John Lutz - Fear the Night

“Wait for what?” Birdy asked, as he and Meg moved to get into the car.

In a nanosecond he realized it had been a dumb question.

They all knew what.

Vito Mestieri owned and worked long hours in Vito’s Screwdriver, his small appliance and TV repair shop on the Lower East Side. He’d gotten out of the army thirty years ago after Vietnam and inherited the shop from his father. Now Vito, slowed by age and hindered by rheumatic fingers, was considering selling the shop. He wished he had a son of his own to hand down the business to, but both his marriages had been bitter and childless.

He had friends, fellow Nam vets who met once a week to play poker and tell lies. But the Vietnam vets were gray and potbellied now, like Vito, and were slowly fading from the earth they way the World War Two guys had done. Vito knew that someday soon the Times obituary page would make a deal out of the last Nam vet dying. Maybe he’d be the one, but he doubted it. One thing was for sure: he wouldn’t read it.

Vito flipped the sign in the door from OPEN to CLOSED and stepped outside. He unclipped the ring of keys from his belt and by feel found the one that fit the dead bolt lock on the door.

The lock gave a satisfying metallic click. No one had broken into the shop for over a year, since Vito had changed the lock and had the alarm system installed.

He clipped the ring back on his belt and stepped away from the locked door, and felt a sudden, sharp pain high on his side, near his armpit. At first he thought a bee or wasp had stung him. Then he took a few steps, experienced a different, deeper pain, and felt for the source of the first stinging sensation.

His hand came away bloody and he was back in Nam. He knew he’d been shot.

Had to get help!

The narrow side street was deserted except for some people up near the intersection. Vito raised a hand, tried to call out. The pain stilled his voice.

Back inside. Call 911!

He turned back toward the door and felt an overpowering weakness.

Then from the corner of his eye he saw a car turn the corner and start down the street in his direction.

Someone to drive me to a hospital!

He turned back away from the door and staggered out into the street, trying to scream for the car to stop, trying to wave his arms. Helpless, bubbling gasps were the only sounds he made, and his arms, which he thought he was waving, were hanging limp at his sides.

The car had been picking up speed. Now the driver saw Vito and stomped on the brake pedal. Yanked the steering wheel to swerve around Vito.

Rubber screamed as the car skidded sideways. Vito tried to get out of the way but fell. The car did a 180-degree turn and the back wheels rolled over him.

The driver, an eighteen-year-old Hispanic kid, was slumped on the curb weeping when the police arrived.

He felt somewhat better a few hours later, when he learned that when the car had rolled over Vito, he was already dead from a gunshot wound.

After being up most of the night, Repetto met with Meg and Birdy around ten the next morning at the Hobby Hole in the West Village. In the evening the place served dinner and drinks and was a lesbian jazz club. During the day it was breakfast and lunch and the clientele was more varied. All the time they served their specialty, warm biscuits with a sweetly flavored butter. It was within walking distance of Repetto’s house and he ate there often, whatever the time or sexual orientation. He didn’t give a damn; he was there for the biscuits.

Not this morning, though. He and Lora had eaten breakfast at home.

There was only one other customer, up near the front of the restaurant and out of earshot. A burned bacon scent hung in the air and would have made Repetto hungry if he hadn’t already eaten.

“I’m just having coffee,” he said.

“Us too,” Meg said, speaking for Birdy. “We had doughnuts just a few hours ago.”

Birdy tapped out a pattern with his fingertips on the table and nodded.

Meg hadn’t been in here before. She tried not to look at what seemed to be a collection of photos of nude women but for cowboy boots and hats on the wall near the bar. They seemed to be spinning lariats. The server, a slim young woman somehow feminine in boots, baggy jeans, studded leather vest, and a butch haircut, poured three cups of coffee, left a small metal pitcher of cream, then withdrew.

When she was out of earshot, Repetto said, “Let’s go over what we have on Vito Mestieri.”

Meg sipped her coffee. Birdy seemed to have nothing to say, so she led. “Central fact is he’s dead. Ballistics says the bullet’s misshapen from bouncing around his rib cage, so they can’t get a match on it.”

“Not that it would match anyway,” Birdy said. “Different gun for each victim. Our guy must have an arsenal.”

“Gun nut,” Meg said.

“Which is why we’re gonna start checking out gun merchants and collectors,” Repetto said.

“We’re still trying to find out where the shooter fired from, but it looks pretty hopeless. He knows the sound of the shot will echo and be impossible to trace.”

The baggy-jeaned server paused walking past their table and asked if anyone needed anything, looking at Meg.

Meg said maybe later.

Birdy winked at her.

Meg didn’t like what must be going on in his mind. She couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed the photos of the scantily clad cowpunchers. Or that he was gentleman enough not to mention them. The man seldom disappointed.

“Suppose he knows it enough to choose firing sites where he’ll get the most echoing effect,” Repetto said. “Let’s put ourselves in his head and check out buildings and rooftops surrounded by a lot of hard surfaces.”

“That’s just about every building in New York,” Birdy said dismally.

“Some more than others,” Meg said, sticking up for Repetto as if he needed it. Birdy began nervously pumping a knee, making the table vibrate. Were they ganging up on him?

“Mestieri would be the first,” he said.

Repetto and Meg looked at him.

“The first victim in the game,” Birdy said. “Since the Night Sniper said the game was beginning.”

“He’s right,” Repetto said. “The previous murders were prelude.”

“Warming up,” Birdy said, as if Meg needed explanation. “Like practice golf swings. Now it’s for real.”

“It was real for the people who got shot before Vito Mestieri,” Meg said.

Birdy stopped with the knee and nodded. “Yeah, but to our shooter the earlier victims were just a way to get Repetto into the game. Even Bricker. Especially Bricker.”

Meg gave him a cautioning look, considering Repetto’s expression at the mention of Dal Bricker. Birdy shouldn’t have gone there. He might catch hell now.

But the hardness in Repetto’s expression had nothing to do with Birdy’s insensitivity; it was about the Night Sniper.

“He made a mistake when he killed Dal,” Repetto said in a soft, easy voice.

Which gave Meg more of a chill than if his rage had shown on his face.

They were back out on the street, walking toward the car, when Birdy grinned over at Meg and said, “Whoopee ti yi yo.”

When they drove to their precinct basement office to check for any developments, and to pick up another city car so they could split up to check out gun dealers and collectors, they were surprised to find Assistant Chief Melbourne waiting for them.

Melbourne had arranged for the office, which was cramped and glum. The walls were pale green and the single window was narrow and at ground level, splattered with mud so it was difficult to see out and allowed only dim light in to relieve somewhat the relentless fluorescent glare of the cheap ceiling fixtures. The furniture and file cabinets were dented gray steel. A computer on the desk looked as if it had been upgraded over and over and was a technology basket case. Maps of all five boroughs, departmental notices with curling corners, a case chart, were pinned directly to the soft wallboard that covered concrete. The office was damp and smelled like a swamp. A patch of mold a few inches square grew in a corner of the ceiling. On one wall was a framed photo of former Police Commissioner Bernard Kerik in uniform, looking stolid and sincere and indestructible.