Girls Like Us(39)

“She was certain the truck was red?” I chew on my lip, wondering if anyone else is thinking the same thing I am.

“Yeah. She said she saw it drive past the front gate. Meachem’s got security lights out there. Mind you, this was late. Around eleven, she said. An odd time to be doing any dune restoration. I was going to go by there later and show her some photos, see if I could get her to ID Morales’s truck.”

I think about the motion-sensor on the security camera outside Meachem’s gate. It might’ve tracked a car going by, especially late at night when everything else around it was still. I wonder how I can get my hands on those security tapes. Check to make sure it’s Morales’s red truck that drove by and not anyone else’s. If it was Dad’s truck, I want to be the first to know.

“Sounds like Morales is our guy,” DaSilva announces.

“We think so.” Lee nods in agreement. “We’re waiting on a warrant. But let’s keep our eyes and ears open. Remember, Morales could’ve had a partner here. The phones have been ringing off the hook. We’re going to need everyone’s help. All right, that’s it. Let’s get back to work.”

The crowd disperses, breaking into small groups and loose chatter. Lee lets out a deep exhale, like he’s relieved to be done.

A young cop strides into the room. “Chief,” he says, addressing Dorsey, “Judge Mahoney got back to us. We’ve got the warrant.”

“Do we know where Morales is?” Dorsey asks.

Lee checks his watch. “Still at Harald Farms is my guess. That is, unless he’s decided to run.”

Dorsey points at Lee and me. “You two. Let’s go, before we lose this guy again.”





12.



At Riverhead, Long Island splits into two tines. The Peconic River widens between them. The North Fork is farm country. Acres of berries, zinnias, lavender, and grapevines roll from the bay to the sound. The towns are mostly one-street, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it affairs. The sky is wide and the roads are quiet. It’s not uncommon to see horses and cows at pasture, a stone’s throw from the highway. The barns are dilapidated and workaday, nothing like the picture-perfect restored farmhouses you’ll find in Sagaponack and Bridgehampton. The paint peels from the wood. Shingles fall from the roofs like old teeth. No one replaces them. I find the barns here beautiful. As they decay, they become a part of the landscape; a touchpoint for a time when Suffolk County was more than just a summer playground for the über-rich.

Just past Riverhead is Aquebogue, a small hamlet known for wineries and farm stands and not much else. One of the most popular stands belongs to Harald Farms Nursery. In the fall, it’s a bustling operation. Apples, corn, pumpkins, cucumbers, and tomatoes are piled high in wooden crates bearing the Harald Farms logo. The crates are aesthetically arranged and the stand itself decorated according to season. Now, at the end of September, scarecrows are everywhere. Candied apples and jams are wrapped in cellophane and sold at a markup. On weekends, you’ll find hayrides and a corn maze out back to entertain children, and a small, man-made stream where they can pan for pre-purchased bags of fossils and gemstones.

It’s the kind of spot that attracts weekenders from the South Fork and day tourists from the city. Harald Farms itself is sprawling and picturesque and conveniently located along 495, the island’s central artery. Behind the counter there’s a white-haired woman wearing a gingham apron and a cheerful, apple-shaped nametag that reads “NANETTE.” The scent of fresh apple cider donuts suffuses the air. There is a refrigerator behind her stuffed with expensive cheese and a display of local wines from nearby vineyards.

Because of the rain, the stand is mostly empty. It’s twilight, and people are heading home to prepare for the storm. There are a few stragglers ringing up final purchases, but no one is browsing the stalls. A man in an apron is hauling crates of produce back inside. Another is lowering the awnings. A gust of wind rushes through the open sides of the stand, sending a chill through my body. I wish I was wearing wellies and a raincoat instead of a vest and sneakers.

The wind catches the banner that hangs from the rafters. It reads “Harald Farms Fall Festival, October 1.” The woman at the counter lets out a dismayed yelp as the banner floats, lifeless, to the floor.

Lee and Dorsey hustle over to help her collect it. My phone rings. It’s the medical examiner’s office in Hauppauge. I walk out back behind the stand before answering.

“Hello?” I answer, my voice low.

“It’s Jamie Milkowski.”

“Hi,” I say, surprised. “What’s up?”

“You were right. Marques was pregnant.”

“Really.” My pulse quickens. “How far along?”

“Not far. First trimester, I’d guess. Do you think it has something to do with her murder?”

“I don’t know. But it opens up a new possible motive for why she was killed. Her sister thought she had a boyfriend. A wealthy one. Thanks for checking it out so quickly.”

“It’s my job. Listen, between us, I don’t feel like this investigation is being handled all that well by the department. I mean, if this is a serial investigation, I would expect to have access to a full crime lab.”

“Agreed.”

“Instead, it’s just me. And honestly, I don’t get the sense that anyone much cares what I have to say to begin with.”