I don't blame the weather for Donny's death. I blame myself. It was my fault he was on that roof. If I hadn't been so stuck in my ways, so superstitious, he would be alive today, enjoying the fruits of our labor.

I should have listened to him. We could have met in an alley, or like he suggested, in a coffee shop where it was dry and comfortable. But coffee shops, like most places of business these days, have cameras. Alleys are quite often covered by street cams. It takes a lot of effort to find and avoid all the cameras.

But not rooftops. Except for the occasional pigeon cam, no one wants to watch a roof. Especially here in Queens, where a line of adjacent rooftops can run the full block. That gives us multiple ways to get to a roof and, more importantly, many ways to get off.

I know all about them. I have mapped a dozen neighborhoods for rooftop escapes. In my line of work, preparation is everything.

So that was part of it. We were on that roof because that is my routine. "If it works, work it," is my motto. But there is also that feeling that if I change my routine, am I jinxing the job? That was superstitious side. I called it "Route three" if that matters to you. That was my designation for that particular rooftop highway.

Donny is my best friend; was my best friend. We have worked together for ten years. It is because we are "known associates" that we like to avoid the cameras. Why give the cops more to use against us?

I should explain why we were there in a thunderstorm. In our line of work, the weather is our friend. In storms, people hunker down. Think about it. Umbrellas cover heads or hats are pulled low. Raincoats with hoodies are pulled up. You walk down the street on a nice day with a hoodie up, people notice. You do it in a rainstorm, they don't even realize you passed them. You are anonymous.

You see someone hunched over at a door, fumbling with their keys, a wet shopping bag on their arm, do you think 'Hey, they are picking a lock!?" No. If you think about it at all, you think "I hope he gets inside before his soggy bag rips apart and dumps his groceries all over the stoop because I don't want to have to stop and help him pick them up."

After one of my more successful jobs, a reporter dubbed me "Puddles" because that was the only sign that I had been there. That and the fact that a half million in jewels were missing. I was happy that nickname didn't stick.

"Why meet up there at all?" I was asked. "What didn't you just split the loot at the job?"

That's the beauty of our plan. One person carries the loot and we split up after the job. That way if one gets caught, only one goes down. You see these movies where the robbers all pile in a car and peel away. That's just stupid. And you don't slink. Never slink. Never look guilty. You put on the dry raincoat from that soggy bag and a fresh hat and you walk out like you live there.

It's worked for us for ten years. Until that night. Donny slipped away first. Then, cool as a cucumber, I walked out. I made my way over to my 'on ramp' for route three. Donny was already there, having entered from a different door further down the block. The storm had picked up but we found a little shelter from the rain and divided up the haul. Donny always kept his cut in a black felt bag. He had his superstitions, too.

He dropped the bag in his pocket, shook hands, and turned to go. His route out included a short jump across a four and a half foot alley. He'd done it a dozen times. Just as he was stepping up on the raised edge of the roof there was a flash and a huge boom. Donny gave a half-leap but we both knew it wasn't enough. I watched in horror as one arm reached out and grasped at the wet wall, then slid off. Donny was gone.

I see the video in my dreams. The television played it over and over. "Do you know this man?" I watch myself caught on camera in that alley reaching into the pocket of the broken body of my dead friend to get that black bag for his widow. "Wanted for murder and robbery," The TV announcer says.

These days the only weather reports I hear are "sunny and low eighties." I can't go home again but I don't care. I have decided I like my new life.