Girls Like Us(40)

“You don’t happen to have access to the medical records from the Sandoval case, do you?”

“No. That’s the other thing. The facilities here are shit. Everything is falling apart. Last fall, there was a flood in the records room and it destroyed a lot of the files, including the ones on Sandoval.”

“That’s not good.”

“I want to send the body into the city. I know you mentioned Nikki Prentice. Is she a friend of yours?”

“Yes. A professional friend, but someone I trust. We’ve worked together a few times. She has impeccable judgment.”

“Do you think, if I were to ask for her help off the record, she’d be willing?”

“Off the record, meaning what?”

“Meaning, I’ve been told specifically that no one outside the Suffolk County Medical Examiner’s Office should be brought in on this case.”

“Did Dorsey tell you that?”

“Yes. He was very clear. So it would be . . . on the down-low, so to speak.”

The way she says it, in her rigid academic cadence, almost makes me chuckle. “Gotcha. Listen, give Nikki a call. Explain the situation. Tell her you’re a friend of mine and that I recommended you speak to her. She’s discreet. If she can help, she will.”

“Okay. Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Keep me posted.”

“Likewise.”

I hang up and glance around, orienting myself. There’s a driveway wide enough to accommodate a tractor and a flatbed truck. Three workers are in the driveway, slinging bags of peat onto the flatbed. They wear sweatshirts and baseball caps and seem impervious to the rain.

I move toward them, close enough to hear the men speaking to one another. They’re mostly quiet, occasionally piping up with a directive in Spanish. It’s hard work, and I can hear them breathing beneath the weight of the bags. None are Morales. I walk past just to be sure. They don’t notice me. Over the years, I’ve found that being a small, nondescript person has its benefits. I’m often overlooked. Unlike Lee and Dorsey, who might as well be wearing their SCPD badges on their foreheads, the men in the driveway don’t eye me with suspicion. They nod politely when I walk past them for a second time and watch only for a moment as I head toward the end of the drive.

I can see the outline of a few parked trucks. As I get closer, the rain picks up. I hunch down, driving my hands into my pockets. My jeans stick to my skin. My sneakers are soaked through. Lightning sparks in the sky, followed by a deep roll of thunder. The storm that everyone’s been talking about has finally arrived.

A shout behind me pierces the air. I turn. A man sprints out of the back of the farm stand, toward the drive. Lee and Dorsey run after him, their feet slapping against the wet, muddy grass. I dash behind the nearest truck. My lungs burn. My shoulder throbs.

Fuck you, Lightman, I think to myself. You were right about PT.

I unzip my vest, pull out my weapon. My foot slips in the mud and I stumble, righting myself against the side of the truck. I blink back rain.

Then I see him. A body emerges from between the cars. His right arm is outstretched in front of him. In his hand, he holds a gun.

He is looking backward, toward Dorsey and Lee. I could shoot now and take him out. I don’t. Instead, I sprint. Three big leaps. He hears me and turns, but it’s too late. I’ve caught him off guard. I tackle him to the ground. He’s small, not much taller than me, with a wiry build. The gun is knocked from his hand. I pin him down, face in the mud. He twists and jerks, but I have him. My knee is in his back. My weapon is trained to his head.

“Don’t fucking move,” I tell him through clenched teeth.

“Esa perra,” he mutters. That bitch. He turns his head just enough so I can see him spit.

We hold that position for what feels like an eternal stretch of time, each of us straining hard against the other. The rain is coming down in sheets. My hair hangs around my face, making it hard for me to see. Finally, I hear footsteps behind us.

“Holy fuck, Flynn. Nice work,” Lee exclaims.

“Some help would be good.”

Morales squirms beneath me. I push harder into his ribs. He breathes heavy, fighting hard against the weight of my body.

Dorsey drops to his knees beside me. He slips cuffs on Morales. I roll back off him, my face turned up toward the rain. I close my eyes and lie there, my body shivering against the gravel, my shoulder alive with pain, until I feel Lee’s hands beneath me, pulling me back onto my feet.





13.



You okay, kid? You sure you don’t need to see a doctor?”

I’m not in a position to remind Lee to stop calling me kid. He’s offered to drive me home and I’ve accepted; I can barely keep my eyes open, much less handle a car in my condition. I’m slumped in the passenger seat. My dad’s truck is still in the parking lot at Harald Farms. Dorsey promised one of the guys would get it back to me. No one seems to notice that it fits the description of the truck that was seen at the motel where Sandoval disappeared, the truck that Elena Marques saw in front of her house, and the one that Sally Hayes, James Meachem’s housekeeper, remembered seeing at Shinnecock County Park at night. Or maybe they do notice. That’s the possibility that scares me most of all.

My eyes slip closed. The pain is excruciating. I focus on the drumbeat of rain on the roof of the car. Pain radiates from my shoulder to my fingertips. I’ve done something to my shoulder that can’t be undone with Tylenol and a drink. I need a doctor and soon. But not now. I have too much to do. I need to get into Dad’s office. I want to talk to Grace Bishop. And I need to check back in with Milkowski. Every second counts.