Fear the Night

63

“He can’t go far on foot,” Birdy said. “He’s gotta come up at the next stop or the one after.”

He and Repetto were standing next to the unmarked Ford Victoria Birdy had just arrived in, parked well away from the subway stop where Dillon had burned. They could still hear the siren as the ambulance that had left with Dillon made its way through traffic. They both knew, after having seen and talked with Dillon, that there was no real rush. Nobody in Dillon’s condition could have lived, or would want to live, much longer.

Three police cruisers were parked near the blackened area on the sidewalk where Dillon had lain, and techs from the crime scene unit were still busily measuring and photographing. Most of the cops were standing back. Two of them were smoking, one a cigarette, the other a cigar. They smoked for good reason. Burning tobacco created a different sort of smoke, with a different sort of odor that was definitely the lesser of two evils.

Repetto and Birdy were also keeping their distance because of the sweet scent of burnt flesh that hung in the air and became taste at the back of the tongue. The stench was still too cloying and evocative even at this distance. If Repetto had a cigar on him, he would have lit it.

“He comes to the surface, we’ll get him,” Birdy said confidently.

“He might branch off and take another tunnel,” Repetto said. He knew Melbourne and some other NYPD brass types would be second-guessing him if the Night Sniper-Dante Vanya-escaped capture or death tonight.

If they’d kept secret that they had the Sniper’s identity, he might have felt safe and returned to his apartment after his attempt to kill Amelia, and there encountered half the NYPD.

Repetto had understood his choice and made it. He’d opted to put out the killer’s identity while they had him inside the cordon, rattled and on the run. They had his name and description now; they’d soon track him down. Someone who knew him might call the police. And if he did slip the police tonight, there was always the chance he might still return to his apartment without knowing the media had spread his identity all over the city.

Odds. Everything was about odds.

“Wherever our guy is,” Birdy said, “I bet he’s covering ground fast. Gonna make it hard for us.”

Repetto pulled his cell phone from his pocket and pecked out the number for the Transit Bureau liaison, a lieutenant named Collingwood. He told Collingwood the situation.

“What he’s doing, running around in those dark tunnels, is damned dangerous,” Collingwood said in a grating voice.

“I wanna make it even more dangerous for him,” Repetto said. “How trapped is he?”

“Where he is, there aren’t many transfer points along the way,” Collingwood rasped. “Until he gets to. .” His voice trailed off as if he might be consulting a map. “. . Lexington Avenue.”

Repetto knew the stop, one of the major subway junctions in the city. If the Sniper shook himself loose there, he might slip away. “What trains travel along the tunnel he’s in?” Or at least entered.

“He’s following a route still used by the E and V lines.”

“What I want is to flood stops along those lines with cops, along with intersecting lines at transfer points. And soon as possible I want the subway system shut down temporarily for a police action.”

“I’ll pass along the order for the troops to be deployed,” Collingwood said, “but I think you oughta call Melbourne for authorization to shut down the line.”

“Not the line,” Repetto said, “the system. I don’t want there to be any possibility the Sniper can get into another tunnel or somehow board a train traveling who knows where.”

“The entire system? I dunno. . Like I said, you better call Melbourne.”

“I’ll call him,” Repetto said. “Then I’ll see your ass is called on the carpet if you don’t shut down the system.”

“Hold on, now. The whole system can’t be shut down just like that. What you’re asking-”

Repetto broke the connection and punched out his number for Melbourne.

“Problem?” Birdy asked, while Repetto was pacing and waiting to get through.

“Goddamn disconnect,” Repetto said.

“Phone, you mean?”

“Fuckin’ bureaucracy!”

“Ah,” Birdy said, understanding. He started to fidget, drumming his fingertips against each other, gazing up the block toward where Dillon had burned.

Still with the cell phone pressed to his ear, waiting for an answer, Repetto moved toward the car. “Let’s drive,” he said.

Birdy stopped fidgeting and stepped off the curb to walk around to the driver’s side. “Where to?”

Repetto was already lowering his bulk into the car, so Birdy got in behind the wheel before expecting a reply.

“Melbourne?” Repetto said, as his call was answered. Then to Birdy, his hand over the tiny phone’s flip mouthpiece: “Third and Lex.”

Approximately two minutes after his conversation with Melbourne, Repetto’s cell phone chirped.

“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.