Girls Like Us

by Cristina Alger

  “So there are others.”

  “I’d guess so. Did you search for old cold cases with similar MOs?”

  “Yes. We went back as far as we could. Nothing in the tristate area.”

  “You might want to expand that search. Maybe the killer moved here recently.”

  “An immigrant.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Maybe he’s killed before and we haven’t found the bodies.”

  “Possible.”

  A photo catches my eye. I move closer. My breath quickens.

  “Lee.”

  “What?”

  “Look.” I point. The photograph depicts Ria Sandoval’s burial site in the Pine Barrens. The grave is in the center of the picture, her burlap-shrouded body still inside. I’m not looking at the grave, though. I’m looking at the edge of the frame, to a small pile of rocks that, on first glance, are easy to miss.

  “Holy shit.”

  “Do we have a loupe? Or a magnifying glass?”

  “Yeah.” Lee turns. “Donnelly,” he barks at a young guy passing in the hallway. “Get us a magnifying glass. Now!”

  Donnelly nods and hustles down the hall. We wait for him to reappear. Officers have begun trickling into the incident room. Most of homicide, it seems, wants to be briefed on this case. There are a few rookies, too, who have, no doubt, been rounded up to do some of the basic procedural work. This has to be one of the largest, most brutal cases Suffolk County has seen in years. The kind of case that requires all hands on deck. All internal hands, anyway. Dorsey’s reticence to bring in outside assistance rubs me the wrong way, and not just because I’m a Fed. It seems shortsighted at best, destructive and suspicious at worst. Either way, every second that ticks by is a lost one. The longer he drags his feet, the farther away the killer gets. Given that Dorsey seems to only have one suspect in mind, he’d better be damn sure he’s right.

  Donnelly returns with a magnifying glass. Lee holds it up and peers through it.

  “A cairn,” he says. I feel my skin prickle. “Damn. I don’t know how we missed it. What do you think it means?”

  “I think it rules out the possibility of a copycat. If you guys didn’t know it was there, it wasn’t a detail that was released to the press.”

  “What do you think it means to the killer, though?”

  “Either it’s a marker so he can come back and visit the site later on, or it has some kind of psychological significance for him. He’s someone who camps and hikes regularly, or maybe it’s something he remembers from his childhood.” Someone like Dad. Someone who grew up camping in state parks in Suffolk County, who continued to camp in them until very recently.

  Lee frowns, considering. “What if it’s a marker to someone else?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if it’s a team? One person digs the grave, the other buries the body there.”

  “That’s an interesting theory.”

  “The Shinnecock site in particular is so hard to get to. Even if he had all night, it’s a helluva job to dig that grave and then drag a body from the parking lot all the way up there. It’s possible that’s why the bodies were dismembered, too. Makes them easier to transport.”

  “So maybe Morales is involved, but he has a partner.”

  Lee raises his eyebrows. “That would explain a lot. According to Milkowski, the shooter is tall and left-handed. Morales is neither. He’s a pretty small guy, actually. Maybe he was just responsible for disposing of the bodies. We have to get into your dad’s office. I need to figure out what he knew and when.”

  The room has filled in behind us. I glance around, assessing the crowd. Most of them are staring expectantly at Lee. As the lead detective on the case, he’s the one who will be running the briefing. “Are you waiting on someone?” I ask.

  “Dorsey. He’s on the phone with Judge Mahoney now, trying to get a warrant.”

  Lee seems nervous, like a kid preparing for a high school debate. He flips through a notebook, his mouth moving as he reviews the facts of the two cases. I soften a little. There’s something disarming about Lee. A kind of earnestness that makes me want to trust him, despite my best instincts.

  “Can I ask you something?” I say quietly. “Something personal?”

  “Sure,” he says, distracted.

  “Was my dad seeing someone?”

  “Seeing someone? What do you mean?”

  “Did he have a girlfriend?”

  Lee looks up, surprised. “I don’t know. We didn’t really talk about that stuff.”

  “He never mentioned a woman named Maria?”

  “No. But your dad was a private guy. And I wasn’t like his best friend or anything.”

  “You guys spent ten hours a day together in a squad car.”

  “Fair. But most of that was him telling me to shut the fuck up or silently judging my taste in music.”

  “You do have terrible taste in music.”

  He holds up a finger, warning me. “You don’t get to say that until we do karaoke together.”

  “I’ll think about it. Could you do me a favor?”

  “Sure. Shoot.”

  “My dad was paying rent on an apartment in Riverhead. A woman named Maria Cruz lived there. She moved out a few weeks ago, but I want to try to track her down. If she was important to my dad, I’d like to get to know her.”

  “You want me to run background on her?”

  “That would be great. I just don’t know how to find her. The apartment was at 97 Main Street in Riverhead. Maybe that’s a place to start.” I don’t mention the fact that I found a photograph of Adriana Marques in the apartment.

  “You got it.” Lee grins. “Your dad was a real lady-killer, you know.”

  “What?” I frown, unnerved.

  “The ladies loved him. He was a good-looking guy, Nell. And the cop thing, some women like that. Whenever we went out, someone would try to buy him a drink.” Lee laughs. “He usually said thank you, took the drink, and then brushed them off.”

  “Well, maybe that’s because he had someone in his life already.”

  Lee shrugs. “I’ll see what I can find out. He’s the one you should ask, though.” He points to the door. “Dorsey and your dad were thick as thieves.”

  Dorsey walks into the room, shuts the door behind him. Everyone falls silent. He signals to Lee, prompting him to begin.

  Lee clears his throat and stands up. “As you all know, Marty Flynn and I worked the Sandoval case together. I’ve invited Marty’s daughter, Nell, to join us today. Nell’s with the Behavioral Analysis Unit at the FBI. We’re lucky to have her with us. Her expertise will, no doubt, be a great asset here.”

  Heads swivel in my direction. Greetings ripple across the room. I give the crowd a short nod and busy myself with a pen and paper, pretending to take notes.

  “I’ll try to keep this short since the clock is ticking here. Sandoval’s body was found last August. The only lead Detective Flynn and I were able to come up with for the Sandoval killing was a landscaper named Alfonso Morales. He lived across the street from our victim. He also worked on the tract of land where her body was found.” Lee points to a map of Long Island. A big red X has been drawn in the center of the Pine Barrens Preserve. “We searched his home in Brentwood and his vehicle, a dark red GMC pickup truck. We found burlap and twine, similar to that used to wrap the victim’s body, in his truck, and burlap fibers on his rug at home. A truck fitting that description was seen in the parking lot of the motel where Ria Sandoval was last seen. We interviewed Mr. Morales on two separate occasions. He had significant abrasions on his arms and legs, consistent with a struggle. We weren’t able to find enough evidence to concretely link him to the killing, however, so eventually we had to turn him loose.”

  I watch Lee glance over at Dorsey. Dorsey’s face re
mains placid and unreadable. Lee flushes for a second and then continues. “With this new case—the body found yesterday in Shinnecock County Park—Morales remains at the top of our suspect list. He was working at Shinnecock County Park at the time Marques went missing. He also did work on the property bordering the park. As you can see from the evidence compiled here on the board, these cases mirror each other almost exactly. We are working under the assumption that one killer is responsible for both murders. Morales seems like the natural fit.”

  A detective in the front raises his hand. “What’s Morales’s connection to the second victim?”

  “We haven’t found a direct connection between Morales and Adriana Marques. Not yet. Adriana’s sister, Elena, mentioned that she saw a maroon truck outside her house in the days leading up to her sister’s disappearance. The description matches the truck driven by Mr. Morales, the same one that was seen at the motel the night of Ria Sandoval’s disappearance.”

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat. It also matches the description of my father’s truck, the one that I’ve been driving all morning. The one that’s currently on display in the SCPD lot outside.

  “We also found trace amounts of cigarette ash on and around Marques’s body. Morales is a habitual smoker, so that fits.”

  “The medical examiner pointed out that whoever shot the victim was tall and left-handed,” I say. “Morales doesn’t fit that profile.”

  If Lee is annoyed with me for pointing out this inconsistency, he doesn’t show it. “No,” he says. “He doesn’t. Morales is about five seven. He’s right-handed. So another possibility is that we’re looking for a team. Morales could’ve had a partner who shot the victim, and then Morales himself disposed of the bodies on his worksites.”

  “Any idea how or why he targeted Marques specifically?”

  “Both vics were escorts who advertised their services online. Morales could’ve connected with both victims that way.”

  Ron Anastas clears his throat and we all turn toward him. I haven’t seen him since we spread Dad’s ashes over the bay. He looks exhausted: pale-faced and gripping a large cup of coffee. It occurs to me that since Dad is gone, Anastas is likely the most senior detective in homicide. I always thought he was nice enough but not terribly sharp. Still, he’s deeply loyal to Dorsey. I imagine this means he’ll be running homicide for the foreseeable future. “We got a call early this morning from a woman named Sally Hayes,” he says. “Hayes is employed as a housekeeper by James Meachem, the man whose property borders the park. We’ve been contacting everyone who works there. Her husband is the caretaker for the house. Meachem is traveling abroad, and the Hayeses have been staying in Mr. Meachem’s guesthouse for the past month, overseeing some renovations on the property. According to Mrs. Hayes, she saw a red truck pull into the parking lot of Shinnecock County Park a few weeks ago. It was nighttime, and she wasn’t able to get a look at the driver. But she felt certain that she saw someone digging in the dunes. At the time, she dismissed it, thinking it was just the Preservation Society working overtime on the restoration project. But when she saw the news this morning, she called it in.”

  “She was certain the truck was red?” I chew on my lip, wondering if anyone else is thinking the same thing I am.

  “Yeah. She said she saw it drive past the front gate. Meachem’s got security lights out there. Mind you, this was late. Around eleven, she said. An odd time to be doing any dune restoration. I was going to go by there later and show her some photos, see if I could get her to ID Morales’s truck.”

  I think about the motion-sensor on the security camera outside Meachem’s gate. It might’ve tracked a car going by, especially late at night when everything else around it was still. I wonder how I can get my hands on those security tapes. Check to make sure it’s Morales’s red truck that drove by and not anyone else’s. If it was Dad’s truck, I want to be the first to know.

  “Sounds like Morales is our guy,” DaSilva announces.

  “We think so.” Lee nods in agreement. “We’re waiting on a warrant. But let’s keep our eyes and ears open. Remember, Morales could’ve had a partner here. The phones have been ringing off the hook. We’re going to need everyone’s help. All right, that’s it. Let’s get back to work.”

  The crowd disperses, breaking into small groups and loose chatter. Lee lets out a deep exhale, like he’s relieved to be done.

  A young cop strides into the room. “Chief,” he says, addressing Dorsey, “Judge Mahoney got back to us. We’ve got the warrant.”

  “Do we know where Morales is?” Dorsey asks.

  Lee checks his watch. “Still at Harald Farms is my guess. That is, unless he’s decided to run.”

  Dorsey points at Lee and me. “You two. Let’s go, before we lose this guy again.”

  12.

  At Riverhead, Long Island splits into two tines. The Peconic River widens between them. The North Fork is farm country. Acres of berries, zinnias, lavender, and grapevines roll from the bay to the sound. The towns are mostly one-street, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it affairs. The sky is wide and the roads are quiet. It’s not uncommon to see horses and cows at pasture, a stone’s throw from the highway. The barns are dilapidated and workaday, nothing like the picture-perfect restored farmhouses you’ll find in Sagaponack and Bridgehampton. The paint peels from the wood. Shingles fall from the roofs like old teeth. No one replaces them. I find the barns here beautiful. As they decay, they become a part of the landscape; a touchpoint for a time when Suffolk County was more than just a summer playground for the über-rich.

  Just past Riverhead is Aquebogue, a small hamlet known for wineries and farm stands and not much else. One of the most popular stands belongs to Harald Farms Nursery. In the fall, it’s a bustling operation. Apples, corn, pumpkins, cucumbers, and tomatoes are piled high in wooden crates bearing the Harald Farms logo. The crates are aesthetically arranged and the stand itself decorated according to season. Now, at the end of September, scarecrows are everywhere. Candied apples and jams are wrapped in cellophane and sold at a markup. On weekends, you’ll find hayrides and a corn maze out back to entertain children, and a small, man-made stream where they can pan for pre-purchased bags of fossils and gemstones.

  It’s the kind of spot that attracts weekenders from the South Fork and day tourists from the city. Harald Farms itself is sprawling and picturesque and conveniently located along 495, the island’s central artery. Behind the counter there’s a white-haired woman wearing a gingham apron and a cheerful, apple-shaped nametag that reads “NANETTE.” The scent of fresh apple cider donuts suffuses the air. There is a refrigerator behind her stuffed with expensive cheese and a display of local wines from nearby vineyards.

  Because of the rain, the stand is mostly empty. It’s twilight, and people are heading home to prepare for the storm. There are a few stragglers ringing up final purchases, but no one is browsing the stalls. A man in an apron is hauling crates of produce back inside. Another is lowering the awnings. A gust of wind rushes through the open sides of the stand, sending a chill through my body. I wish I was wearing wellies and a raincoat instead of a vest and sneakers.

  The wind catches the banner that hangs from the rafters. It reads “Harald Farms Fall Festival, October 1.” The woman at the counter lets out a dismayed yelp as the banner floats, lifeless, to the floor.

  Lee and Dorsey hustle over to help her collect it. My phone rings. It’s the medical examiner’s office in Hauppauge. I walk out back behind the stand before answering.

  “Hello?” I answer, my voice low.

  “It’s Jamie Milkowski.”

  “Hi,” I say, surprised. “What’s up?”

  “You were right. Marques was pregnant.”

  “Really.” My pulse quickens. “How far along?”

  “Not far. First trimester, I’d guess. Do you think it has something to do with her murder?”

  “I don’
t know. But it opens up a new possible motive for why she was killed. Her sister thought she had a boyfriend. A wealthy one. Thanks for checking it out so quickly.”

  “It’s my job. Listen, between us, I don’t feel like this investigation is being handled all that well by the department. I mean, if this is a serial investigation, I would expect to have access to a full crime lab.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Instead, it’s just me. And honestly, I don’t get the sense that anyone much cares what I have to say to begin with.”

  “You don’t happen to have access to the medical records from the Sandoval case, do you?”

  “No. That’s the other thing. The facilities here are shit. Everything is falling apart. Last fall, there was a flood in the records room and it destroyed a lot of the files, including the ones on Sandoval.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “I want to send the body into the city. I know you mentioned Nikki Prentice. Is she a friend of yours?”

  “Yes. A professional friend, but someone I trust. We’ve worked together a few times. She has impeccable judgment.”

  “Do you think, if I were to ask for her help off the record, she’d be willing?”

  “Off the record, meaning what?”

  “Meaning, I’ve been told specifically that no one outside the Suffolk County Medical Examiner’s Office should be brought in on this case.”

  “Did Dorsey tell you that?”

  “Yes. He was very clear. So it would be . . . on the down-low, so to speak.”

  The way she says it, in her rigid academic cadence, almost makes me chuckle. “Gotcha. Listen, give Nikki a call. Explain the situation. Tell her you’re a friend of mine and that I recommended you speak to her. She’s discreet. If she can help, she will.”

  “Okay. Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “Likewise.”

  I hang up and glance around, orienting myself. There’s a driveway wide enough to accommodate a tractor and a flatbed truck. Three workers are in the driveway, slinging bags of peat onto the flatbed. They wear sweatshirts and baseball caps and seem impervious to the rain.