John Lutz - Fear the Night

“New patterns are made all the time,” Repetto said.

“No, not often.” Zoe reached for her stemmed glass and almost drained what was left in one long series of swallows. She’d gotten here before them; Repetto suspected it was her second drink. Did she need nerve for this conversation? “Serial killers are trapped in patterns along with their victims.”

“Profilers can be trapped in patterns along with serial killers.”

Zoe smiled to show him she wasn’t perturbed. “Along with cops.”

Repetto could have cut rope with the look Lora gave him.

Zoe hadn’t taken her eyes off Repetto. “I wanted to talk to you about another aspect of the case.”

“Another insight into the killer?”

“Into his motive.”

“Well,” Repetto said, “that’s the heart of it.” More speculation. “But remember, if we’re a few degrees off when we sail, we could wind up on another continent.”

“What does that mean?” Lora asked.

Zoe looked at her and smiled. “Your husband’s telling me to be careful with my assumptions. And it’s good advice.” She again focused her attention on Repetto. “It occurred to me there was something interesting about the crime scenes and the victims. The murders all occurred in different parts of town, and to a variety of people. The victims seem to have had absolutely nothing in common, and that in itself is unusual.”

She did have Repetto’s interest. “You think the shootings aren’t random?” he asked.

“They might not be at all random. The shooter never happened to kill. . say, two unemployed men, or two recently engaged women, or two garage mechanics or insurance salesmen or whatever. Isn’t that worth noting?”

Repetto thought about it. “I’m not sure.”

“There is some coincidence in the world,” Lora said.

Repetto looked from one woman to the other. “I assume you two have talked this over.”

They both nodded.

“The victims are representative,” Zoe said.

“Of what?”

“Different worlds,” Lora said, “but all clustered together here in New York. So, in a sense, one world.”

Repetto stared at her, trying to figure out exactly what she’d said.

“The victims are various ages, races, and stations in life,” Zoe said, “composing a diverse cross section of people living, working, or visiting New York City. And they were shot in different neighborhoods. It’s as if the sniper wants to stop tourism and local commerce, as if he has a grudge against the city.” She played with the stem of her martini glass. “Viewed in that light, the murders fit the pattern of revenge killings.”

Repetto sat back in soft, padded leather. “It’s a possibility, if the killer hates everyone enough to kill them.”

Lora smiled.

Zoe didn’t change expression. “Just almost everyone-the people who represent the city’s makeup. He’s attacking, in his own way, the city itself.”

“You really believe that?”

“I believe it enough to press.”

At least she was being honest. “What exactly do you want?” Repetto asked, getting to what he knew was the real reason for this friendly meeting over drinks.

“For you to take the theory to Assistant Chief Melbourne. Get him to use his authority to open confidential city records so we can search for anyone who might have a grudge against New York City.”

“That’d be half the goddamn country,” Repetto said.

“You know what she means,” Lora said, throwing in with the enemy. “Personnel files.”

Zoe leaned forward. “We need to find out about seriously disgruntled employees, but just as importantly, former employees. People who left under the worst circumstances, and carrying a load of acrimony.”

“You’re asking for a lot of time,” Repetto said. “A lot of work hours.”

“It might be worth it,” Lora said.

“What about Zoe’s previous theory that the killer’s insisting on game playing, so we should concentrate on that aspect of his personality?” He was asking Lora, not Zoe. Lora the turncoat.

“It could still be true,” Lora said. “So could this theory.”

“It could also be true that the Sniper might start killing children.”

“The two theories could coexist,” Zoe admitted. “We’re talking about probabilities.”

“You are. I deal in hard facts, then put them together to make an arrest that’ll stick in court.”

“I’m suggesting a way to get at the facts,” Zoe said.

Repetto finished his drink and signaled the waiter for another.

“Better go easy,” Lora said, touching the back of his hand. “I love you and don’t want to have to wrestle the car keys from you.”

Repetto had to smile. What chance did he have?

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll talk to Melbourne and see what he thinks about raiding the department’s confidential personnel files.”

“Not just the NYPD files,” Zoe said.

Repetto waved a hand like a surrender flag. “I know, I know. . ”

Zoe grinned. Lora sighed with satisfaction. She was a woman who reveled in manipulating and outmaneuvering her mate. Or was that all women?

Zoe said, “Thanks,” looking at Repetto. Then she glanced at her watch. “Almost eight-thirty. I’ve gotta meet somebody at nine for drinks on the other side of town.” She dug some bills from her purse and laid them on the table to pay her part of the check. “You two stay and finish your coffee.” She stood up.

“A date?” Lora asked.

“A date,” Zoe confirmed.

That didn’t sound right to Repetto. He never imagined Zoe with any kind of social life, though she was single and certainly attractive. There was probably a lot about Zoe he didn’t know.

Zoe nodded good night to Repetto, then leaned toward Lora. Repetto thought she was going to peck her on the cheek. Instead he heard her whisper, “Your husband’s a hardhead, but he’s actually quite nice.”

She didn’t look back at them as she walked away. However many drinks she’d had, she was moving in a straight line and with a hip switch and grace that could only be called sexy.

“A seductive redhead,” Lora said, probably reading Repetto’s mind. “I’ve sometimes thought of dying my hair red.”

“What did she just whisper to you?” Repetto asked his wife, refusing to be distracted by her diversion.

“You know what. You overheard. I was watching and could tell by your expression.” Lora rested her hand on Repetto’s arm. “I’m proud of you. You handled that well.”

“Well, I handled it,” Repetto said.

It was almost 8:30, and the cab was caught in stop-and-go traffic on East Fifty-second Street. Kelli was sure that getting out and walking would get them to Four Seasons earlier than if they stayed in the cab and gained ground ten feet at a time. Besides, Jason was beginning to fidget, his fingers absently working on the box containing his new radio-controlled car. No doubt he was thinking that Michael Schumacker in his red Ferrari race car would figure out a way to roar through or around this traffic.

“We’ll get out here,” Kelli told the driver, as the cab rolled forward a few feet, then lurched to a stop inches from the rear bumper of the car ahead.

“We’re almost there, lady. Another block.”

“Here’ll do fine,” Kelli said, digging in her purse. She handed the driver a ten-dollar bill and told him to keep the change.

She climbed out of the cab first, standing holding the door open while Jason slid across the backseat and scampered out, still tightly gripping the box from the toy store. Heat was rolling out from under the cab, warming her ankles, reinforcing her decision to leave the cab now; the vehicle could overheat if traffic didn’t start to move soon.