Girls Like Us(70)

“As I said. Pandora’s box.”

I stop on one photo in particular. It shows a cluster of people gathered by the edge of the pool. The men wear suit jackets, linen pants. The women—girls, really—are in cocktail dresses and high heels, their lithe bodies cast into relief by the setting sun.

I inhale sharply when I see a face I recognize. My head spins as I process this new information. Of course. The answer has been in front of me all along. Now I have to prove it.

I shut the folder.

“Any more arrests?” I ask.

“A few. The police commissioner down in Palm Beach—I think I told you about that one. A few of his underlings. Thanks to you, we went back into the Palm Beach records and found two Jane Does that were murdered in the same way as Ria and Adriana. They both fit the profile to a T. We were able to match one of the bodies to a missing person. Heather Valdez, a seventeen-year-old from West Palm.”

“And the other?”

“Still working on it, but the records are spotty. We may not get lucky there.”

“Where is Meachem?”

“No trace. We’re looking.”

“Bastard. Calabrese doesn’t have any connection to the Florida girls, does he?”

“No. Calabrese’s just local. There’s a Calabrese equivalent down in Florida. A pimp named Joe Lentz. He supplied girls to Meachem. He’s in custody. He’s not talking yet, but we’ll see.”

She pauses then, pressing her lips together as if deep in thought.

“What is it?”

“There’s someone I want you to talk to. Not right away. Just when you’re ready.”

“Sure. Who?”

“Maria Cruz. I met with her yesterday. She wants to meet you.”

“Oh.” I sit forward. “Of course. I can fly down there.”

“No need. She’s coming back to Suffolk County in the next day or so to give her deposition. She’s been really helpful with the investigation.”

“Shouldn’t she be in protective custody?”

“We are protecting her. She’s a key witness against Dorsey and Calabrese. I want you to meet her. It’s important. There are things about her I think you should know.”

“Anytime. I want to. First though, finish telling me about the case.” I stand up and walk over to the sliding glass doors. I stare out at the fallow marsh. It’s mostly golden now, the color of wheat. The birds are gone. In the mornings, there is frost on the sawgrass. As I stare out at the dormant marsh, something clicks.

I turn around, frowning. “Have you checked national databases? For murder victims who match the same pattern we’ve seen in Long Island and Florida?”

“I have two agents working on that now. Why? What are you thinking?”

“When did Heather Valdez go missing?”

“In January 2016.” Sarah shakes her head. “Meachem was out of the country that whole winter. So unless he had someone do his dirty work—which, of course, is entirely possible—he’s not responsible.”

I shake my head. “I have another idea. I saw someone I recognize in one of the photos. I’m not sure. Call your agents. There’s one location in particular I want to focus on. This may be a stretch. But if I’m right, then I can tell you who our killer is.”





29.



Sarah pulls up on the sandy shoulder of Meadow Lane, across the street from James Meachem’s house. I’m in the passenger seat. I haven’t been able to drive since the explosion. Even getting into a car sends my heart racing. I’ve made do by biking across the bridge to the grocery store every few days, returning with supplies in my backpack. Otherwise, I rely on rides from friends. Hank stops by regularly. So do Ty and Cole Haines. I’ve found a few friends at SCPD, too: detectives who, like my dad, were disgusted by the corruption that had eaten away at their own force like a cancer.

Sarah and I hop out of the car. We meet in the middle of the deserted street. A sharp cold wind howls across the rocks that line the bay. I shiver under my jacket. It’s just a thin shell; beneath it, I’m wearing a sweatshirt and a fleece vest. It’s not enough. My fingers sting from the cold. I wish I had a hat and scarf. If I stay here much longer, I’ll have to buy some proper winter clothes. It’s been nearly two months since I arrived.

“There it is,” I say to Sarah, pointing at Meachem’s property. “The house of horrors.”

“Jesus. It’s soulless.”

“And there”—I move my finger toward the dunes at the edge of the property—“is where Adriana Marques’s body was buried.”

Sarah crosses her arms against her chest. “That poor girl,” she says quietly. She glances around. “This place is so desolate.”

“It always is this time of year. A ghost town. These are all summer homes.”

“But Grace Bishop is here.”

“She told me she stays here until Thanksgiving. Said I could stop by anytime.”

At Grace’s gate, I nod to Sarah. “I’ll go in alone. Okay?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I think it’s better that way.”

Sarah hesitates and then nods. “Okay,” she says. “Shout if you need me.”