walking in the opposite direction. Everyone appeared calm enough, displaying only the normal anxiety that was part of riding New York subways.