Girls Like Us(15)

“You were being honest.” She gives me a short nod. “It’s going to rain soon. We’ve got to clear the body out.”

“Of course.” I look up. The color of the sky has retracted as if in expectation of rain. Dark clouds gather in the distance. There’s cool wetness in the air, cutting at my wrists and ankles. I wonder how many storms this body has weathered outside. How degraded she’s been by the elements. As if she hadn’t been degraded enough.

I shove off, allowing Milkowski some breathing room. I gesture for Lee to do the same. He lingers for a second, giving Milkowski a healthy once-over. Once he’s in range, I flick him hard in the bicep.

“What the fuck?” He cradles his arm in his hand. “Ow.”

“Do you really think a crime scene is the best place to stare at some girl’s ass?”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“Lee.” I give him a look.

“It was like a second’s worth of staring,” he argues. “Maybe two. Tops.”

I turn my back to him and focus on the landscape. Down on the beach, I see two people poking around the barricades. They don’t look like reporters, more like curious locals on a midmorning walk down the beach. Even though this park feels remote, I’m reminded that we’re in a public place. The fallen fence isn’t much of a deterrent. I’m not sure it’s clear where the beach ends and the park begins. People have, no doubt, walked across these dunes. They may have smoked here, picnicked here, hiked here. That means anything we find—footprints, cigarette butts, hair—is likely useless.

The particular spot where the body is buried is tough to get to, at least. We’re standing in very dense brush, the kind that only the most ambitious of dogs would bother to burrow through. It’s the thickest patch of foliage in the surrounding area. Good for hiding bodies, but a hell of an effort to bury them.

I shield my eyes from the sun and stare down at the coroner’s van. We’re a quarter mile from the parking lot. I try to imagine a man carrying a body up here, and then pulling back the dune grass, which has deep, stubborn roots. After all that, he’d have to dig a hole deep enough to bury a body, so at least four or five feet deep and three or so feet wide. More if he wanted to be sure it would stay buried.

For a single man, it would be an extraordinary, almost herculean effort. It would take several hours. Even at night, he’d be in plain view of the parking area below. Why would anyone risk being seen by a passerby? There were plenty of secluded places in the area, more conducive to burying bodies. There’s also the bay right there across the street. A couple of yards of twine and a cinder block would dispose of a body just as well, and with a lot less effort.

“The park’s been closed for months. Because of the sand erosion,” Lee says, as though in answer to my thoughts. “So there’s no traffic in and out of here at night.”

“But the beach is still public.”

“True.”

“A lot of parks around here are completely desolate.”

“Right.”

“So why here?”

“Maybe because the killer worked here and knew it well?”

“Well, then we need to find out if the Preservation Society had workers in here over the past few weeks. From the looks of that fence, they did.”

“Yep. Will do.”

“Did someone call in a botanist?”

“Not sure,” Lee says. “We need a botanist?”

I bend at the knee, pull up a clump of dune grass. “It looks like someone did a reasonably careful job of unearthing these. The roots are still intact. If they were replanted over the gravesite, no one would see the difference. If it had been a rushed job or done by someone who didn’t know what they were doing, he probably would have hacked through the roots instead of taking the time to dig them out.”

“Interesting. This wasn’t the kill site, either. No blood spatter. No signs of struggle. So this burial was deliberate. Whoever did this took his time and planned in advance.”

I shake my head, frustrated. “It’s just such a strange place to bury a body. Much safer to dump it in the water. Or out in the elements where it will decay faster, like Ria Sandoval.”

“Sandoval got found. Maybe he learned his lesson.”

“Maybe. Or maybe this place has significance for him. Somewhere he could come back and visit. Maybe that’s why the dune grass was so carefully replanted. It’s a public place, but he’s also trying to ensure that no one can find her. Except for him. That would explain the cairn, too.”

“A trophy garden.”

“It’s not uncommon with serial killings.”

“Morales is a landscaper,” Lee says. “He would know about the roots.”

“Right. He would have had time, too, to case out the site, especially if he’d been working on the dune restoration project here. He might’ve even prepped it. Dug the grave in advance.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of movement. I look up. The house next door has a small balcony overlooking the park. The window is dark. Maybe I’m seeing things, but I could swear the movement came from there.

“Who lives there?” I ask, pointing to the balcony.

“James Meachem. Finance guy. Grace Bishop’s house is on the other side.”