“And you believe that.”
“I don’t know what to believe. I still don’t know who killed your mother. But I don’t believe Gilroy’s confession. It was filled with small inconsistencies. The timeline didn’t quite match up. He couldn’t explain how he got ahold of the knife, and he said he stabbed her once by accident, when in fact she’d been stabbed multiple times. I think he was pressured into confessing, and then any evidence that contradicted it disappeared. Maybe Gilroy was the killer. But that case was never as neat and clean as Glenn Dorsey wanted people to think it was.”
“But why? What possible motive would Glenn Dorsey have for framing Sean Gilroy?”
Marshall sighs. “I can think of a few. I’m sure you can, too.”
“You think my father killed her.”
“You’d know better than I would about that. You were his alibi after all.”
I shift against the hard seat and wonder if coming here was a mistake. “I wouldn’t have lied about something like that.”
“He was your father. You were young. Maybe you didn’t even know he was gone.”
“We were camping in a two-person tent, thirty miles from our house. I would have noticed if he had left. And he wouldn’t have abandoned me in the middle of the woods at night.”
“Fair enough.” Ann-Marie raises her palms. “Look, Nell. Can I call you Nell? I’m not saying Gilroy didn’t kill your mother. He very well may have. But he is still entitled to due process. I think he was intimidated into giving that testimony. I don’t believe he was properly Mirandized. I think there was substantial evidence tampering to make the whole thing go away as quickly as possible, and Gilroy didn’t have—doesn’t have—the resources and the mental wherewithal to defend himself. Dorsey decided he was the guy and he made sure he went down for it, no matter what. That’s my point. That’s always been my point.”
“So you think the SCPD is corrupt.”
“Yes, I do. Gilroy is not an isolated incident. This has been a chronic, systemic problem in Suffolk County for decades. I’ve talked to men who’ve been hit with phone books and had their testicles squeezed during interrogations. Because those things don’t leave bruises, see? I’ve talked to officers off the record in Nassau County who say it’s an open secret that the cops in Suffolk County do whatever they want, that they’re total cowboys, that they skim off the top whenever there’s a drug bust, that they accept bribes from gang leaders and drug dealers so that they can keep doing what they do, that they frame people all the time. Everyone says this has only gotten worse since Glenn Dorsey became the chief of detectives.”
“So why hasn’t the department been investigated? If it’s such an open secret.”
Ann-Marie gives me a look like I’m stupid. “They have been investigated. At least twice that I know about. Once under Governor Baldacci, back in the 1990s, and the commission found widespread misconduct in both homicide and narcotics investigations. That’s a direct quote. You can look it up. Two detectives named in that report were ultimately sent to prison. Detective McCrary for taking kickbacks and Moynahan for assaulting a suspect during an interrogation. Maybe you were too young to remember them?”
I open my mouth but nothing comes out. I do remember them both, only a little. I remember that Maureen McCrary used to come over a lot after my mother died. She’d bring casseroles and wear blue eye makeup and skirts that were just a little too short. She’d flirt with Dad and ignore me as best as she was able. One night after she brought over some baked ziti and a bottle of wine, I asked her where her husband was. Dad sent me to my room. Later, he told me that the McCrarys were getting a divorce, Mr. McCrary had moved away, and that I shouldn’t be so rude to guests. Then he said he found Maureen every bit as annoying as I did and was grateful that I’d said what I’d said because now she’d never come back. That was the last time Maureen came by. We’d see her now and then around the holidays at St. Agnes or at the annual SCPD fund-raiser. She’d wave and keep her distance. Eventually, she married a police officer in Westchester. I never saw her again.
“When was the second investigation?”
“Two years ago. Governor Franklin called for an investigation into the SCPD after the Hector Dominguez debacle.”
“What happened there?”
She shrugs. “Got me. Either it’s still going on or Dorsey found a way to make it go quietly into the night. There was a rumor that the DEA had been pulled in to monitor the SCPD. A source told me they had someone inside SCPD, monitoring the Narcotics Division. But so far, nothing’s come of it.”
“So you think it’s happening again with Alfonso Morales. A forced confession, a slipshod investigation.”
“Absolutely. And you do, too. Otherwise you wouldn’t be sitting here talking to me.”
“But why now? If they’re so quick to frame people, why didn’t they arrest Morales last summer?”
“I don’t know. Listen, I have friends inside the department. They said your dad and Dorsey fought about the Pine Barrens case and the way it was handled. Dorsey wanted to arrest Morales, and your father said there wasn’t enough evidence. They barely spoke after that. Caused a lot of tension over there at headquarters. But now your father’s gone, so Dorsey’s going to handle this the way he usually does.”
I lean back against the booth. The laminated fabric sticks to my skin. I stare out the window at my father’s pickup. In the bright afternoon light, it sparkles. A bright candy-apple color, more red than maroon.
I sit up, struck by a sudden thought. “So you think my father actually wanted to solve Pine Barrens?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“He didn’t want to sweep it under the rug, the way Dorsey is now.”
“Right.” Ann-Marie gives me a quizzical look.
“And you said there’s an inside man? A source in the SCPD?”
“That’s what I’ve heard. I’ve never been able to verify it.”
“I have to go,” I say, and pull a few dollars out of my purse. “I’m sorry. I just—something just occurred to me. I’ll be in touch.”
She grabs my sleeve, stopping me. “Listen, talk to Milkowski, would you?” she says quickly.
“The pathologist? Why?”
“Just talk to her. She believes Morales wasn’t the killer. The killer was left-handed, but whoever cut up the body was right-handed. So she thinks someone shot Adriana and maybe Morales disposed of the body. She has solid evidence to back that theory up. She talked to me off the record. She’s scared of Glenn Dorsey. She needs help, Nell. If she comes forward, she’s going to need protection. Maybe you can give that to her.”
“Are you writing a story about this?”
“Something like that. Hoping not to get myself killed in the process.” She turned and signaled for the check. “What are you doing, exactly? Running your own private investigation? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Something like that. Let’s stay in touch.” I drop my card on the table and sprint out the door, the hinges wailing in my wake.
19.
Elena Marques’s house is just a short drive down Pulaski Street. I gun the engine and drive as fast as I can, pulling up right in front of the house, just as I had the day before. I hustle up the steps and ring the bell. As I wait for her to answer, I notice a sedan pull up and park across the street. The car’s engine switches off, but the driver doesn’t get out. He pulls out a paper and pretends to read it. I know he is watching me instead.
The door opens. Elena looks even frailer than when we last spoke. She gives me a wan smile.
“Agent Flynn. Come in.” She waves me inside. I glance over my shoulder when she turns away, just in time to see the man in the car pointing a camera lens in our direction. I pull the door closed behind us.
“Are you all right?” she asks me. I realize I’m sweating a little. I wipe my brow with my wrist.
&nb
sp; “I’m okay. Thank you.” My voice comes out sharper than I intended. “How are you? That’s more important.”
She shrugs. “I heard on the news that Alfonso Morales was arrested.”
“He was, yes.”
“Is it true he confessed to killing Adriana? And that other girl, the one from last summer?”
“That’s what I’ve heard. I’m not sure.”
“You weren’t there?”
“I’m not a police officer, Elena. I was just assisting with the investigation.”
“And now it’s over.” She stares at me evenly, like she’s waiting for me to disappoint her. “That’s it.”
“It’s not over for me. Not by a long shot. Can we talk?”
“About what?”
“I think your sister was part of something. Something big. I think some very powerful people took advantage of her. I want to make sure every person who hurt your sister is brought to justice. Not just her killer, but people who may have exploited her before her death. But I’m going to need your help to do it.”
Elena is quiet for a minute. She turns and takes a seat on the couch. “Why are you doing this?”
“Why am I doing what?”
“This. Talking to me. It’s not your case. You’re not a cop. So why do you care so much about Adriana?”
I sit down on the couch beside her. “Everyone should care. Your sister was a human being. She deserved to be treated like one.”
Elena slides her hand across the couch. She puts her hand atop mine and squeezes. When I look up, I see that her eyes are filled with tears. “Thank you,” she whispers. “For saying that.”
“Look, I need to be honest with you. My father was a Suffolk County Police Officer. His name was Martin Flynn. He came here after Adriana disappeared. He took her phone. Was it a silver flip phone? A burner?”
Elena pulls back her hand. She sits up straight, her eyes wide in fear. “Yes. It was. Flynn . . . that was your father?”
I nod. “But I think maybe he was trying to protect Adriana.”
“Protect her from who?”
“Your sister was part of a network of young girls, a prostitution ring, run by Giovanni Calabrese. The man you saw in the white Escalade. Calabrese paid off members of the Suffolk County Police Department to look the other way. There’s an investigation into the department right now. Apparently, the Feds have a mole inside the department. I think my father was that mole. And I believe your sister and Ria Sandoval were helping my father with that investigation.”
“The police department had her killed?” she says, sounding incredulous.
“It’s possible. Or maybe Calabrese did. Or James Meachem. He’s a frequent client of Calabrese. And Adriana’s body was found near his house.”
“James Meachem. The man with the house on Meadow Lane.” Elena pales. “Oh, God. This is all my fault.”
“It’s not your fault, Elena. You can’t think that.”
“No, it is. It is. You don’t understand. I used to work for James Meachem. I brought Adriana once. To work with me. That must be how this started.”
“Okay.” I take a deep breath, trying to maintain my composure. “Go back. How did you meet James Meachem?”
“For years, I cleaned houses for summer people,” Elena starts slowly. “I was part of a team. We’d just go wherever we got called. The summer was our busiest time. Between Memorial Day and Labor Day, we made thirty dollars an hour. I worked six days a week, sometimes seven. Sometimes we’d be in one house all day. Twelve, fourteen hours. The houses were so big. Eight, ten bedrooms. So much laundry. Beach towels and sheets and linens. And all the silver, Dios mío. Do you know what it’s like to clean silver for eighty-person dinner parties? And crystal glasses so fine I thought they’d crack in my hands. I will never understand why rich people can’t buy silver and glassware that goes in a dishwasher! It’s almost like they like to see us on our hands and knees, scrubbing their floors.”
Her eyes glisten with tears, like she’s remembering something painful, something she’d tried hard to forget. I nod, urging her to continue.
“Anyway, it was hard work, but it paid so well, much better than cleaning at the hospital, honestly. At night I’d come home and everything would ache. My back, my legs, my hands. But if Gladys—she was the one who organized our crew—called me, I always said I was free to work.
“Gladys got a call about a house on Meadow Lane that needed cleaning. One of her regular girls couldn’t do it, and she asked me if I knew anyone who could help. I told Adriana that she could make some extra cash. She was just fifteen, on summer break from school. She was happy for the money. The house was incredible. All glass, overlooking the ocean. The owner wasn’t there; he was supposed to arrive the next day. There was a French woman. Manon, her name was. I thought she was the house manager, but I wasn’t sure. She told us what to do. She was very stern with us. She wanted everything pristine and perfect. She screamed at one of the girls because she didn’t like the way she made the bed. And the rugs were all white, so she made us work barefoot.
“The whole time people were coming in and out, delivering white orchids and champagne by the case. It looked like they were having a big party. Gladys sent me and Adriana upstairs. We were supposed to steam and press all of these clothes. Fancy dresses and nightgowns and lingerie. The French lady came in and watched us do it, and she started arranging the clothes onto racks, like what you see in a department store. It was all new. Sent in bags from Bergdorf Goodman and Barneys. I thought maybe they were gifts for the owner’s wife or girlfriend.
“The lady, she stared at Adriana while we worked. I got nervous, I thought maybe Adriana looked too young and that worried her. But then she asked Adriana if she could try on one of the dresses. She held up this beautiful dress—it had one shoulder and was made of silk—and Adriana took it and started walking toward the bathroom. The lady stopped her and said she didn’t need to be shy, she could change here in front of us.
“So Adriana took her clothes off. I think she was embarrassed because she was wearing an old bra and panties that didn’t match. She took those off, too. Then she slipped on this dress and the lady smiled. Adriana did, too. The woman told her she looked like Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of beauty. She asked Adriana if she ever thought about modeling. Adriana said no. The lady walked over to her. She stood behind her and they both looked into a mirror. She pulled Adriana’s hair back and twisted it into a bun. She said, ‘See how elegant you are? You look like Helen of Troy. You look like Leda.’ And that’s what she called her after that. She called her Leda.”
I grimace. “Leda was raped. It’s a Greek myth. Zeus took the form of a swan and raped her.”
Elena says nothing. She bites her lip; her nostrils flare.
“Did you ever see her again? This woman?”
“She handed Adriana a card and said to call her if she ever changed her mind about modeling. She said she worked in entertainment and was always looking for pretty new faces. Once we left the house, I told Adriana to stay away from her.”
“And you don’t remember her last name?”
“I don’t. I’m sorry. I haven’t thought about her in years.”
“Did you ever meet Mr. Meachem?”
“No. We cleaned that house a few times. Before Mr. Meachem would arrive and after he was already gone. But I never saw him. And the French woman, she never spoke to me or to Adriana again.”
“You don’t think Adriana called her?”
“I didn’t think so. But now I’m not so sure. Oh, God. That house. It was right next to the park, wasn’t it? Where her body was found.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think he killed her? James Meachem?”
“I don’t know. But he hires young escorts for his parties. He’s a predator, and I want to make sure he never hurts another girl again.”
Elena nods, silent. A tear slides down her cheek and drops onto the carpet.
I reach into my bag and pull out the photograph of Dad and Glenn Dorsey. I hand it to her, tapping my finger on my father’s image. “Elena, is this the police officer who came to your house after you reported Adriana missing?”
She studies it carefully. “Yes. That’s him.”
“Could you look out the window? There’s a car parked in front.”
She stands up and walks to the window. She peers outside and her eyes widen in fear.
“Is that—?”
“It’s my father’s pickup. The man in the photograph.”
“That’s the red truck. The one I saw outside the house before Adriana died.”
“You’re sure. Take another look. It’s important.”
Elena turns back to the window. Her hand presses against the glass. “Yes, that’s it. It was parked right where it is now. I’m sure. It was like he was watching us.”
“I just have one last question.” I fish the Polaroid photograph out of my purse and hand it to her. “This is Adriana, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” She nods. She touches her finger to her sister’s image. “That’s her. Where did you get this?”
“My father had it. Do you know who the other girl in the picture is?”
Elena frowns, considering. “Her name’s Maria,” she says after a few seconds. “Maria Cruz. They went to St. Mary’s together for First Communion. She was a nice girl.”
“I’m trying to find her. You don’t know where she is, do you?”
“No. I’m sorry. I haven’t seen her in a long time. I hope she’s all right.”
“I hope she is, too.”
20.
Outside, I listen to a message from Luz.
I spoke to Gio, she says. He told me to come by today or tomorrow with my friend. He said he’s always looking for fresh blood. Let me know what you want to do.
Girls Like Us Page 17