Page 12 of The Accomplice
The Sandman lifted his bag clear from his black panel truck. Every law enforcement agency in the United States was looking for this truck, had been for a year. Changing the license plates regularly had kept it in use and out of their gaze. He put on a ball cap and took another moment to admire the building and the surrounding woodland. The paint had cracked on every timber siding panel, every window frame. The roof tiles were old slate and looked as though they could slide right off with a breath of wind, as some of them clearly had already, allowing grass to grow in tufts from the roof cladding.
A dark house. Big and empty.
It suited him perfectly.
He ascended the steps and walked through the grand entrance hall to the reception. Wood paneling covered the walls, making it an imposing space. The mounted deer heads didn’t help lighten the décor either. The guy behind the reception desk sat on a chair reading a paperback. Even when he noticed the Sandman approach, he didn’t get up. Not right away. He lowered the book to reveal a pasty complexion, oily hair and a thin smile.
‘Can I help you, sir ?’ he asked.
‘I’d like a room.’
The man thought about this, and it took a moment before he realized the Sandman wasn’t joking.
‘How long will you be staying ? We don’t charge by the hour,’ said the man.
‘I’ll take it for a night.’
‘That’ll be fifty-three dollars,’ said the receptionist, pushing a guest registration form across the desk.
The Sandman selected a pencil from the mug, began filling out the form.
‘I’ll need to take your credit card for the room, and it’s our custom to hold fifty dollars on your card for extras, if you don’t mind ?’
‘Not at all,’ he said, and removed a credit card from his wallet and handed it to the receptionist who swiped it through the machine, printed a guest slip and asked for an address and another signature.
While the man tapped at the computer screen, the Sandman turned over the slip, wrote something on the back, then flipped it over, wrote down the address in Old Westbury, and signed it. The Sandman handed the slip back, said, ‘I’m just going to go grab some dinner. Is it okay if I leave my bag in your luggage store ?’
‘Sure, I’ll take it for you, sir. I’m Tom, by the way. The manager.’
‘Thank you, Tom,’ said the Sandman, handing over his rucksack. He then left the hotel, got into his van, turned the key in the ignition.
He checked his watch and couldn’t resist running his index finger around the bronze casing. A Panerai Submersible 1950, it had been an expensive and much-loved gift. There were only another two hundred and forty-nine pieces made. The watches were identical when they left the factory, but the casing took on its own individual patina over time, with exposure to the elements. The watch meant a lot. It had been a thoughtful gift because it was just like him – precise and unique.
It was exactly two minutes to eight in the evening.
Thirty minutes, give or take.
That would be the FBI response time.
He put the truck in first gear, drove out of the parking lot.
CHAPTER FIVE
DELANEY
Two minutes to eight.
Delaney ended her day at the FBI office in the exact same way it had begun. Every morning, and every evening, for the past year, Delaney checked for updates on the Sandman. The FBI had access to criminal databases all over the world. They were updated more or less regularly depending on the region. Some, like the IFRS, Interpol’s Face Recognition System, was refreshed every few minutes with new biometric data. For others, it was every few hours, daily or even monthly. Didn’t matter to Delaney. She worked the numbers. Thirty-one databases to check. Every morning. Every evening.
As she ran through her checks, she put away a pint of cold coffee. Like she did every morning. Every evening. No cream. Five sugars. Just the way God intended.
She punched a number into the phone on her desk. One more way to multitask. The phone rang once, twice, three times. That’s all she was required to do. Let the phone ring three times, then hang up. From the age of eighteen, whenever Delaney spent a night away from home, she had to call her mom when she got back to where she was staying, no matter what time of the night, and let the phone ring three times. Just so Colleen knew she was safe. Mothers worry, but Irish mothers are world heavyweight champions of worry. Just as she was about to hang up the phone, her duty to her mother done, albeit a little prematurely, she heard the phone being answered.
‘Paige, is that you ? The number you’re calling from is restricted. You’re not back home, are you ?’ said Colleen, in a breathless Dublin brogue that she had stubbornly failed to lose despite forty plus years living in Boston.
‘It’s me. I’m fine, Mom. I just—’
‘You know I can’t get to sleep until I know you’re home safe. Don’t be lying to me, now. I’m too old, and you’re not half as good a liar as you think you are, young lady.’
