Page 42 of The Accomplice
Lake and Bloch weren’t looking at the street or the other buildings. He could feel their eyes on him.
He turned, moved quickly toward the front door. Lake and Bloch swiveled and ran from the apartment.
No doubt about it now. They had spotted him.
He trotted down the staircase, his feet thumping on each step like a drum roll, his pulse threatening to match the beat, sweat on his palms making the leather gloves sticky. He was not afraid for his own safety. There was not a man alive that he feared in a confrontation. No, he was afraid of losing the life that lay ahead of him. A life with Carrie, far away from New York, and the FBI, and the cops. A new beginning someplace where no one knew their faces, and no one would ever think to look for them.
He had never envisaged anyone discovering him in that loft apartment. In all of his forward planning, this was an eventuality he had not accounted for. Yet, it was an opportunity. One he could use. Thinking clearly and adapting was what had kept him alive and out of custody for so damn long.
The lobby of the building was empty, and he barreled through the door and out onto the street where he turned left, sharply. No sign of his pursuers. Just before he got to the end of the block, he slowed to a walking pace. Behind him, he heard a car blowing its horn, the screech of rubber against the blacktop. A clothing store on his right had a curved window, and by stepping to the side he was able to see a little behind him and to the left.
Lake and Bloch, followed by the two FBI agents in street clothes, reached the entrance to the building.
The Sandman turned the corner, and then ran, in a loop of the block. He’d exited the building on the east side, had run around the south side and was now reaching the end of the west side, but he didn’t slow down. He increased his pace, ran across the street to Lilian Parker’s building. He found the door unlocked and he was able to slip inside and up the stairs unnoticed. When he reached the seventh floor he pulled the silenced Swiss-made pistol from his shoulder holster and knocked on the front door of the apartment belonging to Teresa Vasquez.
Stepping to one side, he watched the peephole closely. There was a chink of light visible in the corner of the refracted reticule. About three millimeters, if that. It was the tiny reflection of light from the window of the apartment.
He breathed out.
Rolled his shoulders.
The light disappeared.
Keeping his body out of view of the peephole, his left shoulder tight against the door frame, he angled the pistol with his right hand so that it aimed squarely at the door, in the center, and he squeezed the trigger, released it and feathered it again, rapidly, emptying the clip. He heard a scream, and something heavy hit the floor. Reloading as he moved back, he then took two deep breaths, shot out the lock then charged forward with his right foot raised and kicked open the door.
The cheap wood broke clean off its hinges, and the door landed on top of a body on the floor. It was one of the agents, the cocky young one in the suit. No sign of the gray-haired agent. The Sandman stepped into the apartment and saw the bedroom door was open. He found Teresa Vasquez huddled in a corner on the other side of the bed, her hands over her mouth, stifling her screams. Her face wet with tears.
The Sandman shot her four times, then turned and moved quickly into the hallway, then to the window that led to the fire escape.
Within two minutes his boots slapped down onto the alley where he had murdered Lilian Parker. He took off his jacket and turned it inside out. The reversible lining was yellow, and not to his taste, but it was different to the description of his clothes that Lake and Bloch had no doubt given the agents in blue jeans. From the pocket of his cargo pants he pulled out a surgical Covid mask and a cloth baseball cap, put them on. Took off his gloves and put them in his pocket. He reached behind him, loosed the hilt of the gutting knife strapped to his lower back. He might need that blade in a hurry. The gun he kept in his shoulder holster.
When he stepped out of the alley he glanced, quickly, to both sides of the street, and saw no pursuers. He could hear the police sirens though. They would be here any minute.
His van was parked a few blocks south of here anyway, so it made sense to get to it now before the area was swimming in cops.
He waited at the crosswalk beside a lady in a floral dress, wheeling a bright blue baby carriage. The baby couldn’t have been more than a few months old, and it was awake and gurgling softly, tucked up behind a blue blanket. A yellow pacifier hung off a clip on the light blue bib. He was chubby, with red cheeks and the beginnings of golden curls in his hair. The child gave a big toothless smile that beamed those baby blue eyes at him, as bright as the dawn.
‘He’s adorable,’ said the Sandman.
‘Thank you,’ said the mother. She was short, with wavy blonde hair, sunglasses and a heavy backpack. New parents always bring half the house with them when they venture out with their kids, he thought.
‘How old ?’ said the Sandman.
‘Baby Josh is four months now, yeah.’
The mother looked tired, despite the effort to hide it behind her Ray-Bans. She shuffled her feet, her Converse sneakers squeaking on the greasy side walk. She checked the traffic, looked at the crosswalk signal. It still read ‘Don’t Walk.’
‘They can be a handful at that age,’ said the Sandman.
She simply turned, smiled and nodded. While the Sandman had been perfectly charming, and the woman had no reason to be afraid, he could tell she was fearful of him. Her palms were on the handle of the carriage, her fingers raised, and shaking ever so lightly. Some people can just get a sense of him right away, no matter what kind of mask or pretense he might use. He had seen it before.
On the other side of the street, about fifty yards to the right of the crosswalk, Lake, Bloch and two federal agents came around the corner, and stood, shielding their eyes from the sun as they looked around for the fleeing Sandman.
He pulled his cap down. He would cross the street, turn left and get clear of the area. All he had to do was make it across the street and turn his back. They were not looking for a man in a yellow jacket and baseball hat. They were not looking for a man with a woman and baby in a carriage.
For now, he would stand beside the woman, and make idle conversation, and then cross the street with her. No matter how uncomfortable it might make her, he needed her to disguise his appearance : make it look like they were together.
As well as these calculations, the Sandman decided what he would do if Lake or one of the agents recognized him as he crossed the street. The options were plentiful.
