Rachel Alexander 05 - The Wrong Dog

a chandelier?”
    He laughed, a man who once again was in no rush. “Rope and a chandelier? Not exactly, but close enough. Want to write a little note before you jump? Or shall we leave it a mystery, private eye, distraught over the death of her client, leaps to death from roof of West Village apartment building. It’s got a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” This time I had enough saliva to swallow.
    “You’re right,” I said. “I am depressed. I should have protected her. It’s all my fault.”
    I bowed my head, clasped my hands, and mumbled to myself. Out of respect, Joe stayed put. He wasn’t a complete boor, you had to give him that. Head still low, I turned, looked all the way down into Sophie’s garden, my knees turning to water, anything I’d eaten since I was nine fighting to come back up and out. Then I glanced to the right and took off running, going over the low parapet, to the next building, and then the one after it, which was about as far as I could go on this block since the next building was two stories taller.
    I didn’t have to look, I could hear him behind me, his shoes on the tarry surface of the roof, his heavy breathing. I was sure he was getting angrier with every step. I went to the north parapet again and turned to face him. He was almost on top of me. I opened my mouth as if to speak, then closed it. He came at me fast now, his meaty hands straight out in front of him, aiming at my chest.
    I waited as long as I could, and then a second longer. As he came at me, giving it all he had, I leaned to the side. Instead of hitting me dead center with both hands, his right hand hit my right shoulder, spinning me around and knocking me off balance. His left hand hit air. Joe, too, lost his balance, listing a little to his left, lurching forward, flipping headfirst over the low wall. Facing the way he went, I continued moving, too, over the parapet, still spinning from the impact, so that as I went over, I was facing the building. Reaching for what I had seen from the roof of Sophie’s building, I grabbed with both hands, hoping that one of them would make sufficient contact with the ladder of the fire escape to stop my fall. But it didn’t. Feeling one hand scrape along the rusty metal, I fell for what seemed like forever, landing with a loud clang and a double shot of pain on my hands and knees on the top level of the fire escape, the one below a window of the sixth-floor apartment. Eyes closed, mentally checking to make sure I was in one piece, I took a breath, staying exactly where I was, crouched like a dog.
    Because of where I had positioned myself for the push that was supposed to unite me with my client and her dog walker, Joe had gone straight down. Well, maybe not straight down. With the fire escape that close, he may have banged his shoulder against it on the way, sending him a little farther to the left.
    Steeling myself for the return of nausea, I opened my eyes and looked between the rusty metal slats beneath me. Everything spun. I took a deep breath and let it out. Joe lay still, five stories below me. He’d apparently hit the bird-bath in the center of the garden with his head, as if the fall wouldn’t have been enough to kill him. The birdbath was lying next to his body, the basin cracked in half, the spilled water making his dark hair even darker, pasting it down to his skull, making his round pale face shine, as if he were in the middle of a bad dream, sweating profusely from the fear. There was water all around him, too, dark and glistening. But maybe not. It was probably blood.
    I reached for my cell phone, but it wasn’t there. Looking down again, I saw it in the garden, close enough to Joe’s hand that, were he able, he could make the call we needed himself. But maybe not. It was probably his eyeglass case or his wallet. A fall like that, things are bound to get out of place.
    The curtain was pulled back. There, at the bottom of the window, was a small face, the large blue eyes fixed on mine. A moment later, a man opened the window.
    “What in the hell. . . ,” he said, the little boy now hiding behind him.
    “Sorry to bother you,” I said, still on my hands and knees, “but could you call nine-one-one? There’s a dead man in the garden.”

Chapter 32
    He Pulled Down the Shade

    Whoever lived in the apartment whose fire escape I’d landed on didn’t offer to let me in through the window. Instead, he checked to make sure it was locked, and that the