John Lutz - Fear the Night

Melbourne sat in one of the radio cars behind the wheel. Repetto was beside him, Meg and Birdy in the back. Meg didn’t much like it, sitting back where the suspects rode.

The least of her troubles.

“Looks like the mayor’s got a slim chance,” Melbourne said. “Bullet entered his side and missed the heart. It’s still in a lung. Nicked an artery, and they’re trying to stop internal bleeding. Touch and go.” He was staring out the windshield at the stragglers who were left after the Plaza was cleared, at the techs and plainclothes detectives milling around up on the podium. “Fuckin’ mess!”

“Murchison did what he could,” Repetto said. The car’s police radio was on low, like background conversation in a restaurant, only more abrupt and with the occasional crackle of static.

“Fuck Murchison.”

Repetto knew that pretty much summed up what was left of Murchison’s career.

“What about the subways?” Melbourne asked.

“Locked down tight as soon as the shot sounded. The Sniper would have had a hard time using the subways to get out of the area.”

“He didn’t have to go underground,” Melbourne said. “The way all hell broke loose and there were people running every which way, he could have simply joined the crowd.”

“Could have,” Repetto said, “but I doubt he’d have counted on it ahead of time.”

Melbourne was staring at Murchison again. “Murchison was supposed to prevent this, or at least nail the bastard that did it right after.”

Repetto said nothing, simply sat watching two of the plainclothes detectives on the podium stare up and around, trying to figure out where the shot might have originated. They might as well have been figuring the odds on rain.

“Ball’s in your court now, Vin,” Melbourne said. The threat was implicit. Repetto could become the next Murchison.

“I’ve already got the uniforms you gave me canvassing the surrounding buildings.”

“And doesn’t that sound familiar?”

“I need more people,” Repetto said. “Maybe more than you can give me.”

“For this I can supply warm bodies.”

“We’ll keep on the surrounding buildings, even the ones we had covered before the mayor’s speech. Also question the NYPD sharpshooters stationed around, see if they spotted anything unusual. If we don’t find anything tonight, tomorrow when it’s light out, we’ll use the extra uniforms to widen the circle of our investigation to take in even the unlikely places the Sniper might have been when he squeezed the trigger.”

“I thought we had everything covered that was on a line from the lectern and within range. That’s what Murchison assured me.”

Repetto wished Melbourne would get off Murchison. “Maybe the Sniper’s even more of a marksman than we thought.”

“If he can shoot through solid walls, he is.”

“We’ve been looking into former SWAT snipers and ex-military types. Professionals. Possibly we should be looking at amateurs.”

“Amateurs?” Melbourne looked first disbelieving, then nauseated. Or maybe it was the reflected alternating red and blue light from outside the car.

“Competition shooters,” Repetto explained. “Olympic athletes. They might be better shots even than the SWAT or military snipers. We got any present or former Olympic-caliber target shooters in the area?”

“We’ll sure as hell find out,” Melbourne said. “If we have anybody left tomorrow who’s not out examining buildings for blocks around.”

Repetto thought about suggesting Melbourne set Murchison to the task. No, no. . He rested his arm on the seat back and twisted around so he could see Meg and Birdy.

Meg came hyperalert, knowing Repetto was looking for suggestions. Or volunteers.

“How ’bout that uniform’s been so capable,” Birdy said, “Weaver? She’s a smart one.”

Meg glared at him. Prick!

“Officer Nancy Weaver,” Repetto explained to Melbourne. “She’s hot to get out of uniform and back into plainclothes, and she’s got good skills and instincts.”

“Give that one a list of top amateur shooters in the area and she’ll have ’em lined up like ducks in a gallery,” Birdy said.

Such enthusiasm. Meg wondered if Birdy was sleeping with Weaver. Or was he just in line?

“You like Weaver for it, put her on it,” Melbourne said to Repetto. “I’ll get the computer whizzes on the hunt, soon as I make a phone call. We’ll sic this bloodhound Weaver on the names tomorrow morning.”

Bloodhound. Meg liked that.

“I don’t exactly see her as any kinda hound,” Birdy said. “’Specially since she’s pretty much a looker.”

Repetto locked eyes with him in the car’s outside mirror until Birdy looked away. Might Birdy be sleeping with Weaver?

“Then she’s a pretty little poodle,” Melbourne said. “Long as she can do the job, I don’t care what breed she is.” He worked the handle and opened the door. “I’ll call you when we have the list for Weaver,” he said to Repetto. “Right now I’m gonna meet with the commissioner and activate the entire available force. You’ll have plenty of uniforms, plainclothes, and undercover cops here at your disposal before you know it.”

He climbed out of the car, then leaned down and stuck his head back inside before shutting the door. “Anybody asks, tell ’em nobody in the NYPD better even think about sleep until I sleep, and I’m not gonna sleep for a long time. The mayor’s been shot. Sleep’s not an option.”

They watched Melbourne hurry away to avoid a pursuing woman who looked like a journalist.

“Sleep is not an option,” Repetto reiterated.

“Guess we’re gonna have to catnap,” Birdy said.

“Not unless you have nine lives,” Meg told him.

By the time she’d heard the mayor was shot, Zoe had already consumed one gin martini and half of another, while waiting for her dinner date to arrive in the Pot-O-Gold Room on top of the Marimont Hotel. The mayor shot. She should go in early tomorrow, or possibly cancel the dinner and leave the posh restaurant right now. Such a momentous occurrence, it didn’t seem right to be sitting here sipping drinks and looking forward to a romantic evening. She could leave a message with the maitre d’. On the other hand, she was a profiler, not assigned or needed to respond to emergencies.

All thoughts of cancelation left her when her date walked into the restaurant. Not a few women’s heads turned so they could stare at him. He looked more handsome than Zoe had ever seen him. He was fit, tanned, and downright gorgeous in an obviously expensive dark suit, white shirt, and a tie that matched the handkerchief peeking out of the suit coat pocket. When he walked, the swing of his arms made gold cuff links glitter.

Rich, Zoe thought. That was the word that came to mind when she looked at him. Rich. That and another word.

“Been waiting long?” he asked, sliding onto the chair opposite hers. The petite tables were round, with yellow and white china, silver flatware, and cut crystal glittering on white cloth. They were small enough so that two people seated opposite each other could lean forward and kiss, made for romantic assignations.

“Awhile,” Zoe said, “but it was worth it.”

In so many ways!

The evening progressed with a smile and a peck on the cheek, another drink, smooth conversation, a white and a red wine with a delicious meal, then an after-dinner port.

Zoe consumed another drink gradually, then champagne between dances. She tried to stretch the time between sips, but slowing down didn’t help. The alcohol had her now, and she knew it.

The mayor shot. . mayor of New York. . The concept knocked on the door of her consciousness from time to time, but she didn’t invite it in.