In This Rain Read Free Page A

and he didn’t give them keys to the office), his credit rating (it was still good), the status of his divorce (final), and the custody arrangements for Janet (Ellie had full custody; he could visit anytime but he had to call first).
    Joe had to say something, so he said, “You want coffee?”
    “You have two cups?”
    “Just about.” Actually he had three. The oddness of it had struck him when he’d taken the place: three coffee mugs, five plates, nine highball glasses, endless mismatched knives and forks, but just the two kitchen chairs.
    All more than he needed.
    He poured the coffee. Always, when he was here, he had coffee on. Even after he’d broken out the beer he’d leave the coffee cooking down and make a fresh pot when it thickened to sludge. In prison, coffee was strictly breakfast, lunch, and supper. Though if you behaved well and weren’t locked down and had a few tokens in your pocket, and if the moody machine worked, and if the iron men weren’t holding the dayroom just to prove they could— if all these stars aligned for you, you could buy yourself a cup of cloudy muck that smelled like scorched newspaper and made even construction-trailer coffee taste good in memory.
    Belatedly, handing Ann a mug, he recalled that she took cream and sugar, lots of both. He had neither. Then, as she lifted and sipped without comment, it also came back to him that she took great pride in her ability to improvise, and to adapt.
    She said, “I need you.”
    Without an answer, Joe led her through the back door, out onto the porch.
    Looking over the rail, Ann let her vision touch each part of the yard. “It’s nice back here,” she finally said, not in pleased surprise but grudging acknowledgment. Hearing her tone, watching her eyes, Joe could see her theories on who he’d become and how he lived now— suggested by his front yard, reinforced by his cabin— reeling from the blow of his garden.

CHAPTER
4
    City Hall
    From a block away Charlie Barr spotted the news vans. He nudged Don Zalensky and pointed through the limo’s darkened glass.
    “Want to go in underneath?” asked Herb Washington, the mayor’s bodyguard.
    Charlie Barr ran his hand across his balding scalp. “No.” He pressed the talk button, told the chauffeur— NYPD like the bodyguards— “The front, Frank.”
    The reporters on City Hall’s cobbled drive engulfed the limo, shouting questions as the mayor and deputy mayor climbed out. Herb cleared a path up the steps, with the other bodyguard, Jimmy Ryan, behind.
    “Anything to say to the victim’s family, Mayor?”
    “The DOI Commissioner and the IG for Buildings just went in— are they looking at someone in the Buildings Department?”
    “What about it, Charlie? This a corruption problem?”
    “Katz, New York Times. Could this be a result of your ‘fewer rules and regs’ program, Mayor?”
    “Dolan Construction over again?”
    The magic words. Charlie Barr stopped. He turned on the stairs and faced the reporters from mid-flight; he didn’t want the above-it-all image he’d get at the top. Microphones strained toward him and the hubbub died down.
    He looked the crowd over, nodding to some, making a point to acknowledge Hutchings from The Amsterdam News. “First,” he said, “our deepest sympathy to Harriet Winston’s family. In this terrible time, they’re in our thoughts and prayers.” He took a respectful pause. “But: we have no reason to think that what happened at the Mott Haven development site was anything other than a tragic accident.”
    “Then why a Sunday morning meeting, Mayor?”
    That was what-the-hell-was-his-name, the new guy from CBS. Charlie made eye contact. “Because I want to be sure we don’t have a problem. And I want to be damn sure the city’s doing everything we can.”
    “Denise Aday, NY1, Mayor. Three accidents in three weeks on that site, this last one fatal— you don’t think that’s a problem?”
    “Of course it is. We’re investigating the accident and the contractor. If there’s any wrongdoing, we’ll