Girls Like Us(44)

Dad turned then and pointed to something on the edge of the trail. “See that?” he said. “It’s called a cairn. It helps hikers find their way. It means we’re almost there.”

I nodded and stood. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”

The cairn.

My whole body shivers now. I gather my legs up in my arms, rocking myself. Now I know why the cairn we found by Adriana’s grave struck such a chord. It stirred up this old memory, one I’d buried in the dark recesses of my mind. There was a cairn near Ria’s gravesite, too. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Or maybe it’s further proof of what I’ve begun to suspect is true: my father killed both girls.

He may have killed my mother, too.





15.



On the wall across from the map, there is a large white board, like the one in the incident room at SCPD headquarters. I stand up and rifle through the desk drawer until I find a dry-erase marker. With it, I start scribbling at the top.


JAMES MEACHEM

ALFONSO MORALES

GIOVANNI CALABRESE

GLENN DORSEY



At the bottom of the list, I add:


MARTIN FLYNN



In the center of the board, I write the names of the two victims.

I draw a line between Meachem and Morales. Another between Dorsey and Flynn. Giovanni Calabrese is connected to both victims. Morales is connected to both Sandoval and Meachem. My father is connected to Adriana Marques, to Glenn Dorsey, and possibly to Calabrese, though I don’t have proof of that yet.

I take the picture of Adriana and tape it up to the white board. A damning piece of evidence. Next to it, I put up the Polaroid. I take out the gold cross and examine it, turning it over in my hands. It’s such an intimate object. I wonder if it was a gift from someone. Was it something she wore every day or just on special occasions? Did it bring her protection? Luck?

I hang it over the corner of the board so that it drapes over the photograph of her wearing it. It troubles me that my father had it. If he was just watching her from afar, how did it come into his possession? I step back, frowning. So many puzzle pieces, none of which seem to fit. The white board looks like a spider’s web, connecting Suffolk County’s richest residents to its poorest. Maybe the lines mean nothing. Maybe Morales did kill two girls and buried them on Preservation Society land. But then, why was my father following Adriana Marques? Why is Dorsey so quick to pin the murders on Morales, when there are as many facts leading away from him as there are toward him? And why has no one even considered Calabrese as a suspect?

I pick up the phone and dial my old friend Sarah Patel’s number. I need Bureau backup. I could call Lightman, but that might piss him off. Sarah’s always been a bit of a renegade, and with the Human Trafficking Task Force under her command, she’ll be able to get a team up and running in a matter of hours.

“Nell,” she says, sounding pleasantly surprised. “It’s been a while. How are you?”

“I’m fine. Actually, fuck that. I’m a mess.” In the background, I can hear the chatter of people, the bump of a bass. I wonder if she’s at a restaurant or a party. I feel suddenly embarrassed by my candor. For someone who is usually guarded to the point of social isolation, I’ve been spilling my guts a lot since I landed in Suffolk County. “I’m sorry. Is this an okay time? I know I’m calling you out of the blue.”

“Of course it’s okay. I’m happy to hear your voice. What’s up? Where are you?”

“I’m out on Long Island.”

“Why?”

“My dad died. Motorcycle crash.”

“Oh, Nell. I’m so sorry.” Her voice softens. The background noise on her end of the phone fades away. I hear the thunk of a door closing.

“He was a cop, right?”

“Yeah. Homicide. He was working a case when he died. A big one. And that’s why I called. I want to close it, but I need help.”

“What can I do?”

“Last summer, hikers found the body of a seventeen-year-old girl, shot and dismembered, left out in a public park. Her name was Ria Sandoval. She grew up in Brentwood, originally from El Salvador. It was my father’s case. He never closed it. Another victim was found yesterday. Similar profile. Mexican girl from Riverhead. Shot, dismembered. Someone buried her out in the dunes at Shinnecock County Park.”

“Oh, damn. I think I just saw this on the news. They arrested a guy, no?”

“Yeah. A Salvadoran guy. Local landscaper. Undocumented.”

“You don’t buy it.”

“Both of these girls were sex workers. They used the same driver, an ex-con named Giovanni Calabrese. I think they were part of a ring, one with some very high-end clientele.”

“Sounds up my alley.”

“The second body was a stone’s throw from this billionaire’s house. Guy named James Meachem. I know this is a stretch, but—”

“Oh, I know Meachem.”

“You do.” I exhale, feeling a rush of excitement.

“He’s a known predator. Likes young girls. And he likes to provide young girls for his friends. And they pay him back in kind.”

“They protect him?”

“They don’t just protect him. They invest in his fund. They do favors for him. Meachem came from nothing. Grew up in the Bronx. Dropped out of college without a degree. And now he’s worth a billion dollars. No one can figure out how he got to where he is or why all these powerful people trust him with their money. But I’ve always suspected it’s because he has enough dirt on them to keep them coming back. His fund runs on extortion, but at a very high level.”