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?'
'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
