Fear the Night (35 page)

56

Meg looked up from the sofa, where she’d been sitting watching but not seeing television with the sound off.

There was Amelia, back in the living room. Pretty college girl, showing some fear in her eyes. Meg thought it might be because the reality of the situation was catching up with her. Meg thought Amelia was that dangerous combination of young and nuts, not brave. In her place, Meg would have gotten as far away from New York and the Night Sniper as possible.

Amelia still looked a bit rumpled and disheveled from sleep, but this time she’d left the ice pack behind. She was wearing fluffy white slippers that made her feet look gigantic.

“Headache better?” Meg asked.

“Not much, and it’s constant. But I’m tired of lying around in the dark and waiting for it to go away.” Amelia’s gaze went to the silent TV. “Anything new?”

“New?”

“About the Night Sniper. You’re watching the news.”

“Oh! So I am. Not really, though. I was just sitting here thinking. Anyway, when there’s news on the Sniper, we should hear it before they do.” Meg nodded toward the anchorwoman mouthing silently on-screen.

“What were you thinking?” Amelia asked, wandering to the window and parting the drapes slightly so she could peer out.

“How best to keep you safe. Uh, stay away from the window, please.”

Amelia let the drape fall back in place. “I just wanted to peek outside, to reassure myself there still
was
an outside.” She smiled. “I know I’m a pain in the ass. It’s just that I’m not the type to hole up and wait for something to blow over.”

“I understand,” Meg assured her. “Neither am I, but sometimes people like us have no choice. You’d rather be going about your business as usual, and I’d rather be clamping the cuffs on the sicko who’s causing all our problems.”

“Most of our problems, anyway.”

Meg wondered what she meant by that. What kind of problems could a beautiful twenty-one-year-old woman have, other than being stalked by a serial killer? “It’s gotta be tough for you. We all know that. Your dad sure knows it.”

“He worries too much about me. So does my mom.”

Meg looked closely at her. She didn’t appear to be kidding.
Only because a stone-cold killer’s vowed to take your life.
“That’s because they both know the danger. So do I. It’s real, Amelia, believe me.”

Amelia hesitated, then nodded. “Oh, I know it’s real, but ... well, I guess I’m a fatalist.”

Or a dramatist. Or twenty-one years old.
“You’re not afraid?”

“I’m terrified. That’s why the headache, I suspect. That’s why I close my eyes but can’t sleep. But at the same time, it’s all on a certain level, almost like a bad dream. There’s no way I can get my mind around the idea that somebody really wants me dead so much that he’d risk his own life in an attempt to kill me. And if he does, what are the chances of him actually getting through my assigned bodyguards like you?”

“On the level? There’s some possibility. You’re a cop’s daughter. You understand that there’s at least some chance he can bring it off.”

Meg almost instantly regretted her candidness. Whether she was a dramatist or not, for an instant terror shone through Amelia’s pale features; she was an inch away from losing her composure and becoming a sobbing, terrified victim.

“I’m plenty afraid,” Amelia said, “but I refuse to give in to panic.” She took a deep breath and her entire body trembled. “The truth is, I just want it to end. To be over.”

“That’s what
he
wants,” Meg said. There had been something disturbing in Amelia’s voice. And it struck Meg that maybe that was how it worked—the intended victim’s fear finally manifested itself in a perverse cooperation with the killer. “
I guess I’m a fatalist.
”

The Sniper would know that and how to use it.

She decided not to mention this disturbing insight to Amelia. But it could be a problem, this condition of fear and impatience, resulting in an eager kind of resignation that made the victim complicit in victimization. It could lead to a sort of deliberate, inviting carelessness.

“What I mean is, I want the tension to end, no matter how.”

Meg stared at her.
No, you don’t. Not really.

Or do you?

She watched as Amelia began to pace.

Now that she was here, Weaver was even more impressed by Dante Vanya’s address. His apartment was in the Elliott Arms, a soaring structure of glass and steel rooted in three stories of pale stone, with a tinted glass front and a maroon-awninged entrance flanked by twisted green topiary in huge ceramic planters. It took a lot to intimidate Weaver, but as she crossed the street from her unmarked and gained the attention of a rigid, brightly uniformed doorman, she felt like saluting.

The man was well over six feet, with the body of a weight lifter even though he was graying and probably in his fifties. He smiled at Weaver, but surveyed her suspiciously with steel-blue eyes as he held open one of the tall, tinted doors for her.

The lobby was gray marble veined in red, the elevators discreetly hiding out of sight around a corner. Another uniformed man, this one not so grandly clad, sat in the recess of an angle of marble that was a reception desk. A tiny, decorative shaded lamp sat on one corner of the desk, looking out of place in such a vast, cool area.

This guy was also in his fifties, gray and paunchy, and resembled everybody’s kind uncle. Weaver relaxed and gained confidence, telling herself she wasn’t so crazy coming here.

The man smiled from behind the slab of marble that looked as if it had been lifted from a mausoleum one dark night and finely polished. “Help you?”

Weaver decided not to identify herself as police. Not yet.

“I’m here for Mr. Vanya.”

She was sure the man would ask her name, but he didn’t. He merely consulted a logbook on a lower shelf behind the marble.

He looked up at Weaver over half-lens reading glasses. “Not in, I’m afraid.”

“Is he expected back soon?”

“That I couldn’t say. He left about an hour ago.”

“I don’t suppose he mentioned where he was going?”

“No, ma’am. And we don’t ask.”

Weaver had her choice. She could identify herself as police and push the issue, but she still couldn’t get into Vanya’s apartment without a warrant. Or she could play it low profile, leave, and wait across the street in the car for Vanya to return. He might not choose tonight to try for Amelia Repetto, and when he returned home and Weaver tried again to see him, there was no reason he shouldn’t invite her up. Especially if she identified herself as on old friend of Adam Strong.

She chose the latter option. With a smile, she said, “It wasn’t important, anyway. I’ll drop by later.”

Back across the street, behind the wheel of the unmarked, she settled down to wait for men to enter who might be Dante Vanya. A photograph sure would have helped, but there hadn’t been any in the records, and she didn’t want to take time for a broader search.

She tried to get more comfortable, sitting there with her impatience and ambition and hunter’s blood. Probably Vanya had gone out to get a bite to eat, or meet someone for drinks. Maybe he’d even return home with a woman. That would sure make things interesting.

She gazed diagonally across the street at the Elliott Arms. The glass and steel entrance gleamed. The doorman stood at parade rest near one of the corkscrew yews.

Some digs, she thought again. There was no doubt Vanya was wealthy enough to be the rare weapons collector, or was at least able to obtain such rifles for his use. There was less and less doubt in Weaver’s mind that he was the Night Sniper.

Her way to a brighter future.

Her prey.

The car seemed to be closing in on her and smelled faintly of oil and musty upholstery. Weaver started the engine and turned on the air conditioner, even though the night was cooling down.

Across the street, a man in a tan raincoat and wearing a black beret nodded to the doorman and entered the Elliott Arms.

Not Vanya. Too old. She could tell not only by the fringe of white hair showing beneath the beret, but by the weary set of his narrow shoulders and unsteadiness of his stride.

A while later a woman and a small child entered. Then a man who was also too old to be Vanya.

Weaver yawned, but it wasn’t because she was tired. It was nerves.

Surely he’d be back within the next few hours. She could wait, but it wouldn’t be pleasant.

Waiting wasn’t her game. She was more the type to make something happen.

57

Almost an hour passed before Bobby saw the homeless man who didn’t belong. He emerged from a dark passageway across the street, then headed in the opposite direction, away from Bobby.

Bobby squinted at the man. He was real, all right. He had to be real.

Playing it casual, Bobby walked several more steps before pausing and removing the cell phone from his pocket.

He pressed the power button and the tiny screen glowed dimly. One tiny rabbit icon. Still some battery power, anyway. Bobby had committed the phone number of the nearest precinct house to memory. No 6s. He punched out the number and listened to the phone ring on the other end of the connection.

As he did this, he slowly turned and began following the man across the street, staying on the opposite sidewalk and well back, almost out of sight.

He got through to someone who identified himself as Sergeant Britain.

“My name’s Bobby Mays,” Bobby said in a hoarse whisper, hoping the Amickson phone transmitted as clearly as it received. “I’m at Amsterdam and West Eighty-ninth Street, in Amelia Repetto’s neighborhood, and I’m following a man who might be the Night Sniper.”

“And why would you suspect him?” Sergeant Britain sounded remotely interested. Probably this wasn’t the only Night Sniper tip he’d received this evening.

“He’s wearing a long raincoat,” Bobby said. “One that could easily conceal a rifle. And he’s pretending to be one of us.”

“Us?”

“The homeless.”

“You’re one of the homeless?”

“That’s right. And he isn’t. I’m sure of it. I’m a former cop, a while back in Philadelphia. I got the eye. This isn’t a real homeless man.”

“Ex-cop?”

Was Britain hard of hearing? “Right. In Philly. Name’s Bobby Mays. I’ve seen this guy before and he doesn’t set right.”

“How so?”

“He isn’t one of us. He’s walking with too much haste and purpose.”

Britain waited a few seconds. “That’s it? Other than the long raincoat?”

“I’ve seen him before in the areas of some of the Night Sniper shootings.”

“So where is he and where are you?”

“I told you—”

“I mean, are you in a car or a building, looking out a window?”

“We’re both on foot. I’m following him along Eighty-ninth Street while I’m talking to you on my cell phone. He’s walking with too much haste and purpose.”

“You told me that. You say you’re homeless, so where’d you get a cell phone?”

“Bought it,” Bobby said. “Listen, this isn’t about me. It’s about—”

“We get a lotta calls,” Britain said. His disinterested gaze went idly to a photo of Yankees shortstop Derek Jeter that was hanging on the wall across from the desk. Jeter was grinning, holding a bat, and wearing an NYPD cap. Young stud millionaire, Britain thought enviously. Not a care. “I gotta check.”

Bobby forced calm on himself. “Yeah. Sure. But if you don’t do something this guy’s gonna get away from me. He’s average height, wearing a dark baseball cap, green or gray raincoat down almost to his ankles. Got a little hitch in his walk this time, as if he might be carrying a rifle in a sling.”

“My, you
are
observant.”

“I’ll stay on the phone,” Bobby said. “I’m gonna keep following him and talk you guys to him.”

“No, Mr . . . .”

“Mays. Bobby Mays.”

“Right. Ex-cop, Philly. Don’t follow him, Mr. Mays. You understand me? That’s our job.”

“Damn it, you don’t believe me! I can tell.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“This time he’s real! I know it. He’s real!”

“This time? Real?”

“I told you there was another time. I even went to the police and tried to get them to listen.”

“Ah.”

Bobby didn’t like his tone. “Britain. Sergeant Britain. Please, listen, I—”

“You listen, Mr. Mays. I don’t want you hurt. I’ll see a car is sent. The police’ll take care of this matter. Stop following this man, whether he’s real or not. Don’t interfere in any way. I’m . . . ’elling you for . . .”

Britain’s voice was fading. Breaking up.

“Sergeant? You gotta take this seriously.”

“I . . . ’sure you I am . . .”

The tone of Britain’s voice changed; then the silence in the phone was no longer alive. Bobby lowered it from his ear and looked at the dimming screen. No rabbit. No power. Nothing but a tiny battery icon indicating that the phone needed charging.

The phone was dead.

At the other end of the connection, Sergeant Roland Britain realized he was now talking to himself.

“Don’t interfere in any way,” he said again into the phone, just in case the caller might hear.

He’s real this time.

There was no way Britain could recommend sending a car on the information he’d just been given. And from such a source.

He hung up and forgot about the call.

Disgusted, Bobby wiped his fingerprints from the dead cell phone and dropped it down a sewer grate.

For another two blocks he followed the homeless man who was walking too fast, who didn’t quite belong. Then he lost him.

He was like a shadow moving into another shadow, and he didn’t emerge.

Bobby retreated into a dark building nook and watched the street for a while, thinking maybe Britain would actually see to it that a car was sent to investigate his phone call.

But a car never came.

Not that Bobby saw.

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.