“Shouldn’t she be in protective custody?”
“We are protecting her. She’s a key witness against Dorsey and Calabrese. I want you to meet her. It’s important. There are things about her I think you should know.”
“Anytime. I want to. First though, finish telling me about the case.” I stand up and walk over to the sliding glass doors. I stare out at the fallow marsh. It’s mostly golden now, the color of wheat. The birds are gone. In the mornings, there is frost on the sawgrass. As I stare out at the dormant marsh, something clicks.
I turn around, frowning. “Have you checked national databases? For murder victims who match the same pattern we’ve seen in Long Island and Florida?”
“I have two agents working on that now. Why? What are you thinking?”
“When did Heather Valdez go missing?”
“In January 2016.” Sarah shakes her head. “Meachem was out of the country that whole winter. So unless he had someone do his dirty work—which, of course, is entirely possible—he’s not responsible.”
I shake my head. “I have another idea. I saw someone I recognize in one of the photos. I’m not sure. Call your agents. There’s one location in particular I want to focus on. This may be a stretch. But if I’m right, then I can tell you who our killer is.”
29.
Sarah pulls up on the sandy shoulder of Meadow Lane, across the street from James Meachem’s house. I’m in the passenger seat. I haven’t been able to drive since the explosion. Even getting into a car sends my heart racing. I’ve made do by biking across the bridge to the grocery store every few days, returning with supplies in my backpack. Otherwise, I rely on rides from friends. Hank stops by regularly. So do Ty and Cole Haines. I’ve found a few friends at SCPD, too: detectives who, like my dad, were disgusted by the corruption that had eaten away at their own force like a cancer.
Sarah and I hop out of the car. We meet in the middle of the deserted street. A sharp cold wind howls across the rocks that line the bay. I shiver under my jacket. It’s just a thin shell; beneath it, I’m wearing a sweatshirt and a fleece vest. It’s not enough. My fingers sting from the cold. I wish I had a hat and scarf. If I stay here much longer, I’ll have to buy some proper winter clothes. It’s been nearly two months since I arrived.
“There it is,” I say to Sarah, pointing at Meachem’s property. “The house of horrors.”
“Jesus. It’s soulless.”
“And there”—I move my finger toward the dunes at the edge of the property—“is where Adriana Marques’s body was buried.”
Sarah crosses her arms against her chest. “That poor girl,” she says quietly. She glances around. “This place is so desolate.”
“It always is this time of year. A ghost town. These are all summer homes.”
“But Grace Bishop is here.”
“She told me she stays here until Thanksgiving. Said I could stop by anytime.”
At Grace’s gate, I nod to Sarah. “I’ll go in alone. Okay?”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I think it’s better that way.”
Sarah hesitates and then nods. “Okay,” she says. “Shout if you need me.”
* * *
—
I WALK UP to the gate, press the buzzer. When I announce my name, the gate swings open. I follow the long drive toward the house. It appears empty. The lights are all off even though the sun is beginning to set. When I hear a stirring in the garden, I pivot. Over the top of a hedgerow, I glimpse movement. Grace is there, digging. She pauses and then straightens up. When she sees me, she smiles.
“Hello, there,” she calls out. She’s wearing only a sweater and a little scarf, tied neatly around her neck. Her hands are covered in gardening gloves; in one, she holds a spade.
“You’re working late.”
“Have to put my gardens to bed for the winter. No rest for the weary.”
“I thought it was ‘no rest for the wicked.’”
Grace raises one eyebrow. “Is it? Oh, my. I’ve been saying it wrong all these years. Would you like to come inside?”
“I’m all right. The fresh air is nice.”
Grace clenches her jaw ever so slightly. “I was sorry to hear about your partner.”
“He wasn’t my partner. He was a friend.”
“So sad. Did the police officers that they arrested take responsibility?”
“No. But we’re building our case.”
“I told you those men were corrupt. You should’ve listened. Of course, at the time, I didn’t realize your father was one of them. In fact, it was your father who came to speak to me about Alfonso Morales, wasn’t it?”
I nod. “It was, yes. He died right before Adriana’s body was found.”
“And so you wanted to close his case for him. How noble of you.” There’s a coldness in her voice that I haven’t heard before. Her eyes, too, have narrowed. They’re an unsettling ice blue. I want to look away, but I don’t. For a few seconds, we face off, just staring at each other in silence.
“You feel that I lied to you,” I prompt.
“No one likes being lied to, Ms. Flynn.”
“I agree. I would argue that I didn’t lie. Merely omitted the facts.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“Not really. See, you lied to me. You said you hadn’t met Mr. Meachem before. You said you didn’t socialize with him.”
Her body goes rigid. When she speaks, she practically spits. “I do not socialize with that man.”
“You don’t, that’s true. But your husband does. He was over at Mr. Meachem’s on a number of occasions, in fact. Not just here, but also down in Palm Beach.”
“Eliot would never.”
“But he did. We have photos, unfortunately.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Such a sad story. Those girls were his downfall. One tried to extort him. Isn’t that right? And then Adriana, well, that was worse. Eliot got her pregnant. So that was awfully complicated. After everything you did for him. After all you endured to secure his position in the Treasury. How could he do that to you? And he’d done it before, hadn’t he? He’d paid them off before. But this time, because of the baby, it wouldn’t be so easy.”
“That disgusting little bitch got herself pregnant,” Grace snarls. “Eliot didn’t do it. He couldn’t have. He can’t. I told you that. I confided in you.”
“And that’s why it was so enraging, wasn’t it? Because you realized that your husband could get someone pregnant. Just not you. Did he want to keep the baby, Grace? Was he planning to leave you? Adriana’s sister said he used to call her late at night, promising to take care of her. She was so happy right before she died. Is that because she knew Eliot would be there for her?”
Grace lets out a bloodcurdling scream as she lunges for me. It happens so quickly, I don’t react in time. She knocks me to the ground and raises the spade over her head.
I roll to the right, feeling the whir of the spade come down beside my ear. It sinks deep into the earth and sticks there. I see the opportunity and take it.
My fingers close around a rock on the ground. With all my force, I pull it up and smash it to Grace’s temple. There’s a hard, sickening sound as it reverberates off her skull.
“You bitch!” she screams as I hurl my body on top of her. I sit on her torso as she thrashes. She’s tall—nearly six feet—so it takes every fiber of my body to restrain her. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sarah force her way through the hedgerow. She runs toward us. I glance up, meeting her gaze. For a split second, I stop focusing on Grace. And that’s when I feel it. She sinks a blade into my thigh with all her might.
I fall backward, a lightning bolt of pain coursing through my leg. Grace gets up onto all fours and then pushes herself up onto her knees. She raises the blade again, and this time, she’s aim
ing for my heart.
A single shot rings out. Grace crumples to the ground. Sarah’s footsteps grow louder. I hear her shouting into her radio, calling for backup. Soon, she is kneeling over me, pulling my torso up into her lap. Grace hasn’t moved. A river of blood spills from her chest and pools in the grass around her body. She’s dead; I can tell by the unnatural way her leg is bent beneath her. I turn away, my chest heaving as I breathe through the pain. The bushes behind me are each neatly wrapped in burlap.
Overhead, the sky is the color of slate. In the distance, I hear the cry of geese and the rush of the tide rolling in and out on the sand. I look up at Sarah and smile.
“You’re going to be okay,” she says, her voice rife with alarm. “Help’s on its way.”
“I know.” I let my eyes close. “It’s over. I’ll be fine.”
30.
Ann-Marie Marshall is sitting in the same booth at the same coffee shop where we met two months ago. This time, it’s open. A cluster of teens hang out around one of the tables. The lunch counter is nearly full. When I slide into the banquette, I see that Ann-Marie has already ordered me a hot black coffee. I smile appreciatively.
“It’s good to see you,” she says. I can hear the relief in her voice. “I wasn’t sure we’d get to do this again.”
“Me, either.”
“After Jamie Milkowski was murdered, I ran. Got straight in my car and didn’t stop driving until I reached my sister’s house in Vermont.”
“I don’t blame you. You might’ve been next.”
She stares into her coffee. “Instead, they went after you and Lee Davis.”
We’re quiet for a minute. I listen to the buoyant chatter of the teenagers in the next booth. Their laughter soothes me. “Do you know if they’ve made any progress on the Milkowski investigation?” I ask.
“Not really,” she says, her voice quiet. “There were no witnesses. I mean, everyone assumes that it was Dorsey or DaSilva. But no one can prove anything and they’ve stopped talking.”
“DaSilva admitted to planting the car bombs. He might as well confess to running down Milkowski, too.”
“He had to admit to the car bombs. They found a third one exactly like it in his garage.” She cocks her head and stares at me. “What about your father’s death? Have you heard anything there?”
“No. But I don’t expect to.”
“I’m sorry. That must be hard. Not having closure.”
“I do have closure. I know what kind of a man he was, at least. I know that he died trying to protect those girls. And the men that did that to him are going to jail for a long time, regardless.”
“May I suggest something? Just for you to consider.”
I already know what she’s about to say. She alluded to it on the phone without outright proposing it. “Sure. Go ahead.”
“I’m going up to Shawangunk Correctional in a couple of weeks. To speak to Sean Gilroy. He’s agreed to let me interview him again.”
“Are you writing another piece about my mother’s case?”
“No.” She shakes her head firmly. “I’m writing about police brutality in Suffolk County. About their ninety-four percent confession rate. Sean Gilroy is part of that story.”
I swirl my coffee around, considering. “Why do you want me there?”
“I don’t. I just think it might be helpful for you to talk to him. He’s spent the last two decades atoning for what he did. I’m not saying you should forgive him, but it might bring you peace to talk to him, to see how he’s changed, and to know that he’s sorry.”
I turn it over in my head. The truth of it is that I think I have forgiven him, as much as anyone can forgive someone who takes the life of a loved one. I don’t know if there’s anything to be gained by hearing him apologize. I’m still taking things one day at a time. “I’ll think about it,” I say. It’s the best that I can do.
“Okay.” Ann-Marie nods. “Have you heard anything further about James Meachem? He still off sunbathing in some country without extradition?”
“As far as I know.”
“I have to ask: what made you suspect Grace Bishop?”
I smile, take a sip of my coffee. “Is this on or off the record?”
“Whatever you want. I’d love to interview you. You know that. But I’m also happy to just talk. I can’t help it, I’m curious.”
“My phone rings constantly now. I had to unplug it. And my cell phone is turned off most of the day. It’s been a circus. I haven’t given an interview yet. I’m not sure I ever will. But if I do, it will be with you.”
“I appreciate that. I imagine it’s been crazy for you. You’re at the center of a major political scandal.”
“And it’s just beginning. Eliot Bishop’s arrest is the first of many. Meachem had a lot of connections. Every politician and CEO he’s ever had over should be running scared.”
“Do you think Eliot Bishop was an accomplice?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. It’s not my case anymore. It never was, really.”
“Like hell. You solved it.”
“Just followed a hunch.”
“So what made you suspect her?”
“Besides the fact that she’s tall, left-handed, an expert marksman, and on the board of the Preservation Society?” I deadpan.
Ann-Marie chuckles. “Yes. Besides that.”
“Honestly, at first I didn’t. I liked her. She’s very charming. And I thought she wanted to help. But once we realized that there were two bodies in Palm Beach that had been disposed of similarly, it narrowed the pool to people who frequent both areas. We started searching national databases and found another case near Grace’s family ranch in Texas. That’s when it clicked. Grace was so defensive of Morales and so eager to point the finger at Meachem. If Morales was really just some landscaper she’d met a couple of times, why would she be so adamant about his character?”
“So she blamed Meachem for introducing her husband to these escorts.”
“Yes. I think she saw him as the devil, and he proved to be too great a temptation to her husband.”
“So she planted Adriana’s body near Meachem’s house on purpose. And then she conveniently discovered it herself.”
“Exactly. It’s quite clever, actually. She destroys Meachem and also finds a scapegoat for her prior murders.”
“She was a jealous woman.”
“Yes. And I think Adriana’s pregnancy set her over the edge. She was infertile herself, you know. So it wasn’t enough for her to just kill off the girls. She wanted the whole operation shut down once and for all.”
Ann-Marie’s eyes widen. “That’s why there were marks all over the abdomen.”
“I have to believe so. In the past, she just shot the victims and then paid someone who worked for her to dispose of the bodies. But this time . . .”
“Rage got the better of her.” Ann-Marie drains the remains of her coffee. “Do you think her husband would have left her for Adriana?”
“I don’t know. Elena Marques thought that Adriana was seeing someone powerful or important. She overheard them talking on the phone once. The way she described it, it sounded as though he was committed to helping her at least. Either way, Grace couldn’t risk it. The way she saw it, she’d given up her whole life to further her husband’s political career. And he thanked her by screwing around behind her back.”
“Do you know how much she paid Morales?”
“No. They’re still unwinding her finances. I’m sure they will, in time.”
“Are you glad she’s dead?”
“No.” I glance away, staring through the window onto Main Street. If I crane my neck, I can almost see my father’s apartment, the one he rented for Maria Cruz. I look back at Ann-Marie. “I’m not. I would’ve liked her to stand trial.”
“Still, it’s justic
e.”
“Perhaps.” I reach into my bag and pull out my wallet. “I’m sorry. I have to run. I have an appointment.”
“Please. It’s on me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, of course.” She puts her hand on mine. “I’m so glad we met, Nell.”
“I am, too,” I say, and I mean it.
“When are you heading home?”
“You mean to DC?”
“Yes.”
“I haven’t decided. I think I may stick around here for a while.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Really,” she says, a trace of surprise in her voice. “That’s nice to hear.”
“I like Suffolk County in the off-season.”
“It’s the reason I stay,” she says, and stands up to give me a hug. “I’d love to see you again. Let’s stay in touch.”
“Absolutely.” I hug her one more time.
31.
I cross Main Street, aware that I’m late. Just a minute or two, but still, my heart is pounding. It’s hard for me to walk quickly; the best I can manage is a swift limp. At the top of the stairs, an officer is stationed in front of apartment 3. He nods when he sees me and raps on the door.
I hear the locks click. The door opens. Behind it stands a young woman. She’s dressed simply in jeans and a turtleneck sweater, and her long black hair is plaited down her back. Her eyes are green, like mine. Set against her olive skin and delicate features, they are beautiful.
“Maria,” I say, my voice almost a whisper. “I’m Nell.”
“I know who you are,” she says, moving closer, as though she wants to hug me but isn’t sure if she should. I step toward her and pull her into my arms.
“I’ve always wanted to meet you,” she says, after a minute. “I asked Marty, but he didn’t want to upset you.”
“You called him Marty?” I smile. Dad always hated that nickname. Only his closest friends were allowed to use it.
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