“If it hasn’t gone boom yet, it’s not going to,” said Fisher, squatting down to examine the doorway. At the bottom was a set of connectors similar to those used in a simple burglar alarm system. Opening the door had broken the connection and set off the bomb. Fisher followed the wire down the scarred hallway to where the bomb had exploded.
“How did you know there was a bomb in there?” asked the NYPD expert who was taking measurements with a laser ruler in the hall.
“I didn’t. I saw the connector thing and I jumped back,” said Fisher.
“You’re lucky the guy was an amateur: Somebody who knew what they were doing would have set it to explode closer to the door or even out in the lobby. Between the heavy door and the shape of the hall, most of the explosion was channeled away from you. Otherwise you would have been nailed.”
He meant that literally: 10d nails had been packed over the weapon as shrapnel.
“You see this kind of bomb before?” Fisher asked.
“Oh, sure. Amateurs. Or someone trying to convince us they’re amateurs.”
“Most people who are stupid are just stupid,” said Fisher.
“Can’t argue with that. Were they trying to kill you specifically, or just anyone?”
“Don’t know yet,” said Fisher. He squatted down to examine a large piece of the exploded bomb, which lay partly embedded in the wall. “Probably just anyone. How would you turn this off?”
“You mean disarm it? Probably some sort of bypass switch at the door.”
“There isn’t one,” said Fisher, rising.
“Remote control or something. It wouldn’t be hard.”
“Yeah, except that’s not part of a remote control unit, right?” Fisher pointed to the piece. “It’s just a metal piece where the explosives were.”
“Might’ve disintegrated. Crime scene guys will go over it pretty well.”
Fisher walked to the far end of the hallway. The window had been blown out, but the locks in the frame were still secure. The bathroom to the right had an open window, but it was too small for anyone but a thin child to climb through. He went into the room on the left. There was no furniture or clothes, no sign that the room had been occupied. The window had a simple lock at the top, but it was not engaged. Fisher checked the casement for another trip wire, then opened the window. The fire escape was to the right.
He leaned out, got his foot on it, then climbed over.
“Fisher, what the hell are you doing?” shouted Macklin, coming into the room just as he swung out.
The FBI agent leaned back over. “You wouldn’t want to do this every day, would you?” he said, climbing in. He scraped his shoe against the side of the building, but the height was a powerful incentive and he kept his momentum going forward. He got into the building.
“What the hell are you doing?” Macklin asked again.
“Trying to figure out how Faud got in and out. And whether he was planning on coming back.”
“He won’t be coming back now, that’s for sure,” said Macklin.
“Guy’s going to run out of places to stay eventually.” Fisher walked to the bathroom. There was soap and toilet paper but nothing else. Fisher leaned over and sniffed the soap. “Ivory,” he declared.
“Yeah?” asked Macklin.
“Same stuff he used at DeGarmo’s.”
“That’ll close the case.”
“Just what I’m thinking,” said Fisher.
“Want to dust it for prints?”
“You’re starting to get the hang of the sarcasm thing, Macklin. Keep it up and in a couple of years you’ll actually say something biting.”
Fisher decided that the bomb had been left for the same reason some people slid hairs in door cracks and dusted the floor with powder: It would clearly and emphatically demonstrate that the apartment had been discovered. That didn’t mean collateral damage wasn’t welcome, only that it wasn’t first on the priority list.
“I think he’d have some sort of vantage point to watch from, or be nearby when the bomb blew,” Macklin told Fisher. “What if we search every apartment the fire escape connects to?”
“That’s twenty-one apartments,” said Fisher.
“We should at least make sure he’s not living in another one here, and that this is just a decoy.”
The bomb had gotten NYPD somewhat more interested in what was going on, and Macklin now had the manpower to do the interviews. On the other hand, the explosion had alerted the other occupants of the building, and Fisher figured anyone dumb enough be a terrorist or hide one would be smart enough to lie about it or, smarter still, to have fled. Still, there was always the chance that someone might remember something about a cross-dressing neighbor with five o’clock shadow. Besides, they were still mired in the straw-grasping phase of the investigation, and so Fisher didn’t object — as long as he didn’t have to do any of the interviews.
“What are you going to do?” Macklin asked.
“Climb the fire escape.”
“It’s getting pretty dark.”
“It is, isn’t it,” said Fisher, going to the blown-out window and stepping through the frame.
A pair of mangled beach chairs sat folded at one side of the roof, but otherwise it was empty. The small door at the top of the stairway locked from the inside. Fisher jiggled it but it wouldn’t give. Picking the lock was no good; Fisher had to go all the way down and then trudge up the stairs to see if there was a bag or other hideaway.
A simple dead bolt secured the door to the roof; there were no bags or keys hidden anywhere that he could see, and his second search of the roof failed to turn up anything except a fifty-cent coin near the edge of the roof. A ladder led from the back of the building to the adjacent roof. Fisher climbed over it and continued his search, still without results. A third roof sat adjacent to this one, eight feet lower and across a narrow alley.
The sun had gone down quite a while ago, but the lights from a building across the street made it possible to see, though not particularly well.
Which was why he wasn’t sure whether the long narrow object near the front of the roof was a ladder or not.
The easiest way to find out was to jump across. Fisher did so, rolling onto the flat surface and bumping into a large can of roofing tar. Fortunately, its top remained intact; Fisher was already down to his last reasonably clean suit.
The object he’d seen was a long two-by-four with three shorter pieces of wood nailed to it. Fisher took it to the side and hooked it over the brick lip on the adjacent building. The board made it possible to get up to the other side without too much trouble, though it creaked under his weight.
So the guy who used it was a little shorter and at least as skinny, Fisher thought.
The FBI agent picked up the edge of the board and flipped it back to the other roof, then jumped back to examine the roof. There was no stairway down; the roof was accessed through a flat trapdoor that was not only locked but chained.
A small bag was wedged in a crack in the low wall at the front of the roof. Fisher held it up and saw that it was marijuana, or at least something herbal. He stuffed it back in place and continued his search in the shadows. As he did, his stomach began to growl. Wondering if he could hunt up a midnight hot dog vendor, he went back to the ladder board and hooked it into place. He was just reaching across when he saw the tar bucket he’d knocked into earlier.
The thing was, the tar on the roof was dry — very, very dry.
And who tarred a roof in March?
Old can, probably used as a seat.
Or a hiding place. Fisher pried it open.
The remnants of tar had congealed long ago. Newspapers had been stuffed into the top, and in the middle of the newspapers sat a small knapsack. There was a shirt inside, along with a gas mask, an autoinjector similar to the one he’d found at Mrs. DeGarmo’s, and a set of night goggles.