Matthew swallowed hard as he poked his head around the corner and saw the police approaching Mira, hand trembling over where he'd stashed his gun and praying that the thin blue line held strong enough that they were just happy to see another cop. He didn't want to get into a fight with these guys, not the least because he thought he recognized a couple of them from some speeding tickets he'd accrued. 

He waited for their attention to be completely on her and then made his way quickly but quietly across the street behind them and around the back of the pizza joint. The place was an absolute mess, littered with cigarette butts and empty spray cans. On the far wall someone had pushed an old couch up facing the building, its cushions torn up and weather-beaten, next to a dumpster overflowing with garbage that looked like parts of the building interior and surrounded by beer bottles. On the back wall of the building someone had been practicing their art. A centipede, huge and black, wound its length all around the wall with the head of the thing positioned to look down on anyone that entered us area. The way they had taken the time to add the shadow and the sheer amount of detail made his heart jump up into his throat when he first spotted it. He held still for a moment until he was sure that the thing wasn't alive and hungry, which for all he knew it was given the world he was living in now. No, though. It didn't move. 

Damn it. He's forgotten to pack his camera. 

He moved cautiously to the door after the scare the mural had put him in, reaching for the handle and praying that some intrepid scrapper or magnificent street artist had kindly opened it for him. No dice though. The handle went down only a little before it clicked to a stop. Now what? Should he knock? No, the cops were right out front. If he started pounding loudly on the door he might attract them. Besides, when did someone trying to hide ever respond to a knock on the door?

Maybe if it was something distinctive? He might not have to knock as loud if it was something recognizable, like a tune. No cop would ever knock like that either. 

He pushed his ear up to the door, listening for anything, before raising up his knuckle and knocking a familiar little tune as gently as he thought her could get away with. Knock, knock knock knock, knock. He listened for movement and got nothing, so he tried it again a little bit louder. 

Still silence, he thought.

"Come on." He whispered in frustration to the door before going to try a third time. "Does this sound like the knock of someone on a manhunt? 'Shave, and a hair, cut...'"

He looked around, sighed, and took off his jacket. He shivered as he wrapped the thing all around the handle to soften the impact of what he was about to try. He went over to the garbage, quietly pulled a piece of metal piping out of it, and raised it up over his head to try breaking off the handle.