Girls Like Us(41)

“I’m all right,” I mutter. “Nothing scotch can’t fix.”

“That was a helluva move you pulled out there.” Lee shakes his head. “I can’t believe that son of a bitch was armed.”

“He may have just been scared.”

Lee shoots me a look. “You going soft on me?”

“Not soft. Just realistic. He’s undocumented. He’s been questioned before. He’s probably terrified of the police.”

“He should be terrified.”

“Everything you have on this guy is circumstantial. Maybe enough for probable cause. Maybe. But definitely not enough to convince a jury.”

“He worked at both sites.”

“So did a bunch of other people, I’m sure.”

“The bodies were both wrapped in burlap, which we found in his car.”

“The same burlap that you yourself said is commercially available all over the North Fork.”

“He smokes.”

“Come on. How many smokers do you think there are in Suffolk County alone?”

“His pickup was seen in front of the motel where Sandoval went missing, again in front of the Marques home, and late at night at Shinnecock County Park.”

“No. A red truck was seen in those three locations. You don’t know if it was Morales’s truck. You’re extrapolating.” The seatbelt tugs against my shoulder. I move it behind me so at least it’s not pulling across my wound. “Honestly, the most significant thing you have on him is that he was armed and resisted arrest.”

Lee lets out an exasperated sigh. “Anastas is on his way over to search Morales’s house. And Dorsey is questioning him. We’ll get what we need.”

I shift again, unable to find a comfortable position. I turn my body away from Lee and stare out at the rain. The definitive way he says this unsettles me. It echoes something Ann-Marie Marshall wrote in an op-ed from twenty years ago: The police worked Gilroy over until they got what they needed.

“You know there’s a lot of evidence that’s pointing away from him, too, right?”

“What, the height thing?”

“Yes, the height thing. Milkowski seemed pretty convinced the shooter was taller than Marques. Morales is my height. She thinks the shooter was left-handed. From what I saw out there, Morales is definitely right-handed. And think about the clothes in her closet. Morales wasn’t sending Chanel bags and Louboutin shoes to his victim.”

“So? Some other john did. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“I’m going to bet that Morales didn’t send a town car to pick her up the night she went missing, either.”

“You don’t know that. Maybe Calabrese owns that town car, and he picked her up in that instead of his Escalade.”

“Possible. But we should talk to Calabrese. At the very least, doesn’t it bother you that an ex-con is using his limo company as a front for a prostitution ring and two of his girls have ended up dead? And then there’s James Meachem, who has wild parties with young escorts and happens to live next to the park where one of the bodies was buried. I feel like we lifted up a rock and a million creepers crawled out from underneath it.”

“All of that bothers me. But right now, Morales is a prime suspect in two murders. He just tried to resist arrest while brandishing what I’m sure is an unlicensed handgun. So personally, I think we should focus on him before we start up on prostitution rings and dirty johns. Let’s see what Dorsey pulls out of Morales in questioning and we’ll go from there.”

I grit my teeth, wondering why he’s so determined to pin this on Morales. Maybe I’m not the only one who sees my father as a viable suspect, too. The thought makes my blood run cold. What if Dorsey’s so determined to close the case without implicating Dad that he’s pinning it on an innocent man? It would explain why he’s so unwilling to bring in the Feds, except for me, Marty’s own daughter.

“You know, I’ve been driving a red truck all day,” I say, unable to help myself. “One that belonged to a tall, left-handed expert shooter.”

One who visited Adriana’s home two weeks before his own death. One who was married to a woman who looked exactly like the victims.

Lee frowns. I can tell from the look on his face that this is not a possibility he’s considered. “What are you saying? That your dad did this?”

“It’s possible. Honestly, he fits Milkowski’s profile better than Morales.”

“Nell, come on. He was a cop, for Christ’s sake.”

“He had a serious temper. He had a drinking problem. And this isn’t the first time he’d be suspected of murdering someone.”

Lee makes an exasperated sound. He thinks I’m playing devil’s advocate, and his patience is wearing thin. “This is not the fucking BAU. We don’t spend months crafting unsub profiles here. It’s the Homicide Division of the Suffolk County Police Department. We have a finite number of officers and resources. We need to stay on point. And that means not entertaining outlandish theories about one of our own.”

“Forgive me. I thought you actually wanted to solve these murders, not just squeeze a confession out of the first person of interest. Isn’t that why you were so eager to get into my dad’s office?”