Just then, a vacuum cleaner started up down the hall and I nearly lost my lunch. The loud roar of the industrial machine was underscored by the rapid-fire exchange of a foreign language. Polish? Russian? I pedaled over to the door and eased it open a crack, in time to see the night cleaning crew. There were three older women in light blue smocks, grabbing rags and bottles of cleaning solution off a big rolling cart and slipping into one of the front offices. A fourth woman, the one with the vacuum, had headed toward reception, cutting off my exit. I closed the door, pressed my back against it, envisioning the next two to five years inside Logan Correctional. This, the moment you realized the jig is up, was why crime did not pay. This was the point where consequences for bad behavior clocked you on the chin like a big angry fist.

I stared longingly at the window; I was twenty-five floors up. Not an option. I took a moment to settle myself, then pulled it together and lifted off the door. Another peek confirmed the women were still there, though the hall was temporarily clear. The vacuum still roared up front. I counted to three, swung the door open, and bolted, racing down the hall, my eyes on the office with the women in it. My plan was to streak right past them, one fast blur of humanity they wouldn’t be able to identify. However, halfway there, I saw the vacuum cleaner heading back and I skidded through an open door and hid behind it.

This office was a lot smaller than Spada’s and hadn’t a single knickknack in it, but it offered the same trap. I could not get past the cleaners. I pressed my head against the door and thought it through, my brain picking away at the problem. I suddenly got an idea.

I lunged over and flicked on the lights, then ran for the desk, pulling papers out of the in-box, grabbing a pen. When I heard the women approach, I slid into the chair behind the desk, snatched up the receiver and held it to my ear, like I was listening to someone on the other end, remembering almost too late that I still had on the latex gloves. I cradled the receiver between neck and shoulder blade, scrambled out of the gloves and shoved them into my pocket, just as the women appeared in the doorway.