John Lutz - Fear the Night

Lora tilted back her oversize glass cup and took a sip of her latte. The remaining white froth on its surface left a filmy mustache above her upper lip. “She seems to have that attitude.”

“Don’t blame her,” Repetto said.

“I shouldn’t? Or you don’t?”

“Huh?”

“Blame her.”

“Zoe?”

“Jesus, Vin.” Lora looked depressed. “Our conversations are deteriorating. We are getting old.”

Repetto smiled at her. “Not you. You somehow cancel out time.”

She didn’t look any happier, but he knew she was pleased by the compliment. While she attempted to sip without leaving more foam on her lip, she stared across the table at him as if he were a puzzle she couldn’t quite fathom.

“One thing about Zoe,” she said, putting down the cup and daintily swiping the back of a finger across her lip, “she was good at her work. She really had the Night Sniper figured. His approximate age, the way he looked and thought, how he went about his murders, like they were moves in some kind of sick chess game.”

Some chess game. “I’ll give her that,” Repetto said.

He hadn’t reminded Lora, nor would he remind anyone, that a search of Dante Vanya’s apartment hadn’t turned up a red wig. Not even a red hair.

Some things you never knew for sure, or shouldn’t know even if you could.

“That Detective Weaver, too,” Lora said. “She’s another one who knows her stuff.”

“Uh-huh. She’s a good cop.”

“More than that. She understands how to deal with people. She’ll be a high-ranking officer someday.”

“Weaver will go far in the department,” Repetto agreed. “She knows how to keep a secret. And how to play chess.”

He raised a hand to signal the waiter. “Check.”