“I needed your help,” Frost admitted. “Gilda Flores was one of the family members screaming at me in the courtroom. She turned me down when I asked to talk to her. I’m glad you were able to change her mind.”
“I relate well to victims. Gilda was the very first interview I did when I started working on the book. She trusts me.” Eden played with her black curls as if she wanted to flirt with him, but then she put her hands in her lap. “But you don’t trust me, do you?”
“I don’t know where the writer ends and where Eden Shay begins.”
“That’s easy. We’re the same person.”
“And that’s why I don’t trust you,” Frost said.
“Aw. What a shame.” She was flirty again.
“I hear you’ve been talking to my friends.”
“That’s what writers do.”
“What did you learn?”
“I learned that with Frost Easton, what you see is what you get,” Eden told him. “You don’t play games and pretend to be something you’re not.”
“Is that all?” he asked.
“You want more? Okay. You’re smart, but that’s a given. You’re an introvert, and you don’t fit in with the cop buddy system. Most of your friends are outside the force. You don’t seek out relationships with women, because you don’t think you’re good at them and you don’t want to hurt anybody. You know you’re good-looking. You probably know that a little too well. The biggest love in your life is San Francisco, but if you had your choice, you’d probably go back to an earlier time in the city’s history, not now. The 1860s maybe. Mark Twain days. Just you and Shack out on the frontier.”
Frost smiled, but he was a little unsettled by the accuracy of everything she’d said. “We should go.”
“Whatever you say, partner.”
He climbed out into the afternoon drizzle. The Flores family home was a Spanish-style two-story house with freshly painted white stucco and cherry-red shutters. Flowers grew in a brick-lined bed by the sidewalk. A fuchsia tree had been trimmed into a neat ball by the front door, and the door itself was protected by a locked gate. This was a family that had learned the hard way to take no chances.
Gilda Flores answered the buzzer. Her face was hostile, but she said nothing as she unlocked the outer gate and ushered them into the house. He noticed that Gilda hugged Eden as if they were long-lost friends. Inside, the Flores home was dark on a dark day, but the furniture shined, as if dust had no place here. The air bloomed with a smell of roasting peppers.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Frost said.
“Ms. Shay said it was important that I talk to you, so I’m talking to you.”
“Is your husband here?”
“No, he didn’t think he could be civil.”
Frost felt the woman’s lingering anger, and he didn’t blame her. He looked for a different way to connect with her. “I met one of Nina’s closest friends recently. Tabby Blaine. She said to say hello when I saw you.”
Gilda’s face brightened. She was plump and small, but he could see a resemblance to her daughter, Nina, in her bushy brown hair and wide-open eyes. She wore a yellow one-piece dress with a belt tied around the middle.
“Tabby! I haven’t seen her in ages. She is such a ray of light, that girl. She and Nina were inseparable. Much like me and her mother. We were pregnant at the same time, and Nina and Tabby were first babies for both of us, so we went through it all together.”
“Tabby’s dating my brother,” Frost told her before he remembered to stop himself. Immediately, he saw Eden’s face awaken with interest. This was a new angle for the book.
“Really?” Gilda said. “I guess grief can bring people together. I know that you and your brother lost a family member, too. Please don’t think—based on my behavior in the courtroom—that I forgot that. I really didn’t.”
“I understand.”
“Eden, do you know Tabby?” Gilda asked.
“I talked to her years ago,” Eden replied. “I know she was very close to Nina.”
“Oh yes, those two were like sisters. I had three more children after Nina, but they were all boys. I don’t think it’s the same thing for a girl, having brothers.”
Frost, who’d been closer to Katie than anyone else in his life, didn’t bother correcting her. “I’m sorry to reopen an old wound, Mrs. Flores, but your daughter is an important part of this case. In order to get Rudy Cutter back in prison—and make sure he doesn’t harm anyone else—we need to understand what really happened between him and Nina.”
Gilda’s weary face showed that she’d been down this road many times. “Yes, I know. She was the first.”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t know what more I can tell you. Nothing I said back then seemed to help.”
“We know a lot more about this case—and about Rudy Cutter—than we did in those days,” Frost said.
“I suppose so, but by the time we found out about Cutter, years had gone by. It’s been even longer now. What exactly do you want?”
“I’m interested in finding similarities between Nina and the other victims,” Frost said. “I know the families have gotten together over the years. Did you discover personal connections to any of them? Was there any overlap in your lives? It doesn’t matter how trivial it may have been.”
“No, Tony and I never really got to know the other families. We went to a couple of the early support-group meetings, but we chose not to participate after that. It was too painful to be reminded of it.”
“Is there anything else about Nina that might help me?” Frost asked.
Gilda glanced over her shoulder at the stairs. “Would you like to see her bedroom?”
“Yes, I would. Thank you.”
Nina’s mother led Frost and Eden to the second floor. It was obvious that Gilda’s hip bothered her; she didn’t climb well. At the top of the stairs, she pointed at a bedroom with a closed door at the end of the hallway. A framed photograph of Nina—one of her high school graduation pictures—was hung on the door.
“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 he
r 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.
21
“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.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Rudy said without removing his sunglasses or his hat. “Do you?”
“You look familiar, but you’re not a regular.”
“I guess I have that look,” Rudy said. “Mind if I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“Are you a guy or a girl?”
The bartender didn’t look offended. “Depends. What are you into?”
“Girls.”
“I can pull that off, if you don’t mind some surplus parts.”
“Pass,” Rudy said. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay, your loss.” The bartender grabbed a towel and began wiping down the bar.
Rudy drank more of his gin and tonic. This one was strong. He looked around at the middling crowd in the bar again and decided that his plan needed some help. “Actually, I’m drowning my sorrows,” he told the bartender.
“Yeah? How so?”
“My girlfriend dumped me today.”
“Sorry about that.” His girlish eyes checked out Rudy’s face again. “I mean, you’re a decent looker and all. A rough type, but a lot of girls like that. You must have a couple bucks, too, if you’re ordering Bombay. You ask me, you should just forget about her and move on.”
Rudy slid a hand inside the pocket of his leather jacket and put two concert tickets on the bar. “Yeah, I’m not crying about it, but I’ve got two tickets for the Fillmore tonight. I don’t really want to go on my own.”
“Who’s playing?”
“Japandroids. I could sell the tickets, but I’d like to hear them play.”
“No kidding? You ready for decibels like that? You don’t look like the ‘Evil’s Sway’ type.”
Rudy cocked his head. “What?”
The bartender laughed, as if Rudy were speaking a different language. “Um, duh? That’s one of their songs?”
“Oh. Sure.” Rudy laughed, too, but he seethed inwardly at his mistake. That was what happened when he didn’t have the time to anticipate every detail. “Anyway, I’m looking for a girl who wants to go with me. I figure somebody must want a free show, right? Plus, it’ll just kill my girlfriend.”
“Revenge. Nice.”
The cash disappeared into the bartender’s pocket. “An icebreaker, sure. I’ve been known to do that. What kind of companionship are we talking about? If you want the paid kind, I have to make some calls.”
“Not paid,” Rudy said, “but let’s say open-minded about what happens after the concert.”
“Alcohol has been known to open many a closed mind,” the bartender told him.
Rudy slid another fifty across the bar. “Well, work your magic.”
The bartender pursed his lips to blow him a kiss, and he disappeared. Rudy stopped trolling the bar and decided to let his wingman do the talking. He nursed his drink. Somewhere in the bar, he heard the noise of bad karaoke, but he didn’t recognize the song. That was the price of four years away from the music scene.
His volcano roll came. It was an artistic blend of spicy tuna, cucumber, avocado, and shrimp tempura. The sauce had kick. He alternated between the fiery sushi and the cold cocktail. He stared straight ahead, ignoring the other people in the bar, but his senses were alert. Conversations drifted in and out of his head. Every few minutes, he examined his hand again, his killing hand, as if it belonged to someone else. His fingers were still steady as a rock.
Half an hour passed.
Then, behind him, he heard the tap of feminine heels. Perfume broke over him like the opening of a candy shop door. Lips brushed his ear, along with a voice that had trouble putting together words. “So what’s your name?”
He turned as a thirty-something brunette poured herself onto the stool next to him. She wore a black dress down to her knees. Half a martini was in her hand.
“Rudy. What’s yours?”
“Magnolia,” she said, drawing out the first syllable with her mouth slightly open.
“That’s a pretty name.”
“It’s the name of a tree. I am a tree. A magnolia tree.” She drew it out again as Maggggggggnolia.
“Well, magnolia trees have lovely flowers,” he said.
The Voice Inside (Frost Easton Book 2) Page 13
