it’s worth keeping in mind.” He focused again on Meg. “What you surmise about the reason he doesn’t use a silencer fits in. Our man not only enjoys the fear factor, but it’s a strategic plus. It’s exactly the kind of thing I was hoping might come out of rereading the murder files.”
Meg felt a flush of pleasure at his approval. Why should I feel this way? I hardly know this guy. He’s not my father.
The shooter with the high-powered weapon opened up again. Meg thought she could smell gunpowder, though she knew they were too far away from the range unless the breeze was just right.
Repetto closed his briefcase and buckled a strap. “Let’s get to work revisiting the crime scenes and talking to witnesses, see if something new clicks. We do the grunt work. The we is you two. I’ve still gotta study these files.”
“So you’re the official Captain Repetto sometimes,” Meg said with a grin, trying a joke.
“All the time, actually,” Repetto said, not smiling. “But usually we’ll pretend otherwise.”
Jesus! She felt her insides shrivel. Make it better? Tell him I was kidding? No. Shut up. Don’t make it worse. The man’s virtual son was murdered days ago and he’s in mourning. I shouldn’t have played it light.
Or maybe he was amused and joking back. Possible ...
“The work’ll keep us busy while we wait,” Repetto said, opening a rear door of the unmarked and tossing the briefcase far enough inside that he’d have room to sit.
“Wait for what?” Birdy asked, as he and Meg moved to get into the car.
In a nanosecond he realized it had been a dumb question.
They all knew what.
Vito Mestieri owned and worked long hours in Vito’s Screwdriver, his small appliance and TV repair shop on the Lower East Side. He’d gotten out of the army thirty years ago after Vietnam and inherited the shop from his father. Now Vito, slowed by age and hindered by rheumatic fingers, was considering selling the shop. He wished he had a son of his own to hand down the business to, but both his marriages had been bitter and childless.
He had friends, fellow Nam vets who met once a week to play poker and tell lies. But the Vietnam vets were gray and potbellied now, like Vito, and were slowly fading from the earth they way the World War Two guys had done. Vito knew that someday soon the Times obituary page would make a deal out of the last Nam vet dying. Maybe he’d be the one, but he doubted it. One thing was for sure: he wouldn’t read it.
Vito flipped the sign in the door from OPEN to CLOSED and stepped outside. He unclipped the ring of keys from his belt and by feel found the one that fit the dead bolt lock on the door.
The lock gave a satisfying metallic click. No one had broken into the shop for over a year, since Vito had changed the lock and had the alarm system installed.
He clipped the ring back on his belt and stepped away from the locked door, and felt a sudden, sharp pain high on his side, near his armpit. At first he thought a bee or wasp had stung him. Then he took a few steps, experienced a different, deeper pain, and felt for the source of the first stinging sensation.
His hand came away bloody and he was back in Nam. He knew he’d been shot.
Had to get help!
The narrow side street was deserted except for some people up near the intersection. Vito raised a hand, tried to call out. The pain stilled his voice.
Back inside. Call 911!
He turned back toward the door and felt an overpowering weakness.
Then from the corner of his eye he saw a car turn the corner and start down the street in his direction.
Someone to drive me to a hospital!
He turned back away from the door and staggered out into the street, trying to scream for the car to stop, trying to wave his arms. Helpless, bubbling gasps were the only sounds he made, and his arms, which he thought he was waving, were hanging limp at his sides.
The car had been picking up speed. Now the driver saw Vito and stomped on the
Meg felt a flush of pleasure at his approval. Why should I feel this way? I hardly know this guy. He’s not my father.
The shooter with the high-powered weapon opened up again. Meg thought she could smell gunpowder, though she knew they were too far away from the range unless the breeze was just right.
Repetto closed his briefcase and buckled a strap. “Let’s get to work revisiting the crime scenes and talking to witnesses, see if something new clicks. We do the grunt work. The we is you two. I’ve still gotta study these files.”
“So you’re the official Captain Repetto sometimes,” Meg said with a grin, trying a joke.
“All the time, actually,” Repetto said, not smiling. “But usually we’ll pretend otherwise.”
Jesus! She felt her insides shrivel. Make it better? Tell him I was kidding? No. Shut up. Don’t make it worse. The man’s virtual son was murdered days ago and he’s in mourning. I shouldn’t have played it light.
Or maybe he was amused and joking back. Possible ...
“The work’ll keep us busy while we wait,” Repetto said, opening a rear door of the unmarked and tossing the briefcase far enough inside that he’d have room to sit.
“Wait for what?” Birdy asked, as he and Meg moved to get into the car.
In a nanosecond he realized it had been a dumb question.
They all knew what.
Vito Mestieri owned and worked long hours in Vito’s Screwdriver, his small appliance and TV repair shop on the Lower East Side. He’d gotten out of the army thirty years ago after Vietnam and inherited the shop from his father. Now Vito, slowed by age and hindered by rheumatic fingers, was considering selling the shop. He wished he had a son of his own to hand down the business to, but both his marriages had been bitter and childless.
He had friends, fellow Nam vets who met once a week to play poker and tell lies. But the Vietnam vets were gray and potbellied now, like Vito, and were slowly fading from the earth they way the World War Two guys had done. Vito knew that someday soon the Times obituary page would make a deal out of the last Nam vet dying. Maybe he’d be the one, but he doubted it. One thing was for sure: he wouldn’t read it.
Vito flipped the sign in the door from OPEN to CLOSED and stepped outside. He unclipped the ring of keys from his belt and by feel found the one that fit the dead bolt lock on the door.
The lock gave a satisfying metallic click. No one had broken into the shop for over a year, since Vito had changed the lock and had the alarm system installed.
He clipped the ring back on his belt and stepped away from the locked door, and felt a sudden, sharp pain high on his side, near his armpit. At first he thought a bee or wasp had stung him. Then he took a few steps, experienced a different, deeper pain, and felt for the source of the first stinging sensation.
His hand came away bloody and he was back in Nam. He knew he’d been shot.
Had to get help!
The narrow side street was deserted except for some people up near the intersection. Vito raised a hand, tried to call out. The pain stilled his voice.
Back inside. Call 911!
He turned back toward the door and felt an overpowering weakness.
Then from the corner of his eye he saw a car turn the corner and start down the street in his direction.
Someone to drive me to a hospital!
He turned back away from the door and staggered out into the street, trying to scream for the car to stop, trying to wave his arms. Helpless, bubbling gasps were the only sounds he made, and his arms, which he thought he was waving, were hanging limp at his sides.
The car had been picking up speed. Now the driver saw Vito and stomped on the
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