Night Kills (21 page)

    And that became her last thought: how odd she was, how different from all others.

    Then there was nothing. Nothing.

    

    

    
Friday

    THE MAN WAS PLUMP. The man was bald. The man was astigmatic. The man wore a black leather jump-suit; the man was about sixty-three years old. The man was an asshole. The man was a client.

    "So, when're you going to line me up with that chick back in the art department?" Harold McAlester said.

    "Soon as she gets a little older," Brolan said.

    McAlester, a fat, evil child despite his years, winked over at Foster. "Brolan here doesn't approve of me. Never has." He looked at Brolan. "Fuck 'im."

    They were in the main conference room. They had been in the main conference room for nearly two hours. All the time with McAlester. Though he had ostensibly come here to discuss advertising, McAlester really wanted to tell them about all the women he'd screwed on his recent trip to Vale. Or said he'd screwed. Or would like to've screwed. McAlester, who a long time ago had been a famous college running back, was the owner of a dozen gourmet shops that did windfall business in upscale malls. He had a woman whom he badly underpaid actually run all the day-to-day stuff, while he went out and gave pep talks to high schools about capitalism and positive thinking.

    Once, there'd been an incident when he'd gotten a little over-smitten with this sixteen-year-old Nordic ball-buster whom he'd tried to lure out into his Mercedes following some kind of pep-club deal. Just because she was a small town Lutheran didn't mean she didn't know what the old bald fucker had in mind. She told the small-town Lutheran principal, who, in turn, told the small-town Lutheran mayor, who, in turn, told the small town I.utheran newspaper editor. This guy, a mean Republican in a county of mean Democrats, started out his editorial by noting nil Harold's contributions to the Humphrey and Mondale Shumpaigns over the years, and then without a fare-thee-well, mentioned the fact that Harold, in addition to giving his positive thinking sermons, also spent an undue amount of time sniffing around the small town Lutheran daughters of all the small-town Lutheran men who read this here particular paper. Harold spent the next fourteen months eating bag after bag of shit and trying to come up with the right gimmick that would turn his image around.

    Which was when he'd come to Foster and Brolan and which was when, together, they came up with the idea for The House of Sunshine, the big rambling mansion where terminally ill kids could come and spend up to five days a month in luxury and privilege while they went back and forth to the university hospital to have their tests and whatnot. Now, no reporter wanted to come right out and say this was a despicable, low-down publicity ploy fabricated by one despicable, low-down, Vatican-loving son-of-a-bitch-they couldn't, not without sounding awfully cynical themselves. And so they let it slide, and every night there was old bald McAlester on the six and ten o'clock news (on the tube he always wore conservative three-piece suits and put some kind of jazz on his shaved head to cut down the glare; no kidding), tub-thumping the shit out, The House of Sunshine, sounding for all the world like a guy who was probably related in some way to Mother Theresa. The heat off, McAlester was back to Vale trips and European trips and Vegas trips and Jew York trips (as he was so fond of calling them), and most especially, he was back to trifling with chicks who probably couldn't buy legal beer yet. All Brolan could figure out was that the asshole had everything. All that was left to him was the risk of jailbait. Maybe it was the only way he could get it up.

    "She's got this peach coloured skirt that's so tight, you can see the crack in her ass when she first stands up," McAlester said. "You ever notice that, Brolan?"

    "No, I never noticed that."

    Another wink to Foster. "You ever think there's maybe something wrong with Brolan here, Foster? He doesn't notice the crack in her ass when she stands up."

    "Come on, you guys," Foster said, playing his inevitable role of scout leader. "Let's talk some fucking advertising; how'z about it?"

    Around eleven that morning a cold air mass from Canada brought new snow. By eleven-thirty three new inches of the white stuff had been added to downtown Minneapolis. The overcast sky lent everything the air of dusk, including the fuzzy look of stoplights and department store windows seen behind the haze of falling snow.

    Brolan was in his office. He had to pretend everything was all right, which meant actually getting some work done. His meeting earlier with Foster and McAlester had left him angry. He didn't like working with clients who were essentially bullies, who saw all your female employees as potential chattel, and your personal values as something to smirk about.

    Three of the writers had left copy on his desk for approval. He was fortunate to have three very good writers who could turn out solid work in a variety of styles. This stuff on his desk was fine and required little revision.

    He was halfway through a slide-show script when somebody knocked. Foster walked in. He smiled. "I hope you and McAlester aren't ever marooned on the same desert island together. One of you wouldn't be alive after twenty-four hours."

    "Sorry if I was shitty."

    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?"

    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?"