Fear the Night

58

It was almost three hours before the end of his shift, but Sergeant Roland Britain was leaving early to visit his wife, Junie, in the hospital. She’d just had her gall bladder removed by that new kind of surgery where they deflate the thing and pull it out somehow and leave only three or four little puncture holes in her belly. She’d be coming home tomorrow after only one night in the hospital. The insurance company wasn’t out so much money that way. Insurance, Britain thought. Everything these days was for the insurance companies. Or the big oil companies.

The deal was, Britain was going to take off for the hospital and buy some flowers on the way, and the sergeant for the next shift was coming in early to cover for him.

Nice guy, Dan O’Day, to agree to the arrangement. Someday Britain would return the favor.

There was O’Day now, coming in through the precinct house door, looking neatly turned out as usual, one of those smooth-skinned, florid Irishmen who aged well and always seemed to dress smartly. Even in uniform, like tonight, creases in his pants and sleeves, shoes shined, even a badge that glittered, O’Day stood out among the other cops in the precinct. When he spoke, especially at muster, people listened. Britain figured most of it was Irish bullshit, but they listened.

“Quiet night, Roland?” O’Day asked, as he came around behind the desk.

“So far. Nothing shaking on the Night Sniper asshole looking to shoot Repetto’s daughter.”

“Maybe he’ll choose another night for his sick games,” O’Day said. He stood beside Britain and scanned the shift log. Two mugging suspects, an alleged rapist, two drunks, a guy on a domestic violence charge who’d been in at least twice before, three prostitutes (apparently working as a team), and a smash-and-grab suspect in a jewelry store robbery. Quiet enough, O’Day thought.

“All these sterling citizens in the holdover or Central Booking?” he asked, setting aside the activity log.

“Yep. And I already fed the info into the computer. Our wife beater’s waiting for his attorney, who’s supposed to be driving in from Long Island.”

“Must be a friend, coming all that way instead of waiting for morning. Let’s hope he’s a real estate lawyer.”

Sergeant Britain slid down from the high-legged, padded stool behind the desk, and O’Day took his place.

“I ’preciate this, you filling in for me,” Britain said.

O’Day waved a hand in dismissal. “I’ll give you the chance to return the favor.”

“Maybe I’ll stand you for drinks sometime at Chargers,” Britain said. Chargers was a small but busy bar where many of the precinct cops hung out off-duty.

“That’d do it.”

“Oh yeah,” Britain said, as he picked up his cap and started to leave. “There was this phone call on the Amelia Repetto stakeout, didn’t mean squat.” He walked back to the desk and leaned over to check his notes. “Homeless dude, or so he said. I wrote this down left-handed while I was on the phone and can’t read my fuckin’ handwriting. Can’t make out his name. He said he was an ex-cop from Philly.”

“Really?” O’Day continued reading the log.

“Nutcase, though. He claimed he was in Amelia’s neighborhood, on Eighty-ninth Street, tailing some guy he thought was suspicious, and he wanted me to send a car so he could talk us to him with a cell phone.”

“Homeless dude had a cell phone?”

“I wondered about that too. He had an explanation like alphabet soup. Anyway, he wasn’t even sure the guy he was following was real.”

“That’d make a difference.” O’Day turned the page and was glad to find that the next one was blank. He began reading the contents listed in suspect possession envelopes that were stacked in a nearby wire basket. It was good to see that each of the hookers carried condoms. “If Homeless didn’t think the guy was real, why was he following him?”

“Said he was real this time, not like last time.”

“Uh-hm. There’s a certain logic in that. Why’d he think the guy was suspicious?”

“Walking too fast, is what he said. Not like one of the real homeless. Walking with too much haste and purpose.”

O’Day looked up from what he was reading and stared at Britain. “Those were his words? ‘Too much haste and purpose’?”

“Those words exactly. Said it twice. Sounds like an ex-cop, don’t he?”

O’Day was down off the stool now. “Used to be a cop in Philly, you said?”

“Uh-huh.”

“His name happen to be Billy. . no, Bobby Mays?”

Britain appeared puzzled. “Yeah, that’s it. You know him?”

“He was in here before. Not long after a Night Sniper shooting. Mays is homeless, all right, but I gotta say he didn’t strike me as a nutcase. Not used up yet. Something about him.”

“Still got cop in him, maybe,” Britain said. “That came across despite all the real and unreal bullshit.” He shifted his weight and glanced at the wall clock. “Listen, I gotta go or Junie’ll be after me for missing visiting hours.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Good, good, fine.” Britain had his cap on and was moving toward the door. “I’ll tell her you asked about her.”

“Do that,” O’Day said. “Give her my best. She’s a fine woman just for putting up with you.”

“Couldn’t argue with that,” Britain said, and was out into the night.

O’Day sat for a moment looking at the framed photo of Derek Jeter smiling at him from beneath his NYPD cap.

Not thinking about Jeter, though. Thinking about Bobby Mays, about what there was in the poor young guy that made it impossible for O’Day simply to dismiss him from his mind.

Should he believe Mays was sane enough to make sense?

Maybe.

Buy into what Mays had said to Britain?

Maybe.

O’Day was a man who recognized a fork in the road when he came upon one, especially one that might skewer him. He knew he’d be sticking out his neck if he called about Mays’s conversation with Britain and got everyone including God and the NYPD stirred up over nothing. Mays was, after all, a homeless man who apparently hallucinated. But considering his previous contact with Mays, maybe O’Day’s neck would be stuck out even further if he didn’t call and the Sniper took a shot at Amelia Repetto.

Maybe was reason enough.

He picked up the phone.