Dexter turned and headed into the deluge, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder and up at the roof behind him.

Dexter knew the man on the roof and the man on the roof knew him.

The man limped away from the edge of the roof. The black man in the yellow poncho had met his gaze. They had recognized each other. Then the black man had moved away into the almost painful slam of thick, demanding rain.

A half century of stones on the roof mixed with the detritus of broken beer bottles, shriveled condoms, and discarded syringes that were carried away in the red river. The potted plants lined up against the knee-high walls were overflowing and adding black dirt and chemicals to the rushing water.

The flat rooftop had a simple drainage system that allowed rainwater to run off to prevent ponding, which would damage the roof covering. Around the outside edge of the rooftop were low places that served as funnels. The funnels or scuppers emptied into holes in the parapet wall toward both the street and alley. Inside these scuppers were rusting screens to catch debris. From time to time, particularly after a hard rain, someone would clear away the debris from the screen. The woman that the man had just killed had been on the roof to clear those screens.

The man was transfixed, nearly hypnotized, knowing he should move, get away. He had a lot left to do and very little time. Instead he stared down at the dead woman.

She was spread-eagled, dress hiked up, skin ex-posed. There was a look of horror on her face, horror and pain. Her hair was beaten back, clamped to her head. She looked almost bald. Her open mouth was filled with water that bubbled as if from an overfilled pool.

The man hadn't known what he would feel when he killed her. He'd hoped that he wouldn't regret it, wouldn't be haunted, wouldn't shake or weep. He wanted to savor the moment. He wanted elation, satisfaction, not this dull, dreamy sensation echoing to the beat of thoughtless, demanding rain.