Girls Like Us(54)

“So why hasn’t the department been investigated? If it’s such an open secret.”

Ann-Marie gives me a look like I’m stupid. “They have been investigated. At least twice that I know about. Once under Governor Baldacci, back in the 1990s, and the commission found widespread misconduct in both homicide and narcotics investigations. That’s a direct quote. You can look it up. Two detectives named in that report were ultimately sent to prison. Detective McCrary for taking kickbacks and Moynahan for assaulting a suspect during an interrogation. Maybe you were too young to remember them?”

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. I do remember them both, only a little. I remember that Maureen McCrary used to come over a lot after my mother died. She’d bring casseroles and wear blue eye makeup and skirts that were just a little too short. She’d flirt with Dad and ignore me as best as she was able. One night after she brought over some baked ziti and a bottle of wine, I asked her where her husband was. Dad sent me to my room. Later, he told me that the McCrarys were getting a divorce, Mr. McCrary had moved away, and that I shouldn’t be so rude to guests. Then he said he found Maureen every bit as annoying as I did and was grateful that I’d said what I’d said because now she’d never come back. That was the last time Maureen came by. We’d see her now and then around the holidays at St. Agnes or at the annual SCPD fund-raiser. She’d wave and keep her distance. Eventually, she married a police officer in Westchester. I never saw her again.

“When was the second investigation?”

“Two years ago. Governor Franklin called for an investigation into the SCPD after the Hector Dominguez debacle.”

“What happened there?”

She shrugs. “Got me. Either it’s still going on or Dorsey found a way to make it go quietly into the night. There was a rumor that the DEA had been pulled in to monitor the SCPD. A source told me they had someone inside SCPD, monitoring the Narcotics Division. But so far, nothing’s come of it.”

“So you think it’s happening again with Alfonso Morales. A forced confession, a slipshod investigation.”

“Absolutely. And you do, too. Otherwise you wouldn’t be sitting here talking to me.”

“But why now? If they’re so quick to frame people, why didn’t they arrest Morales last summer?”

“I don’t know. Listen, I have friends inside the department. They said your dad and Dorsey fought about the Pine Barrens case and the way it was handled. Dorsey wanted to arrest Morales, and your father said there wasn’t enough evidence. They barely spoke after that. Caused a lot of tension over there at headquarters. But now your father’s gone, so Dorsey’s going to handle this the way he usually does.”

I lean back against the booth. The laminated fabric sticks to my skin. I stare out the window at my father’s pickup. In the bright afternoon light, it sparkles. A bright candy-apple color, more red than maroon.

I sit up, struck by a sudden thought. “So you think my father actually wanted to solve Pine Barrens?”

“That’s what I heard.”

“He didn’t want to sweep it under the rug, the way Dorsey is now.”

“Right.” Ann-Marie gives me a quizzical look.

“And you said there’s an inside man? A source in the SCPD?”

“That’s what I’ve heard. I’ve never been able to verify it.”

“I have to go,” I say, and pull a few dollars out of my purse. “I’m sorry. I just—something just occurred to me. I’ll be in touch.”

She grabs my sleeve, stopping me. “Listen, talk to Milkowski, would you?” she says quickly.

“The pathologist? Why?”

“Just talk to her. She believes Morales wasn’t the killer. The killer was left-handed, but whoever cut up the body was right-handed. So she thinks someone shot Adriana and maybe Morales disposed of the body. She has solid evidence to back that theory up. She talked to me off the record. She’s scared of Glenn Dorsey. She needs help, Nell. If she comes forward, she’s going to need protection. Maybe you can give that to her.”

“Are you writing a story about this?”

“Something like that. Hoping not to get myself killed in the process.” She turned and signaled for the check. “What are you doing, exactly? Running your own private investigation? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Something like that. Let’s stay in touch.” I drop my card on the table and sprint out the door, the hinges wailing in my wake.





19.



Elena Marques’s house is just a short drive down Pulaski Street. I gun the engine and drive as fast as I can, pulling up right in front of the house, just as I had the day before. I hustle up the steps and ring the bell. As I wait for her to answer, I notice a sedan pull up and park across the street. The car’s engine switches off, but the driver doesn’t get out. He pulls out a paper and pretends to read it. I know he is watching me instead.

The door opens. Elena looks even frailer than when we last spoke. She gives me a wan smile.

“Agent Flynn. Come in.” She waves me inside. I glance over my shoulder when she turns away, just in time to see the man in the car pointing a camera lens in our direction. I pull the door closed behind us.

“Are you all right?” she asks me. I realize I’m sweating a little. I wipe my brow with my wrist.