Girls Like Us

by Cristina Alger

  We’d pack lunch in a cooler—sandwiches and juice and beer—and take off in Dorsey’s boat, the same one we took out to scatter Dad’s ashes. It’s called Bout Time, an ironic name, now that I think of it. I still remember the spray of salt water on my face, and the way Dorsey would smile when I climbed up onto his lap so that I could pretend to steer. I’d wrap my hands around the wheel. For a few seconds, he’d let go and I’d feel free.

  I walk up to the map and stare at the Pine Barrens Preserve. My eyes move south, to Shinnecock County Park, then back up to Sears Bellows County Park. The place we were camping when my mother was murdered.

  Three state parks. All green, all wild, all a short drive from this house.

  I sit down on the floor. The weekend my mother was murdered—that whole summer, in fact—comes to me in snapshots. They’re scattered, out of order. The details change. Sometimes I remember that it was raining when we arrived; other times I think the rain started later, once we were tucked inside our tent. In dreams, my father is always wearing army green; though later, I saw a photograph of us as we were packing up the car and he’s in a blue jacket. In my line of work, you learn quickly that memories—particularly traumatic ones—are mercurial. The longer you live with them, the more fallible you realize them to be.

  We hiked for nearly an hour to get to the spot where we would pitch our tent for the night. It was drizzling and I was cold. We passed other places where it would be easy to stop, but my father marched on like he had a drill sergeant hot on his heels. I knew better than to complain or to question his choices. To keep up with him I had to trot, my little legs moving twice as fast as his just to stay on pace.

  I stumbled over a tree branch and he stopped. My kneecap smarted and I clutched it, fighting back tears. Beneath my fingers, blood began to rise from where I’d cut the skin.

  “Are you okay?” Dad asked, and knelt down beside me. He leaned over and kissed me on the knee, a rare act of physical affection.

  “I’m fine. Where are we going?”

  “There’s a pond a few minutes that way. I think you’ll like it. If you’re tired, we can turn back. It’s up to you.”

  “How much farther?”

  Dad turned then and pointed to something on the edge of the trail. “See that?” he said. “It’s called a cairn. It helps hikers find their way. It means we’re almost there.”

  I nodded and stood. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  The cairn.

  My whole body shivers now. I gather my legs up in my arms, rocking myself. Now I know why the cairn we found by Adriana’s grave struck such a chord. It stirred up this old memory, one I’d buried in the dark recesses of my mind. There was a cairn near Ria’s gravesite, too. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Or maybe it’s further proof of what I’ve begun to suspect is true: my father killed both girls.

  He may have killed my mother, too.

  15.

  On the wall across from the map, there is a large white board, like the one in the incident room at SCPD headquarters. I stand up and rifle through the desk drawer until I find a dry-erase marker. With it, I start scribbling at the top.

  JAMES MEACHEM

  ALFONSO MORALES

  GIOVANNI CALABRESE

  GLENN DORSEY

  At the bottom of the list, I add:

  MARTIN FLYNN

  In the center of the board, I write the names of the two victims.

  I draw a line between Meachem and Morales. Another between Dorsey and Flynn. Giovanni Calabrese is connected to both victims. Morales is connected to both Sandoval and Meachem. My father is connected to Adriana Marques, to Glenn Dorsey, and possibly to Calabrese, though I don’t have proof of that yet.

  I take the picture of Adriana and tape it up to the white board. A damning piece of evidence. Next to it, I put up the Polaroid. I take out the gold cross and examine it, turning it over in my hands. It’s such an intimate object. I wonder if it was a gift from someone. Was it something she wore every day or just on special occasions? Did it bring her protection? Luck?

  I hang it over the corner of the board so that it drapes over the photograph of her wearing it. It troubles me that my father had it. If he was just watching her from afar, how did it come into his possession? I step back, frowning. So many puzzle pieces, none of which seem to fit. The white board looks like a spider’s web, connecting Suffolk County’s richest residents to its poorest. Maybe the lines mean nothing. Maybe Morales did kill two girls and buried them on Preservation Society land. But then, why was my father following Adriana Marques? Why is Dorsey so quick to pin the murders on Morales, when there are as many facts leading away from him as there are toward him? And why has no one even considered Calabrese as a suspect?

  I pick up the phone and dial my old friend Sarah Patel’s number. I need Bureau backup. I could call Lightman, but that might piss him off. Sarah’s always been a bit of a renegade, and with the Human Trafficking Task Force under her command, she’ll be able to get a team up and running in a matter of hours.

  “Nell,” she says, sounding pleasantly surprised. “It’s been a while. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. Actually, fuck that. I’m a mess.” In the background, I can hear the chatter of people, the bump of a bass. I wonder if she’s at a restaurant or a party. I feel suddenly embarrassed by my candor. For someone who is usually guarded to the point of social isolation, I’ve been spilling my guts a lot since I landed in Suffolk County. “I’m sorry. Is this an okay time? I know I’m calling you out of the blue.”

  “Of course it’s okay. I’m happy to hear your voice. What’s up? Where are you?”

  “I’m out on Long Island.”

  “Why?”

  “My dad died. Motorcycle crash.”

  “Oh, Nell. I’m so sorry.” Her voice softens. The background noise on her end of the phone fades away. I hear the thunk of a door closing.

  “He was a cop, right?”

  “Yeah. Homicide. He was working a case when he died. A big one. And that’s why I called. I want to close it, but I need help.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Last summer, hikers found the body of a seventeen-year-old girl, shot and dismembered, left out in a public park. Her name was Ria Sandoval. She grew up in Brentwood, originally from El Salvador. It was my father’s case. He never closed it. Another victim was found yesterday. Similar profile. Mexican girl from Riverhead. Shot, dismembered. Someone buried her out in the dunes at Shinnecock County Park.”

  “Oh, damn. I think I just saw this on the news. They arrested a guy, no?”

  “Yeah. A Salvadoran guy. Local landscaper. Undocumented.”

  “You don’t buy it.”

  “Both of these girls were sex workers. They used the same driver, an ex-con named Giovanni Calabrese. I think they were part of a ring, one with some very high-end clientele.”

  “Sounds up my alley.”

  “The second body was a stone’s throw from this billionaire’s house. Guy named James Meachem. I know this is a stretch, but—”

  “Oh, I know Meachem.”

  “You do.” I exhale, feeling a rush of excitement.

  “He’s a known predator. Likes young girls. And he likes to provide young girls for his friends. And they pay him back in kind.”

  “They protect him?”

  “They don’t just protect him. They invest in his fund. They do favors for him. Meachem came from nothing. Grew up in the Bronx. Dropped out of college without a degree. And now he’s worth a billion dollars. No one can figure out how he got to where he is or why all these powerful people trust him with their money. But I’ve always suspected it’s because he has enough dirt on them to keep them coming back. His fund runs on extortion, but at a very high level.”

  “His neighbor here told me he has cops on the take.”

  “Oh, for sure. Not
just cops. Judges. Senators. For a while, we were chasing down a story about him and the vice president.”

  “Seriously? What’s the story?”

  “Well, allegedly Meachem has cameras in the bedrooms at his house in Palm Beach. According to one girl we talked to, he has a tape of the VP with a fifteen-year-old undocumented Nicaraguan girl. Not a good look for our super-conservative, Bible-thumping, very much married vice president.”

  “Have you seen the tape?”

  “No. We tried, believe me. But we’ve talked to girls who have been at his house. They all know that they’re being recorded. One girl ID’d various men who she said frequented Meachem’s parties. She gave us a detailed, credible account, naming a number of high-ranking politicians. The vice president included. We began to build a whole case around her. And then she vanished.”

  “Vanished?”

  “Yeah. No trace.”

  “Do you think she was murdered?”

  “Honestly, yes. If Meachem found out she was cooperating with us, then he’d certainly have reason to get rid of her. So would a whole host of other people. But without a body . . .” She trails off, and I can almost hear her shrugging.

  “And the investigation? What happened?”

  “It fell apart after that. We had to move on to other, equally sleazy traffickers. There’s no shortage of them, unfortunately. There is, however, a shortage of people on my team. So we do what we can. I wish there was more we could’ve done there. Maybe one day.”

  “Could you pull records of every Jane Doe found in the Palm Beach area over the last few years? Check to see if any of them were shot and dismembered, and then wrapped in burlap. If Meachem is having someone kill off the girls who have worked for him, he’s not going to stop at the ones from Suffolk County.”

  Sarah pauses. “I will. But Nell, I don’t think Meachem is your guy in this case. I think he’s a complete scumbag, don’t get me wrong. And absolutely capable of murder. But burying a girl in your backyard seems like a very stupid thing to do, and Meachem is not a stupid guy.”

  “Maybe he panicked,” I suggest. “Maybe she was trying to blackmail him and he just snapped.”

  “Then why not toss her in the ocean with a cinder block tied to her ankle?”

  “I know. Fuck. You’re right. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Are you absolutely certain that both victims were in contact with Meachem?”

  “I mean, I suspect they were. But I can’t prove it.”

  “Well, get on that. Once you prove that this ring exists and that Meachem is a frequent client, it will be a lot easier to build a case against him.”

  “He’s involved, Sarah. I just feel it. I need to know if he was paying off cops in Suffolk County. His neighbor suggested as much. If he was, that helps explain why no one did anything to investigate Sandoval’s death.”

  “Are we talking Suffolk County cops?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your dad was a Suffolk County cop.”

  “Correct.”

  “So these are your father’s friends? Men you grew up with?”

  Maybe my father, too, I almost say but stop myself.

  “Yes.”

  “You sure you want to go down this particular rabbit hole?”

  “Yes. I have to. I need to know.”

  Sarah pauses. “We’re watching Meachem down here. We’re waiting for him to screw up. He’ll get his. You have my word on that.”

  “It’s not just about Meachem. It’s about Adriana and Ria. These are girls like us, Sarah. I want people to know their names. I want to know who killed them. They deserve that, at least.”

  “Does Lightman know you’re doing this?”

  “No. I can’t ask the Bureau to come in officially. Not without tipping off the SCPD. That’s why I’m coming to you.” I decline to tell her that I’m also technically on medical leave and that Lightman would have my head if he knew what I was up to.

  “Okay,” she says, though I can hear the reluctance in her voice. She thinks we’re in murky waters here. She’s not wrong. “Let’s start with the guy you think is running this ring.”

  “Giovanni Calabrese. Runs a limo company out of Wyandanch called GC Limo Services. He drove both victims around.”

  “If someone is paying off cops, it’s probably him.”

  “So we need to find some way into his operation.”

  “Do we know any of the girls in this ring besides the two victims?”

  It takes me a moment, but I remember. “There is one. Ria Sandoval, the first victim, had a friend named Luz Molina. She also worked for Calabrese.”

  “Well, go find her. She could be our in.”

  “She might be too scared to help us.”

  “She should be scared. If someone’s killing off Calabrese’s girls, she might be next.”

  “I’m on it,” I say, already moving toward the door.

  “Hey, Nell?”

  “Yep?”

  “Be careful. Watch your back. Meachem is smart and he’s dangerous. Please stay in touch. I can’t have you disappearing on me, too.”

  “I can handle myself.”

  “I know you can. But Meachem’s got an army of people at his disposal. And you’re alone.”

  “Not anymore. I’ve got you.”

  16.

  The rain blows sideways past the glass doors. The windows rattle like teeth in their casings. I’m in the bedroom, struggling to pull a sweater over my injured shoulder, when I hear the rumble of tires on gravel. I peer outside; an SCPD cruiser has pulled into my driveway. Behind it is my father’s red truck. The lights switch off. The driver hops out of the front seat. He’s wearing a raincoat with the collar turned up and a hat. He glances up at the window; it’s Ron Anastas. I inhale sharply and duck beneath the sill, my heart ticking like an overwound watch. The curtain beside me shivers. I wonder if he saw me. The front bell rings. I shut my eyes, willing him to leave. The door isn’t locked. He could just turn the handle and let himself in. He’s with a partner; I’m alone. My hand slides slowly to my weapon. I turn my head, listening.

  Nothing. Finally, I hear the crunch of steps. A car door slams. Then the cruiser pulls away from the house, the sound of it evaporating against the heavy beat of rain on the roof. A minute ticks by, then two. Thunder rumbles in the distance. I stand up and look out into the rain. I let out a sharp exhale. For now, at least, they’re gone.

  Dune Road, sandwiched as it is between the bay and the ocean, often floods during storms. I imagine it will close soon, and if it does, I’ll be trapped here until the storm passes. I can’t afford to wait. I hurry down the stairs and take the photograph of my father and Dorsey off his desk. I find Dad’s raincoat in the front closet, so large it comes almost to my knees. It feels strange to wear his clothes and drive his car while I’m investigating him. I don’t have much of a choice. I need to know who my father was. I flip up the hood and head out into the storm.

  The keys to my father’s pickup are on the driver’s seat. I hop in and start it up. As soon as I pull out of my driveway, I notice that the edges of Dune Road are filling with water. In places, my tires are almost submerged. The bay is closing in. A police cruiser passes as I turn onto the bridge. It’s heading in the opposite direction. I feel a shiver of discomfort, an urge to slouch behind the wheel. There’s no going back now.

  Hank O’Gorman’s place has a name—the Marina Bar & Grill—but no one ever calls it that. Folks just say Hank O’Gorman’s place, or simply Hank’s. It is as advertised: a bar and a grill, nothing more, nothing less, with sawdust on the floor and an old pool table in the back, which everyone knows is tilted just slightly to the left. There’s a dartboard filled with holes and a jukebox that plays only classic rock, mostly Lynyrd Skynyrd and AC/DC. If there’s a draw to Hank’s, it’s Hank himself. A retired cop, Hank is big and b
earded, with flaming red hair and full-sleeve tattoos. He’s hard to miss. Six nights out of seven, he shakes up drinks behind the bar. More often than not, he lets his boys from the SCPD drink for free. I’ve never seen a non-local in the joint and I think Hank wants it that way. There’s no sign for the Marina Bar & Grill along the highway; there’s not even one over the door. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought it was just an old shack, a part of the marina itself.

  There are a couple of cars in the lot. The lights are on. I hear the faint pulse of music from inside. When I let myself in, a bell rings overhead, announcing my entry to the mostly empty room. The wind whistles behind me. I run a hand through my hair, shaking off the rain.

  There is a lone man at the bar, bent over a glass of scotch. In the back, a couple huddles in a booth. A television in the corner of the room is set to local news. A storm whirls angrily toward the coast of Long Island. In the corner of the screen, statistics flash. Predicted rainfall. Wind speeds. Beach closures. “Suffolk County,” the weatherman says, “will be hit the hardest. Folks along the waterfront should prepare for evacuation.”

  Hank emerges from the kitchen. He looks just the same as I remember. He’s large enough that he should be intimidating, but he has a kind way about him. He wears an apron over a plaid button-down that says “Kiss the Chef” on the front. When he sees me, his face lights up into a big smile, revealing the gap between his front teeth. He leans over the bar for an awkward hug, clapping me on the back with a bearlike paw.

  “Nell Flynn. I was hoping I’d get to catch a glimpse of you. Dorsey said you were in town.”

  “It’s good to see you, Hank. I’ve been meaning to stop by.”

  “I’m sorry about your dad. I’ll miss seeing him around here.”

  “Thanks. This was his spot, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Hank presses his lips together as though he wants to say more. I never asked Dorsey where, exactly, Dad was coming from on the night he died. I assumed he’d been here, drinking at Hank’s bar the way he did most nights. But it doesn’t really matter. I don’t want Hank to think I blame him for Dad’s death. If Hank hadn’t served him that night, he would have found liquor elsewhere. Liquor always managed to find him. Anyway, I’m starting to wonder if his drinking factored into his crash to begin with. It may have been an intentional act by a man with a guilty conscience.