“I can’t talk about it.”
“Luz, listen to me. Two of Gio’s girls are dead. If there are cops involved, I need to know. It’s the only way to make sure that you and the other girls who work for him aren’t in danger.”
“You need to get Miguel and me out of here. You need to swear.”
“I will. But please, help me. Help me and I’ll help you.”
She turns and we lock eyes. “Two years ago, Glenn Dorsey busted Ria. She’d been advertising online. When he brought her in, he gave her a choice: he’d either turn her over to ICE or she could go work for Gio.”
My face instantly flushes. My foot hits the brake, slowing the car. “Wait. Dorsey connected Ria to Gio? You’re sure? Glenn Dorsey.” I feel breathless as I say his name. I think about his arm around me in the parking lot after we scattered Dad’s ashes. I rested my head against him, wishing we’d stay in touch. I told him I loved him.
I feel bile rise in my throat. It was bad enough to think that Dorsey was taking kickbacks from a pimp. It hadn’t occurred to me that he was a pimp himself, preying on girls who had no other option but to obey him.
“Yeah, I’m sure. That’s how most of the girls found their way in.”
“And Gio pays Dorsey to bring him girls?”
“Dorsey does everything,” she says, her eyebrows raised emphatically. She seems frustrated, like I don’t fully understand. “Dorsey brings in the girls. He makes sure we don’t get in trouble. He gets security at the parties, too. Some of the clients are really high profile. They like having cops around. It makes them feel like they won’t get caught.” Her lips curl downward in disgust.
“Were there other cops involved?”
“Sure.”
“Do you know their names?”
She pauses, thinking. “There were a few. Ron something. He’d come around sometimes. And DaSilva. Short guy, red face? He was like the muscle. He worked security at the parties. He was a real asshole to the girls. Always kind of threatening us, you know? Like he enjoyed seeing us scared.”
“Anyone else you remember in particular?”
“There was another guy. I can’t remember his name. Tall, quiet. Rode a motorcycle.”
“Marty Flynn.”
“Yeah. That sounds right. He came around some.”
I turn onto Meadow Lane. Most of the houses are dark. The wind howls and rocks the body of the truck. In the distance, I can see the lights on the Ponquogue Bridge. At the end of the road, Shinnecock County Park sits, an expanse of blackness, an open mouth.
“This is it.” Luz sits up. “This is the street.”
We drive to the end and stop. I point up at Meachem’s property. A flash of lightning illuminates the house.
“There?” I ask.
“Yeah. That’s the house. The man who throws the parties lives there.”
“Thank you, Luz. You’ve been so helpful. Can I ask you one more thing?”
“Sure.”
“I need you to introduce me to Calabrese.”
“What? Why?”
“He won’t know I’m FBI, I promise. I need to get inside his office so I can figure out who pays him and who he pays in return.”
“How am I supposed to do that? I haven’t seen him in a year.”
“Tell him you have a friend. A friend who might be interested in working for him. A friend who’s really desperate for cash.”
She looks at me, appraising. “I don’t know. He’s really picky about his girls. Most of them are young.”
“You introduce us. Leave the rest to me.”
She tucks her knees up under her chin and says nothing.
“By the time I meet with him, I promise you, you and Miguel will already be off the island. I’ll get you on a plane the minute the meeting is set.”
“Can you do that?”
“I can,” I tell her, trying to sound more confident than I am. “And I will.”
She nods slowly. “I’ll do it. But please. You’ve got to understand. If you leave me here, they’ll kill me, just like they did to those other girls.”
“I know. They’ll kill us both. That’s why we have to be smart and move fast. We hunt them before they hunt us.”
18.
By the time I get home, Dune Road is open again. The electricity still isn’t on, so I lie down in front of the fire. My body is shot through with fatigue. I gather up some work, force myself to read. Soon, I fall into a restless sleep, punctuated by strange and violent dreams.
I cry out, waking myself. I’d been dreaming of my mother again. We were on the beach, just her and me. The sky was dark; the ocean churned and spat up foam. It was cold, too cold for the beach. The sand beneath my feet felt like ice. I don’t know why we were there. I wanted to go back inside the house. My mother was in a bathing suit. She ran toward the ocean. I called out to her, warning her, trying to stop her from going in. She would die of cold; the tide would pull her under. I screamed but my words were lost on the wind. She turned back toward me and smiled, laughing. Then she sprung forward, her arms coming together as she dove, disappearing into a giant, frothing wave.
I sit up. I’m on the couch. The living room is freezing; the fire’s gone out. My bare feet stick out from beneath the blanket. I pull them in toward me, rubbing them between my hands. When I stretch my arms, my shoulder pulses with pain. My father’s bank statements are scattered on the floor. I must’ve fallen asleep reading them. I pick them up, shuffling them into some kind of order. I spent most of the night reviewing them. They seem to match up with his salary from the Suffolk County Police Department. There are no suspicious transactions. No large deposits or withdrawals. The only thing out of the ordinary was the apartment in Riverhead, paid for out of a separate account. Even that, though, was paid for from my father’s salary. If he was receiving off-books payments from Giovanni Calabrese or anyone else, there is no evidence of it in these pages. I have to assume that’s what his offshore account was for. It’s time to find out for sure.
After I set coffee to brew, I dig out Justin Moran’s business card and dial his number.
“This is Nell Flynn,” I say when he answers. “Martin Flynn’s daughter. His attorney, Howard Kidd, gave me your contact information.”
“Is he all right?”
“He’s dead.”
“My condolences, Ms. Flynn. How can I help you?”
“You tell me. I’ve never held offshore assets before. Can you provide me with a statement of some sort? Or tell me how to close the account?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to come down here in person if you want to withdraw assets.”
“To the Cayman Islands?”
“Yes. We take security quite seriously, Ms. Flynn. Security and discretion.”
“And I appreciate that. But you can’t expect me to fly down there only to find there’s fifteen dollars in the account. It’s not worth my time.”
Moran pauses, considering this logic. “I understand,” he says. “Let’s do this. I’m going to ask you a series of questions, verifying that you are who you say you are. Social Security number, that sort of thing. And then I’ll be happy to answer your questions about the account. Will that suffice?”
“Works for me.”
“All right. Here we go.” Moran asks me a series of mundane but personal questions, all of which I answer. I must have passed his test, because he stops and says, “Fine. That’s good. What can I tell you about the account?”
“How much is in it?”
“Currently a hundred forty thousand dollars.”
“Wow. Okay. I suppose that’s worth the flight.”
“Indeed. Ten thousand is transferred into it at the start of each month, so if you wait a few days, that will go up to one fifty.”
“Transfer from where? My father’s bank account?”
&nb
sp; “No. From a corporation, GC Limited. The account was opened fourteen months ago and has received ten thousand dollars each month since.”
“GC, you said?”
“Yes.”
“I ought to contact the corporation. If my father was working for them, they should know he’s passed.”
“I’m not sure I can give you that information.”
“Mr. Moran, I don’t want to get technical on you here. But my father’s dead. I’m the beneficiary of this account. So as I see it, you’re my banker now.”
“I understand,” he says crisply. “Still, the bank has certain protocols.”
“I’m also an FBI agent, Mr. Moran. Perhaps my father mentioned that. The Bureau has protocols, too. One of them is making sure none of its agents are harboring cash in offshore accounts. So we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. The hard way is going to involve my boss, the head of the Bureau, the IRS, and a whole bunch of subpoenas. Alternatively, you could provide me with a statement for my account, with the contact information for the corporation that was transferring money into it each month, and then we can close the account together and no one has to be the wiser. It’s up to you. Personally, I’d opt for the easy way. It’s going to be a lot more pleasant for both of us.”
Moran clears his throat. “Yes, your father mentioned your line of work. Thank you for refreshing my memory. How would you like me to send you the statements?”
“Email would be preferable. I’ll give you my contact information. Rest assured, I’ll keep it in the closest confidence.”
“I’ll email it to you within the hour. Once you’ve reviewed it, call me and we can proceed with closing the account.”
I hang up and flick on the television. Luz said she was going to reach out to Calabrese today, but it’s still early. She’s probably still asleep. So is he. I’ll have to be patient. Patience is not my forte.
The TV does little to distract me. Alfonso Morales’s confession is the big story on the local news; I have to wait only a minute before an anchor mentions it. The screen shows Morales exiting an SCPD cruiser in cuffs. Several officers surround him. Morales bends at the waist, ignoring the shouts of reporters and the flash of cameras. Someone from inside the police department must have called the media. It’s more of a circus than your average perp walk.
“We bring you live to the police headquarters in Yaphank.” The cameras are trained on the steps of the precinct; Glenn Dorsey stands at a podium, his officers lined up behind him like bodyguards. Seeing their faces makes me wince. These are my dad’s colleagues, his friends, men I’ve known my whole life. Men I once considered family.
“Today was a testament to the Suffolk County Police Department,” Glenn begins. “Our team worked quickly and effectively and were able to apprehend Mr. Morales within a twenty-four-hour period. Mr. Morales has confessed to the killings of both Ria Sandoval, the young woman whose body was found last summer in the Pine Barrens, and Adriana Marques, found two days ago at Shinnecock County Park. Today is a sad day for our community as we mourn the loss of two young lives. But it is also a day where we can honor the work of the officers here and take comfort in their competency. I have time for just a few questions.”
Dorsey scans the crowd of reporters, pointing to a man at the front.
“Is Mr. Morales a U.S. citizen?”
“He is not.”
“What about the victims? Were they here legally?”
“Adriana Marques was a U.S. citizen. Ria Sandoval was not.”
“Is it true that the Suffolk County Police Department maintains a ninety-four percent confession rate?” Ann-Marie Marshall asks from the back of the crowd. When I hear her voice, I freeze.
Dorsey frowns. “I don’t know how accurate that statistic is. But we do have a solid confession rate, and it’s something I’m proud of.”
“It’s significantly higher than the national average, and far exceeds that in comparable counties like Nassau and Westchester.”
“If that’s true, it’s a credit to our detectives. Next question.” Dorsey jabs a finger at the nearest reporter.
“Or it’s an indication that your detectives use improper tactics to obtain these confessions,” Marshall continues, her voice loud enough to hush the crowd. “Just last year, there was a case in which homicide detectives from Suffolk County took a written statement in English from Hector Dominguez, a man who speaks only Spanish and was not offered counsel or even a translator—”
“You are grossly misrepresenting the facts of the Dominguez case,” Dorsey cuts her off. “Your newspaper’s coverage of that story was inaccurate and nearly resulted in a lawsuit. It has no bearing on Mr. Morales’s confession, which he gave completely and willingly, and which I personally oversaw. Mr. Morales had a guilty conscience and he wanted to confess. End of story. Now, if you don’t mind—”
“What about Sean Gilroy’s confession back in ’97?” Ann-Marie Marshall shouts. “You oversaw that confession, too, didn’t you? And in both cases, there was forensic evidence that suggested the suspect could not possibly have committed the crime of which he was accused, and in both cases that evidence was intentionally overlooked by your department.”
“No more questions.” Dorsey steps away from the microphone so abruptly that he knocks it over. An electric squeal fills the air. The camera follows Dorsey as he walks away, his shoulders pinned around his ears. When he’s gone, it pans the crowd of reporters, who turn to one another, chattering excitedly about the heated exchange.
I shut off the television.
I open my laptop. I check my inbox; there’s already an email from Justin Moran. I click open the attachment and hit print. In the office, I hear the printer whir to life. As I wait for it to finish, I search Sean Gilroy’s name. After scanning three articles that Ann-Marie Marshall wrote about Gilroy’s confession, I see what I’m looking for. At the end of the last article, Marshall quotes Glenn Dorsey as saying, “That boy had a guilty conscience. Some folks just want to confess, you know?”
I pick up the phone and dial Newsday’s main number.
“My name is Nell Flynn,” I tell the operator. “I need to speak to Ann-Marie Marshall as soon as possible.”
* * *
—
AN HOUR LATER, we meet at a coffee shop on Main Street in Riverhead. The place is small and plain, with a dusty front window that looks out on a parking lot and a sign on the door that reads “CLOSED.” I pause and peer in through the glass. I catch the eye of a woman wiping down the counter. When she sees me she stops what she’s doing. She beckons me inside.
I push the door open; the hinges whine in protest. The booths are tall and covered in a waxy, mustard-yellow fabric. The television over the counter is set silently to the local news. The place is quiet; I check my watch to make sure I have the right time. I’m still not sure this is even the right place. The woman behind the counter points toward the last booth.
“Take a seat, hon.”
I nod in thanks. I’m surprised to find Ann-Marie Marshall already nestled in the corner. She smiles up at me, her red lips parting over perfect white teeth.
“Did I startle you?”
“No,” I say, though she did. “Nice place to meet. All very cloak-and-dagger.”
She shrugs. “I have my spots. In my line of work, it’s sometimes complicated to find a good place to chat.”
“I know the feeling.” I slide into the booth opposite her. I eye her cup of steaming black coffee. The place is cold, and I cross my arms against my chest, wishing I’d brought more clothes to Suffolk County. I thought I’d be here for just a few days. But this is my second week, and my wardrobe of one pair of jeans and my father’s old sweatshirts feels thin. The waitress comes over, a pencil tucked behind her ear.
“Can I get you something, hon?”
“Coffee would be great.”
“How do you take it?”
“Black is fine. And hot, please.”
“Coming up.” She disappears and returns almost instantly with a mug and the pot. She tops off Ann-Marie’s cup before whisking away again.
“I’m glad you called,” Ann-Marie says once we’re alone. She dumps a packet of sugar into her mug and stirs. “You know, I’ve thought about reaching out to you in the past. But I wasn’t sure you’d want to hear from me.”
“I wouldn’t have. Frankly, I’ve always hated your guts.”
She smiles, unfazed. “Well, I’m glad I didn’t, then. Why did you call me?”
“I saw you at the news conference with Glenn Dorsey. You mentioned Sean Gilroy. From my mother’s case.”
Her face hardens. “If you’re here to tell me to shut up about that case, you could have done that over the phone. And I would’ve told you the same thing I tell the SCPD. Absolutely not.”
“That’s not what I want. To the contrary, actually.”
That catches her by surprise. “You want to know about the Gilroy case?”
“You said there was forensic evidence that contradicted Gilroy’s statement.”
“There was. The coroner’s report stated that your mother’s assailant was left-handed. Gilroy is ambidextrous. He writes with his left but plays sports with his right. So it stands to reason that he would have used his right hand if he was to stab anyone.”
“That’s conjecture.”
“It is. But the forensic pathologist agreed with me. Conveniently, his entire report was lost shortly after the trial. And then he retired to Florida. Or at least, that’s what I was told. Anyway, he became unreachable. That seems to happen to a lot of people in Suffolk County. They just disappear.” She spreads her fingers wide as if to say poof.
“Gilroy’s fingerprints were on the murder weapon,” I point out. “Were the prints from his right hand or his left?”
“His left. Look, I don’t doubt he picked up the knife with his left hand. He said he did. But it’s possible he did so after he’d found the body. You know he recanted once, right? He said he saw her through the window and that she was already dead, and he broke into the house in order to help her.”
Girls Like Us Page 16
