Prayers For Rain

15

I had taken my work to a bar when Angie found me later that night. The bar was Bubba’s, a place called Live Bootleg on the Dorchester-Southie line, and even though Bubba was out of the country-off to Northern Ireland, the rumor was, to pick up the arms they’d allegedly laid down over there-my drinks were still on the house.

This would have been great if I’d been in a drinking mood, but I wasn’t. I nursed the same beer for an hour, and it was still half full when Shakes Dooley, the owner of record, replaced it with a fresh one.

“It’s a crime,” Shakes said as he drained the old beer into the sink, “to see a fine, healthy man such as yourself wasting a perfectly honest lager.”

I said, “Mmm-hmm,” and went back to my notes.

Sometimes I find it easier to concentrate in a small crowd. Alone, in my apartment or office, I can feel the night ticking past me, another day gone down for the count. In a bar, though, on a late Sunday afternoon, when I can hear the hollow, distant crack of bats from a Red Sox game on the TV, the solid drop of pool balls falling into pockets from the back room, the idle chatter of men and women playing keno and scratch cards as they do their best to ward off Monday and its horn honks and barking bosses and drudging responsibilities-I find the noises mingle together into a soft, constant buzzing, and my mind clears of all else but the notes laid before me between a coaster and a bowl of peanuts.

From the morass of things I’d learned about Karen Nichols, I had compiled a bare chronological outline on a fresh sheet of yellow legal paper. Once that was done, I doodled in random notes beside hard facts. Sometime during all this, the Red Sox had lost, and the crowd had thinned slightly, though it had never been much of a crowd in the first place. Tom Waits played on the jukebox, and two voices were getting heated and raw back in the poolroom.

K. Nichols

(b. 11/16/70; d. 8/4/99)

· a. Father dies, 1976.

· b. Mother marries Dr. Christopher Dawe, ’79, moves to Weston.

· c. Graduates Mount Alvernia HS, ’88.

· d. Graduates Johnson & Wales, Hospitality Mgmt., ’92.

· e. Hired, Four Seasons Hotel, Boston, Catering Dept, ’92.

· f. Promoted Asst. Mgr., Catering Dept., ’96.

· g. Engaged to D. Wetterau, ’98.

· h. Stalked by C. Falk. Car vandalized. First contact w/ me: February ’99.

· i. D. Wetterau accident, March 15, ’99. (Call Devin or Oscar again, try to see BPD report.)

· j. Car insurance cxld due to lack of payment.

· k. May, receives photos of D. Wetterau and other woman.

· l. Fired from job, May 18, ’99, due to tardiness, multiple absences.

· m. Leaves apartment, May 30, ’99.

· n. Moves into Holly Martens Inn, June 15, ’99. (Two weeks missing. Where’d she stay?)

· o. Seen w/ Red-Haired Geek and Blond Rich Guy @ HM Inn, June-August ’99.

· p. C. Falk receives nine letters signed K. Nichols, March-July, ’99.

· q. Karen receives private psychiatrist’s notes, date uncertain.

· r. Raped by C. Falk, July ’99.

· s. Arrested for solicitation, July ’99, Springfield Bus Depot.

· t. Suicide, August 4, ’99.

Overview: Falsified letters sent to C. Falk suggest third-party involvement in K. Nichols’s “bad luck.” C. Falk not being vandalizer of car suggests same. Third Party could be Red-Haired Geek, Blond Rich Guy, or both. (Or neither.) Possession of psychiatrist’s notes suggests possibility of Third Party being employee of psychiatrist. Further, ability by psychiatric employees to garner personal info of private citizens supplies opportunity to Third Party to infiltrate K. Nichols’s life. Motive, however, seems nonexistent. Further, assumptions-

“Motive for what?” Angie said.

I put my hand over the page, looked back over my shoulder at her. “Didn’t your mama ever teach you-?”

“It’s rude to read over someone’s shoulder, yes.” She dropped her bag on the empty seat to her left and sat down beside me. “How’s it coming?”

I sighed. “If only the dead could talk.”

“Then they wouldn’t be dead.”

“Staggering,” I said, “that intellect of yours.”

She backhanded my shoulder and tossed her cigarettes and lighter on the bar in front of her.

“Angela!” Shakes Dooley came bounding down the bar, took her hand, and leaned over to kiss her cheek. “Well, if it ain’t been too many days.”

“Hey, Shakes. Don’t say a word about the hair, okay?”

“What hair?” Shakes said.

“That’s what I keep saying.”

Angie hit me again. “Can I get a vodka straight, Shakes?”

Shakes pumped her hand vigorously before letting it go. “Finally, a real drinker!”

“Going broke on my buddy here?” Angie lit a cigarette.

“He drinks like a nun these days. People are starting to talk.” Shakes poured a generous helping of chilled Finlandia into a glass and placed it before Angie.

“So,” I said when Shakes left us alone, “come crawling back, eh?”

She gave me a smoky chuckle and took a sip of Finlandia. “Keep it up. It’ll make torturing you later that much more pleasurable.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. What brings you here, Sicilian Spice?”

She rolled her eyes as she took another drink. “I got some oddities regarding David Wetterau.” She held up her index finger. “Two, actually. The first was easy. That letter he wrote to the insurance company? My guy says it’s a definite forgery.”

I turned on my stool. “You already looked into this?”

She reached for her cigarettes, extracted one.

“On a Sunday,” I said.

She lit the cigarette, her eyebrows raised.

“And turned something up,” I said.

She curled her fingers and blew on them, polished an imaginary medal on her chest. “Two things.”

“Okay,” I said. “You’re the coolest.”

She placed a hand behind her ear and leaned in.

“You’re aces. You’re the bomb. You put the ‘B’ in bad-ass. You’re the coolest.”

“Already said that.” She leaned in a little closer, hand still behind her ear.

I cleared my throat. “You are, without question or reservation, the smartest, most resourceful, perceptive private detective in the entire city of Boston.”

Her mouth broke into that wide, slightly lopsided grin that can blow holes in my chest.

“Was that so difficult?” she said.

“Shoulda rolled right off my tongue. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Just out of practice kissing ass, I guess.”

I leaned back, took a lingering look at the curve of her hip, the press of flesh on her stool.

“Speaking of asses,” I said, “allow me to note that yours still looks tremendous.”

She waved her cigarette in my face. “Wood back in the pants, perv.”

I placed my hands on the bar. “Yes’m.”

“Oddity number two.” Angie put a steno notepad on the bar and flipped it open. She swiveled her stool so that our knees almost touched. “Just before five on the day he was hurt, David Wetterau calls Greg Dunne, the Steadicam guy, and begs off. Says his mother is ill.”

“Was she?”

She nodded. “Of cancer. Five years ago. She died in ’94.”

“So he lies about-”

She held up a hand. “Not done yet.” She stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray, left several chunks of coal still burning red. She hunched forward and our knees touched. “At four-forty, Wetterau received a call on his cell phone. It lasted four minutes and originated from a pay phone on High Street.”

“Just around the block from the corner of Congress and Purchase.”

“One block down, one over, to be exact. But that’s not the most curious thing. Our contact at Cellular One told me where Wetterau was when he received the call.”

“I’m breathless.”

“Heading west on the Pike, just outside Natick.”

“So at four-forty, he’s heading to get the Steadicam.”

“And at five-twenty he’s in the middle of the intersection at Congress and Purchase.”

“About to get his head squashed.”

“Right. He parks his car in a garage on South Street, walks up Atlantic to Congress, and he’s crossing Purchase when he trips.”

“You talk to any cops about it?”

“Well, you know how the police feel these days about us in general and me in particular.”

I nodded. “Maybe you’ll think twice next time before you shoot a cop.”

“Ha-ha,” she said. “Luckily, Sallis & Salk has excellent relationships with the BPD.”

“So you had someone from there call.”

“Nah. I called Devin.”

“You called Devin.”

“Uh-huh. I asked him and he got back to me in about ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes.”

“Maybe fifteen. Anyway, I have the witness statements. All forty-six of them.” She patted the soft leather bag on the chair to her left. “Ta-da!”

“’Nother drink, folks?” Shakes Dooley emptied Angie’s ashtray and wiped the condensation ring from under her glass.

“Sure,” Angie said.

“And for the missus?” Shakes asked me.

“Fine for now, Shakes. Thanks.”

Shakes said, “What a pussy,” under his breath, and walked off to get Angie another Finlandia.

“So let me get this straight,” I said to Angie, “you call Devin and fifteen minutes later you have something I’ve been trying to get for four days.”

“’Bout the size of it.”

Shakes placed her drink in front of her. “There you go, doll.”

“‘Doll,’” I said when he walked away. “Who the hell says ‘doll’ anymore?”

“Yet he somehow makes it work,” Angie said, and sipped some vodka. “Go figure.”

“Man, I’m pissed at Devin.”

“Why? You bug him all the time for favors. I haven’t called him in almost a year.”

“True.”

“Plus, I’m prettier.”

“Debatable.”

She snorted. “Ask around, pal.”

I took a sip of my beer. It was warm. Popular with Europeans, I know, but so are blood sausage and Steven Seagal.

On Shakes’s next pass, I ordered a fresh one.

“Sure, I’ll be taking your car keys next.” He placed a frosty Beck’s in front of me, shot a look at Angie, and walked away.

“I’m getting dissed way too much lately.”

“Probably because you date defense attorneys who think a good wardrobe makes up for that lack-of-brains thing.”

I turned on my chair. “Oh, you know her?”

“No. I’ve heard half the men in the twelfth ward do, though.”

“Hiss,” I said. “Meow.”

She gave me a rueful smile as she lit another cigarette. “Cat’s got to have claws to make it a fight. What I hear, all she’s got is a nice briefcase, great hair, and tits she’s still making monthly payments on.” Her smile widened and she crinkled her face at me. “Okay, pooky?”

“How’s Someone?” I said.

Her smile faded and she reached into her bag. “Let’s get back to David Wetterau and Karen-”

“I hear his name’s Trey,” I said. “You’re dating a guy named Trey, Ange.”

“How’d you-”

“We’re detectives, remember? Same way you knew I was dating Vanessa.”

“Vanessa,” she said as if her mouth were filled with onions.

“Trey,” I said.

“Shut up.” She fumbled with her bag.

I drank some Beck’s. “You’re questioning my street cred and you’re sleeping with a guy named Trey.”

“I don’t sleep with him anymore.”

“Well, I don’t sleep with her anymore.”

“Congratulations.”

“Back at you.”

There was dead silence between us for a minute as Angie pulled several sheets of thermal fax paper from her bag and smoothed them on the bar. I drank some more Beck’s, fingered the cardboard coaster, felt a grin fighting to break across my face. I glanced at Angie. The corners of her mouth twitched, too.

“Don’t look at me,” she said.

“Why not?”

“I’m telling you-” She lost the battle and closed her eyes as the smile broke across her cheeks.

Mine followed about a half second later.

“I don’t know why I’m smiling,” Angie said.

“Me, either.”

“Prick.”

“Bitch.”

She laughed and turned on her chair, drink in hand. “Miss me?”

Like you can’t imagine.

“Not a bit,” I said.

We moved to a long table in the back, ordered some club sandwiches from the kitchen, and ate them as I brought her up to speed, told her in detail about my first meeting with Karen Nichols, my two run-ins with Cody Falk, my conversations with Joella Thomas, Karen’s parents, Siobhan, and Holly and Warren Martens.

“Motive,” Angie said. “We keep coming back to motive.”

“I know.”

“Who really vandalized her car, and why?”

“Yup.”

“Who wrote the letters to Cody Falk, and why?”

“Why,” I said, “did someone feel the need to fuck with this woman’s life so completely she jumped off a building rather than take any more of it?”

“And did they go so far as to arrange David Wetterau’s accident?”

“Access is an issue, too,” I said.

She chewed her sandwich, dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “How so?”

“Who sent Karen the photos of David and the other woman? Hell, who took the photos?”

“They look professional to me.”

“Me, too.” I popped a cold french fry in my mouth. “And who gave Karen her own psychiatrist’s notes? That’s a big one.”

Angie nodded. “And why?” she said. “Why, why, why?”

It turned into a long night. We read through all forty-six statements given by the witnesses to David Wetterau’s accident, and a good half saw nothing at all, while the other twenty or so backed up the eventual police determination-Wetterau tripped in a pothole, got clipped in the head by a car doing everything in its power not to hit him.

Angie had even drawn up a crude diagram of the accident scene. It showed the placement of all forty-six witnesses at the time of the accident, and looked like a rough representation of a football game after a broken play. The majority of the witnesses-twenty-six-had been standing on the southwest corner of Purchase and Congress. Stockbrokers, mostly, heading for South Station after a day in the financial district, they stood waiting for the light to change. Another thirteen stood on the northwest corner, directly across from David Wetterau as he jaywalked toward them. Two more witnesses stood on the northeast corner, and a third drove the car behind Steven Kearns, the driver of the car that eventually clipped Wetterau’s head. Of the remaining five witnesses, two had stepped off the curb on the southeast corner as the light turned yellow, and three were in the crosswalk, jaywalking like Wetterau-two heading west into the financial district, one heading east.

The closest witness had been that man, the one heading east. His name was Miles Brewster, and just after he passed David Wetterau, Wetterau stepped in the pothole. The car was already traveling through the intersection, and when Wetterau fell, Steven Kearns immediately went into his swerve and those in the crosswalk scattered.

“Except for Brewster,” I said.

“Huh?” Angie looked up from the photos of David Wetterau and the other woman.

“Why didn’t this Brewster guy panic, too?”

She slid her chair over beside mine and looked down at the diagram.

“He’s here,” I said and placed my finger on the crude stick figure she’d labeled W#7. “He’s moved past Wetterau, so his back would have been to the car.”

“Right.”

“He hears tires squeal. He turns back, sees the car plowing toward him, and yet he’s-” I found his statement, read from it. “He’s, quote, ‘a foot from the guy, reaching toward him, you know, sorta frozen’ when Wetterau gets hit.”

Angie took the statement from my hand and read it. “Yeah, but you can freeze up in this sort of situation.”

“But he’s not frozen, he’s reaching.” I pulled my chair in closer to the table, pointed at W#7 in the diagram. “His back was to it, Ange. He had to turn, see it develop. His arm’s not frozen, but his legs are? He’s standing, by his own admission, a foot, maybe two, from car tires and a rear bumper sliding out of control.”

She stared down at the diagram, rubbed her face. “Our possession of these statements is illegal. We can’t reinterview Brewster and let on that we know what his original statement was.”

I sighed. “That do make it tougher.”

“It do.”

“But the guy bears a second look, you agree?”

“Definitely.”

She sat back in her chair, raised both hands to her head to push back hair that wasn’t there anymore. She caught herself at the same time I did, gave my wide grin her middle finger as she brought her hands back down.

“Okay,” she said, and drummed her pen on her notepad. “What’s our list of priorities here?”

“First, talk to Karen’s psychiatrist.”

She nodded. “That’s a hell of a leak coming from her office.”

“Second, talk to Brewster. You got an address?”

She pulled a piece of paper from the bottom of the thermal fax pile. “Miles Brewster,” she said, “ Twelve Landsdowne Street.” She looked up from the page and her mouth remained open.

“Gee,” I said, “what’s wrong with this picture?”

“Twelve Landsdowne,” she said. “That would make it-”

“ Fenway Park.”

She groaned. “How’s a cop not notice that?”

I shrugged. “A rookie taking the statements at the scene. Forty-six witnesses, he’s tired, whatever.”

“Shit.”

“But Brewster,” I said, “is now officially dirty.”

Angie dropped the fax paper to the table. “This wasn’t an accident.”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“Your operating theory.”

“Brewster’s walking east, Wetterau’s walking west. Brewster slips out his foot as they pass. Boom.”

She nodded, excitement surging past the fatigue in her face. “Brewster says he was reaching down to pick Wetterau back up.”

“But he was actually holding him down,” I said.

Angie lit a cigarette, squinted through the smoke at her diagram. “We’ve stumbled onto something ugly here, pal.”

I nodded. “Big ol’ hunk of ugly.”