Prayers for Rain Chapter One The first time I met Karen Nichols, she struck me as the kind of woman who ironed her socks. She was blond and petite and stepped out of a kelly-green 1998 VW Bug as Bubba and I crossed the avenue toward St. Bartholomew's Church with our morning coffee in hand. It was February, but winter had forgotten to show up that year. Except for one snowstorm and a few days in the subzeros, it had been damn near balmy. Today it was in the high forties, and it was only ten in the morning. Say all you want about global warming, but as long as it saves me from shoveling the walk, I'm for it. Karen Nichols placed a hand over her eyebrows, even though the morning sun wasn't all that strong, and smiled uncertainly at me. "Mr. Kenzie?" I gave her my eats-his-veggies-loves-his-mom smile and proffered my hand. "Miss Nichols?" She laughed for some reason. "Karen, yes. I'm early. Her hand slid into mine and felt so smooth and uncallused. it could have been gloved. "Call me Patrick.That's Mr. Rogowski." Bubba grunted and slugged his coffee. Karen Nichols's hand dropped from mine and she jerked back slightly, as if afraid she'd have to extend her hand to Bubba. Afraid if she did, she might not get it back. She wore a brown suede jacket that fell to midthigh over a charcoal cable-knit crewneck, crisp blue jeans, and bright white Reeboks. None of her apparel looked as if a wrinkle, stain, or wisp of dust had been within a country mile of it. She placed delicate fingers on her smooth neck. "A couple of real PIs. Wow." Her soft blue eyes crinkled with her button nose and she laughed again. "I'm the PI," I said. "He's just slumming." Bubba grunted again and kicked me in the ass. "Down, boy," I said. "Heel." Bubba sipped some coffee. Karen Nichols looked as if she'd made a mistake coming here. I decided then not to lead her up to my belfry office. If people were uncertain about hiring me, taking them to the belfry usually wasn't good PR. School was out because it was Saturday, and the air was moist and without a chill, so Karen Nichols, Bubba, and I walked to a bench in the schoolyard. I sat down. Karen Nichols used an immaculate white handkerchief to dust the surface, then she sat down. Bubba frowned at the lack of space on the bench, frowned at me, then sat on the ground in front of us, crossed his legs, peered up expectantly. "Good doggie," I said. Bubba gave me a look that said I'd pay for that as soon as we were away from polite company. "Miss Nichols," I said, "how did you hear about me?" She tore her gaze away from Bubba and looked into my eyes for a moment in utter confusion. Her blond hair was cut as short as a small boy's and reminded me of pictures I've seen of women in Berlin in the 1920s. It was sculpted tight against the skull with gel, and even though it wouldn't be moving on its own unless she stepped into the wake of a jet engine, she'd clipped it over her left ear, just below the part, with a small black barrette that had a june bug painted on it. Her wide blue eyes cleared and she made that short,nervous laugh again. "My boyfriend." "And his name is . . . " I said, guessing Tad or Ty or Hunter. "David Wetterau." So much for my psychic abilities. "I'm afraid I've never heard of him." "He met someone who used to work with you. A woman?" Bubba raised his head, glared at me. Bubba blamed me for Angie ending our partnership, for Angie moving out of the neighborhood, buying a Honda, dressing in Anne Klein suits, and generally not hanging out with us anymore. "Angela Gennaro?" I asked Karen Nichols. She smiled. "Yes. That's her name." Bubba grunted again. Pretty soon he'd start howling at the moon. "And why do you need a private detective, Miss Nichols?" "Karen." She turned on the bench toward me, tucked an imaginary strand of hair behind her ear. "Karen. Why do you need a detective?" A sad, crumpled smile bent her pursed lips and she looked down at her knees for a moment. "There's a guy at the gym I go to?" I nodded. She swallowed. I guess she'd been hoping I'd figure it all out from that one sentence. I was certain she was about to tell me something unpleasant and even more certain that she had, at best, only a very passing acquaintance with things unpleasant. "He's been hitting on me, following me to the parking lot. At first it was just, you know, annoying?" She raised her head, searched my eyes for understanding. "Then it got uglier. He began calling me at home. I went out of my way to avoid him at the gym, but a couple of times I saw him parked out in front of the house . . . Prayers for Rain . Copyright © by Dennis Lehane. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from Prayers for Rain by Dennis Lehane All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
