Girls Like Us

by Cristina Alger

  I close my eyes and try to picture the window at the Meachem house, the one with the balcony overlooking the dunes. Someone in that house knows something. And Grace Bishop knows more than she was willing to say. If not about the night Adriana was murdered, then about the girls, coming and going. About the parties. About the men who frequent them. About James Meachem himself. Grace is his neighbor, not just here but down in Palm Beach. Neighbors often know more than anyone would suspect. I need to talk to her again. This time, alone.

  Through the wall, I can hear Elena singing to Isabel. It’s a melancholic melody, slow and written in a minor key. I recognize it from childhood, though I can’t recall the words. My skin prickles listening to it. I can almost hear my mother’s voice. The crying diminishes and then stops. I picture Isabel clinging to her mother’s torso. I wonder if she did that with Adriana, too. According to Elena, Adriana doted on the girl. Maybe she thought a baby of her own would bring her a fresh start, a new life. Especially if the baby’s father was wealthy, powerful. Instead, it might’ve been the reason she’d been murdered.

  Over Adriana’s bed is a corkboard. Tacked to it are photographs, a ticket stub, a few business cards. I stare at the photos. I pick out Adriana instantly. She’s the kind of girl who burns brighter than the others around her. Her smile is wide and well formed; her face, perfectly symmetrical. She’s a more delicate version of her sister. Small-boned, with high, round cheekbones and large, luminous eyes. She glows with youth. Her skin is a rich, smooth hazelnut; her hair is thick and glossy obsidian. She wears it down in most photographs, parted in the middle. When she smiles, her cheeks dimple and that makes her look warm and approachable.

  I pause, lean in. One photograph shows Adriana and Elena together on the beach. The water is calm; it looks like the bay and not the ocean. I wonder if it’s Meschutt Beach in Hampton Bays, where my parents used to take me when I was little. I remember the buoys out in the water, marking where it is safe to swim. My father could walk all the way out to them with me on his shoulders. My mother would hang back, watching us and waving, her figure casting long shadows on the sand.

  In the photo, the sisters are standing at the water’s edge, their arms linked together. It must be the end of summer. The light is pale and bright. The water gleams with it. Adriana in particular is deeply tanned. Her head is tilted back, her eyes are closed, her lips are parted in laughter. Her hair is pulled back in a braid, with tendrils escaping around her face. She is happy. Happy and alive.

  She looks like Elena, I think. She looks like my mother.

  An image wells up fresh as a bruise. My mother is holding my hands in hers. We’re at Meschutt Beach. There are shells underfoot; we’ve been collecting them and putting them in a pail with my name painted on it. They make a satisfying clink each time they hit the bottom of the pail. I feel them cutting the soft undersides of my toes.

  “Uno,” my mother says, her black eyes finding mine. She had thick, beautiful eyelashes, my mother. When she held me close, I could feel them fluttering against my cheek.

  She is trying to be serious now, but it isn’t working. We both are laughing.

  “Dos,” I say.

  “Tres.” On three, she whirls me around. She is the axis, turning, turning. My body flies horizontal to the earth. Our hands lock tightly; if I let go, I will land hard on the sand and the pebbles and the crushed shells. It will hurt to fall. I don’t let go. She won’t let me.

  I whirl around, giddy, hysterical, until her arms give out and she stops. Both of us collapse, laughing on the sand. We roll over then and stare up at the blank sky, her ear next to mine, our chests heaving from exertion and laughter.

  I remove the photo from the board and hold it up to the light. I can’t shake the feeling I’ve seen Adriana before. Why? My memories are beginning to blur, like film strips shuffled together. Have I seen her before, or is it just my mother I’m remembering? Now that I’m home, I see my mother everywhere. Crossing the street in town. Walking along the beach. I dream about her, too, more than I have in years.

  “She was pretty,” Lee says from behind, startling me. “It’s sad, isn’t it?”

  “It would be sad if she wasn’t.” My words come out sharper than I intended.

  “I know. I didn’t mean—”

  “I know what you meant.” I turn back to the board. When Lee isn’t looking, I tuck the photo in my pocket. My heart is racing. Why did my father come here? Had he linked this case to Pine Barrens before he died? And if he had, then how? I need to know what he knew. I want to be able to see what he saw. Did he have the same feeling I did? That there was something familiar about Adriana, something that drew him to her on instinct?

  A business card is tacked at the very bottom of the corkboard. It is a small black square. In the corner, printed in silver, it reads “GC Limo Services.” A cell phone number is listed in small print. I reach into my pocket, withdraw my gloves. As carefully as I can, I remove the card. The silver lettering catches the light as I slip it inside an evidence bag.

  Lee is standing in front of the closet. He turns, a small white handbag dangling from one finger. It has a gold chain, a quilted front. “Hey. Look at this. Chanel. How much do you think this thing costs?”

  “A couple thousand? Maybe more.”

  Lee raises his eyebrows. “I will never understand women.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  I walk over to the closet. It looks as though two people live here. Half the clothes are what you’d expect from a teenager. Jeans and T-shirts are piled on the floor in loosely folded stacks. Sneakers are pushed toward the back; a single, fur-lined Ugg boot lies abandoned in the corner. A row of teetering heels are arranged in front of the sneakers. Some are still in boxes. I bend down, open a box. Out of the tissue paper, I pick up a red-soled stiletto. The bottoms are still smooth. The heel is dagger-sharp, as long as my hand from my wrist to the tip of my fingers.

  “Never worn.”

  “A gift?”

  “Maybe.” I stand and page through the dresses. “A lot of expensive clothes in here. There’s no way she could afford this kind of stuff.”

  “She had rich clients.”

  “I’d say so.”

  I pull out a hanging bag from Bergdorf Goodman. I unzip it. Inside is a white cocktail dress, size 2. It’s a demure dress, with capped sleeves and a flared skirt. The kind of thing you see on women in the society pages. It still has a price tag dangling from the sleeve: “$2,200.”

  Lee whistles.

  “Rich clients with expensive taste. I bet someone picked this out for her. I can’t see this girl going into the city for a day of shopping at Bergdorf Goodman. And even if she did, she wouldn’t pick out this dress.” I hold up a pair of well-worn Converse sneakers. “This is what she wears on her own time.”

  “We can talk to the store and find out who bought it.”

  I nod. “I wonder if she was going somewhere.”

  “Going where?”

  “Look.” I point to the label. “It’s mostly resort collection.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “What rich women wear on vacation. You know. Bright colors. Tropical prints. Strappy sandals.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I read.”

  Lee snorts. “What, Vogue? Didn’t take you for such a fashion plate, Flynn.”

  I ignore him. I pull a pair of white silk pants out of the closet. I hold them up for Lee’s inspection. “This. This is resort. It’s like someone went to Bergdorf’s and bought a whole wardrobe. Not just evening clothes. Daywear, too. I’m telling you. She was going somewhere. Somewhere expensive. With someone who wanted her to look the part.”

  “Or maybe she was just going to parties in the Hamptons.”

  “Maybe,” I concede. “Ria Sandoval used a driver named Giovanni Calabrese, right? The night she disap
peared?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Adriana used him, too. Not the night she went missing, but before that. Her sister said she was picked up by a bald guy in a white Escalade. That can’t be a coincidence, right? I think we should pay him a visit.”

  “We should, but it’ll have to wait.” Lee holds up his phone. “Dorsey said as soon as we were done here, we should meet him down at the ME’s. The press is all over this case already. He needs to give a statement.”

  “Okay. Let’s bag everything up. Clothes, too.”

  Lee nods. As I move to help him, I reach into the pocket of my jacket, my fingers curling around the photograph.

  Then it hits me. I have seen Adriana before. It’s not just that she looks like my mother. She is one of the two girls in the Polaroid picture I found in the desk at 97 Main Street.

  10.

  The drive from Riverhead to Hauppauge is thirty-five minutes, give or take. At this time of day, most of the traffic is headed away from the city, not toward it. As we get in the car, I decide I’m better off going it alone. I want to speak to Grace Bishop again. She clammed up the moment Lee appeared. She doesn’t trust any member of the SCPD, and I’m starting to understand why. I’d also like to collect my father’s bike and search through his office without Lee hovering over my shoulder.

  “Can you drop me at my truck on Main Street? I’ll meet you at the ME’s.”

  “Sure thing. You want to follow me there?”

  “I have one stop to make. You go ahead. I don’t want to hold you up.”

  “Is it on the way? I don’t want Milkowski to start without you.”

  I sigh. Lee is going to be harder to shake than I thought. And I don’t want to miss the coroner’s report, either. My solo investigation will have to wait. “Yeah,” I say. “It’s on the way. I just need to swing by impound. Sign some paperwork on my dad’s bike. Won’t take more than a few minutes.”

  He checks his watch, then gives me a short nod. “Yeah, fine. No worries. Let’s do that and we’ll head to the ME’s together.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we’re both pulling into the impound lot in Westhampton. I park my truck; Lee does the same.

  He rolls down his window. “You want me to come with?”

  “No. Hang out. I’ll be back in a few.” I lock the door behind me. Especially after talking to Elena Marques, I have the ever-growing nagging sensation that something is off about my father’s death. I picture his ashes in the breeze. It’s too late to force an autopsy, but it may not be too late to examine the bike.

  Cole walks out to greet me. He looks the same as I remember: burly and red-faced, with meaty hands and a ponytail. He’s grown his beard out some, and it’s flecked with gray. At the SCPD Christmas party, he always used to dress like Santa so the kids could sit on his lap and pose for pictures.

  “Hey, Cole,” I call out, trying to appear cheerful.

  “Hey, Nell.” He pulls me in for a hug. When he steps back, he gives me a smile. “You look good, kid. You could maybe stand to eat a pizza or two, but you look good.”

  “You look well yourself.”

  He laughs. “This is the first year I don’t need to use a fake beard to play Santa. Not that I mind, though. That thing itched like hell.”

  “You were always a great Santa.”

  He wags his finger at me. “You were such a little smart-ass. You’d come sit on my lap and look me in the eye and go, ‘Hey, Cole.’ Just to let me know you knew what was up.”

  I smile. “Listen, I don’t mean to rush you, but Lee Davis is waiting for me, so I gotta make this quick.”

  Cole raises his eyebrows. “Lee Davis? He was your dad’s partner, right?”

  “Yup.”

  “Nice guy. He married yet?”

  “No.” I pause, and then, catching Cole’s drift, I add: “Oh, no, no. I’m helping him out with a case. We’re old friends.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Seriously, Cole. Strictly business.”

  “Right, of course. Come with me. I’ll show you the bike.”

  We walk past rows of cars. Some are junked, waiting to be sent to the salvage yard. Others are in decent condition. Those will either be picked up by their owners or, if they are part of an ongoing investigation, sent to the crime lab.

  At the far end of the row, past a rusted heap of metal that looks like it’s been outside for more than one rainstorm, lies the mangled remains of my father’s Harley-Davidson Road King.

  “There ya go.” Cole shrugs. “Now, I don’t know what all your dad was doing the night he died, but damn. You can’t do that kind of damage unless you’re pushing eighty, ninety miles an hour.”

  “Yeah, or maybe the brakes gave out.”

  “Thought occurred to me. Listen, I’m happy to send it over to the crime lab to find out. I’m sure they’d expedite it. Anything for your family.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “No crime lab.”

  Cole frowns. “You sure?”

  I press my lips together hard, considering what to say here. I don’t want it to go to the crime lab, but I don’t want to make Cole suspicious, either. “Listen, between you and me, I was a little worried about my dad,” I say finally. “You know, mentally. He was pretty depressed. I heard he was seeing someone, and she’d left him.”

  Cole raises his eyebrows. “Really.”

  “Yep. So I’m wondering if he did this to himself. From the looks of it, he might’ve. I’d like to know, one way or another. Make peace with what happened.”

  “Of course. I get it. Would you want my brother to take a look? Ty’s good with repairs.”

  I nod, relieved. “That’s a great idea. Dad always trusted Ty with his bikes. You think he’d mind?”

  “Not at all. Ty loved your pop. And he knows his way around a bike, that’s for sure. I’ll have him pick it up today.”

  “You think you could keep this between us? I really don’t want Dorsey and the guys to find out. They’d be gutted.”

  “I hear ya.” Cole draws a line across his mouth, like he’s zipping it shut. “This will stay between the three of us. I promise.”

  “Thanks, Cole. Really appreciate the help.”

  I give Cole a final hug and make my way back to the lot. I stop in front of my dad’s truck, appraising it. I swallow hard. It’s covered in a coat of dust, but in sunlight, the body is an unmistakable deep red.

  I knock on Lee’s window, letting him know I’m ready to go. He rolls it down.

  “Everything in order?” He’s listening to an oldies station, which he quickly flips off. He gives me a genuine smile, and for a minute, I feel conflicted. I don’t think he would have pulled me into this mess if he thought my father’s death was even a touch suspicious. Lee doesn’t seem to have that kind of cunning. But then, maybe that’s why he was sent over. To babysit me until I go back to where I came from.

  “Yeah, sorry about that. Just some paperwork.”

  He nods and starts the engine. “Well, I’m glad it all got sorted. Let’s head out. You can follow me to the ME’s.”

  We cruise down the highway at a decent clip, my truck tailing Lee’s car. We pass the Pine Barrens Preserve, where Ria’s body was found, and then Yaphank, where the Suffolk County Police Department is headquartered. After that, the road becomes a blur of scrubby pines and exits for towns I have long since forgotten. When I was young, I loved their strange, mystical names. They reminded me that these had once been beautiful places, filled with lakes and forests teeming with wildlife, instead of the strip malls and gas stations and dusty commercial centers that have since taken root. Ronkonkoma comes from an Algonquian expression meaning “Boundary Lake.” Copiague meant “Place of Shelter.” Hauppauge, where we were headed, meant “Land of Sweet Water.” Or at least, so it tells you on the faded sign we pass on our way into town.

  T
he Suffolk County Medical Examiner’s Office is located in a dated white office building off the side of the highway. Outside of it, there are a few sparse trees and a lawn that is mostly dead. The parking lot is less than half full. If I had to guess, I would have said it looked like the headquarters for a company that had recently filed for Chapter 11. It seems perverse to force forensic pathologists to do their work in a place so devoid of life. At least in the city, the examiners get to walk outside to bustling sidewalks and honking cabs and subway cars jam-packed with people. Here, there is only the quiet hum of cars passing by and the squawk of geese overhead.

  I feel a drop of rain on my shoulder as I step out of the truck. The air is thick with moisture. In the distance, thunder rumbles.

  “There goes the crime scene.” Lee sighs. He slams his door shut and beckons for me to follow him.

  As we step inside the building, the sky opens up. I hear the faint hush of rain as we push through the revolving doors. We check in at the front desk with a bored security guard who stares blindly at our IDs. We jot our names down in a guest ledger. I scribble mine, just a big N followed by a line. Lee nods to the guard, who swipes us in through the turnstiles. We take the elevator down to the basement level.

  Lee leads me down a series of winding hallways lit with fluorescent track lighting that gives everyone a sickly greenish pallor. I am momentarily grateful that I don’t work in an office building, especially one like this. I have an office, of course, but I’m rarely there. Most of my work happens out in the field, and the field changes with each case. Most of the time, I work out of a motel room with nothing but a suitcase and a laptop, with periodic stops into whatever shithole conference room local law enforcement has grudgingly handed over for the course of an investigation. If it sounds like I’m complaining, I’m not. I like moving around. I like the solitude of working on the road, and the challenge of doing it in sparse working conditions. It gets my adrenaline pumping. The idea of going to the same building every single day of the week, parking my car in the same space, riding the elevator with the same people, and ordering the same lunch from the building cafeteria makes my skin crawl. I think I’d last a week in a job like that. My father, even less.