by Ed Gorman
He lay back once more and smoked his cigarette.
He was already re-addicted. At some point he'd have to go through the whole cold turkey process again.
The toilet flushed. In the quiet gloom it sounded like a car bomb exploding.
He heard her size 4AA feet against the floor. She had dear little feet. She really did. It was one of those helpless sentimental thoughts he always had about her. Dear little feet. God, he made himself sick sometimes.
When she slipped into bed with him again, her whole body felt cold. On her arms he could even feel goosebumps.
She said, "Foster said you were taking some time off." As usual, when she mentioned his partner, she sounded as if she were describing something filthy and deadly with germs.
He forced a laugh. "It would be nice if someday you two would get along together."
She returned his laugh. "Getting along with one of you is difficult enough. Getting along with two of you would be impossible." She hesitated, as if nervous about asking him her next question. "So, why the time off?"
He had an easy enough excuse at hand, and he used it. "I think I need some time away from you. It'll make it easier for us if I take some time off. Anyway, God knows I've built up enough vacation time."
"That's probably a good idea. I was thinking about taking a vacation myself. Maybe go to Jamaica for a week. Work on a tan."
He tried not to think of her on the yellow beaches of Jamaica, in the mauve string bikini she'd worn last summer. So many men…
He slipped out of bed and started the process of dressing. She said, "I'm sorry about the way things worked out."
"I know."
"Do you really believe I'm sorry?"
He thought a moment. "Yes."
"Come here a moment."
His trousers on but not buckled, one sock on, the other foot cold from the hardwood floor, he knelt on the edge of the bed and met her as she rose naked to kiss him.
Her mouth was cool and tasted of toothpaste. She'd brushed while in the john.
He tried to keep everything platonic. No sense of getting turned on again. He felt as if this house-and even her arms-had become a tomb. Anyway, his crotch felt as dead as his heart.
"After a while I hope we can be friends again," she said. He said nothing, withdrew from the wonderful tangle of their kiss.
As he was tugging on his other sock and reaching for his shirt, she said, "I appreciate how you're handling this."
"That's me, all right. Exemplary behaviour."
"I know it's not easy for you."
He hung his necktie under his collar, but he didn't tie the two ends. "Good night."
"Should I walk you downstairs?"
"No. That's fine."
"Take care of yourself."
"Thanks."
The shoes were the last to go on. Then he was ready. He wanted to leave very quickly, yet something made him linger, too.
He had to say it. "If you change your mind-"
He left the rest unsaid. She was a smart girl. She could figure that out. If she changed her mind, he'd be happy to take her back.
"Good night," he said again.
He went through the dark house, with its antiques and high ceilings and its Persian rugs.
He went out the same side door he'd come in. The cold air seemed to freeze his nostrils on contact.
He went out to the bottom of the drive, careful of how he was walking because it was so icy, and opened the door of his car and was just putting one leg in when he noticed it-a car across the street, a dark shape behind the wheel, clearly watching him.
He recognized the car right away.
A silver XKE was not the kind of car you should use if you were trying to keep yourself hidden.
He wondered what his ex-boss, Richard Cummings, was doing there anyway.
He closed the door on his own car without getting in and then started down the steep slope of the drive. Moonlight gave the ice and snow a silver surface.
He was about halfway to Cummings's car when the XKE's lights suddenly shone like awakening eyes, and the-car pulled jerkily from the kerb, heading in the opposite direction.
What the hell was going on-had Cummings been following him, or was he there to see Kathleen?
Brolan raised his head to look at the Gothic house outlined against the moon. It was dark, forbidding, unknowable. And inside was a beautiful young woman just as dark, just as forbidding, just as unknowable.
Shaking his head, he walked back to his car, got inside, and left.
22
THE LAUGHTER STARTLED BROLAN. Music, a voice from the television, maybe even a conversation-all of these would have seemed reasonable coming from Greg Wagner's duplex. But somehow laughter seemed odd.
Brolan raised his hand and pushed in the doorbell. This late at night, there were just a few yellow-glowing windows along this prosperous-looking middle-class street. People up late watching Letterman or Arsenio Hall, most likely. On the slopes of some lawns you could see plump, happy snowmen, scarves wrapped around their thick necks, top hats cocked at jaunty angles. Maybe they were standing sentry, keeping ill from their owners' houses. In a few yards sleds had been left on lawns, which made Brolan flash back to his own kids, their cold red cheeks as they frolicked in the snow, the way they'd moved so cumbersomely and cutely in their little snowsuits. It was near midnight; the snow was blue, the tranquil and ideal blue of a sentimental Christmas card, and blue-grey smoke coiled up from chimneys to make everything seem that much cosier. Brolan wanted to be one of those people sitting at home watching Letterman, a bowl of popcorn on his lap and a Diet 7 Up in an ice-clinking glass. And no dead women. No; no dead women at all.
Inside the laughter stopped abruptly.
Brolan could hear Greg Wagner's wheelchair coming across the hardwood floor.
Apparently a trusting man, Wagner didn't ask who it was. He simply pulled the door back.
"Hey, Frank, c'mon in!" Wagner called.
The festive mood, like the laughter, surprised Brolan. The last time he'd seen Wagner, the man had been lamenting Emma. Something had obviously happened in the meantime…
As soon as he got inside and closed the door behind him, Brolan saw the girl. She was maybe sixteen and very pretty in a sad sort of way, one of those wan beauties who seem to be all the more appealing because of their very wanness. She wore a blue button-down shirt and a grey pullover sweater and designer jeans, and very white tube socks that made her seem very comfy on so cold a winter night.
Brolan noticed immediately how anxiously Wagner was watching the girl. Almost as if he were awaiting some kind of answer from her.
"Well?" Wagner said to the girl.
She looked Brolan up and down, so carefully and obviously that he felt self-conscious standing there.
"So, what do you think?" Wagner said to her.
But the girl wouldn't be rushed. She continued to tilt her head this way and that, considering Brolan from a variety of angles.
Finally the girl said, "He isn't the one."
"I'm not the one what?" Brolan said.
"Not the guy who tried to kill her last night," Wagner said.
"Gee, am I supposed to tell her thank-you?" Brolan said.
"Hey, Brolan," Wagner said, spreading his hands in an gesture of friendship. "It wasn't anything personal."
The girl said, "You want some hot chocolate?"
Before Brolan could say anything, she said, "He's got these little teeny marshmallows. They're really good."
Brolan felt as if he'd walked into the middle of a very private and very intimate party, where outsiders could never possibly know the ground rules.
"Yes," he said hesitatingly. "Hot chocolate sounds good."
"Great," the girl said, half jumping to her feet and snatching up both her own white ceramic cup and Wagner's as well. "I'll get us all another round."
She put out a slim little hand. Brolan took it. "I'm Denise, by the way."
"Hi, Denise."
"Be right back," she said.
Instead of merely walking across the hardwood floor, she got a little steam up and slid across the well-varnished boards. Her sudden enthusiasm played nicely against her young-Garbo countenance.
After watching her disappear into the kitchen; Brolan glanced down at Wagner. Glowing was the only word that could possibly do the look in his eyes justice.
"Where'd you find her?" Brolan asked.
Wagner, love-struck or what ever the hell he was, looked up from his reverie and said, "Oh, Denise, you mean?"
"Yes, Denise."
"She tried to break in."
"She tried to break in?" Brolan shook his head, still feeling as if he'd landed somewhere in the middle of Alice's adventure down the rabbit hole. "Maybe if I'm a good boy and take off my shoes on this throw rug and go over there and sit down-maybe you'll explain all this to me."
Wagner stared at him, as if really taking note of his presence for the first time. "It's not that difficult to understand, Frank. Not if you really sit down and give everything a fair hearing. And by the way, you'll like Denise. I promise."
Brolan got his shoes and coat off and went over to sit on the end of the couch. As he crossed the room, he noted that on the outsize TV screen was an image of Laurel and Hardy in cowboy duds from Way Out West, his favourite of their movies.
Greg was smart enough to start the conversation on exactly the right note. "You know," he said, "if we can figure out who tried to kill Denise last night, we can figure out who killed Emma." Then he told Brolan all about his wallet's being in the back pocket of the killer. Then he told Brolan everything.
Half an hour later Brolan finished his second cup of hot chocolate. The room was deeply shadowed, thanks to Greg's turning on a lava lamp ("I'm just a hippie at heart") on the far end of the long coffee table.
Brolan, relentless, had Denise repeat her story three times. Each time she came up with a few more details. He supposed he could learn even more if he sat there and questioned her all night. But from her tone he could tell that she was tiring quickly, even getting somewhat irritable.
"You're not sure if the beard was fake?"
She sighed. "I told you. It seemed real to me."
"He was heavy?"
"Yes. Chunky."
"With brown hair?"
"Right."
"And his eyes?"
"Blue, I guess."
"Earlier you said you were positive they were blue."
"I can't be sure. Not absolutely. You know, some people have kind of blue-grey eyes. They could've been like that."
"But they weren't brown?"
"No; they weren't brown."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
"And you didn't notice any scars anywhere or any tattoos."
"No."
"I'm sorry I have to keep asking you questions." She sighed. Glanced at Greg. "I know."
"Could we talk about the car again?"
"I'll try."
"You said it could've been a Chevrolet."
"It was something new anyway."
"Why did you say Chevrolet?"
She shrugged. "My dad used to go to all the auto-dealer showrooms. He always liked to get all the free stuff they give away when they've got their new cars in. You know?"
"And you've seen a car like that before?"
"Something sort of like it, yes."
"And it was a Chevrolet?"
"Uh-huh."
"Now I've got to ask you some questions about what you do."
"What I do?"
He nodded. "You know, when you go over to Loring Park."
"Oh. Right."
"Where will the kids go tonight?"
"Because of the snow and everything?"
"Yes."
"Oh, I hear there're couple a places off Hennepin. They work the corners, but they can stay close to these bars, so they go in there and get warm when they need to."
"So, if this guy wanted to find you again… you think he'd look there?"
"I guess."
"What if he wasn't a regular john. Could he find out where the kids work?"
"Sure. He could ask a cabbie or somebody." She looked at him curiously. "You think he's still trying to find me?"
"Possibly."
"Why?"
Brolan hesitated. "Maybe he wants to finish what he started." She smiled at Greg Wagner. "Greg said I can stay here for a while. Sleep on the couch."
Brolan avoided Wagner's gaze. He remembered the man's saying that some men with spina bifida-himself included-tended to fall in love with somebody impossible to attain. And who could be more unattainable than a sixteen-year-old street girl who spent part of her time hooking and the other part of her time concocting blackmail plots?
"You'll be safe here," Brolan said. "But I don't know how safe you'll be when you go back to the streets."
"Why does he want to hurt me?"
"I don't think he does."
"He sure gave me a different impression."
"You, specifically, I mean. He's trying to hurt me through you. That seems to be his main purpose. He selected you purely at random."
"Why does he want to hurt you?"
"I don't know."
"You really don't?"
He laughed gently. "Hey, Denise, I'm not an all-around loveable guy, I admit. But somebody killing women and then trying to blame me for it? Now that's somebody who really hates me. The last time I looked, I wasn't that bad a guy. I really wasn't."
"And you don't have any idea who it was?"
"Not any idea at all. Nothing substantive anyway. Just some guesses at this point."
Without any warning at all Denise leaned back in the couch and yawned. She was a kid at this moment-a sleepy kid. "Boy, I'm getting tired."
"Why don't you go in and lie down on my bed?" Greg said. "I'd planned to sleep on the couch tonight anyway."
"Gee, I hate to put you out, Greg," she said. "Why don't you let me sleep on the couch?"
Greg grinned. "And miss one of my few chances to be gallant? I wouldn't hear of it." Greg turned to Brolan. "Are you done questioning her, Frank?"
Brolan nodded. "Yes. And I appreciate your spending the time with me."
Standing now, Denise yawned again and stretched. "Hope you catch him."
"So do I."
She eyed the hall leading to the bedroom. "Well, I guess I'll see you guys later, then."
"Good night, Denise," Greg said.
She walked over to him, took his face in her hands, and kissed him tenderly on the nose. "I really appreciate everything, Greg. I haven't felt this good in a long time."
Greg Wagner started blushing. Brolan smiled.
"You, too, Frank," she said. "I enjoyed meeting you, too. Only maybe next time you won't have so many questions."
"G'night, Denise," Brolan said, and watched her disappear down the hall.
As soon as she was out of sight, Greg said, "So, what do you think of her?"
"I guess I don't have to ask you what you think of her."
"You don't approve."
"I just don't want to see you get hurt. Or ripped off."
"Ripped off? She's not that kind of kid."
"She came here to blackmail me, didn't she?"
"You're making too much of that."
Their eyes met. Brolan didn't want to ruin the other man's hope. "Maybe you're right, Greg. Maybe I'm just too cynical."
Greg said, "Even though I suspect that's a deeply insincere comment, I'll take it at face value."
"Good."
"And now I'll go on to tell you about our friend Charles Lane." He shook his head. The glee put in his eyes by Denise was gone now. This was how he'd looked when Brolan had first met him. "Maybe Emma and I weren't the friends I thought we were."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning that there was a lot she didn't tell me."
"You're sure of that?"
Wagner nodded. "This afternoon I decided to go over t
o the other side of the duplex. See what Emma had left behind." He tossed a leather-bound book about the size of a paperback novel over to Brolan. "She kept two diaries-the way dishonest businessmen keep two sets of books."
"Why would she do that?"
"Probably didn't want to hurt my feelings. Or just resented the fact that every private thought she wrote down on the computer could easily be seen by me anytime I cared to tap into it." He smiled without humour. "Can't say I blame her, can you?"
"I guess not. Everybody needs privacy."
"Exactly. And she had her privacy. That diary."
"Charles Lane's in here?"
"A great deal. I suspect that her friend the pimp was telling you the truth, Frank."
"About what?"
"I think that over the past six months, she was working a lot for Lane on the side."
"You mean he became her pimp?"
"Apparently. You'll find a lot of references in there about Lane's setting her up with this man or that man. None of the names mean anything to me. I thought you might look it over and see if it made any more sense to you."
"I appreciate it."
This time there was a little humour in Wagner's laugh, but it was sour humour. "You remember how I told you that some men with spina bifida make fools out of themselves with women? Well, you're looking at one, I'm afraid. After I read her diary and the way she talked about me, I don't think Emma felt much more for me than pity."
Brolan let him talk. That was obviously what the man needed. "When you came in here and saw Denise, I know that's what you thought."
"I'm sorry I'm so cynical."
"No, no," Wagner said. "You're probably right. She came in here and saw a good thing and decided to latch onto it." He shrugged. "That's why being handicapped and having money at the same time is a bad combination. It leaves you open to people who don't mean you any good."
"I shouldn't have been so adamant about Denise. She may be just what she seems. A very nice girl who's got some personal problems and nothing more sinister than that."
"I shouldn't have offered to put her up."
"You're going to ask her to leave?"
"I'm going to think about it."
"Greg, I repeat: I'm a pretty cynical guy. I always tend to look on the dark side. That's a pretty inhibiting attitude sometimes. And sometimes you have to disregard it. I'd give her a chance." Wagner stared at him. "You're not just saying that? You'd give her a chance?"
