Brian Freeman - The Voice Inside

“That’s her room,” Gilda said. “You’re welcome to look inside. I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can go in there myself.”

Frost nodded. Eden put an arm around the woman’s shoulder and squeezed. They waited until Gilda made her way back downstairs, and then Frost walked to the end of the hallway and opened the bedroom door. Nina’s sunny smile in the photograph beckoned him inside. He turned on an overhead light, and then he went to the window, which overlooked the street, and parted the curtains. Eden hovered in the doorway.

“Have you been here before?” Frost asked.

“I have.”

“Does it look the same?”

“Frozen in time,” Eden replied.

It was a teenager’s bedroom, more for a girl than a young woman. Nina had been twenty-one when she was killed, but the room still felt as if it belonged to a high schooler. Frost saw a life that had revolved around religion, family, and friends. A crucifix was hung over the twin bed, which was perfectly made with a red flowered comforter. He saw a collage of photographs of Nina and her brothers and cousins on the wall. A pewter star engraved with the word believe dangled from a thumb tack. He saw a beautiful pen-and-ink sketch of Gilda in the hospital, holding her newborn baby. Underneath the sketch was a label written in script: Gilda and Nina . And below it was the date — April 1 — which was Nina’s birthday.

Several photographs, handmade into buttons, were spread like polka dots across the bed, along with a plastic crown that had the number “21” glued to the front with rhinestones. He remembered that Nina had been wearing these buttons, and the crown, at the coffee shop on her twenty-first birthday.

Rudy Cutter would have seen the buttons pinned to Nina’s shirt. It had to have been a reminder that Wren would have turned twenty-one that year, too. If his daughter had lived.

Frost picked them up one by one. There were five of them. One button was made from the same graduation photograph that was hung on her bedroom door. Another was obviously a wedding photograph of her parents. Two others were vacation photos: Nina in a one-piece swimsuit in a Las Vegas hotel pool, Nina and her brothers posing by the rim of the Grand Canyon.

The last photograph had been taken right here in Nina’s bedroom. He could see the wall, the pictures, the pen-and-ink sketch, and the pewter star in the background. There were two girls beaming in the picture, their cheeks together, their smiles like high-wattage lightbulbs. Two best friends. Nina Flores and Tabby Blaine.

Tabby hadn’t changed much in nine years. She had a self-awareness that stood out next to Nina’s little-girl innocence. Watch me, her face said. Go ahead, I dare you. Her green eyes teased the camera. Her freckles made a constellation of stars around the button of her nose. He saw streaks of gold hiding in her long red hair.

Frost retrieved his phone and took close-up pictures of each of the buttons so he could review the details later.

“So your brother’s dating Tabby Blaine,” Eden murmured, coming up behind him.

“How about we leave that detail off the record?”

“Sorry, Frost, I can’t do that. Two murders that give birth to a love story? That’s a perfect anecdote for a true-crime book.”

“Duane and Tabby are dating. I didn’t say it was a love story.”

“No? Your face says otherwise. Is it serious between them?”

“If you want to know more, talk to them. Not me.”

Her eyes narrowed with curiosity. “You sound annoyed. Why, are you jealous? Do you like Tabby, too? I remember her as being pretty cute.”

He dodged her innuendo because he didn’t want to admit that she’d struck a nerve. “You interviewed Tabby back then?”

“I did.”

“What did she tell you?”

“Not much. I don’t think she liked me.”

“Surprise, surprise.”

Eden offered him a look of mock astonishment. “Why do you say that? I’m very likable. Mrs. Flores likes me.”

“Mrs. Flores isn’t a single woman. How many single women friends do you have?”

“A number approaching zero,” she acknowledged.

“And male friends?”

“Countless. Okay, you’ve made your point.”

Frost’s lips twitched into a smile. Eden was the one who looked annoyed now. She liked to analyze others, but he didn’t think she appreciated being analyzed herself.

He put Nina’s buttons down on the bed, trying to position them exactly as they’d been. There was a reverence about them, he thought, which was why Gilda Flores had kept them all these years. Even so, if the buttons held a secret, he couldn’t figure out what it was.

“There has to be a clue here, but I’m missing it,” Frost said, surveying the bedroom again with frustration. “You’ve been here before. What do you think?”

“I’m just a writer.” Her voice had an impatient note. She was still unhappy with him.

“You’re a writer who doesn’t miss much,” he said.

“Well, all I see is what you see. I’m sorry. If I knew more than that, Frost, I’d tell you.”

Eden turned with a swish of her curly hair and stalked out of the bedroom, and his gaze followed her long legs as she left.

It occurred to Frost that spending more time with Eden hadn’t changed his mind. He still didn’t trust her.

“Another drink?” the bartender asked.

Rudy stared into the ice melting at the base of his lowball glass. He swirled it in his hand. “Sure. Why not?”

“Same again?”

“Yeah. G and T. Bombay.”

“Coming up.”

The young bartender made the empty glass disappear. He was small and Asian, with feminine features and black hair gelled into a bird’s nest. Maybe he was transgender, maybe not. Rudy had been away from the San Francisco scene for too long to be sure.

The downstairs lounge and sushi restaurant in Japantown was almost impenetrably dark and half-empty. Sconces over the liquor bottles on the bar made the mirrored glass shine red. Rudy sat at the far end, away from the stairs that led down from the street. He wore a black fedora with two braided yellow bands around the brim. His sunglasses had tiny square lenses, like postage stamps. Wearing sunglasses in a dark bar didn’t attract attention here. It was the cool thing to do. He’d shaved for tonight, and he’d found dress clothes at a secondhand shop to fit the look. Gray mock turtleneck. Leather jacket. Black jeans and boots.

“Here you go,” the bartender told him, putting another gin and tonic in front of him. “You want some sushi?”

“How about a volcano roll?” Rudy said.

The man — if he was a man — grinned with his pale lips. “Sure thing.”

Rudy took a sip and felt the cold of the gin chill his insides. He had a ritual for these nights, and Bombay was part of it. He took each breath slow and long, feeling the air swell his lungs. He put up his right hand and slowly turned it around, front and back, admiring its steadiness like a work of art. He bent and unbent his fingertips, which were loose and limber. He’d wondered after all this time if he would be nervous, but he wasn’t. He was a machine.

He checked his watch. It was already midevening, and time was passing more quickly than he liked. He eyed the others in the bar, who were getting drunk and loud. They were mostly twenty years younger, but age didn’t matter. Someone always had a yen for an older man who looked like he had money. His gaze moved from face to face, connecting with the women. Some looked back, and some didn’t.

The bartender leaned on one elbow in front of him. He was bored without a big crowd to serve. Rudy thought he was wearing lipstick, and his eyebrows were neatly plucked. The bartender’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed Rudy’s face.