Nightlines

Начало книги

A wind-driven sheet of rain hit Nudger's office window, making a fierce rattling sound, like something with claws clambering to get in. Sometimes being a private investigator wasn't so bad. This was just like being in a movie. Or a dream. Or a dream of a movie. Real atmosphere.

He looked across his desk at the young blonde seated calmly before him. She had one of those passive, finely boned faces that lend an otherwise plain woman a serene kind of near-beauty. Even beneath the thick raincoat that she hadn't removed, only unbuttoned, there was disturbingly evident a petite, shapely figure, lovely swell of breast, sleek turn of ankle. Nice, nice, nice.

But it was the face that Nudger remembered, the slanted gray eyes and neatly arched eyebrows, the short, haughty nose that belonged on a department-store mannequin. Then, when she introduced herself, her name struck the same note in his memory as had her face.

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