Russ hit the apex of his jump about ten feet above the roof of the Fenwick Building, and landed with a thump, almost on top of an air conditioning unit. Nearby pigeons scattered in a frantic cloud of shed feathers, fluttering wings, and perturbed cooing. It was a pretty good landing, he figured. With any luck, no one inside heard him land.
A brick structure squatted near the middle of the rooftop, the slight slope of its roof showing some sag along with the curling shingles and dried-up moss. Padding across the gravel, he rounded the structure’s far corner, looking for a door.
And there it was, standing open — being held open, actually, by an astonished woman in a suit. The cigarette in her gaping mouth clung to her ruby lipstick for just a moment before tumbling onto the concrete landing.