John Lutz - Fear the Night

“I described them downstairs to some of the maintenance crew. Nobody seems to know what they are. No one could come up with any possible use for them.”

Repetto folded his arms and stared toward the Plaza. “You’re theorizing that the Sniper broke into this suite-”

“Or got a key somehow. I examined the lock, and there’s no sign it’s been forced. He didn’t lower himself from the roof above. The hotel restaurant’s up there, the Pot-O-Gold.”

“So he must have sneaked into the suite somehow and gained access to this roof. If it were two blocks closer to the podium, it would have been a perfect place to shoot from, but then it would have been checked out and covered by us.”

“That might be exactly what appealed to him. It would have been written off as a threat. And this far away, it would’ve been easy for him to slip out of the hotel and disappear after firing the shot.”

“But how could he be sure we wrote it off? Simply the seeming impossibility of the shot?”

“That, or maybe he has a contact in the NYPD.”

Always possible, Repetto knew. “Suppose he did have a key, Meg? How could he know he wouldn’t open the door and be face-to-face with a guest?”

“He might work for the hotel.”

“It would have to be in a capacity where he could control who stayed in which room or suite. That’s the only way he could plan on this suite being unoccupied during the time he needed it. Did you check at the desk and see if anyone was staying in it at the time the mayor was shot?”

“Yes. It was registered to someone, but there’s no guarantee the guest was in the suite at that time. In a busy hotel like this, people come and go unnoticed.”

“Has anybody stayed in the suite since the mayor was shot?”

“No. It’s expensive and isn’t occupied as often as ordinary rooms.”

Repetto shook his head. “Even if the Sniper did manage to get in here, then out on the roof and use something to help brace his rifle, it still looks like an impossible shot.”

“The Sniper’s the sort who might enjoy the challenge.”

“Now you sound like Zoe.”

He was beginning to make Meg doubt. “Zoe’s not always wrong.” She was becoming argumentative, she knew, sounding petulant. But damn it. .

Repetto went back inside, careful not to bump his head this time, and Meg followed.

“Expensive suite, all right,” he said, looking around at the tasteful furniture and wall hangings. He could imagine celebrities and political dignitaries staying here.

Repetto glanced at his image in a gold-framed mirror across the room and saw that his hair was mussed from the breeze out on the roof. He smoothed it back so he didn’t look so much like a wild old cop. It stuck back out. Stubborn as Meg.

“Maybe the Night Sniper himself registered and stayed here,” he said, watching her in the mirror.

She looked surprised, then grinned. “That I kinda doubt.”

“Zoe would say he’d see it as a challenge, taunting us.”

“We’d have his fingerprints.”

“He’d be careful ahead of time, use only one or two rooms, then wipe them down carefully before going out on the roof to take his shot.”

“He does wear rubber gloves,” Meg said.

“Did the maid say the guest slept here?”

Oops! “I didn’t ask. Didn’t imagine-”

“We’re here,” Repetto said. “Let’s go find out.”

It didn’t take them long to locate the maid who’d cleaned the suite that morning. She was a heavyset Hispanic woman with strong, beautiful features and graying hair. Fifteen pounds and years beyond being a beauty queen. In an accent that was pure Brooklyn she told them the bed had been slept in, probably by two people.

“It was registered as a single,” Meg told her.

The maid stared at her as if she were unbelievably naive. “Uh-huh. Single male, what I was told. Sometimes they find company, y’know?”

“You clean the entire suite?” Repetto asked.

“Sure. Even though most of it didn’t need it. Did my usual thorough job. Only room that was really a mess was the large bedroom. Bedsheets all tangled like there’d been some heavy action there.”

“You sure he wasn’t alone?”

“Not ’less he tossed an’ turned all night an’ used two pillows. Sheets had a certain kinda stain and smell about ’em, too, if you know what I mean.”

“You change the sheets?” Meg asked.

“Now whaddya you think?”

“They been laundered yet?” Repetto asked.

“Long time ago. Just like them towels.”

“Towels?”

“There was a lotta damp towels piled in the bathtub. Like somebody took a bath or shower every couple hours.”

Repetto and Meg looked at each other. Both understood the towels might have been used to wipe the suite clean of prints.

“You happen to see the suite’s occupant at any time?” Repetto asked the maid.

“Never. He had the do-not-disturb sign out mosta the time. The kinda guests we get, we gotta pay attention to those signs.”

They thanked the maid and let her return to work. She pushed her linen cart along the hall, appearing to be leaning hard on it and deliberately making one of the wheels squeak.

“Woman’s got a burr up her ass,” Meg said.

“Some do,” Repetto said, giving her a look. “Let’s check at the desk and see if anyone remembers the suite’s occupant.”

Meg felt her heartbeat quicken. Repetto suddenly seemed to be taking seriously the possibility that the Sniper was a registered guest. He was making Meg a believer. She had to walk fast to keep up with him on the way to the elevator.

They got lucky. The same desk clerk was on duty who’d checked in the suite’s occupant.

“Here’s where he signed in,” the clerk said. He was a small man with dark hair combed straight back and shiny as patent leather, a narrow nose too long for his face. He swiveled a large black registration book for Repetto and Meg to read.

“Not many hotels still use those,” Meg said.

“We don’t usually, because most of our guests pay with plastic and that creates its own record. But some still use old-fashioned cash.”

Meg and Repetto glanced at each other. “He paid cash?”

“Certainly did.”

Repetto and Meg looked at the registration book as the clerk touched a manicured finger to the correct line. The man’s name was neatly printed: Ott Eperrepinsi .

“Sounds foreign,” Meg said. “Maybe Ott’s a nickname for Otto. Maybe he’s from one of those Balkan countries that’re so hard to pronounce.”

“Or his German mother married an Italian,” Repetto said. To the desk clerk: “Do you recall what he looked like?”

“Vaguely. About average size. Dark hair. Well groomed and very fashionably dressed in suit and tie. He was rich, I’d say. Not to be crass, but we develop a feel for that here, being able to guess at net worth. We can come pretty close.”

“I’ll bet. Anything unusual about his appearance other than his wealth?”

“Wealth isn’t unusual here at the Marimont. He was a handsome man, women would say. Had a bold bearing about him. Something else about him that isn’t that unusual here. He was wearing a topper.”

“Topper?”

“A toupee. I can spot them easily because I used to wear one myself, before I got my hair transplant.” He absently touched his luxurious dark hair.

“That’s really something,” Meg said, genuinely impressed.

“Science,” said the desk clerk.

“Did you happen to see him with a woman?” Repetto asked.

The desk clerk stroked the bridge of his narrow nose, giving that one some thought. “No. I only noticed him once or twice more after he checked in, going or coming. He didn’t check out. Not that it was necessary, since we use electronic card keys and he paid in advance and with cash. But usually our guests stop by the desk.”