Brian Freeman - The Voice Inside

“Where’d you get it?” Rudy asked.

“A few small jobs.” Phil waggled his fingers. He’d always been good with locks. He’d been caught a few times, but the cash-strapped California jails didn’t have room for low-level thieves.

Rudy took another casual swig from his beer. “Did you a find a guy for the switch tonight?”

“Yeah, he’s sitting at the end of the bar.”

Rudy followed Phil’s glance and spotted a man nursing a whiskey rocks by himself. He was at least ten years younger than Rudy, but they could make it work. Their build was similar. The man wore sunglasses, a loose 49ers jersey, and tan corduroys. A navy knit cap covered his forehead and ears.

“What did you tell him?” Rudy asked.

“Nothing. For fifty bucks, he didn’t ask questions. I text him, we’re good to go.”

“Okay,” Rudy said. “I’ll call you as soon as I can. You have the burner phones?”

“You bet. So what are you going to do, Rudy?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Hey, I never interfere, but you’re out, man. That’s huge. Maybe you should think about getting out of town. San Francisco is too hot right now. Everyone’s keeping an eye out for you. You could head to LA or Reno or someplace like that. You could start over. Or at least lay low for a while.”

“I’ve got things to do. Now text your friend, and let’s go.”

His brother whipped off a quick text on his phone. Out of the corner of his eye, Rudy saw the man at the bar grab his phone and make an awkward, obvious survey of the crowded room. Fortunately, no one saw him; no one cared. The man climbed off the bar stool and pushed through the crowd toward the narrow hallway leading to the men’s restroom.

Rudy waited until the man was gone, and then he got out of the chair. A dozen eyes in the bar followed him as he got up. He pretended not to notice. He signaled the bartender with two fingers. Two more beers over here.

Then he headed for the restroom.

The door was closed, but he rapped his knuckles on the wood, and the man from the bar opened it a crack and looked outside. Rudy pushed past him into the tiny room and locked the door behind them. There wasn’t much space for the two of them inside. A single dim lightbulb overhead cast shadows. The sink was dirty and wet, and the toilet stank.

“Get undressed,” Rudy said. “Fast.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Without waiting for the other man, Rudy yanked off his own suit coat and quickly stripped off his tie and unbuttoned his dress shirt. He kicked off his shoes, undid his belt, unzipped his pants, and stood in the bathroom in nothing but his underwear and socks. He shoved the man’s shoulder hard.

“Move,” he said.

The other man sprang into action. He pulled off his 49ers jersey, and Rudy slipped it on. Same with the man’s corduroys. They switched sunglasses, and Rudy took the man’s knit cap and handed over his own Warriors hat. The man squeezed into Rudy’s suit, and when he struggled with the tie, Rudy reached out and did the knot and shoved it up tightly against the man’s throat.

“Go straight back to the table with my brother,” Rudy told him. “Sit down, and don’t let anyone get a good look at your face. Drink the beer. Talk to him like you’re best friends, okay?”

The man looked nervous. “I don’t know about this.”

“You only need to pull it off for five minutes,” Rudy told him. “Phil will give you an extra twenty bucks if this works.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Now get out of here,” Rudy said.

He unlocked the bathroom door and shoved the man through the narrow opening, then locked the door again and waited. He counted off ninety seconds. Enough time for the man to make it back to their table and for the cops and reporters to notice the suit, the Warriors cap, and the sunglasses. Not enough time to look carefully and realize they were being conned.

Rudy opened the door. No one else was waiting to get into the bathroom. He saw the standing-room-only bar crowd ahead of him at the end of the corridor. Something happened in the basketball game; a cheer filled the room. Everyone was distracted. He pushed casually through the throng and ignored the faces, and they ignored him. Beyond the tables, he saw the exit door, illuminated by a neon sign. He didn’t look at his brother, and he hoped Phil was smart enough not to look his way.

No one saw him. No one recognized him.

He crossed the bar floor and pushed through the door into the cold, drizzly night. Across the street, halfway down the block, cops watched from inside a sedan. He ignored them and walked the other way. At the corner, he turned onto Guerrero and marched uphill with his head down and his hands in his pockets. He was in no hurry. He listened for the noise of cars turning to lay chase behind him.

None did.

At the next intersection, he ran. He sprinted through darkened streets and lost himself in the neighborhood. Back at the bar, they’d probably figured out their mistake by now, but they were too late to find him. He was already gone.

He slowed to a walk and found a deserted park where he could sit and enjoy the San Francisco air. But not for long.

Someone was waiting for him.

She just didn’t know it yet.

Frost turned into the parking garage across from Pier 39.

It was late, and most of the tourists were back in their hotels, except for a few couples wandering hand in hand past the fairy lights of the Wharf. The garage itself was largely empty of cars. He drove to the third floor and parked near the elevated walkway that led over the Embarcadero to the shops and restaurants. He got out and wandered into the midnight air. From the far side of the pier, he heard the 24/7 barking of the sea lions who made a home there. The smell of fish wafted in the air.

In the shadows, no more than twenty yards away, Jess waited for him. Her spiky bangs looked longer and messier than usual. She wore a heavy jacket against the wind that emphasized her bulky physique. A cigarette hung from her mouth, as it usually did.

He joined her at the railing. “This is sort of like Deep Throat, isn’t it? A parking garage at midnight?”

“I’ve got spies at my place,” Jess told him through a cloud of smoke. Her apartment building was only a few blocks away on Kearny Street. “I had to lose somebody when I left.”

“You think it’s the press?”

“Maybe. Or maybe Hayden is making sure you and I don’t talk. I’m radioactive. Nobody is supposed to have any contact with me.”

Captain Hayden was the top cop in the major-crimes unit. He was also Jess’s ex-husband, and their marriage hadn’t ended well. The captain had probably heard the rumors about his wife’s short-lived relationship with Frost, but Frost wasn’t sure if Hayden thought the affair had begun before or after their separation. Either way, he and the captain were colleagues but not friends.

“I don’t care about Hayden,” Frost said.

“Well, you should. This isn’t your case. You should stay out of it.”

“I am out of it. Officially, at least. But we’re talking about the man who killed Katie. If Hayden doesn’t like me getting involved, he can fire me, too.”

Jess gave a disgusted little sigh. “Don’t be stupid, Frost. You don’t need to go down in flames like me. This was my mistake. I was wrong to say any of this is your fault. This is on me, not you. I knew what I was doing. I knew there’d be a hell of a price to pay if it ever came out.”

They were silent for a while.

Then Frost said, “They already lost Cutter. The alert came over the radio this evening.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. He and his brother were at a bar. Cutter switched clothes with some guy in the men’s room. By the time the cops following him figured it out, he was long gone.”