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A light turned green and he heard the whir and click of the lock disengaging.
Score another to Gli
He was now in a small exercise yard, empty at this late hour, with high cinder-block walls on three sides and a chain-link fence on the other. He looked around, verifying that there was no security camera watching him: as Gli
D’Agosta strolled around the yard quickly, videotaping all the while. Then, returning the pen to his pocket, he stepped toward one wall, loosened his belt and unzipped his pants, and removed a rolled sheet of Mylar, which had been strapped to the inside of his leg. He glanced over his shoulder, then stuffed the Mylar tube into a drainpipe in the corner of the yard, hooking it in place with a bent bobby pin.
This accomplished, he moved to the chain-link fence, put a hand on it, pulled at it gingerly. This was the part he really, really wasn’t looking forward to.
Pulling a small pair of wire cutters from his socks, he snipped a three-foot vertical row of the chain links, directly behind one of the metal fence posts. He made sure the cut ends rejoined, the fence looking fully intact, and then he lobbed the wire cutters onto the nearest roof, where it would be a long time before they were found. He walked along the fence for half a dozen yards, taking a steadying breath, then another. Looking through the chain link, he could see the vague forms of the guard towers in the darkness beyond. He swallowed, rubbed his hands together. And then he hoisted himself up the chain link and began to climb.
Halfway up, he saw a colored wire strip woven through the chain link. As he passed it, a shrill alarm went off in the yard. Half a dozen sodium vapor lights snapped on around him. There was an immediate response from the guard towers along the perimeter: lights swiveled around, and in a moment they located him on the fence. He continued to climb to the top, and then, steadying himself, and concealing the movement with his arm, he pulled the pen from his pocket, aimed it through the link, and began videotaping the no-man’s-land beyond and below him, now starkly illuminated by the lights focused on him.
“You are under surveillance!” came a bullhorned voice from the nearest tower. “Stop immediately!”
From over his shoulder, D’Agosta saw six guards burst into the yard and run like hell toward him. He replaced the pen in his pocket and glanced along the top edge of the fence. Two wires ran through the chain link here, one white, the other red. He grasped the red one, yanked as hard as he could.
Another alarm went off.
“Halt!”
The guards had reached the bottom of the fence and were climbing up after him. He felt first one, then two, then half a dozen hands grasping at his feet and legs. After a brief show of struggle, he let himself be dragged back down into the yard.
Guns drawn, they surrounded him in a circle. “Who the hell is this?” one barked. “Who are you?”
D’Agosta sat up. “I’m the truck driver,” he said, slurring his words.
“The what?” another guard said.
“I just heard about this one. He did the meat delivery, got pulled off because he was drunk.”
D’Agosta groaned and cradled his arm. “You hurt me.”
“Jesus, you’re right. He’s drunk as a lord.”
“I just took one sip.”
“On your feet.”
D’Agosta tried to rise, staggered. One of them caught his forearm and helped him up. There was a snicker. “He thought he was going to escape.”
“Come on, pal.”
The guards escorted him back to the kitchen, where his guard was standing, red-faced, along with the supervisor.
The super rounded on him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
D’Agosta slurred his words. “Got lost on the way to the john. Decided to blow the joint.” He gave a drunken laugh.
More snickers.
The supervisor was not amused. “How did you get out into the yard?”
“What yard?”
“Outside.”
“I du
“That’s impossible.”
D’Agosta shrugged, slumped down in the chair, and promptly nodded off.
“Go check the yard 4 access,” the supervisor snapped at one of the guards. Then he turned back to the first guard. “You stay here with him. Do you understand? Don’t let him go anywhere. Let him shit his pants if necessary.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank Christ he didn’t make it over the fence and into no-man’s-land. Do you know what a paperwork headache that would have caused?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
D’Agosta noticed, to his great relief, that in the confusion and commotion, nobody noticed his shirt was a different color than before. Score three to Gli
At that moment, two local cops came in, looking bewildered. “This the guy?”
“Yeah.” The guard prodded D’Agosta with his riot stick. “Wake up, asshole.”
D’Agosta roused himself, stood up.
The policemen seemed at a loss. “So what do we do? We gotta sign something?”
The supervisor wiped his brow. “What do you do? Lock him up for drunk driving.”
One of the policemen removed a notebook. “Break any laws on the premises? You filing any charges?”
A short silence followed, the guards glancing at each other.
“No,” said the supervisor. “Just get him the hell out of here. After that, he’s your headache. I don’t want to see him around here, ever again.”
He shut the notebook. “All right, we’ll take him downtown, give him a Breathalyzer. Come on, pal.”
“I’ll pass! I only took one sip!”
“If that’s the case, you don’t have much to worry about, now, do you?” said the cop wearily as he led D’Agosta out the door.
Chapter 26
Captain of Homicide Laura Hayward arrived on the scene a minute or two after the paramedics. She could hear the shrieks of the victim ringing down through the attic rooms, and they warmed her heart: nobody who was going to be dead any time soon could squall that lustily.
She ducked through a series of low doors until she arrived at the crime scene tape. With relief, she saw it was Sergeant Visconti and his partner, an officer named Martin.
“Brief me,” she said as she approached.
“We were the closest team to the attack,” Visconti replied. “We scared off the perp. He was bent over the victim, working him over. When he saw us approaching, he fled back into the attics.”
“Get a look at him?”
“Just a shadow.”
“Weapon?”
“Unknown.”
She nodded.
“We also found Lipper’s wallet.” Visconti gestured with his chin toward a plastic evidence box, lined up with several others just outside the tape.
Hayward leaned over, opened the box. “I want a full battery on the wallet and everything inside-DNA, latents, trace fibers, the works. And freeze a dozen swabs of blood and a dozen of organics for future workups.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Is the other guard around, what’s-his-name-Morris? I’d like to talk to him.”
Visconti spoke into his radio, and a moment later a cop appeared at the far edge of the scene, leading the other guard. The man’s comb-over was in disarray, hanging like a flap down the side of his head, and his clothes were disheveled. He stank of alcohol preservative.
“You okay?” she asked. “Able to talk?”
“I think so.” His voice was high and breathy.
“Did you see the attack?”
“No. I was… too far away, and my back was turned.”
“But you must have seen or heard something in the moments before it occurred.”