John Lutz - Fear the Night

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.

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. № 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.