But then my grasping fingers found one of the uprights of the balustrade over the window and reflexively gripped it, and I used it to pull myself forward, to pull my other leg across. I found another upright with my other hand and stood there, holding on for dear life. My heart was exploding, my ribs ached—but I was steady and stable and alive and over on the other side, and that little voice in my head had shut the fuck up.
I didn’t let go of the balustrade till I’d pulled myself up and over, swinging one leg over the edge of the roof and squeezing through the gap between two uprights. I lay there, breathing ragged breaths, and it was a minute before I could stand. I spotted the plastic bag about twenty feet away. Good thing I hadn’t thrown it harder—it might have gone over the edge and landed in the street, at the feet of the cops.
I dragged open the heavy stairwell door and climbed down the seven stories to the ground floor, then one more to the basement. There was a garbage room here, and a small office furnished with damaged, mismatched pieces: a sofa with one missing foot and a stained cushion; a metal folding chair with no back; a TV stand covered with “Hello Kitty” stickers. Presumably all scrounged by the super from things his tenants had thrown out. The man himself was nowhere to be seen, though the TV was running, so he’d probably be back any minute.
I hunted around till I found the service entrance, opened it, and peeked out. The rear of the building was in shadow. A narrow passage led off between two trees and then took a sharp left turn, leaving me on Bedford Street. There were no cops in sight. Not yet, anyway—I could hear a siren in the distance. I saw an empty cab and wanted desperately to flag it down, but with only a few bucks in my pocket, there was no way I could pay for it. And the last thing I needed right now was a cab driver calling over a cop to complain about his deadbeat fare.
I let the cab go and just walked, as quickly as I could without breaking into a run, toward Leroy Street.
On Leroy there was a deli with an ATM in the back. It charged a $2.99 fee for a withdrawal and wouldn’t give you more than a hundred dollars at a time, but that was a hundred dollars more than I’d had before, and I took it gladly. On the way out I bought a bagel, which turned out to be rock hard, and a 3 Musketeers bar. I ate the candy bar as I walked west. There was a big construction site near the West Side Highway and one of the full dumpsters became the new home for the plastic bag I was carrying. The bagel, too, while I was at it.
I realized too late that it would’ve been smart of me to take Ramos’ drivers license out of his wallet before throwing it away—but I’d shoved the bag in deep and wasn’t climbing in to find it again. With luck, no one else would either.
When I hit the highway I walked north, paralleling the waterfront. My cell phone battery was nearly dead, but I had enough of a charge left to make one call, and I made it to Susan.
“John? What is it? You sound—”
“No time,” I said, “my battery’s about to go. Ramos is dead. They left him in my apartment and then called the cops.”
“What? Where are you?”
“Never mind where I am. We need a place to meet tomorrow. I won’t call you at this number again, they may tap your line.”
“Why would—”
“Susan, please. Tomorrow night. Nine o’clock.” I tried to think of some place to meet. “You remember the Cop Cot? In Central Park?” It’s a little house of sticks perched on a steep hill just inside the park—one of the park’s least-used public spaces, especially at nine at night. We’d gone there once or twice together.
“Sure—but why don’t you just come here?”
“They know I know you, Susan. They’ll be looking for me there.”
“Jesus, John,” she said, “you can’t run from a murder charge.”
“Watch me,” I said.
I hung up, pocketed the phone.
Too late, I remembered the last time Susan had gotten an urgent call insisting that she meet someone in a remote corner of a city park. It was the day she’d wound up stabbed and left to die in the shadows of an abandoned bandstand. I hadn’t meant to stir up those memories for her. But it was too late now. The battery was dead, so I couldn’t call her back even if I wanted to.
The green globes of a subway entrance caught my eye and I darted down into the station. I needed to get out of this neighborhood. I needed to get off the street. And I needed to talk to someone who could help me unravel what had happened to Dorrie—and what was happening to me.
I caught the subway up to 28th Street, sticking to a deserted corner of the subway platform until the train rolled in and choosing an empty car to ride in. Two girls got on at 14th Street, teenagers in faded jeans and corn- rows, but they paid no attention to me and got out at 23rd. I was on my own the rest of the way.
The streets around Sunset’s building were livelier on a weeknight than they had been on a Sunday afternoon, but only a little. I kept to the shadows, hugging the walls of buildings and fighting the urge to run. It felt like every muscle in my body was clenched, like I was waiting for a tap on my shoulder, the press of a gun at the small of my back. But no one stopped me. I’m not sure anyone even noticed me. Lord knows, I didn’t notice them—and who’s to say I didn’t pass a murderer or a burglar or some other species of wanted man along the way? It was nighttime on 28th Street and I and my fellow pedestrians were keeping our sins silent
At the front door of the building, I pressed the buttons on the intercom panel one by one, skipping Sunset’s, hoping one of the other tenants would buzz me in. It always works in the movies, and in mystery novels, and more often than not it works in real life, too. But sometimes it doesn’t, and this was one of those times. I leaned on the door—no luck. I’d been hoping to make a quiet entrance, unnoticed, but there was no help for it. I pushed the button for the top floor.
The intercom crackled to life.
It sounded like Di’s voice.
“Di, it’s John Blake. I need to talk to you.”
“Di?”
“Where are who? What are you talking about?” I said.
“Julie! And Joey, goddamn it—”
“I can tell you where Julie is. I don’t know any Joey. Would you please just let me up? I can’t talk down —”
The buzzer buzzed and I stepped inside. The elevator slowly hauled me to the fourth floor and I knocked on Sunset’s door. Three brisk footsteps approached on the other side and I heard the locks turning.
“Di, listen, I—” I said as the door swung open.
Then she was in front of me with her arm raised and the canister of pepper spray in her hand and she pushed down with her thumb and shot me full in the face.
In sixth grade I had perfect vision; then the summer came and something happened, and when we all showed up for the first day of junior high in the fall, I was four inches taller, my voice was an octave deeper, and I’d turned into a nerd, at least by outward appearance. Not once since then, not one day, had I been grateful for needing to wear glasses. Not once.
Until now.
I whipped my hand up and knocked Di’s arm away. I heard the canister hit the floor and bounce away. I couldn’t see what I was doing—my lenses were coated with a slick, oily film that turned the room into a prismatic haze, Di into a dark, featureless shape. My cheeks and forehead were burning and I could feel the spray running down my skin. I brushed the back of one hand across my forehead to stop any of it from getting in my eyes.
