The funnels or scuppers emptied into holes in the parapet wall toward both the street and alley. Inside these scuppers were rusting screens to catch debris. From time to time, particularly after a hard rain, someone would clear away the debris from the screen. The woman that the man had just killed had been on the roof to clear those screens.
The man was transfixed, nearly hypnotized, knowing he should move, get away. He had a lot left to do and very little time. Instead he stared down at the dead woman.
She was spread-eagled, dress hiked up, skin ex-posed. There was a look of horror on her face, horror and pain. Her hair was beaten back, clamped to her head. She looked almost bald. Her open mouth was filled with water that bubbled as if from an overfilled pool.
The man hadn't known what he would feel when he killed her. He'd hoped that he wouldn't regret it, wouldn't be haunted, wouldn't shake or weep. He wanted to savor the moment. He wanted elation, satisfaction, not this dull, dreamy sensation echoing to the beat of thoughtless, demanding rain.
He lifted his head and closed his eyes. Rain pelted his face. He drank, gulped with thirst, broke the spell, folded the knife and pocketed it.
He took one last look at the mutilated body sprawled on the stones of the roof. It was time to go. He was satisfied.
He limped toward the door.
About half the students of Wallen School on West End Avenue had not shown up for classes that morning. All the teachers had made their way, some coming from Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx, places where they could afford the rent on teachers' salaries and still have something left over so they could eat.
Wallen, grades K through 12, had a strict policy and exclusive criteria for admission. If you could afford the tuition, which was twenty-seven thousand a year, you were in.
Wayne O'Shea, thirty-four, who the students called Brody behind his back because of his faint resemblance to the actor Adrien Brody, was one of those who made the daily pilgrimage from Brooklyn. He had been doing it for the past six years, long enough for his salary to climb up to a living wage. Wayne was gay, which was not a drawback at Wallen, where the faculty included two blacks, three Hispanics, one gay man, and a bearded Muslim who were proudly displayed for prospective parents.
First period, English Literature II, had gone as he had expected. Only seven students, the ones who lived within fifteen minutes of the school, sat in a gray state of dream unable to resist the sight of the torrent, easily able to resist D. H. Lawrence. Wayne couldn't blame them. He himself had gone from avid champion of Lawrence when he was in college to bored adult when
Five minutes before class ended, Gayle Swoops, whose father was a famous rapper, was lazily trying to come up with an answer to the question Wayne had posed. It should have been easy. Wayne had no specific answer in mind.
There was a thud and crash in Alvin Havel's chemistry lab next door. Nothing unusual. From time to time, students, especially those coming in in the morning still high from some new designer drug, were known to drop some fragile things and knock over other not-so-fragile things.
Neither Gayle nor any of the other students, drummed into oblivion by rain and Lawrence, had noticed.
'Give it a try,' Wayne said in an attempt to rescue Gayle Swoops. 'As Lawrence once said, 'When one jumps over the edge, one is bound to land somewhere.''
Through the speakers in the hall outside the classrooms and throughout Wallen, the gentle two notes of a mallet against a hollow wooden box announced the end of class. The students slowly rose. A few smiled at Wayne. They all had a long day ahead of them.
Ten minutes between classes. Wayne, casual, hands in pockets, ambled into the uncrowded hall, the voices and footsteps of the students muted by polished oak floors and thick. dark-stained wooden walls.
The chemistry lab door was closed. It was common for either Wayne or Alvin to seek each other out between classes to exchange a few words of support or a witty and not always kind observation about one of the kids or one of the other teachers.
Alvin was straight, thirty-seven, married, two daughters, and a wife who made more money than he did. Alvin had been working forever at night to finish his PhD and find a college-level job, preferably in New York, but anywhere but Wallen Prep would do. If it happened, Wayne would miss him. When he opened the door to the chemistry lab, Wayne was certain it would never happen.
Alvin was seated, head turned on the steel-topped desk facing Wayne. Alvin wore a mask of blood. A pencil jutted out of his left eye. Another pencil was plunged into his neck.
Wayne stood there for a few seconds, registering what he saw before him. He swayed, felt dizzy.
'Little fucking bastards,' Wayne, who never cursed, said, and took a step toward the desk. The door behind him opened. Voices.
Wayne started to turn, felt acrid bile rise in his throat.
Then he passed out.
Malcom Cheswith had ambition. He someday wanted to be a renowned Cajun and Creole chef, but for now he was a short-order cook. Malcom could be patient. Things would take a turn for the better soon.
In the meantime, whenever possible, Malcom made magic in the small space that passed for a kitchen in Doohan's Bar on Catherine Street. Malcom could barely turn around in the kitchen, even though he was weasel thin from the years of drenching kitchen heat and the gift of his mother's genes.
There was no real reason for him to be there this early in the morning with the rain coming down in thick, dark curtains. The few morning regulars there were not eaters. Doohan was the morning bartender. Doohan was also the owner of Doohan's, but whatever he could pull in without paying a barkeep was more money for the mortgage, which Doohan had been having trouble meeting. Malcom was on half salary for the morning, a grudging concession by Doohan, who didn't want to lose his short-order cook.
One reason the very fat Doohan didn't want to lose his cook was that Doohan appreciated fine cooking and was a willing consumer and critic when Malcom decided to prepare something special. This morning Malcom was preparing Eggs Sardou; poached eggs and creamed spinach on artichoke bottoms with hollandaise sauce. Malcom was practicing his culinary skill and Doohan would normally be practicing his gluttony. Today, however, he had no appetite.
There were three customers in the dark bar, which smelled more than faintly of beer and where music was never played. Later, more customers, mostly cops who were working out of the courthouse a few blocks away on Worth Street, would join the blue-collar retirees, who, like Doohan, were comfortable with the smell and the silence.
Thunder rattled the window where the neon Miller Lite Beer sign flickered for an instant. The bar went dark. One of the regulars, Frank Zvitch, did not flinch. He adjusted his railroad engineer's cap, waited, and when it was clear the lightning had stopped and the lights would stay on at least for a while, he resumed the story he was telling and nursed his beer.
Today Frank talked to Anthony DeLuca, who stood no more than five foot two and wore flannel shirts and suspenders to remind people that he had been a longshoreman. Over the years, Anthony had told his stories so often that he couldn't be sure if they had happened to him or if he had picked them up by watching Pop Doyle too many times in
Malcom looked up from time to time as he cooked, wiped his brow and consumed glass after glass of cold tap water that today tasted a bit suspicious. Doohan was standing by the window, his back to Malcom, looking out even though it was nearly impossible to see through the thick sheets of rain.
The sauce was almost ready. Malcom, born in Chicago, had been lured by the kitchens of New Orleans and
