Girls Like Us

by Cristina Alger

  The landlord, I hope, has some answers. Dad’s separate account at Suffolk County Bank has a balance of $25,000, more than enough to cover a year’s worth of rent and other expenses. After turning it over in my head all night, I’ve decided the right thing to do is track down this woman and give her the money. If for some reason I can’t find her—or if I do and she seems like a terrible person—I can donate it to charity. But if Dad didn’t intend for me to have it, then I don’t want it.

  Anyway, I don’t need more money. I hardly spend what I make, and Dad left me plenty, between his life insurance policy and the house. And that’s to say nothing of the Cayman Islands account, which I have yet to explore. I still haven’t decided if I’ll ever explore it. Doing so could cost me my job. Last night, as I drank my fifth and final scotch of the evening, I sat in front of the fire and debated tossing the card with the contact information for Justin Moran into the flames.

  I didn’t toss it. I still might. For now, it’s tucked inside the drawer of my nightstand. I have more pressing matters to attend to today. My father’s apartment. His girlfriend. His bike. His case. His life. I’m tired and it’s not even eight o’clock.

  I ring the landlord’s bell and listen to the symphony of barking this sets off inside apartment 1. I feel bad disturbing someone at such an early an hour, but not so bad that I stop myself from doing it. It’s going to be a long day, possibly even a long week, filled with dead bodies and mystery. Given that I can’t sleep, I might as well get a jump on things.

  I hear feet shuffling, and the dogs quiet down. The locks click: there are three, which seems like a lot. The door opens a crack, the deadbolt chain still in place. A gray-haired man in pajamas and a bathrobe peers at me through the two-inch opening.

  “What do you want?” He glares at me. The dogs weave around his feet.

  “Good morning,” I say, as brightly as possible. “Are you Lester Simms?”

  “Yeah. That’s me.”

  “I’m Nell Flynn. My father, Martin Flynn, was your tenant on the third floor.”

  The man frowns and strokes his chin. “I wouldn’t say he was my tenant.”

  “Isn’t this 97 Main Street? I have the lease agreement here.” I open my purse and withdraw a folder.

  “He pays the rent all right. I just don’t see much of him.”

  “Well, if he wasn’t there, who was?”

  “Not sure I see how that’s any of your business.”

  “My father is dead, and I’m the sole beneficiary and the executor of his will. So if you don’t mind, I’d really appreciate it if you’d let me in and we can discuss this privately.”

  The door shuts, and for a second, I wonder if Lester Simms is off to call the police. But then I hear the deadbolt chain slide open, and the door creaks on its hinges and the dogs click their nails on the floor in excitement. As I step inside, one of them rears up and places its paws on my midsection. It’s a big animal, with a muzzle the size of a horse’s, and the force of its full body weight nearly knocks me on my ass.

  Lester grabs the dog by the leash and gives it a firm yank. “No, Brutus,” he chides, so sharply that the dog cowers in response. “Sorry about that. He doesn’t bite, just a little excitable, especially before his morning walk. Come in. Ignore the mess.”

  He gestures at a small wooden table in the kitchen. “You want some coffee? It’s made.”

  “Sure, thanks.”

  “How do you take it?”

  “Just black is fine.”

  He nods and pours us each a mug. “Sorry to hear about your dad. When did he pass?”

  “About ten days ago.”

  “He was a cop, right?”

  “Suffolk County PD. Homicide.”

  “Killed in the line of duty?”

  “No, nothing like that. Motorcycle accident.”

  Lester looks disappointed but nods nonetheless. “A damn shame.”

  “How well did you know my father?”

  “I didn’t, not really. He came around last summer, said he wanted to rent the place. He said he was going to use it as an office. Maybe last July it was. Can’t remember now.”

  “Just as an office?”

  “Yeah. That’s what he said. He’d come and go, maybe once or twice a week that I could tell. About a month later, he asked me to make another set of keys. Said he had a friend that needed to stay there. Asked if that was all right by me.”

  “Was it?” I take a sip of my coffee. Lester makes better joe than I do, which probably says more about me than it does about him.

  He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter to me what my tenants do as long as they’re quiet and keep the place up and pay the rent on time. Maria’s a good woman. Hardly see her, but she makes me muffins sometimes and leaves them outside my door. And last winter, I broke my hip and she helped me out. Walked the dogs, brought in the mail, made sure the trash got taken out, that kind of thing.”

  “Maria—do you know her last name?”

  “Cruz, I think. A Cuban girl. You don’t know her?”

  “No. I know my father wanted her to be able to stay in the apartment. I thought I’d introduce myself and see if we can work something out.”

  Lester raises his eyebrows. “Well, you’re welcome to keep paying the rent. But Maria, she’s gone. Moved out about two weeks ago.”

  “Moved out? You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I was taking my dogs for a walk and I saw her carrying this big duffel bag into a cab. I asked her if she needed help and she said she was fine. She gave me a hug and then gave me back her key. She was crying, I remember that. I asked her where she was going and she just shook her head. She said once that she had family down in Miami. Maybe she went there. She never got much mail, so I guess she didn’t see fit to leave a forwarding address. Anyway, the lease is still good.”

  “When exactly did she leave? Do you remember?”

  “Hmm, let’s see. I think it was a Sunday night? Yeah, that’s right. I was watching my show and then my sister called. She calls every Sunday. Usually to carp at me about something. So what’s that, ten, eleven days ago?”

  “Eleven,” I say, my breath caught in my chest. The day before my father died. “Do you have the key to the apartment? I’d really like to see it. And I’d like to try to find Maria, if that’s possible.”

  Lester shuffles over to the kitchen counter. He digs through a basket filled with mail. After a minute, he produces a key. He holds it up and I wince. The key hangs from a chain I gave to my father the Christmas before I left. A small Swiss Army knife is attached to one end. His initials, MDF, are engraved on the side.

  “All yours,” Lester says.

  “Thanks. Can I keep these for a few days?”

  “Sure. Long as you pay next month’s rent.”

  “Fair enough. Hold on. I’ll write you a check now.”

  8.

  Apartment 3 has a thick metal door. There are two deadbolts on it, a feature my father certainly appreciated, and steel bars on the window. A rudimentary security system, but an effective one.

  Maria, it appears, has indeed moved out. There are no personal possessions in the apartment: no art hanging on the walls, no clothes in the closest, no toiletries in the bathroom. The only signs of recent life are the lightly wrinkled sheets on the bed and a few pots and cups in the dishwasher. A sour smell emanates from the refrigerator. I open it to find an expired container of milk, orange juice, and three boxes of stale Chinese takeout. I close the door quickly and make a mental note to take out the trash before I leave. The apartment’s mine now, at least for another month. It’s the least I can do.

  In the living room, there is a desk. In the top drawer, I find an assortment of pens and pencils, paper clips, and printer paper. There’s an envelope with forty dollars in it; she must have left in a hurry. A Polaroid is pushed to the very back. I withd
raw it and stare at the image. It’s of two young women, their arms looped affectionately around each other’s shoulders. They look young—younger than I am, anyway—and both are beautiful. It’s possible they’re sisters. They have the same long black hair, olive skin, high cheekbones. I wonder if one of them is Maria.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. I set the photo down. When I see it’s Lee, I answer right away.

  “Good morning,” he says, his voice too chipper for a man in the midst of a murder investigation. “Did you get some rest last night?”

  “Not really. You?”

  “Not a wink.” He laughs. “But I have some good news. We have an ID on the body.”

  “That was fast.”

  “I told you, Milkowski’s good.”

  I don’t respond.

  “She traced the number on the plate in the vic’s jaw. It’s a match with the girl who went missing around Labor Day. Adriana Marques. Eighteen years old. Local girl from Riverhead. Very similar profile to Ria Sandoval. Did some escorting, advertised on Craigslist and Backpage. They even look alike. Long, dark hair. Petite, attractive.”

  My finger traces the girls in the Polaroid. “Any family?”

  “Limited. Mom passed away, Dad’s serving time upstate. Adriana lived with her older sister, Elena Marques. Elena was the one who called her in missing.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “She has an ex. He’s a real piece of work. Low-level gangbanger, affiliated with MS-13.”

  “Lovely. Check his alibi.”

  “He’s serving time at Mid-State Correctional for aggravated assault. Been in since June.”

  “Okay. So he’s in the clear. But maybe there’s some kind of gang connection here.”

  “When the sister reported Adriana missing, she mentioned that she’d seen a dark red pickup parked outside their house. More than once.”

  “So?”

  “So that’s what Morales drives.”

  “Should we track Morales down?”

  “Dorsey wants me to go talk to the sister first. Before this thing blows up in the news. Thought it might be good if you came along.”

  “Notifying next of kin. My favorite part of the job.”

  “Are you home? I can pick you up on my way.”

  “I’m actually in Riverhead. I’m at the coffee shop on Main Street. Why don’t you meet me here?”

  “Sure thing. I’m on my way. Oh, and get me a donut if you can. And a cup of coffee.”

  “You know you’re a walking cliché, right?”

  Lee chuckles. “Look, I’m trying my best to fit in. See you in a few.”

  * * *

  —

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Lee pulls up in front of Main Street Coffee. I’m standing on the sidewalk, donut and coffee in hand. Lee reaches across the passenger seat and pushes open the door for me. He looks like hell, I can’t help but notice. I’m sure he’s thinking the same about me.

  “You’re a lifesaver,” he says, reaching for the coffee.

  “I know.”

  “Thanks for coming. This is the toughest part of the job.”

  “Always is.”

  “Doesn’t get any easier, does it?”

  “Telling the family? No, I don’t think so. If it feels easy, it’s probably time for a vacation.”

  I see a local number pop up on my phone. “Hang on a second. Let me take this.”

  Lee nods, as if to say, Go ahead.

  “Nell Flynn.”

  “Nell, it’s Cole Haines, down at impound. Not sure if you remember me, but I used to go fishing with your dad now and then.”

  “Yes, of course. Good to hear your voice, Cole.”

  “I’m sorry about what happened. Marcy and me were just devastated when we heard.”

  “Thank you. That’s kind of you to say.”

  “Your father was a good man, Nell. A real good man.”

  I clear my throat, hoping to speed this along. “About his bike,” I prompt.

  “Right. The bike. It took a hard beating. Looked like he drove it headlong into a tree or something. I told them to take it to the crime lab, you know, just in case. Maybe there was brake trouble. If it were me, I’d be suing the manufacturer.”

  “Why didn’t they? Take it to the lab, I mean.”

  “Got me. It’s just been sitting here. And then Dorsey called me today and tells me to take it to the junkyard.”

  I frown. “You didn’t junk it yet, did you?”

  “No, ma’am. I got your message and I figured you should take a look and decide for yourself. I mean, I’m happy to dispose of it, if that’s your preference. But if there’s insurance money to be had—”

  “I’ll come by later. Thanks, Cole. I appreciate it.”

  “Of course. See you soon.”

  “Who was that?” Lee asks when I hang up.

  “Cole Haines, down at impound. He’s got my dad’s bike.”

  “Ah, jeez. I’m sorry. You want me to handle it?”

  “Nah, I got it.” I look away, aware that I’m not telling him everything.

  Lee stuffs a quarter of the donut in his mouth and returns the rest to the bag. He puts the car in reverse and pulls out onto Main Street. The radio springs to life. The static crackle, the staccato code that the dispatcher used to direct traffic, washes over me in a tidal wave of nostalgia. It’s like an old language I once spoke fluently and haven’t heard in years. I press my forehead against the glass, watching the Main Street storefronts rush by. When I was a kid, my father would let me ride in the front seat of his cruiser. He’d turn on the radio and tell me what all the codes meant: 10-16 was domestic trouble; 10-33 was emergency; 10-79 was notify the coroner. He’d quiz me later. I never forgot.

  Elena Marques lives on a dead-end street bordering the Riverhead Cemetery. I stare out the window as the headstones roll past. It isn’t a particularly pretty final resting place. There is a chicken-wire fence surrounding the cemetery, and the lawn is brown in some places, as if the sprinklers are spread just a little bit too far apart.

  I’ve been here before. A field trip in junior high school. We were each given butcher paper and charcoal. Our history teacher, Mr. McManus, told us to do a rubbing of the most interesting tombstone we could find. I picked one from 1862. An eighteen-year-old named John Downs who had died in battle at Gloverston, Virginia. A member of Company D, 12th Regiment. I brought it home and showed my father. He ripped it in half and told me it was disrespectful to do that to someone’s grave, especially someone who’d served our country. He’d been drinking; I could smell the whisky on his breath. His eyes got dark when he drank, and his voice went cold. I hadn’t yet learned to avoid him when he got like that. He gripped my arm so hard that a bruise swelled. First purple, then a sickly green. I was too embarrassed to explain to Mr. McManus what happened to my rubbing, so I bought butcher paper and charcoal with some money I’d saved up and I skipped gym class and biked to the nearest cemetery to make a new one. I started wearing long sleeves after that. I kept wearing them for months, even after the bruise had faded.

  A sign at the entrance reads “Riverhead Cemetery, Founded in 1859.” Below that, a smaller sign announces: “Internment Plots Available.” I wonder if this is where they’ll bury Adriana. I think about my mother’s ashes, stashed in an urn in my father’s closet. He never could part with it. With her. We had a haphazard memorial service at St. Agnes nearly two months after her death, arranged mostly by her friends. I was too young at the time to know this was strange or that my fascination with old cemeteries wasn’t normal. On Long Island, they’re mostly quiet, beautiful places. Some of them date back to the 1600s. Sometimes I’d bike over to the one in town after school. A lot of the stones were old and worn, and in the spring, cherry blossoms coated the grass in pink. I’d sit on a bench and read until sunset. It never occurred to me
that having somewhere to go to mourn my mother might have been helpful, or that keeping her ashes in our house didn’t allow my father and me much closure. It strikes me now, for the first time since I returned to Suffolk County, that I probably should do something with my mother’s remains, too.

  Lee pulls up in front of a small, dun-colored house across the street from the cemetery. The lawn, such as it is, slopes downward to the street, as though the land itself is frowning. A child squats in the driveway. She wears a purple T-shirt, clear jelly sandals, and pants with Elmo on the knees. Her hair is wild and curly, bound up in two uneven pigtails that stick out in opposing directions. She stares intently at the ground, picking up stones one by one and dropping them into a red plastic cup, the kind kids drink out of at high school parties. She freezes when she hears us step out of the car, staring up at us as though we’ve caught her shoplifting. I smile and give her a little wave. She doesn’t respond. A glob of drool pools on her lip. She watches us pass with big, blinking eyes.

  Before we ring the bell, a woman opens the door. She wears a long skirt and a white tank top that shows off her olive skin. Her hair is pulled back in a knot at the nape of her neck. Though her face is beautiful, there is a heaviness to it. Half-moons swell beneath her eyes. She stares at us wearily.

  “Excuse me,” she says, and steps around Lee. “Isabel! Ven aquí por favor.”

  The small child looks up from the gravel. Reluctantly, she drops a final rock into her cup and comes running. The woman crouches down, scoops her up. She wipes the girl’s mouth with the edge of her thumb. In the house, a television is blaring. The frenetic, electric sounds of cartoons compete with news streaming in from a radio that sits perched on a windowsill. She sets the girl down and pats her on the bum. “Go with Diego, please.”

  The girl toddles out of sight. The woman turns back to us, her expression grim. “Can I help you?”

  “Are you Elena Marques?”

  “Yeah. What’s this about?”

  “I’m Detective Davis with the Suffolk County Police Department. This is Agent Flynn with the FBI. May we come in?”