Night Kills (22 page)

    "Emma," Brolan said. "Tell me about her."

    "There's nothing to tell."

    Brolan realized that if he missed, Culhane would likely break him apart. But he seemed to be in a good position to do it, so He readied himself and took his shot-kicking Culhane hard and square in the mouth. He could feel some teeth go beneath his foot, and Culhane immediately went over backwards in his chair, slamming his head against the wall as he went down.

    Brolan went around the side of the desk quickly. Blood the consistency of ketchup covered Culhane's mouth. Culhane was moaning and putting his hands flat on the floor, apparently trying to get up.

    This time Brolan kicked him in the chest, right in the heart. Culhane started to say something, but Brolan quickly filled his face with his shoe again, managing a kick that caught the man in the nose. Culhane's nose was now as big a mess as his mouth.

    "Tell me about Emma," Brolan said.

    Culhane reached out a hand and put it on the walnut finish of his desk, still trying to gain his feet. His hand was bloody from patting his mouth and nose. A long, smeary red hand print stained the desk finish.

    "Emma," Brolan said.

    He got Culhane in the ribs and so deftly that Culhane's face smashed against the desk in reaction.

    Brolan went over and grabbed Culhane's hair and started ripping it out. For good measure, he slapped Culhane across the face. Culhane started crying.

    Brolan took the chair that sat directly across from Culhane's chair.

    Brolan sat down and lit a cigarette. There was a
No Smoking
sign on Culhane's door. Brolan figured the poor dear would probably survive.

    "I want you to tell me everything you know about Emma," Brolan said.

    Culhane lifted his head from the desk. He looked almost comically injured; a creature from a horror movie.

    "Emma," Brolan said.

    Culhane stopped the blood with a handkerchief so he could talk. "Lane knows her."

    The often-referred to but never-met Charles Lane.

    "What does that mean exactly? That he 'knows' her?"

    "Maybe they worked together or something."

    "Where'd you get the playing cards?"

    "Lane."

    "He took the pictures?"

    "Uh-huh."

    "You have anything to do with them?"

    Culhane glanced anxiously at the playing card sitting face up on his desk. "I helped with the lighting and stuff."

    "Maybe you can enter this stuff for an Addy award."

    "I know why you're doing this."

    "Yeah?"

    "You found out I was balling Kathleen, didn't you?"

    Brolan was happy that this was what Culhane believed. "Yeah."

    "She told you, didn't she?"

    "Yeah."

    "That fucking cunt."

    "Where do I find Lane?"

    Culhane struggled to his feet. His whole face was bloody, and blood had spattered his once-white turtleneck. He moaned and cursed. "You may think you got away with it, Brolan, but you didn't. You got your shots in first, and that was smart. But next time I'll get mine in first."

    "Oh, goody. Threats."

    "Yeah; we'll see how much of a wise-ass you are when I get started on you."

    "Where do I find Lane?"

    "I thought you were supposed to be a bright boy. And you don't even know where to find him?"

    Brolan waited.

    Culhane said, "Am I gonna get fired?"

    "No. Why?"

    Culhane shrugged. "Because my wife's pregnant, man. If you kick me out of here, I've got bad financial problems."

    "You're not fired."

    "I threatened you."

    "Well, I kicked the shit out of you. Seems like you owed me at least one good threat."

    "I appreciate it, not firing me, I mean. But I'm still going to beat your face in sometime. You can bank on that"

    "Just make sure I'm wearing old clothes, all right?"

    A knock came on the door.

    "Shit, I don't want anybody to see me like this," Culhane said.

    "I don't either. You look like shit." As a second knock sounded, Brolan said, "Where do I find Lane?"

    "Why?"

    "That's my business."

    "Well then it's my business where you find him."

    Brolan reached across and grabbed Culhane by the front of his turtleneck. This time Culhane had been anticipating it. He moved back before Brolan really got a chance to do anything. A third knock came.

    Brolan glowered, realizing he wasn't going to get his answer. He went to the door, trying to fill it as much as possible so the other person couldn't get a good look at Culhane behind him. "Hi, Sara," Brolan said.

    Sara was the secretary for the writers and the artists. "There's somebody in the reception area to see you, Frank."

    "Oh, yeah. Did he say who it was?"

    "He told me, but you know how I am with names."

    "Do you remember who he's with?"

    She smiled. She had a nice white mid-western smile. "Oh, that part I can remember fine."

    "Oh?"

    "Yes. He's with the Minneapolis Police Department."

    "He is?"

    "Yes. He's a homicide detective. That's why I thought it was weird he wanted to talk to you. You know what I mean, Frank? Why would a homicide detective want to talk to you, anyway?"

    

    

    BREAKFAST WAS A BACON-CHEESE-green pepper omelette accompanied by two pieces of wheat toast, a glass of orange juice, and a small container of skim milk.

    The meal was served in the living room, on the couch, where Denise had been lying since finding herself in the alley and staggering back into the house.

    Greg had kept her awake for two hours, trying to make sure that she looked, sounded, and felt all right. He was afraid she might have a concussion. She was convinced that her biggest problem was her stiff neck, where the guy had hit her. And her damaged ego. Denise liked to think of herself as self-sufficient-even with a lot of evidence to the contrary-and letting somebody sneak up on you the way he'd snuck up on her… well, she wasn't feeling really good about herself this morning.

    Around dawn she'd fallen asleep despite the three cups of coffee Greg had given her and despite the fact that MTV, which she'd asked him to turn on, was playing some very good but very loud heavy metal (Greg was kind enough to pretend that he didn't exactly, uh, well, hate heavy metal).

    He'd watched her sleep.

    Just watched her.

    Pulled his wheelchair up across from the couch after sliding in a Buster Crabbe jungle movie on the VCR and turning it low… and sipped hot chocolate and watched the movie (there was actually some rather good jungle footage in it) and every so often let his attention drift over to her.

    She looked so young sleeping. Not innocent, because while she was naive, she wasn't innocent. But young. And definitely sweet. He felt a desire to protect her. That was the only way he could think of it. Protect her. Make her life better, help her forget all the things she'd suffered as so young a girl.

    At one point he put Buster Crabbe on hold and wheeled over to her and put his hand against her cheek. Her sweet, tender cheek. And then he'd taken her young hand and held it as she slept… held it for a long and sombre time. And once more the desire to protect her came to him. And he resolved then that she would stay. That he would make arrangements with whomever required arrangements… and she would stay.

    Around ten-thirty, as she struggled up from the fathoms of her sleep, and as he was immersed in a really crazy movie called Gorilla at Large with Raymond Burr and Cameron Mitchell and a beautiful and voluptuous Anne Bancroft (who had been, unlikely as it seemed, not only a babe in 1953 but a very sexy babe)… around ten-thirty he went into the kitchen and started fixing her breakfast, trying to time it so that by the time she emerged showered and fresh for the day, the breakfast would be there waiting for her.

    Which it was.

    He sat across from her in the living room-MTV back on the tube with Cyndi Lauper's new video, which he actually liked a great deal-and Denise shovelling it in. No pretence at delicacy. This kid knew how to eat and obviously loved to eat, and man, was she happy to eat.

    He, of course, wanted to be complimented (who doesn't?), and she obliged every couple minutes by saying (with her mouth full usually), "Greg, I can't believe how good this tastes!" And then she'd sort of roll her eyes and shake her head in pure unadulterated appreciation and go back to scooping it up and shovelling it in.

    Toward the end, when she was working on the toast and orange juice, he started playing Dr. Ben Casey (he always wondered what had happened to the guy who'd played Casey anyway), asking his questions.

    "So, how's the old bean?"

    "Old bean?"

    "Your head."

    "Oh. Fine."

    "No headache?"

    "Huh-uh."

    "How's the neck?"

    "Great."

    "Not even stiff?"

    "Well, a little, I guess. But not bad."

    "You seeing everything all right?"

    She looked over at him and crossed her eyes and said, "I think so, doctor."

    "Smart-ass."

    "Really, Greg, I feel fine."

    "Up to shovelling a walk?"

    "Huh?" She paused with her last piece of toast held halfway to her mouth.

    "It probably wouldn't hurt you, and it needs to be done. Usually I have the kid down the block do it but-"

    She looked at him kind of funny, and for a terrible moment he wondered if he'd made her mad. Maybe she expected to be treated like a princess, the way she would've in one of those old 1930's comedy romances where the pauper gets used to indolent luxury.

    She said, "God, Greg."

    "'God, Greg' what?"

    "I can't believe you asked me to do that."

    "You can't?"

    "No. And it's-" And she put down her toast and kind of half jumped across the coffee table and threw her arms around him and hugged him, and he could feel warm tears on her soft cheeks, and she was apparently laughing and crying at the same time and saying, "God, it makes me feel like I really belong here; like you really care about me."

    "Well, that's good, because I do care about you."

    And then she sat back on her haunches, holding her hands in his lap, and she said, "I'd really be honoured to shovel your walk. Really."

    "Boy," Greg said, "I've got to remember this for future reference."

    "Remember what?"

    "That whenever I want to make you happy I don't have to buy you anything or give you compliments. All I've got to do is ask you to shovel the walk."

    She laughed. "Now who's being the smart-ass?"

    So, while she got bundled up and grabbed the shovel from the back porch, Greg got on the phone to call Brolan and tell him all about the mysterious visitor they'd had in the middle of the night, and how said mysterious visitor was desperate enough to knock unconscious a sixteen-year-old girl-

    

    

    "MR. BROLAN?"

    "Yes."

    "I'm Tom Dodge with the Minneapolis Police Department." The men shook hands.

    "Is there somewhere we could go to talk for a little while?"

    "Sure."

    "It shouldn't take long. In case you've got another appointment, that is."

    "Right down here."

    Brolan led the detective down a short corridor to where three small conference rooms were housed. It was lunchtime, and two of them were open. In the third two art directors were projecting a slide show and making notes on which slides had to be replaced. These were the two resident agency wise guys.

    They could turn anything into dark humour. In general they were very funny, and all the funnier because they were often the butt of their own jokes.

    Brolan opened the door on conference room number two, flipped on the overhead light, and then stepped back for Dodge to precede him.

    "I can get us some coffee if you'd like a cup," Brolan said.

    He was well aware that his voice was about half an octave higher than usual. He was also aware that beneath his undershirt was a glaze of cold sweat

    "No, thanks," Dodge said. "Coffee makes me want to smoke cigarettes. My kids convinced me to give up smoking about six months ago. I still haven't been able to go back to coffee." He glanced around the room. "This is a very nice place. I haven't seen this much mahogany since the days when my grandfather had his law offices."

    "So, you come from a tradition of law?"

    Dodge shrugged. He was a trim man with short hair going grey. His blue blazer, white button-down shirt, Oxford-stripe red tie, and grey flannel slacks had the air of a uniform. He looked fifty, perhaps, and very bright and very composed. He also looked enigmatic. His dark eyes and somewhat tight mouth gave no indication of what he might be thinking. Brolan imagined this was damned useful to a cop. "I guess I never thought of it that way before. The tradition of law, I mean."

    "You work out of downtown?" Brolan asked. He was aware he was chattering. He didn't know how to not chatter.

    "Yes. Criminal investigation division. Homicide."

    "Really? Homicide?"

    Dodge smiled slightly. "Homicide. Really."

    "And this has something to do with me?" Brolan's voice was going up again.