Night Kills

by Ed Gorman

  Foster walked over to the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. "He's my client and my headache. I shouldn't have dragged you in there. There really wasn't any reason."

  "I'm not sure what you mean by my client. I guess I was under the impression that they were all our clients." He was aware of how paranoid-angry-he sounded. Right now he didn't give a damn.

  "Hey, my friend, cool out a little, all right?"

  Foster came over and sat in a chair on the other side of Hrolan's desk. "All I meant, Frank, was that I went after him personally."

  "You went after all the biggies personally. All five of them."

  "Yes, that's right. Is there something wrong with that, Frank?"

  "I guess I just don't like your proprietary tone is all. You may have gone out and hustled them up, but if we didn't give the right kind of creative edge, we wouldn't keep them very long. That's what you always tell me anyway."

  In the silent office, snow streaking the window, cars in the distance starting to slip and slide, Brolan knew how tired and crazed he sounded.

  Foster sat there and stared at him. He took a couple sips of coffee. "You know something, pally?"

  "What?"

  "You're coming apart"

  "You think I don't know that?"

  "What're you going to do about it?"

  "What can I do about? I've got a dead woman in my freezer, remember?"

  Foster sipped some more coffee. In his brown three-piece suit, his post-Beades hair neatly combed, he looked like the ultimate Jaycee, one given to goofy party hats and drunken speeches about brotherhood. He said, "Maybe it's time to go to the police."

  "Right."

  "I'm serious."

  "I know you are."

  "You can't go on much longer like this." Foster paused. "I'll grant you that McAlester is tough to deal with sometimes, but you didn't even try this morning."

  "You going to give me one of his positive-thinking speeches, Stu?"

  "No, but I am going to give you the best advice I know."

  "And what would that be?"

  "Contact a good criminal lawyer, and go to the police."

  "It's too late. It was too late when I found her in my freezer."

  "You're forgetting something, pally."

  "And what would that be?"

  "That I'm your witness. You don't seem to understand that I'm your witness, Frank. I can testify that she was already in the freezer when you and I got there. I can corroborate your story."

  "You're the one who's not thinking it through."

  "No?"

  "No. All the cops have to say is that I put her in the freezer myself and that I then dragged you up there so it would look as if somebody else put her there." He shook his head and looked angrily across the desk at his partner. "I'm still in a hell of a lot of trouble, Stu."

  Foster sighed. "Frank, I want to help you. That's why I came in here."

  "I know you do."

  "Going to the police is the only thing that makes sense at this point."

  Brolan sat forward in his chair. "Maybe I'm putting some things together."

  "Oh?"

  "I've found out a lot about this woman, Stu. There are some very good reasons some people would have wanted her dead. And there are some people who look as if they'd have been happy to do it"

  "Then turn all your evidence over to the police."

  Brolan sat back in his chair. He felt exhausted suddenly. He wanted to sit in this office alone and never move. Night would fall, balming night, enveloping him in darkness, and he would rest then. Rest He said, wearily, "I'm sorry I didn't handle McAlester better."

  "I know, Frank. It's just-it's just how you are at the moment The dead woman, I mean."

  "You know something?"

  "What?"

  "I've never figured out why he came over to us in the first place. Never figured out how you snagged him."

  "He was in trouble, pally. Or don't you remember when half die papers in this state were attacking him as a lech?"

  "I know that. But I mean, why us in particular? The agency he had wasn't doing a good job for him but he's so big and so powerful that he could have taken any big agency in the state. A lot bigger than us."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning I've never figured out how you pulled it off. Or gotten any of our five big ones, actually. You're damn good. But why us?"

  Foster grinned. "Just lucky, I guess."

  Brolan started to speak, but Foster stopped him. "You're still pissed, aren't you, pally? About the remark I made?"

  "Yeah, I guess," Brolan said.

  "I shouldn't have said that, Frank. About them being my accounts. They're our accounts. Because what you said about creativity is absolutely true. I went out and got them, but it's your work that's kept them."

  "I appreciate you, saying that, Stu. I-I'm just paranoid about things."

  "I know." Foster stood up. "Frank."

  "You don't need to say it."

  "I'm just trying to be your friend."

  "I know."

  "If you get the right lawyer, Frank, you'll be ahead of the game."

  "Maybe you're right"

  "The longer you wait-"

  Brolan looked up at him. "You know, I didn't even go down to the basement and look at her last night. I was afraid of-of what she'd look like. You know?"

  "I know. We're ad guys, pally, not morticians."

  Brolan stared out the window. He thought about Greg and Denise. At that moment they were probably having lunch and planning which movies to watch that afternoon. He felt an odd pang of jealousy. They'd never have a romance, but they'd have an enviable friendship. Brolan knew this and felt excluded. Over the past twenty-four hours he'd started to call his daughters several times but always stopped himself. Why inflict his misery on them? They were college age, with their own lives. They didn't deserve to have them spoiled. He was alone, and he'd simply have to live with that fact.

  Coming out of his brief reverie, Brolan said, "If I can just find out who hired her to spill a drink on me, I can find out who the killer is."

  "The police could do it in half the time."

  Brolan stood up. Went over to the window. Below, shoppers kept their heads down, ploughing their way into the harsh wind and snow. Brolan turned back to Stu. "I'll think it over, Stu. I really will."

  "If you want to talk, pally-"

  "I know, Stu. I appreciate it."

  Foster left.

  ***

  Around noon Brolan went back to the production department Two young women stood in the hallway, exchanging rubber boots for shoes and wrapping red scarves round their pretty necks. "You look like you're getting ready for Alaska," he said. They smiled so girlishly that he got sentimental about them and might have given them a big raise on the spot if they'd asked for it. "No, just down a couple of blocks over to Murray's. It's Jane's birthday." Then they floated off on their laughter.

  By the time he reached the production department, he'd been able to determine that the place was empty. Except perhaps for the only office that really interested him-Culhane's. The door was closed, but a light shone behind the frosted glass. Maybe he was in there.

  Brolan knocked twice. When he got no answer, he turned the knob and pushed inside.

  Tim Culhane was there all right but his mind wasn't presently engaged. He had his feet up on the desk and his eyes closed. From his ears traded two black snakes of cord that plugged into the Walkman sitting in his lap. Tim Culhane was grooving to some times.

  Brolan closed the door behind him as he came in. He walked over to the desk and pushed Culhane's feet to the floor. Brolan had already decided that if it came to violence, he'd give it first and hardest and without thought to anything as quaint as rules. Culhane was a bodybuilder, after all, and Brolan needed every advantage he could muster.

  "Hey," Culhane said, as his feet slammed to the floor and his chair threatened to spill him on the desk. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

&n
bsp; Brolan tossed the pornographic playing card on the desk. "Look familiar?" he said.

  Culhane's prim little mouth grew even tighter. "What the hell have you been doing-going through my desk?"

  "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?"

  25

  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."