The Night Watcher
From bestselling author John Lutz comes a lightning-paced thriller of a city gripped by a killer's savage reign of terror. . .
Someone is killing wealthy Manhattanites. One by one, the victims are discovered in luxurious high-rise apartments. Bound, gagged--brutally murdered in the "safety" of their own homes, by someone whose modus operandi is as horrifying as anything NYPD Detectives Ben Stack and Rica Lopez have ever seen.
As Stack and Lopez investigate the cruel deaths, they have no idea that they are being watched from the shadows--observed by a cunning murderer picking up all the clues necessary to stay one step ahead of the police while perfecting a deadly craft. And when a pattern slowly emerges, the detectives realize that the killings aren't the random acts of a maniac, but the personal campaign of someone bent on retribution. . .someone who's been watching closely and knows their case too well.
Someone whose vengeance will burn forever.
and Zel, and the kids. Fedders might be a lot of things, but he’d never seen himself as a murderer. But now he was one. Chips had made him one. Then Fedders remembered the cop who’d been shot. He, Milton Fedders, was responsible for that shooting, too. They came down hard on people involved in cop shootings. And who could tell from the newspaper or TV how badly somebody was wounded? If the cop should die…Two deaths. Fedders would be a multiple murderer. Fedders actually moaned, then glanced
to Sharon on the sofa and patted her ever so softly on the back, a father calming a desperate child. “Her navel, is it, dear?” he asked gently. “Yes. She claimed it wasn’t where it should be.” “Ah,” Stack said. Sharon Lucette began to talk and couldn’t stop talking. Stack spoke to her encouragingly now and then, guiding her in her grief and obviously feeling genuinely sorry for the distraught woman. These were the only sounds in the hushed apartment: Sharon’s disbelief and pain set to words;
she’d brushed her teeth. She felt as if she had a mouthful of moss and must have had breath like diesel exhaust. Stack sped through the next intersection, letting the siren yodel that they were coming, they were going. He glanced over at Rica, who was wrestling something from one of the big pockets in her bulky coat. He was surprised when she drew out a steel Thermos bottle. Carefully, while he was on a straightaway, she unscrewed the black plastic cap and poured steaming coffee into it.
being approved by the board. The board members all smiled amiably and thanked him profusely for his time, and Upman politely ushered him out. As he was leaving, Stack heard them discussing whether they should adjourn. Probably, Stack thought, so they could talk off the record. As he pushed the street door open and emerged into crisp cold air, he couldn’t help thinking it might have been a mistake to come here. Rica had been right again. It seemed to be happening more and more often. Or maybe
shattering the door, incredibly loud. When she saw Stanford hurled back against the wall, she thought she might have heard a shot. Then she realized the sound she’d heard was the apartment door shattering, but not because Stanford had kicked it in. Someone inside had kicked it out, and with great force. “Look out, Rica!” Stanford shouted. The form that broke from the apartment was massive and moving fast. The guy wasn’t built like Vernel Jefferson. He should have been an NFL linebacker. He