Page 1 of The Accomplice
PROLOGUE
PAIGE DELANEY
The SWAT leader called it.
Ten seconds.
Once the count reached zero, they had a hundred yards of well-tended lawn to clear before they reached the back door. Paige Delaney eased herself up from the wet leaves, pulled down a thin branch from a pine tree to get a better view of the house. A chalk ball moon sat over the silhouette of a brick colonial-style mansion set in Old Westbury, New York.
Delaney filled her lungs, breathed out slow. Listened to the count over the comms.
Ten …
She liked numbers. In her tenure in the FBI as Special Agent in Behavioral Science Unit 2, she had come to trust numbers more than people. And the figures in this case were extraordinary.
Nine …
For fourteen months and twelve days she had been hunting the man the papers first called the Coney Island Killer. Of course, he had given himself another name. He had talked all about it in one of his letters to the FBI, which he copied to theWashington Post. He called himself the Sandman.
Eight …
On average, Delaney worked fifteen-hour days. The taskforce she ran with special agent in charge, Bill Seong, was made up of two hundred police officers and federal agents. The taskforce had interviewed over a thousand potential witnesses. Spoken to seventy-one suspects. And compiled case files that ran to sixty-three boxes spread over two evidence rooms in the New York field office.
Seven …
Then there were the big numbers. The ones that made the front pages.
Seventeen victims. Men and women.
The first victims had been found half buried in the sand on Coney Island beach. They had been shot, stabbed and mutilated. A heavy police presence at the beach had caused a change in the killer’s pattern. The remainder of the victims had been killed in their homes. Mostly it was a single victim. Sometimes he killed more than one person in the house.
Six …
Delaney’s profile of the Sandman highlighted two consistent patterns with every killing. One everyone knew about. And the media loved to post those gory details. After the victims were killed their wounds, mouths and empty eye sockets were filled with sand. The killer took the eyes with him. The whole of New York seemed to hold its breath at night, waiting for another attack.
Five …
Only Delaney and a select few in the taskforce command knew the second profile marker. This couldn’t be leaked to the press. The killer took a personal item from each victim. This might help catch and convict him someday, and so this was a closely guarded secret. Mostly, it was jewelry.
Four …
Eventually, the numbers started to work against the Sandman. You can’t commit the perfect murder every time. Sooner or later, he would make a mistake. Delaney had been sure of this, and she had been right. Three days ago, they found his latest victims. The Nielsen family. Husband and wife, kids sedated during the killing. The children said during the night they felt someone blowing on their necks, then a sharp sting and then they fell asleep.
A bloody thumbprint had been found on the wife’s torso, just beneath her right arm.
Three …
Within two days they had a match on the thumbprint, but not from any criminal databases. Daniel Miller, forty-five years old, had to give his ID and fingerprints when he registered for his trading license under the Banking Act. The next fifteen hours had gone quickly as Delaney built up a picture of Miller’s life, his private equity business, his background and most importantly his current location. He was not on their list of suspects, which they had narrowed down from several thousand potentials.
Two …
It was coming up on ten o’clock. There were a few lights on downstairs in the Miller residence. The kitchen, lounge and hallway.
Delaney drew her Glock 19. Leaned forward. Her muscles tense. Palms already greased in sweat. She was ready to be free of the smell of pine and rotten leaves. Ready to burst out of the tree line. Ready to get her man. They estimated two occupants of the house – Daniel Miller and his wife, Carrie.
One …
She didn’t wait for zero.
