Girls Like Us

by Cristina Alger

  “You were a good friend to him, Hank. I appreciate that.”

  “He was here the night he died. Did Dorsey tell you that?”

  “I didn’t ask. It was just an accident. His tires were worn. Roads were wet.”

  “He wasn’t drinking. I mean, nothing more than a Coke. He was supposed to meet DaSilva, but he never showed up, and so your dad just watched the game with me. Anyway, I wanted you to know that. He was on the wagon. Took it real serious, too.”

  That catches me by surprise. “Really? Since when?”

  Hank shrugs. “Few months. He didn’t tell you? Quit cold turkey. He’d come in and just sip a Coke at the bar. I think he liked being around people instead of sitting around an empty house. I always figured that was your influence.”

  “No. We never spoke about his drinking.”

  “Well, I think you had something to do with it. He told me once he wanted to stop for you. I was proud of him that he finally did it.”

  “I heard a rumor he was seeing someone. A woman named Maria. Did he ever bring her by?”

  Hank raises his eyebrows. “No. Who told you that?”

  “An old friend.”

  “Your dad was in here most nights. Either alone or with the guys from SCPD. If he had a lady friend, I never met her.”

  “No worries. Just figured I’d ask.”

  “What can I get you? On the house.”

  I pause. It feels wrong, on the heels of discussing my father’s sobriety, to order a drink. But it’s been a hell of a day. My shoulder is smarting; my nerves are still raw. “Macallan neat,” I say. I pull out my wallet. “And please, I got it. You can start up a tab.”

  Hank waves me off. “Your money’s no good here.”

  He slides down the bar to fill the other patron’s glass. As I wait for my scotch, I glance around. No sign of Luz. Looks like Hank’s working the joint himself tonight, which makes sense given the weather. I can hear the wind howling outside. It’s reached a fever pitch. I’m surprised this place is still open. Then again, Hank lives in an apartment upstairs, so it’s not like he has far to go when he decides to close up. And at least, for the moment, they have electricity.

  The television switches from the weather forecast to local news. I sit up when I see a shot of Alfonso Morales being led out of the back of Dorsey’s car in cuffs. His head is down. He hunches into the collar of his coat, shielding his face from the camera.

  “This afternoon, members of the Suffolk County Police Department made a stunning arrest at Harald Farms Nursery in Aquebogue,” a reporter says. “Alfonso Morales, an employee of the nursery, was seen running from officers, brandishing a weapon. A local resident, Mary Cassevetes, captured the exchange on her phone.”

  The screen cut to shaky, zoomed-in footage of Morales sprinting through the field behind the farm stand. It startles me to see my own outline appear in the distance, crouched behind a truck in the parking lot. I’m shrouded in shadow; no one could identify me. But still, there I am, on the local news. I cringe, imagining Lightman’s reaction if he found out. I can practically hear him yelling at me through the phone: What are you doing out there playing cops and robbers at a local nursery? You’re on my fucking TV! Why don’t you just mail Dmitry Novak a goddamn Christmas card with your return address on it?

  Just before I tackle Morales, the footage cuts off. The reporter appears on-screen again. “What you’ve just witnessed is live footage from this afternoon from Harald Farms Nursery in Aquebogue, where police officers apprehended an armed suspect, a man who is wanted in connection with the murders of two young women here in Suffolk County.”

  There it is. The media has tied the two murders together. Ria Sandoval is no longer a cold case. She is one victim in a serial string.

  Hank reappears with my Macallan. “Wild story, right?” He nods up at the television. “You hear about this? They found a girl yesterday morning buried out at Shinnecock County Park. Her body was all cut up. I guess they arrested the guy.”

  “It’s why I’m here, actually.”

  Hank raises his eyebrows. “Oh yeah?”

  “Dorsey has me consulting on the case. Dad was working on it when he died.”

  “Sounds like they’re figuring it out.”

  “There was a case last summer. A girl buried out in the Pine Barrens. Her name was Ria Sandoval.”

  “Yeah, I remember. Her friend works here. Luz Molina.”

  “Looks like it might be the same guy.”

  “Oh, shit.” Hank shakes his head. “Luz asked to leave early today. I was kind of an ass to her about it. I didn’t realize what was going on.”

  “What time did she leave?”

  “Around four, I’d guess? She gets in at noon. Supposed to stay until closing.”

  “I don’t think she left because of Morales, if that’s any consolation. He wasn’t arrested until after five. How long has she worked here?”

  “About a year. She’s a good kid. Hard worker. I really shouldn’t have given her a hard time about leaving early. She’s usually reliable. I was just in a pissy mood because of the storm.”

  “You said she’s been here a year? So she must have started working here right after they found Ria’s body?”

  “Yeah.” Hank glances down the bar. The man at the other end looks half asleep. He’s slumped over his drink; his head rests heavy in his hands. Hank drops his voice low. “Between us, Dorsey asked me if I could hire her. Luz was caught up in the escorting thing, and after everything with her friend, she was scared out of her mind. Dorsey felt bad for her. Asked if I could do him a solid and give her some work. Just, you know, under the table. She needed the money.”

  “What does she do for you?”

  “Cleans up, waitresses. Last week she put in all the storm windows. Whatever I need, really.”

  “How does she know Dorsey?”

  “Through the investigation, I guess. Wait, was this the guy who lives across the street from her? The landscaper? Dorsey told me about him. He showed me a picture once, told me to keep an eye out for him.”

  “Yeah. Alfonso Morales.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. That fucking animal. If they’d locked him up last summer, that girl might still be alive.” He paused then, and his cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red. “I don’t mean no disrespect. I’m sure your dad did everything he could have to get the guy.”

  “None taken. Listen, you know where I can find Luz? I’d like to talk to her.”

  “Sure. I got her info in the back somewhere.” He tops up my drink. “It’s getting real nasty out there. If I were you, I’d stay awhile. No sense driving at night in these conditions. And definitely not out to Brentwood. That place ain’t safe after dark.”

  17.

  From Hank’s, I drive straight to Brentwood. There are two police cars parked outside of Morales’s house. The flashing red lights make me nervous. I hide my face as best I can inside the hood of my coat and hurry up the path to Luz’s front door.

  She’s there, in the window. Watching the police. Watching me. I ring the bell and wait. She disappears from sight. For a minute, nothing. But then I hear footsteps, and the clicking of locks. Luz opens the door. A gust of wind blows her hair off her face. She’s barefoot, wearing only pajama pants and a light pink sweatshirt. She crosses her arms against her chest, hunching in the cold. She looks so young. A wide-eyed, frightened kid. Inside, in a back room, a baby is crying.

  “Are you Luz?” I ask.

  She nods, silent.

  “My name is Nell Flynn. I’m with the FBI. I was hoping I could ask you some questions about your friend. Ria Sandoval.”

  I show her my ID. She studies it and then peers over my shoulder, toward the Morales house. “Have they arrested him?”

  “Yes. Earlier today.”

  She chews her lip, considering. “Then why do y
ou need to talk to me?”

  Rain cascades down the hood of my jacket, slipping off its slick surface, pooling on the cracked cement beneath my feet. I tremble from the chill. My shoulder aches. Luz stands firmly at the door. She seems wary of me and more so of the police. I’m starting to feel that way myself.

  “This is a serial murder investigation,” I explain. “It’s not just about Ria. There was another body found at Shinnecock County Park yesterday.”

  “I heard about it.”

  “A girl named Adriana Marques. Morales is a suspect in both murders. The police are questioning him now.”

  Ria’s eyes widen. The color drains from her face. “Adriana? The girl from Riverhead?”

  “Did you know her?”

  “Oh my God,” she whispers.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you knew them both.”

  “They think he killed Adriana, too?”

  “It’s one theory. It would be helpful if I could ask you some questions about Ria. I’m trying to understand how these cases are connected.”

  She stares at me, her eyes bright with fear. “How did she die? Was it the same thing as Ria?”

  “It was similar.”

  She bends at the waist. For a second, I think she might throw up. She closes her eyes, her palm covers her mouth.

  I glance over my shoulder at the police cars across the street. Two men in SCPD vests emerge from Morales’s house. I turn back around, hoping they don’t notice me. “Do you think I could come inside?”

  Luz’s eyes open. “You said you’re with the FBI? Not the police? I don’t want to talk to the police again.”

  “You don’t have to. Everything you say to me will be between us.”

  “If I tell you something important, something helpful about Ria and Adriana, can you help me and my brother get out of here?”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “Anywhere. Just away from here. Off this island. Somewhere safe. I can’t talk to you unless I know we’ll be okay afterward.” Her eyes are wide, pleading.

  “Okay,” I say slowly. “I will do everything I can to make sure you and your brother are safe.”

  “No, you need to promise. We have to leave.”

  “I promise. Witness protection, if that’s what it takes. You have my word.”

  She frowns at me, considering. Finally, she says: “We can talk. Somewhere else, though. My family is home. They’re sleeping.”

  “It’s late. I can come back tomorrow.”

  “No.” She nods her head toward the blinking lights. “It’s better if we talk now.”

  We end up driving. It’s late, close to midnight. Most places are closed. Luz doesn’t want to run the risk of being seen with me, so we stay in the car, heading east along the highway. She seems, for the moment, relieved to be away from her house. Her shoulders drop from around her ears once we turn off her street and the lights of the police cars fade in the distance.

  “Do you want to listen to music?” I gesture at the radio. Rain drums on the roof, and the wipers work furiously to clear the windshield. Luz leans forward and flicks it on. She turns through a few stations, rap to pop to classical, not settling on anything. Finally, she stops on 103.9, the local news station.

  “Here’s my problem,” an excited male voice says. “If you look at Suffolk County as a whole, violent crime is on the rise. But if you take out those neighborhoods that are predominantly Latino—Brentwood, for example—it’s actually a very peaceful county.”

  “But what’s the solution?” another voice asks. “Do we divide the county? Do we deport people? A lot of counties have affluent pockets and not-so-affluent pockets. Look at Manhattan, for example.”

  “Right, but Suffolk County is huge. We have one police force for the whole eastern half of the island. And if they have to spend all their time and resources on a few select neighborhoods—”

  “But they aren’t spending their time there. I think you could argue they are spending a disproportionate amount of time and energy servicing the wealthier parts of the county, while at Brentwood High, we’re seeing shootings every other week and no one is doing anything about it.”

  “I think if you were to actively deport everyone in Suffolk County who is here illegally, you’d see a different picture.”

  I reach to turn off the radio, but Luz beats me to it.

  “You live with your uncle, right?” I ask, trying to sound cheerful.

  She nods, silent.

  “How old is your brother?”

  “Miguel is fourteen. Fifteen next month.”

  “Miguel is a nice name. My grandfather’s name.”

  She turns toward me. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Miguel Santos. From Juarez, Mexico. My grandmother was pregnant and they wanted my mom to be born here, so they crossed the border and never looked back.”

  “And was she?”

  “Yep. Born in Texas. They moved out to Central Islip when she was teenager. Just a few blocks from here, actually.”

  “No shit.” Luz covers her mouth. “Sorry. I just—I didn’t think you were Latina.”

  “Most people don’t. With a last name like Flynn . . .” I shrug.

  “So your grandparents, did they stay?”

  “They did. Overstayed, in fact. Got visas that eventually expired. Never did sort out the documentation. Didn’t matter, in the end. My grandfather was a proud American. They had a flag on their front lawn. Every year they’d have a barbecue on July Fourth.”

  Luz stares out at the rain. She’s biting mercilessly on a hangnail. I want to put my hand on her shoulder and tell her it’s going to be okay, but I can’t promise her that. My grandparents lived and died in a different time. Their lives weren’t easy. Not even close. They both worked two jobs, sometimes three. They had no health insurance, no education, no safety net. There was never enough money. Sometimes there wasn’t enough to fill the fridge. But the threat of deportation didn’t hang over them the way I know it does for Luz.

  “Ria was from San Salvador. That’s how we became friends.”

  “Did you know her back home?”

  “No. We met at school. I knew she lived down the street. She was different. Really smart. We both studied hard. We wanted to make enough money to get out of here.”

  “I get it. My mom cleaned houses during the day and went to school at night. You do what you need to do.”

  “That’s what Ria used to say.”

  “The police report mentioned that Ria did some escorting to make ends meet. Same with Adriana Marques. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

  Luz stays silent.

  “They both advertised on Craigslist and Backpage at first. But that stopped after they met Giovanni Calabrese.”

  More silence.

  “You wouldn’t know where I can find him, would you?”

  “He didn’t kill them, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know Gio. He cared about Ria. Adriana, too. And they made him a lot of money.”

  “Because he drove them to and from jobs?”

  She sighs. “It was more than that. Before Gio, Ria was putting up ads on the Internet. She’d go meet a client at a hotel or at his house. Sometimes just in his car. It wasn’t safe. But Gio made sure she was okay. He didn’t let anyone push her around and he made sure she always got paid. Eventually, Gio was just working for a few clients. He was really picky about the girls he hired. His clients, they like classy girls. They’re willing to pay. Adriana and Ria were two of his best earners.”

  “What happened the night she went missing? He dropped her off in a parking lot of a motel. That doesn’t sound so safe to me.”

  “That wasn’t his fault. It was what she wanted. I was with her tha
t night. We were supposed to work a party in Southampton for one of the regular clients. But at the last minute, someone called her. A guy she’d met at a party. He said he wanted to see her privately.”

  “Wait, you were in the car with them?” I try to keep my voice level.

  “Yeah.” A tear rolls down her cheek. “I never told anyone that because I didn’t want to get in trouble. I don’t know anything, anyway. I didn’t see who she was meeting. We left her in the parking lot. I never saw her again.”

  “It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

  “I shouldn’t have let her stay there alone.”

  “You couldn’t have known.”

  She shakes her head. “Gio was upset. He wanted her to come to the party with us. We both felt like something was off. I can’t explain it. I just had a bad feeling.”

  “Where was the party?”

  “In Southampton. This rich guy’s house. He parties a lot, and Gio always brings him girls. And we got paid really well. A thousand dollars a night.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  She shakes her head.

  “If I took you to the house, would you recognize it?”

  She looks up at me, her eyes wide. “I don’t want to go back to that house.”

  “Not inside. I’ll just drive you down the street and you can point. Okay? There’s no one home, I promise.”

  Luz doesn’t answer. She’s crying quietly. Her cheeks glisten with tears. “After Ria died, I told them I’d never go back there again.”

  “Who is ‘them,’ Luz?”

  “Gio. And the others.”

  “Can you tell me their names?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Was it Glenn Dorsey, Luz? I know he was the one who got you the job at Hank’s.”