“I thought she was killed in a car accident—a hit-and-run in the parking garage.”
I hesitated before saying any more. The fewer people who knew the inner workings of my clock, the better. At the same time, I needed to hear what she had to say about Jenni’s last day on Earth. I decided that I had little choice but to trust her with a couple of my bread crumbs. “Jenni’s death wasn’t random. It wasn’t an accident.”
Farrah’s eyes narrowed as if searching for something in the past.
“I need to know what was going on in Jenni’s life that day. You’re the only one who can help me.”
Farrah looked out through the frozen window, biting her lower lip as she considered my request. Then she turned back to me and leaned into the table.
“There was this girl. She was young, maybe sixteen or seventeen. I think she was a . . . I think she was a prostitute. She had all this makeup on. It didn’t look right, because she seemed so young.”
“Do you remember her name?”
“I think it was Zoya. I’ll have her name in my old files, but I believe it was Zoya.”
“Why was she at the hospital?”
“That’s why I remember this case so well. Your wife told me that a patrol officer found her stumbling down the street, all cut up. She had been thrown through a window at a motel—a second-story window. They found the room, but no one was there. Whoever did that to her also beat her up. Her face was swollen. She had cuts and bruises all over her body. The doctors said that two of her fingers were broken, she was bleeding from her ears, and . . . well . . . your wife thought maybe she’d been raped.”
“Was there an investigator there with you?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“But?”
“Not at first. When I first got there that morning, it was just me and your wife. We talked to Zoya, and she told us that she was scared. She didn’t want to tell us what happened. Your wife asked her if she had been raped. Zoya started crying. And then the investigator walked in and Zoya clammed up.”
“Which investigator?”
“I don’t remember his name. All I remember was that when he walked in, Zoya’s eyes grew big and she stopped talking. She wouldn’t say another word.”
“Did the cop say anything to Zoya to make her do that?”
“No. He was polite. Very professional. Your wife said that sometimes victims of rape react that way to men, so she took him out of the room and suggested that he listen from the hallway. But it didn’t work. Just the sight of a man put Zoya into like . . . shock. She just stared at the wall and cried.”
“She was Russian?”
“Belarusian. It’s a country between Russia and Poland.”
“What else did she say?”
“Nothing really. I only spoke to her for a few minutes before she shut down. After about half an hour of trying to get her to talk again, your wife told that cop and me to leave. We’d try it again after Zoya settled down.”
“And did you try it again?” “Well—”
The waitress stepped up to the table with a tray full of plates. That kind of fast turnaround was one of the things I appreciated most about breakfast restaurants, but the interruption, as polite as it was, annoyed me. She skillfully placed the meals in front of us, getting everything correct. I had been hungry when I ordered my food, but now my stomach felt twisted and queasy. Farrah waited for the waitress to leave before she continued.
“That’s the disturbing part of all this. Later that day, probably around lunchtime, Jenni called me back. I didn’t answer—I can’t remember why—but she left a message. She said that Zoya was talking again. Your wife was recording it all in a notebook—writing it all down phonetically, but she had no idea what the girl was saying. She wanted me to come back in and try to get her statement. When I got the message, I called Jenni back and she asked me if I could be there at 3:30. I said sure.”
“You had a meeting for 3:30 on the day Jenni died.”
“Yes.”
Farrah had been picking at her food as she spoke, but now she put her fork down and turned her full attention to me, her eyes soft with sympathy. “When I got to the hospital, the parking garage on Eighth Street was shut down. I didn’t know what was going on. I went to your wife’s office and was there for about ten minutes before someone told me that she got hit by a car in the ramp. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“I appreciate that. I also appreciate that you came to her funeral even though it sounds like you didn’t know her all that well. That was nice of you.”
“I could tell that she wanted to help that girl. Your wife really seemed dedicated to her clients. And I admired her for that . . . but . . .”
Farrah poked at a piece of bacon and again bit at her lower lip, her eyes averting away from mine.
“But what?”
“But . . . that’s not why I went to the funeral—I mean, that’s part of it, but there’s more.”
I could tell that she was struggling to say something, so I let the conversation go silent and waited for her to fill the void.
“You’re going to think I’m strange.” She folded her hands together on her lap, her eyes slowly rising to meet mine. “I went to the funeral to see you.”
“To see me?”
“To give you something.” Farrah seemed to be pulling hard on an old memory that made her sad. “When I got home, I felt so depressed and shocked. I’d never had someone die like that—just before we were supposed to meet. It unnerved me, I guess. I went to clear my answering machine of voice mail, and I heard her voice. I put my finger on the delete button, but stopped. It occurred to me that I had what was probably the last recording of your wife’s voice. I couldn’t bring myself to erase it. So, I downloaded it onto a thumb drive. I was going to give it to you at the funeral. I thought you might like to have it.”
I could feel a lump growing in my throat. I swallowed it back and took a sip of lukewarm coffee to wash it down. “But you didn’t give it to me.”
“No. You were so broken up. I didn’t have the nerve.” She went back to moving her eggs around with a fork.
“I was in pretty bad shape,” I said.
“I should have given it to you.”
“It was a nice thought at least.”
She looked up from her plate. “I think I may still have it. I’m not sure, but I could check if you’d like.”
I turned my gaze to the frozen street, almost too afraid to hope. I’d watched every home movie Jenni and I had ever made—hundreds of times. I memorized her words and replayed them in my head. The sound of her voice gave her memory a presence in my world. Now, something as simple as an old voice-mail message, words that were never meant to be preserved, filled me with a surge of emotions. “I’d like that very much,” I said.
“I’ll look when I get home. I have your number.”