Hard Cold Winter by Glen Erik Hamilton Page B

roof on the south corner. Brand-spanking-new, with cables leading down into a rough hole in one of the top floor windows.
    I kept my distance from the front doorway. There was a steel intercom with a keypad. Dial the right number and reach the right extension, back when the building had phone service. I thought about the kind of security I might install for myself, and then edged just close enough to see the camera. It was inside the lobby, pointed through the glass door where it could get a clear view of anyone standing by the intercom. The camera wasn’t the ancient closed-circuit type that would have matched the building. It was a new wireless model, and crudely bolted high on the wall.
    It would be good to see inside the building, and confirm my suspicions. It would not be good to have my face on camera doing it.
    The building had fire exits, steel doors one inch thick on ball-bearing hinges. Old doors like that could be opened from the outside with a large special key, more like a wrench than a house key. With proper tools, a crowbar and a sledge, I could force the steel door or beat the lock. I didn’t have tools. I didn’t need them.
    Twenty feet from the fire exit, embedded flush with the building’s brickwork, was a black metal box that looked like a very small safe. A Knox-Box. Used by fire departments to gain access to the building without the trouble and expense of chopping big holes in the doors and windows. At the center of the Knox-Box was a little hinged cover, and under the cover was a keyhole, slightly rusted from disuse. The SFD would have a master key that fit every Knox in the area, and I had the equivalent. No one was nearby. I used Dono’s lockpicks and had the boxopen in moments. Inside was a set of keys and one larger hollow hexagonal tube that looked sure to fit the fire exit lock.
    Abracadabra.
    The downside, of course, is that fire exits are also hooked up to extremely loud alarms, with flashing lights and automatic alerts to the nearest fire and police stations. Most burglars give them a wide berth.
    Unless the burglar is pretty damn sure that someone has disabled the alarm already. I inserted the hexagonal tube and turned. The fire door opened to blessed silence.
    Whoever had greased the fire alarm hadn’t cared enough to hide their work. The metal doorframe near the latch been pried open and peeled back. I could see where someone had crudely bypassed the circuit, leaving the disconnected wires exposed. The young professional criminal that I used to be grimaced at the hack job.
    I ran up the stairwell to the next floor. It was completely empty. No walls, no furniture, just a dusty void waiting for renovation. I took a moment to mark where the other stairwells were located. One in each corner.
    On the fourth floor was a dank hallway with glued-on linoleum and blank eggshell-colored walls that had more scuff marks than paint. There was a freight elevator, and a single windowless door with cheap wooden veneer leading to the interior.
    I listened. Under the normal hums and clicks of office heat ventilation, there was something else. Voices and music, in a very staccato beat.
    Inside the windowless door was a longer hallway, which led to an open space beyond. The voices and music were coming from televisions. Many televisions, with the sounds of bumper jingles and cheers and rapid-fire announcers competing for dominance.
    . . . Villanova, with half the game to go, needs to . . .
    . . . Hess, for three! That makes him five for seven . . .
    . . . superb engineering that turns your carpool into a carnival . . .
    Then all of the broadcasts were drowned out by a very enthusiastic roar of live male voices. Somebody’s team was doing well.
    There was a rubber wedge on the floor of the hall, for propping the door open. Just as useful for keeping the door closed behind me. I shoved it underneath, as another burst of appreciative shouting and claps came from around the corner. Before the celebrating had