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?'
