at his canvas. Obviously he thought he was quite good.
Without excusing himself, he trotted off in his bare feet to get the phone. Around the corner where Kellogg had disappeared, Brolan got a glimpse of a coral wall behind a beautiful marble fireplace, a settee, and an Oriental rug. Kellogg certainly hadn't gotten those things from his painting.
Brolan strolled over to where other canvases had been stacked against the wall. He couldn't resist the impulse to find out just how bad a painter John Kellogg really was. The first few canvases were just about what he'd expected. Fruit bowls and winter skating scenes done in the Renoir style. Then he came to a canvas that rattled him. Staring up at him, her lovely green eyes sorrowful, was Emma. Not even John Kellogg's lack of talent could ruin the beauty of her face. Like the other canvases stacked there, this one had a paper 'sold' tag on the back. It was made out to a Charles Lane.
He had just stepped back to the canvas when Kellogg came back into the room.
'Probably the Louvre calling, wasn't it?' Brolan said.
'You're very funny.'
'When's the last time you saw Emma? And don't tell me you don't know her.'
Kellogg's scornful laugh sounded again. 'I told that bitch not to freelance.' He had picked up his brush; he set it down again. 'You made the big mistake, didn't you, fella?'
'What big mistake?'
'You paid her for an evening or so, and then you fell in love with her.'
'Is that something that happens often?'
Kellogg nodded. 'Often enough. That's why Emma needed me.'
Brolan took due note of Kellogg's past tense.
'Emma went on her own?'
'On the side. We had an argument.'
'About what?'
'Why should I tell you?'
Brolan waved the playing card at him again. 'Any idea who's behind these?'
'If I did, I wouldn't tell you.' He picked up his paintbrush again. He turned around and began studying the canvas once more. Without looking at Brolan, he said, 'You won't be able to pull it off.'
'Pull what off?'
' 'Taking her away from all this.' That's what you've got in mind, don't you? One of those corny redemptions you see in old movies. She's a beauty, I'll grant you that. But she's also a hooker through and through. She's one of the few women I know who actually enjoys this job.'
'I'd like to find her. That's all I'm asking you.'
'I haven't seen her for a couple days. Can't help you.' Then he moved his brush to his palette and began the process of painting. 'Now, why don't you flake off, fella?'
Brolan stared at the canvas. 'You must have a special market.'
'Huh?'
'Selling paintings to blind people.'
'Funny stuff, asshole,' Kellogg said.
Brolan left. He had concluded that he and John Kellogg were not in danger of becoming fast friends.
15
Daylight fading completely now, Brolan's next stop was a Perkins', where he had the hamburger planter, complete with french fries and lots of relish. Heart attack food. As he sat in a back booth watching couples of all ages come and go, he started thinking again of Kathleen. Strange, the people you sometimes fell in love with. People who seemed to mean you harm. Maybe that was the appeal. The risk. Yes. Risk. Suddenly, there in the glow of the soft lights, he felt a terrible need to see her, talk to her.
After leaving a good-sized tip (he'd once worked as a busboy at a summer resort; he knew how many people, surprisingly, didn't leave tips at all), he went up front to the pay phones.
She surprised him by answering on the second ring. It was barely six o'clock. That she was home this early on a workday probably meant that she was planning to go out that night.
As soon as she recognized his voice, a certain tension began to play in hers. 'Hi,' she said.
'Don't get excited. I didn't call up to hassle you. I just wanted to say hello.'
'That's nice of you.'
'How're things going?' He realized how foolish and pathetic he sounded. So uncharacteristically pleasant and dutiful.
'Oh, kind of hectic actually. I'm afraid I'm in a little hurry.'
'Oh.'
'A professional women's meeting tonight.'
Right, he thought. You like women so much and hang around them so often. He shook his head, depressed about her lies. He wondered if he knew the person she was seeing that night. Miserable as he was, he hoped it wasn't somebody from his agency. It would be like being a cuckold. 'Yes, I know how much you like those professional women's meetings.'
She obviously chose to ignore his sarcasm. 'Maybe we could go out and have a nice dinner next week.'
'I'd like that.'
'Good. So would I. I just hope it can be pleasant.'
'Pleasant' meant friendly, and friendly meant doing everything on her terms. 'Of course,' he said.
'Well, see you in the morning.'
'See you,' he said.
Behind him a teenage boy with zits and braces was waiting impatiently his turn at the phone. Maybe the kid had women problems of his own. Maybe there was a tenth-grade version of Kathleen, stony heartbreaker. He smiled at the kid: 'Just let me look up a name here, and I'll get out of your way.'
The kid nodded appreciatively.
Brolan looked up the name Charles Lane. Or rather, names, plural. There were six Charles Lanes in the Minneapolis-St. Paul directory. He wrote them down in his notebook and then turned the space over to the kid.
Predictably Richard Cummings's silver XKE was still in the parking lot when Brolan rolled in there forty-five minutes later. Cummings rarely left work before nine at night.
Ten years before, Cummings had taken on investors in his business, and this building was the result, a four- storey glass-and-steel curiosity that was all angles, pointing like a rocket ship to the sky. It was the sort of freak that only an architect-and people who pretended to know something about architecture-could love. There was no warmth, no romance, just pretence.
That night, however, its parking lot lights like the baleful eyes of an eldritch god behind the swirling fog and snow, the building had a certain obstinate dignity, its angles breaking up the fog, its interior lights glowing warmly in the cold mid-western night.
Brolan got out of the car and walked up to the building. It sat on its own lot just off Grand Avenue. The other buildings were far enough away that Brolan felt a great sense of isolation.
In the lobby he pressed the lone elevator button that would take him to the fourth floor. He and Foster had worked in this building for three years before they'd had their final falling-out with Richard Cummings. The cleaning people had already done their work for the night, and a memory of scents came back to him as the elevator bore him up to the top floor. They were using the same cleaning solvent. The memories reminded him of his son, who was still in grade school then, and of his wife and how painful their split had been. Time rushed at you and ultimately made no sense. You just got older, and if it meant anything, its meaning was well hidden.
The top floor housed the executive offices. Unlike the days of his tenure, you now needed an electronic card to have access. He stood outside the door wondering what to do. The obvious.
There wasn't much else to do.
He knocked.
