brake pedal. Yanked the steering wheel to swerve around Vito.
Rubber screamed as the car skidded sideways. Vito tried to get out of the way but fell. The car did a 180-degree turn and the back wheels rolled over him.
The driver, an eighteen-year-old Hispanic kid, was slumped on the curb weeping when the police arrived.
He felt somewhat better a few hours later, when he learned that when the car had rolled over Vito, he was already dead from a gunshot wound.
9
After being up most of the night, Repetto met with Meg and Birdy around ten the next morning at the Hobby Hole in the West Village. In the evening the place served dinner and drinks and was a lesbian jazz club. During the day it was breakfast and lunch and the clientele was more varied. All the time they served their specialty, warm biscuits with a sweetly flavored butter. It was within walking distance of Repetto’s house and he ate there often, whatever the time or sexual orientation. He didn’t give a damn; he was there for the biscuits.
Not this morning, though. He and Lora had eaten breakfast at home.
There was only one other customer, up near the front of the restaurant and out of earshot. A burned bacon scent hung in the air and would have made Repetto hungry if he hadn’t already eaten.
“I’m just having coffee,” he said.
“Us too,” Meg said, speaking for Birdy. “We had doughnuts just a few hours ago.”
Birdy tapped out a pattern with his fingertips on the table and nodded.
Meg hadn’t been in here before. She tried not to look at what seemed to be a collection of photos of nude women but for cowboy boots and hats on the wall near the bar. They seemed to be spinning lariats. The server, a slim young woman somehow feminine in boots, baggy jeans, studded leather vest, and a butch haircut, poured three cups of coffee, left a small metal pitcher of cream, then withdrew.
When she was out of earshot, Repetto said, “Let’s go over what we have on Vito Mestieri.”
Meg sipped her coffee. Birdy seemed to have nothing to say, so she led. “Central fact is he’s dead. Ballistics says the bullet’s misshapen from bouncing around his rib cage, so they can’t get a match on it.”
“Not that it would match anyway,” Birdy said. “Different gun for each victim. Our guy must have an arsenal.”
“Gun nut,” Meg said.
“Which is why we’re gonna start checking out gun merchants and collectors,” Repetto said.
“We’re still trying to find out where the shooter fired from, but it looks pretty hopeless. He knows the sound of the shot will echo and be impossible to trace.”
The baggy-jeaned server paused walking past their table and asked if anyone needed anything, looking at Meg.
Meg said maybe later.
Birdy winked at her.
Meg didn’t like what must be going on in his mind. She couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed the photos of the scantily clad cowpunchers. Or that he was gentleman enough not to mention them. The man seldom disappointed.
“Suppose he knows it enough to choose firing sites where he’ll get the most echoing effect,” Repetto said. “Let’s put ourselves in his head and check out buildings and rooftops surrounded by a lot of hard surfaces.”
“That’s just about every building in New York,” Birdy said dismally.
“Some more than others,” Meg said, sticking up for Repetto as if he needed it. Birdy began nervously pumping a knee, making the table vibrate. Were they ganging up on him?
“Mestieri would be the first,” he said.
Repetto and Meg looked at him.
“The first victim in the game,” Birdy said. “Since the Night Sniper said the game was beginning.”
“He’s right,” Repetto said. “The previous murders were prelude.”
“Warming up,” Birdy said, as if Meg needed explanation. “Like practice golf swings. Now it’s for real.”
“It was real for the people who got shot before Vito Mestieri,” Meg said.
Birdy stopped with the knee and nodded. “Yeah, but to our shooter the
Rubber screamed as the car skidded sideways. Vito tried to get out of the way but fell. The car did a 180-degree turn and the back wheels rolled over him.
The driver, an eighteen-year-old Hispanic kid, was slumped on the curb weeping when the police arrived.
He felt somewhat better a few hours later, when he learned that when the car had rolled over Vito, he was already dead from a gunshot wound.
9
After being up most of the night, Repetto met with Meg and Birdy around ten the next morning at the Hobby Hole in the West Village. In the evening the place served dinner and drinks and was a lesbian jazz club. During the day it was breakfast and lunch and the clientele was more varied. All the time they served their specialty, warm biscuits with a sweetly flavored butter. It was within walking distance of Repetto’s house and he ate there often, whatever the time or sexual orientation. He didn’t give a damn; he was there for the biscuits.
Not this morning, though. He and Lora had eaten breakfast at home.
There was only one other customer, up near the front of the restaurant and out of earshot. A burned bacon scent hung in the air and would have made Repetto hungry if he hadn’t already eaten.
“I’m just having coffee,” he said.
“Us too,” Meg said, speaking for Birdy. “We had doughnuts just a few hours ago.”
Birdy tapped out a pattern with his fingertips on the table and nodded.
Meg hadn’t been in here before. She tried not to look at what seemed to be a collection of photos of nude women but for cowboy boots and hats on the wall near the bar. They seemed to be spinning lariats. The server, a slim young woman somehow feminine in boots, baggy jeans, studded leather vest, and a butch haircut, poured three cups of coffee, left a small metal pitcher of cream, then withdrew.
When she was out of earshot, Repetto said, “Let’s go over what we have on Vito Mestieri.”
Meg sipped her coffee. Birdy seemed to have nothing to say, so she led. “Central fact is he’s dead. Ballistics says the bullet’s misshapen from bouncing around his rib cage, so they can’t get a match on it.”
“Not that it would match anyway,” Birdy said. “Different gun for each victim. Our guy must have an arsenal.”
“Gun nut,” Meg said.
“Which is why we’re gonna start checking out gun merchants and collectors,” Repetto said.
“We’re still trying to find out where the shooter fired from, but it looks pretty hopeless. He knows the sound of the shot will echo and be impossible to trace.”
The baggy-jeaned server paused walking past their table and asked if anyone needed anything, looking at Meg.
Meg said maybe later.
Birdy winked at her.
Meg didn’t like what must be going on in his mind. She couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed the photos of the scantily clad cowpunchers. Or that he was gentleman enough not to mention them. The man seldom disappointed.
“Suppose he knows it enough to choose firing sites where he’ll get the most echoing effect,” Repetto said. “Let’s put ourselves in his head and check out buildings and rooftops surrounded by a lot of hard surfaces.”
“That’s just about every building in New York,” Birdy said dismally.
“Some more than others,” Meg said, sticking up for Repetto as if he needed it. Birdy began nervously pumping a knee, making the table vibrate. Were they ganging up on him?
“Mestieri would be the first,” he said.
Repetto and Meg looked at him.
“The first victim in the game,” Birdy said. “Since the Night Sniper said the game was beginning.”
“He’s right,” Repetto said. “The previous murders were prelude.”
“Warming up,” Birdy said, as if Meg needed explanation. “Like practice golf swings. Now it’s for real.”
“It was real for the people who got shot before Vito Mestieri,” Meg said.
Birdy stopped with the knee and nodded. “Yeah, but to our shooter the
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