“Aren’t you tired of covering for him? Seriously. You framed Sean Gilroy twenty-one years ago. And now Morales? All for what? What’s the point, now that Dad’s dead?”
“You should be fucking thanking me for what I’ve done for your father.”
My lips part. My breath catches. “What did you do?” I whisper. “That’s all I want to know. Did you cover for him? Did you set Gilroy and Morales up because you were protecting him? I’ll never tell a goddamn soul, I swear. But I need to know who my father was. What happened to my mother that night? Don’t I deserve to know?”
I begin to cry. I put my face in my hands, my shoulders shaking. It’s not an act. The guys can tell. I can feel the tension deflate, like air rushing out of a balloon.
Dorsey relents. “Vince, why don’t you give me and Nell a minute, okay?”
Vince hesitates.
“Vince.”
“You sure, Chief?”
“I’m sure. Wait for me outside, okay?”
Vince flips a toothpick up from his pocket and into his teeth. “Sure thing, boss.” Dorsey stands up and lets Vince out. I feel his eyes on me, but I don’t look up. I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my sweatshirt and shove my hands deep into my pockets. One hand closes around my phone. Now. I have to do this now.
I wait until the door bangs shut. “Do you think I could have another drink?”
“’Course.” Dorsey walks over to the bar. “Macallan?”
“Just some water. Thanks. I really appreciate it.” I pull out my phone, pretend to be checking it. Instead, I turn on the audio record button and slip it back into my pocket.
Dorsey returns and sits across from me. He pushes the water across the table. “Look at me, Nell.”
I look up. Dorsey’s eyes soften at the corners. He smiles then. “You remind me so much of Marty.”
“People keep telling me that. It’s probably not a good thing.”
He chuckles. “It is. He was stubborn as hell. But he was a good guy. Cared a lot about truth and justice and all that.”
“Did he kill her? Did he kill my mom?”
He lets out a long sigh. He folds his hands on the table and closes his eyes for a minute. “I don’t know, Nell. And that’s the God’s honest truth. The only person who really knows what happened that night is you.”
“I was seven years old.”
“I know that. No one would blame you if you lied to protect him. Or maybe you didn’t know what happened. You were young. It was late. You were confused. That’s understandable, too.”
“I really don’t know. I can’t remember. Believe me, I’ve tried.” I’ve never told anyone that, not in so many words. Tears rush down my face, sliding onto the table in fat, hot drops. “I don’t think he left our tent. But you know how, if you tell yourself a lie enough times, you start to believe it to be true?”
Dorsey reaches across the table and extends his hand, palm up. I look at it, and then back at him. I put my hand in his. He squeezes it, and a shiver runs through my body.
“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”
“That’s how I feel about that weekend.”
“It’s okay, sweetheart. I know. When we talked to you at the station, I could tell you weren’t sure what happened. And so I worried. I worried that maybe Marty did something stupid. You know she was leaving him, don’t you?”
“No,” I say, stunned. “I didn’t.”
“I’m sorry. Shit. I shouldn’t have said—”
“Just tell me the truth. That’s all I want. Just closure.”
Dorsey nods. He chews his lip for a few long seconds and stares off into the mid-distance. “Your mother met someone,” he says finally. “Another cop. She’d just told Marty. They weren’t happy, Nell. Hadn’t been for years. They weren’t right for each other. She was all passion, and he was . . . well, you know who he was. He wasn’t the best husband, to tell you the truth. He didn’t cheat on her, nothing like that. But he put work first, every time. He would miss important things like her birthday. Your birthday.”
“I remember,” I say, my voice small.
“But he didn’t see it coming, I guess. He just had his head in the sand. Marisol told him she wanted out and Marty went ballistic. Charged into the office screaming that we’d all betrayed him, that we all must have known. I think he felt blindsided. He took it out on everyone in striking distance. He punched a hole in the wall right next to my desk. We were all pretty worried about him after that. He took off for a couple of days and I wasn’t sure if he was coming back. Do you remember that?”
I shake my head. I don’t. And yet, something deep in the recesses of my memory stirs. A door slamming. The sound of my parents arguing downstairs. My father’s motorcycle engine firing up, and then whirring off down the street until the house fell silent and all I could hear was my mother whispering to someone on the phone and the buzz of cicadas out on the lawn.
“He came back, of course. A few days later. He told me he was taking you camping that weekend. He was going to give Marisol some space, to think things over. I actually thought that was a good idea. Everyone needed to cool down. But then . . . well, you know. She was murdered that weekend. And so of course, I thought about it. Could he have done that? Did he have it in him? It scared me, but the answer was yes. I thought he was capable of that kind of rage.”
“Did you ask him?”
“Of course. I said, ‘Marty, I’m only going to ask you once.’ And he looked me straight in the eye and swore to me that he didn’t do it. I wanted to believe him. More than anything. He was my best friend. And Marisol—your mom—she was . . .” His eyes glaze over with tears.
Suddenly, I understand.
“Did you love her?” I whisper.
“Very much.”
“Did she love you?”
“I think so. Yes. I think she did.”
“And so you felt responsible.”
“Of course I did. Your dad never knew that it was me she’d fallen for. She didn’t have the heart to tell him. And neither did I. So it was my fault. It was all my fault. If we hadn’t—if I just hadn’t—” He shakes his head, unable to finish the sentence.
I believe him. “There’s no point in thinking that way now,” I say, my voice softening.
“I’ll tell you something, Nell. I looked into his eyes and asked him if he killed Marisol, and a part of me thought, I will kill him if he so much as laid a finger on her. I loved that woman. I was heartbroken myself. But he said no. And I believed him. I still believe him.”
“And Gilroy?”
“A neighbor—the woman across the street, the one who called 911—remembered seeing Gilroy leaving your house. We went straight there. The kid was covered in her blood. He was wearing your father’s clothes. He couldn’t explain how he ended up in the house, or why his fingerprints were on the knife. Did I lean on him in the interrogation room? Yeah, I did. But only because I knew he did it and I wanted it to be over. For Marty’s sake. For your sake. It just needed to be over. You see that, right?”
Dorsey looks tired. He pinches the skin between his eyes, massaging the place where his brows come together. “I did what I thought was right,” he says, more to himself than to me. “And I stand by that decision.”
“And what about Morales? Did he kill those girls?”
“Your dad didn’t, that’s for sure. Look, the business with Calabrese. Your dad needed that money. He’d gotten himself into some trouble, financially speaking. He had debts to pay. He asked me for help and I gave it to him. He wouldn’t kill those girls. All that would do was stir up trouble.”
“Did you lean on Morales, Glenn?”
“I lean on people who deserve to be leaned on.”
“Are you sure Morales killed them? You don’t sound sure.”
“He had something to do with it. I’m sure of th
at. Maybe he didn’t shoot them, but he sure as hell chopped them up.”
“Who do you think shot them? It can’t be Morales. He’s not tall enough. He’s not a lefty. You must have an idea.”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was Calabrese. Look, we heard rumors that there was an investigation into the department. Everyone was getting a little nervous. Calabrese runs a tight ship. I don’t know what Marty was doing hanging around Adriana’s house after she went missing, but I never once thought he killed her. And I’ll be damned if I let anyone—especially you—drag his name through the mud.”
I raise my hands. “I don’t want to drag anyone’s name through the mud. Especially not Dad’s. I just needed to know what happened to my mother. And now I do. So thank you for your honesty.”
“This is Lee’s fault. He shouldn’t have pulled you into this.”
“Is Lee involved with Calabrese?”
Dorsey snorts. “No way. That kid’s a Boy Scout. Look, Calabrese would be doing what he was doing with or without us. You gotta understand that. So what if he slipped us a few dollars to look the other way? What’s the harm? Your dad was getting his life in order. Eventually, he was planning to tuck some money away for you.”
I inhale sharply. He’s just confirmed everything on tape. “I get it,” I say slowly, trying not to react. “Look, I’m not complaining.”
“We work our fucking asses off. And we get paid like dogs.”
“You deserve better.”
“Damn straight. You think it’s easy to manage a department? I have guys quitting all the time because they can’t live off what we get paid. How can you ask some kid to put his life on the line every day if he can hardly afford the mortgage on his house? Suffolk County is so damn expensive. Working folks can’t afford to live here anymore. These rich people, they want us to cater to them. But where are we supposed to live? Where can our kids go to school? The way I see it, this is what we’re owed. I’m just trying to even the playing field a little for my guys.”
I think about Luz’s house in Brentwood. About Elena living across from the cemetery in Riverhead. About Adriana and Ria, selling their bodies so their families can eat. In that moment, rage wells up inside me. I want to grab Dorsey’s neck and snap it. I want to hurt him the way he hurt those girls. He deserves it.
“The world is not fair,” I say carefully.
“No. It’s not. I have to make sure my best guys are taken care of. And then they stay. And everyone’s happy.” Dorsey shakes his head, like he can’t stand the inequity of it. “Anyway, it’s over. We buried your dad. Let the man rest in peace.” He rises to his feet. “I should be getting home. I think you should do the same.”
I stand, my legs trembling beneath me. Dorsey reaches out, puts his hand on my elbow. It takes all my strength not to pull away.
“Be safe, Nell. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. I’ve lost enough people I care about.”
“I think it’s time I head back to DC.”
Dorsey nods. “That makes sense. It’s for the best. I love you, sweetheart. Don’t forget that.”
* * *
—
DASILVA IS GONE. The parking lot is empty. When I start up my truck, the engine sputters. I panic and cut the ignition. For a minute, I sit still, paralyzed. I focus on my breath, trying to slow it to a normal rate. My head is spinning. The realization that Glenn Dorsey loved my mother—and that she might have loved him back—shakes me to my core. And yet, it makes a certain amount of sense. Dorsey was always around. Even when Dad wasn’t home, I would find him unloading grocery bags for Mom or fixing the boiler for her. After she died, he watched over me with the protectiveness of a second father. I used to think his attachment to me—to us—was born out of his love for Dad. Now I realize I was wrong. He loved my mother more.
How could Dad not have known? Did he ever suspect that Dorsey had feelings for my mother? Had he ever glanced across the room at a party and seen them sharing a laugh together and wondered? Had he seen my mother flex onto her tiptoes and kiss Dorsey on the cheek, her lips lingering just a half second too long against his skin?
It’s hard for me to believe that Dad wouldn’t have sensed what was happening between them. Dad was incredibly perceptive. He could sit in a blind for hours just waiting and watching the trees before he executed a deer with one single, perfect shot. His intuition made him a skilled hunter and a first-rate detective. So how could it have failed him so miserably at home? But then, if he had known about them, how could he have worked side by side with Dorsey for so many years without wanting to murder him? Dad, like Dorsey, was tough, cutthroat, and prone to rage. Wouldn’t the tension between them have eventually boiled over into violence?
Maybe it did. Maybe Dorsey cut Dad’s brakes himself. I picture my father getting on his bike for that last ride. Did he have time to realize what had happened? Had he felt it coming?
I take a breath and turn the key again. This time the engine starts up without a hitch. Still, fear rises in my throat. Breathe, breathe, I tell myself, fighting the urge to panic.
As I cross the Ponquogue Bridge, I call Lee. I can’t help feeling like he left me there on purpose. The thought enrages me. As angry as I am with Lee, I’m even more so with myself for trusting him. Maybe he wasn’t involved in Giovanni Calabrese’s enterprise. But there’s something Lee isn’t telling me about himself. Given that I almost died tonight as a result of his damn investigation, I feel like he owes me some answers.
“Nell?”
“Where were you?” I snap when he answers.
“I went to see Milkowski. She wasn’t at the lab, so I went to her house and—”
“It was just me, Dorsey, and DaSilva. Not exactly the celebration I was picturing. You left me there. I swear to God, Lee, I thought they were going to kill me.”
“I’m sorry. I—”
“Dorsey admitted to everything. His involvement with Calabrese. How he forced a confession out of Morales. The ends justify the means in his world.”
“Nell.”
“I recorded it all. I want you to have it in case anything happens to me, okay? I know you probably think I’m being paranoid, but I have a bad feeling. The brakes on my dad’s bike were cut. His death was no accident.”
“Nell, you have to shut up. Please. Listen to me. Jamie Milkowski is dead.”
“What?” I slam on the brakes, and the tires squeal angrily on the road. I pull the car over to the side and put it into park. “When?”
“A few hours ago. A hit-and-run, not too far from her office.”
“Holy fuck. They killed her, too, didn’t they?”
“I think so. She and Dorsey had a shouting match this morning. She said there was no way Morales was the shooter and Dorsey was just sweeping her report under the rug. I heard her tell him she was going to the press.”
“Oh my God. She did. She spoke to a journalist earlier today.”
“Who?”
“Ann-Marie Marshall. You have to find her. Make sure she’s okay.”
“Nell, where are you? I’m worried. Let me come get you.”
“I just turned onto Dune Road. I’ll be home in a few minutes.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“I’m fine, Lee.”
“No. You’re not fine. We have to get you out of Suffolk County. Tonight. Everyone who touches this investigation ends up dead.”
22.
At home, I lock every door and window. I check my Smith & Wesson. I place a second loaded handgun in my nightstand, just in case. When I hear the rumble of car wheels on the drive, I peer out through a slit between the curtains. My pulse slows a little when I see that it’s Lee. His face is drawn. Deep circles are printed beneath his eyes. He’s wearing an SCPD sweatshirt with a coffee stain down the front. He holds two large foam cups in his hands. I’m not sure he’s slept or showered sin
ce I saw him last.
“You look like shit,” I tell him when I open the door.
“You don’t look so great yourself.”
“It’s been a long few days. Thanks so much for pulling me into this mess.”
“Sorry. Misery loves company.” He hands me a coffee. “I figured you could use one, too.”
“I was going to offer you a scotch, but this is probably a better idea.”
“Let’s keep our wits about us for the time being, shall we?”
“Come in. Let’s sit outside.” I lead Lee to the deck. I have no reason to think the house is bugged, but that’s how my suspicious mind works. Anyway, the rain has cleared. The chairs are still damp, but that’s fine. The fresh, cold air fills my lungs. Overhead, chevrons of geese move across the fading blue-gray sky. I switch on the porch lights. I scan the sawgrass for egrets but see none. It occurs to me that we’re about to slip into October; height of hurricane season. The beginning of the migration.
“So first things first. I traced the plate number,” Lee says. “You want to tell me what Vince DaSilva’s doing tailing you around town?”
“Maybe you should ask him.”
“That’s probably not the best idea. I’m kind of persona non grata around the office right now.”
“You? The hometown hero?”
“Dorsey’s got strong opinions about this case. If you hadn’t noticed.”
“And you disagree with his opinions?”
Lee swills his coffee before answering. “Your dad didn’t believe that Morales was the guy. Personally, I think Morales was involved. But he’s just the muscle. Someone paid him to dispose of those bodies.”
“But he confessed. So case closed. At least, that’s what Dorsey said to me earlier today.”
Lee sighs. “It’s not that simple.”
“So case not closed?”
“No. Not for me. Look, if I tell you something, can you promise it will stay between us?”
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