A Body to die for

way out besides the elevator?” I asked.
    “Not unless you want to take the fire escape,” he said, pointing toward the office.
    I did. I grabbed my purse, instructed Jack to say he’s the one who called 911, and that he’d been waiting here for the ambulance all by himself. I dashed back into the office. The windows faced the front of the building. If I tried the fire escape, any passerby could see me. I crossed my heart-bra, and flung open the window. No time to wait. Falcone’s cruiser would be barreling down the road any second.
    The black iron planks pinged as I stepped onto the fire escape. I made my way down the five flights as quietly as possible, but the iron bars clanged if I went too fast. I eased around each floor’s windows as I passed. I didn’t want someone from the inside to see me either. Fourth floor—stationary bikes, step machines, treadmills and aerobics. The room I saw from my perch was full of huffing women (and one man: a geezer, maybe the horny bastard, Van Owen). They had their backs to me. The instructor faced the windows. She bounced something fierce. Her sports bra had clearly lost its snap. I waited for her to do a complicated move and darted past the window.
    Third floor was weight room and nautilus. No problem there—the men in the room were far more interested in their own reflections than in some chick in a short sundress on the fire escape. Second floor, racketball and tennis courts. I got a peek into one court. A man and woman smashed the little yellow ball back and forth over the net like they hated it, or each other. I walked casually across the landing, knowing this couple had other things on their minds. One more flight, and I could jump to the street, make a run for it, and... shit. That’s when I realized my jam. If I jumped, I’d be dropping right into Ergort’s gargantuan arms. That wouldn’t be a smooth landing. I checked the windows on the second floor—locked. I climbed back up a flight. The third-floor window was open. I climbed inside.
    After a graceful spin, I hopped daintily off the windowsill into the free-weight room. I knew how dainty by watching myself in the room’s floor-to-ceiling mirrors. There was barely an inch of available self-admiration space, what with dozens of large-shouldered men staring at their triceps in midflex. I dusted myself off and headed out toward the stairs. Maybe I could get down that way, without bumping into Falcone on the way up. How Fd get past Ergort once I hit the lobby was another problem.
    “Watch out, lady!” barked a thirtyish man in yellow bike shorts as I walked by. I hadn’t gone anywhere near him—he obviously had an inflated idea of how much space he took up. The shock of his bark made me drop the notebook. The guy bent down to pick it up. For all I knew, he was after the damn thing himself. I kicked him in the shin. He stood upright and apologized. I whisked up the notebook. The man nervously smiled. He acted like he wanted my attention. I could still suck them in like a vortex.
    I turned to go. In the hallway, I noticed a couple guys in blue run by. Shit, I thought. I had to wait. I stood back in the corner and watched. The guy who tried to touch my notebook was spotting another man—blue and red shorts, white T-shirt— attempting to bench press what looked like ten thousand pounds. The man struggled under the weight. His arms shook violently, and his mouth was turned into a ghastly grimace.
    The spotter said, “Your mother wears army boots. You’re the biggest pussy alive. You’re a faggot, you hear me? A flaming faggot.” The man under the weight suddenly lifted the bar and straightened his arms. He tried to smile while his face contorted uncontrollably. Once he’d balanced the load on the bench press bar holders, he sprang off the seat and the two men bashed heads. Then they high-fived and thumped each other in the chest.
    Male bonding was an ugly business. The coast seemingly clear, I made for the door. As I dashed out, j heard someone say, “Hey, babe. Those are the biggest pectorals I’ve ever seen.”
    I turned to give the guy the finger. It was Alex Beaudine, pumping his scrawny legs on a Soloflex. His calves were pale. Small rings of sweat stained his white T-shirt. He looked happy. I felt a pang of regret.
    I should tell him about Leeza before someone else did.
    I went over to him and put my free hand on his shoulder.
    “No touching in the weight room, Wanda, jeez.” He shrugged