Within another minute, the ladder put back, the side door of the garage closed snugly, he was in his car and sluicing through the deep snow in the alley.
Ten minutes later, at a drive-up phone, he stopped and deposited thirty-five cents and called the office. He asked for Kathleen. She came on the line in a minute or so.
'Are you someplace you can talk?' he said.
She hesitated. 'Not really.'
'Well, I just wanted to let you know that I made my little trip to his garage.'
'No problems, then?'
'None.'
'Good.'
'In about an hour I'm going to call the police and tell them that as an anonymous good citizen, I feel duty bound to tell them that I think he's hiding a body somewhere in his house. That I think I saw him carrying one in the other night.' He sighed. 'Poor bastard. You should have seen his face this morning.'
But he was being sentimental, and Kathleen was almost never sentimental. From all this, she would gain half the agency, taking over Brolan's role. That was all she thought about. Two years before, Foster and Kathleen had been forced' to accompany each other on a business trip to Denver. One snowy night, the client's plane unable to land, they'd endured a dinner together. They genuinely disliked and distrusted each other. Foster saw her as all ambition and cunning; and she saw him as everything she hated about the men's club that still ran most of advertising. But drinks had led to sex and sex to a peculiar relationship. She seemed to hate men in much the same way he hated women. She'd even sensed-that very first night-that for him pain was a part of pleasure. She'd started biting him, hard, almost angrily, to the point of drawing blood. And that night he'd had an orgasm that nearly blinded him with its pleasure… They let people, including Brolan, continue to think that they still hated each other. It lent their real relationship a protective coloration. And after a few months Kathleen started talking about how they could get new clients for the agency. Good, blue-chip clients that so many other agencies were always hurling themselves against uselessly.
'I'm going to have a little talk with Lane first. Brolan's been poking around. He may have figured out some things about our friend Charles,' Foster said.
'Good,' she said.
'I'll see you at your place around six,' he said, and hung up.
In another minute, he was driving again, enjoying the sparkling white snow and the dark branches swinging in the wind.
28
Brolan was not able to stop shaking.
Fifteen minutes after the detective had left, he sat behind his desk, his office door closed, trembling as if he had been left out in a farm field over night.
He felt the weight of the past three days and nights on him-paranoia about the woman in the freezer, not enough sound sleep, wild suspicions and surmises about nearly everyone around him.
One way or another, he knew, it would be over with soon. He simply didn't have the stamina for much more.
He had put his head down on his desk, the way he once had as a grade-school boy. Had he ever been sleepier than he'd been trying to survive an afternoon of history and maths?
It was no different now. All he wanted was sleep. Given all the trouble he was in, the desire was almost perverse.
But he didn't care.
He slept.
He had no idea what time it was when his intercom buzzed. His head came up quickly, as if somebody had poked him with a pin.
'Yes?'
'Line two.'
Rubbing sleep from his eyes. 'Do you know who it is?'
'Somebody named Denise. Sounds young.'
'Oh. Right. Denise. Thanks.'
He picked up. 'Hi.'
'Greg asked me to call you.'
'Fine.'
'He-we-wanted to know if you knew anybody who drives a silver XKE.'
'I sure do.'
'Well, he came here last night-over in Emma's apartment-and he pushed stuff around pretty good, and then he knocked me out.'
'What?'
So, she explained. 'So, you know who he is?'
'His name is Cummings.'
'Greg thinks you should find out what he's up to.'
'I think that's a very good idea.' He paused. 'How do you feel, Denise?'
'Neck's kind of stiff is all.'
'Otherwise all right?'
'Otherwise fine.'
'I'm going to check him out. And right now.'
'The man who hit me?'
'Right.'
'If you get a chance, punch him for me, will you?' Then she laughed. 'I'm just kidding. I hate to see anybody get punched.'
'I'll try and get over there around dinner time. Maybe the three of us can order a pizza or something.'
'Greg wants to show me a serial called Jungle Girl tonight. Maybe you can watch it, too.'
Actually that sounded nice. Pleasant. Relaxing. He said, 'Hope so, Denise. Hope so.'
From downtown Brolan went to the Chichester Country Club, which lay in a wooded-and now virtually snowbound area-south of the city.
The snow, the freezing temperature, and the brutal winds hadn't kept many members from lunching there. The parking lot was full. A man in a hunting outfit on a mobile snowblower was scraping the parking lot. He waved when he saw Brolan.
Chichester was by no means the most exclusive club in the city, but in a peculiar way it was the most difficult to get into. The men who founded the place following World War II looked for like kind only-hunters, fishermen, sports fanatics. That was the measure there-what type of man you were, and not social background or wealth. Of course, if you were impoverished and living on food stamps, it was unlikely the Chichester boys would take you, even if you knew how to catch fish with your bare hands.
The ranch-style building stretched over a deeply sloping hill down to a small wooded area of pine and fir. It was made of native stone and rough timber, lending it the hoped-for look of rustic sophistication. The creek that ran downslope was frozen over and silver. A white-haired man in a long dark overcoat skated across the ice, holding himself erect with military decorum. At his age Brolan would be lucky to be able to get out of bed every morning, let alone do a few miles on a frozen creek.
A chunky man in a good suit one size too small greeted Brolan just inside the door. 'May I help you?'
'I'd like to see Mr. Cummings.'
'I see. I'm afraid he's swimming right now. Maybe you'd like to wait in the bar.'
'Fine.'
