Page 59 of The Accomplice
Parks was one of the agents in blue jeans who had been guarding Teresa Vasquez. He and Bloch had talked after the ambulance came and took away Miggs.
‘Bloch, how are ya ?’ said the voice.
‘I need to know if you got anywhere with the landlord for the artist’s loft.’
‘No, he said there was a short-term lease taken out the same month Lilian Parker was murdered. The guy paid in cash, there was nothing signed and no ID or bank details taken.’
‘I’m sorry again, for the agents who died yesterday,’ said Bloch.
‘We appreciate what you did for Miggs. If we get anything else, I’ll let you know.’
Bloch hung up. The Sandman had been watching Teresa Vasquez’s apartment from the same place he’d watched Lilian Parker. The artist who had been the current tenant of that property could’ve lain up there dead for days or even weeks before anyone discovered him, and considering his eyes had not been removed, nor were any of the other Sandman signatures present, the murder and the location of the apartment would never have been linked to the Sandman nor any of his victims.
The Nielsens had lived in a relatively quiet suburban street in the East Village. Unlike most New Yorkers, they could afford a house. A brownstone that sat on the corner. Once, this house held a family. Now it remained empty. It was to go on the market once the trial was over, but the realtor didn’t expect it to get many offers. The house had stood for probably ninety years. It would have held a myriad of families in that time. Every year, its value would have increased.
And now, no one wanted it.
If anyone did buy it, Bloch expected that to be someone who played the property market. No family would buy the house just yet. Evil had visited this place and left its mark.
Houses have memories. There probably isn’t a single building in the city that hasn’t been host to some kind of horror, and people were happy to move in soon as the blood was cleaned up. But some crimes are so terrible they leave a stigma in their wake that can’t be washed away with thick bleach and baking soda.
Bloch pulled up a few houses away from the Nielsen place. Killed the engine. Checked her mirrors, then began scanning the cars parked on the street. No panel vans. Three cars were parked outside the building where Daisy Broder lived. Bloch had read her statement in the file and found out all she could about her. After all, Mrs. Broder was a prosecution witness and Eddie needed ammo. Bloch had found out plenty. None of it helped the defense.
Mrs. Broder, as she was known, was in her late eighties at Bloch’s best guess, and in the very prime of life. Every morning she rose at six a.m., did her stretching, ate a bowl of organic muesli followed by two pots of coffee, pancakes and a rack of bacon. After breakfast she headed out into the neighborhood to one of her many jobs. She taught Spanish at the local community rec, had a part-time job as a cashier in the 7-Eleven two blocks away, and in her spare time she took classes at the local gym. Spin class, yoga, and line dancing were her favorites.
Popular with the kids in the neighborhood, Mrs. Broder’s was always the first place they called at on Halloween because she had the best candy. She never shied away from answering their questions when they saw the number tattooed on her arm. It was faded and small, because she got it when she was not much older than they are now. Her memories of her early life in Poland had never faded.
Mrs. Broder had been sitting in her apartment, across the street from the Nielsens’, when she saw a man and a woman walking by, late one night. Nothing unusual in that. When the same couple passed by again, Mrs. Broder paused her Arnold Schwarzenegger movie and came to the window. This time, the couple stopped outside the Nielsens’ and stared at the house. Mrs. Broder later told the police it seemed as if the couple stood outside the house for a few minutes, looking it over. As if they were studying it. At one point the man turned and stared at Mrs. Broder. She felt a chill when he looked at her. Something inside was warning her about this man. She had met evil men before, especially as a young girl. And that same sense enveloped her, and she found that she had to move away from the window.
After the murders she told the police about the couple, but they didn’t seem interested. They were not looking for two people. Just one man. Things changed when the FBI and the police identified Daniel Miller as the Sandman. Mrs. Broder was contacted by the NYPD and asked if the couple she saw that night were Daniel and Carrie Miller. She said it looked like them.
And now, Bloch stood outside the Nielsens’ property, gazing up at the second-floor apartment across the street belonging to Mrs. Broder.
‘You think she could identify somebody from that distance ?’ asked Lake.
‘I’m not sure,’ she said.
Bloch stared at the window, trying to estimate how far away Mrs. Broder would’ve been. It was difficult to concentrate. She had an urge to jump into the car and move. To search. Just to drive the streets looking for Kate. That would be pointless, but at least she would be moving.
She took a moment to breathe. She needed to think. Wherever the Sandman was hiding, that’s where Kate would be. She needed focus, not movement. She checked around, found the nearest streetlight then took pictures with her camera phone, emailed them to Eddie, just in case. He could make mountains of very little, and it was better that he had at least some pictures of the street.
‘Let’s go look in the house,’ said Lake, and produced a chain from his pocket with a bunch of keys on a ring at the end of it.
‘Where did you get the Nielsens’ key ?’ asked Bloch.
‘These are my keys,’ he said.
Before he did anything else, he examined the lock. The same circular tool mark on the lock face.
‘He drilled it again,’ said Lake, then selected a key from the chain and tried to insert it in the lock. It took a bit of jiggling, but he got the thing in there and turned it with little effort, opening the door. Drilling the lock with this special tool didn’t destroy the mechanism, but it made the lock so loose and buttery that you could insert a nail file into the slot and it would still work.
‘After you,’ said Lake.
Bloch stepped into the hallway of a family home. It was the kind of picture you see listed on the homepage of high-end realtors’ websites. White walls, pastel colors, wooden parquet floor. All of it tastefully decorated. A picture of the family sat on the coffee table of the lounge on the left. Bloch took a moment to study it.
A beautiful little boy and girl. Not far off each other in age. They both had those super-wide smiles with not even a hint of self-consciousness – just full of mirth, happiness and love. Only kids smile that way. Lost in the moment. Robert was five. Elly was eight. This picture couldn’t have been taken long before the Sandman came into their lives.
And behind them, their parents. Tobias Nielsen was clean shaven, with a million-dollar smile you could put on a toothpaste billboard. His eyes were clear and bright, and even at forty-five, free of lines. He owned restaurants in the city and bought and sold real estate on the side. Every year he threw a party for friends. He and his wife, Stacy, were real New York socialites. Stacy had been even more beautiful. Long auburn hair caressed the side of her cheek, as if it was igniting the coral glow from her skin. Even her imperfections seemed to enhance her good looks. A scar bisected her right eyebrow, ruining the symmetry of her face, but it didn’t in any way detract from her allure. Somehow it only added to her glamour and enhanced the faultless perfection of her other features.
