He wasn’t taking any chances. He’d dressed in a business suit he’d bought at a thrift store so he’d blend in with the professional downtown crowd. He’d also arrived an hour early and circled the park, walking in increasingly larger circles around the block, then around a four-block area, scoping things out. It was a sunny day, and he kept his eyes peeled behind his dark sunglasses, searching for uniformed law enforcement. In case any of them were working undercover, he also kept an eye out for anyone who might be a cop in a disguise.
He saw a white woman with blonde curls and a sketchpad sitting on a blanket in a grassy area of the park. She was dressed in Lycra and sneakers, and had a lean, athletic build. Like him, she wore sunglasses, but she seemed far more interested in the city skyline she was roughing out on her pad than she was in any of the people milling about the park. He supposed she might have dressed in exercise gear to be ready for a chase, and she could have a gun and handcuffs in her bright pink tote bag, but it seemed unlikely. Lots of women wore yoga pants these days. Besides, if the police were on to him, they’d send men, wouldn’t they? And big ones at that?
He scanned the area. A beefy guy ambled along the perimeter of the park. A white hardhat sat atop his rust-colored hair. He also wore safety goggles, work gloves, and a bright orange safety jacket that hung down to mid-thigh. He carried some type of long-handled landscaping tool. He knelt down and appeared to be inspecting one of the automatic sprinkler heads under a row of bushes. Another muscular man stood behind a nearby hot dog cart. He wore a white paper cap and a white apron that bore ketchup splotches, taking the Slasher back to that bloody night in the kitchen and the spots he’d left on the walls and floor. A short line had formed in front of the cart, hungry workers looking for a quick, inexpensive lunch.
After watching them for a moment or two, the Slasher dismissed the two men. They looked legit. He stopped at the corner of the bank building and pulled out his phone, pretending to be dialing a number. He held the phone to his ear and mumbled nonsense as he continued to scan the area.
Shelby emerged from between buildings across the park, a takeout bag from a sandwich shop clutched in her hand, her strawberry blonde hair shining in the sunlight. He inhaled sharply, a gasp of joy. She’s here! Reflexively, he took a step toward her and began to lower his phone, when his senses caught up to him. Give it a minute or two. Make sure she wasn’t followed.
He raised the phone back to his ear, occasionally saying, “Sure,” or “Yes,” or “That’s right” enough to make it look like he was having a conversation. Meanwhile, Shelby took a seat on a bench under a tree, not far from the artist, and proceeded to pull a sandwich and napkin out of the paper bag. It took every bit of restraint he had not to run to her and take her in his arms.
He scanned the area again. Nobody seemed to be paying Shelby any mind. A black woman in a gray pantsuit stepped out of a building on the other side of the park, behind Shelby. She stopped next to the revolving doors to dig through her purse. A felt hat with a narrow brim hid her hair and shaded her eyes, and a lightweight blue fashion scarf was looped loosely around her neck, obscuring her jawline. Between the hat and the scarf, it was nearly impossible to make out her facial features. Could she be a cop? He tossed the possibility around in his mind before dismissing the thought. The woman hadn’t followed Shelby here. She’d already been inside the building. All those days holed up in the hotel have made me paranoid.
Deciding the coast was clear, he said “goodbye” into his phone, and slid it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He wondered how long it would take for Shelby to recognize him with the short, dark hair and thick beard. He’d seen her glance his way with no reaction. Of course he was still sixty yards away, too far for her to get a good look. Surely she’d spot him as he drew closer, maybe even get a laugh out of it.
He’d taken three steps in her direction when the sprinkler-repair guy strode over to the hot dog vendor. He placed his order and reached into his back pocket to remove his wallet. As he did, the bottom of his jacket lifted, revealing a gun holster. Shit-shit-shit!
His body temperature spiked as his pulse sent his blood through his veins at the speed of light. Thoughts zipped through his mind, too, at the same speed. Had he dismissed the woman in the hat too soon? Was she a cop, too? The artist was glancing around the park now, nonchalantly chewing on her pencil eraser, but was it an act? Was she actually a police officer?
Realizing he’d faltered in his step, he reached into his breast pocket and removed his phone again, pretending he’d received a call. He put a finger to his opposite ear, as if to block out sound so he could hear the nonexistent caller better, but in reality hoping the hand would block his face. The last thing he needed now was for Shelby to spot him from across the way, to clue in any cops with a flicker of recognition. Looking down, he strode across the pavement in front of the bank and turned down the side of the building, moving as fast as he dared so as not to draw attention to himself.
Their plan had seemed cunning and clever, their communications virtually undetectable, sure to pass right under the nose of law enforcement. How the hell had the cops discovered the secret messages?