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 to 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."