Forgotten Girls, The (2 page)

4:30 a.m. flashed in neon blue on
the digital clock as Isabella DeFranco’s cell vibrated relentlessly on the
bedside table. Reaching over, she knew it was a follow up text from Billy. She was
already awake from her phone call with him..

“Shit,” she said to herself, as
she buried her head in her soft down pillow and pulled the silk-lined duvet
tightly around her shoulders. She listened to the morning rain tapping against
the windows and lay still, peeking out at the steady stream of cars moving
across the bridge in the distance, little specks of light traveling, one after
another, all on their way to somewhere.

Their conversation still rang in
her head:
wife of a hedge fund guy, mother of two, sexually assaulted and
murdered in Greenvale
.

Greenvale?

Bella sat up in her bed. She had
heard of the place but it was way out of her jurisdiction—about an hour north
deep into Westchester County, land of the rich, beautiful, and carefree. Why
the hell was he calling her in on this?

She hauled herself out of bed
reluctantly and went into the bathroom. With eyes half opened, she looked in
the mirror at her long, wavy auburn hair and began to brush it out of its
unruly mess into a sleek ponytail. She brushed her teeth, still half asleep, sprayed
on perfume, put some eye cream under her big, green eyes, and dabbed Vaseline
on her pouty lips, the extent of her morning beauty routine. Back in her
bedroom she slid into tight jeans, black leather ankle boots, and a black tight-fitting
button-down. She contemplated making her bed but decided it wasn’t worth the
time—not like anyone was coming to visit.

Bella pondered Billy’s call as she
drove to the precinct. She was not thrilled at the thought of being sent into a
suburb. She had never spent time in small-town America—not that Greenvale was
going to look or feel anything like the rest of country—and she had no particular
desire to do so now. She had seen enough to know the rich and powerful lived
differently than the rest of humanity: holed up in expensive digs, maybe to
avoid lesser beings who were different or, God forbid, poor, they seemed to be
a breed unto themselves. She remembered a conversation she and Ryan, her ex-boyfriend,
once had when he suggested they buy a house in the burbs so she could switch
gears. That idea had gone nowhere fast.

Bella kept her eyes on the dreary
roads of the Bronx, squinting through the pouring rain. It would be another day
in paradise.

*

Bella arrived at the precinct and
walked into Billy’s office carrying two cups of steaming hot Dunkin’, but was
surprised to see he was not alone. In a corner stood a hulking man of 6’3’’,
280 pounds, long, dark, wavy hair graying at the sides, a chiseled face with
strong cheekbones, and a jawline covered in gray stubble. He wore a black T-shirt,
black jeans, and black combat boots, like her. He looked to be in his mid-fifties
and didn’t crack a smile or fawn over her like most guys. His expression
remained constant as she entered the room and Billy greeted her. It was an
expression of boredom.

“Bella, Bella,” Billy said, his
face brightening when she walked in. “Come in. Is this coffee for me?” he asked,
noticing two cups in her hand. Without waiting for an answer he took a cup,
opened the lid, sipped, and sat back in his chair with a contented look on his
weathered, crinkled, lovable face.

“How did you know this is just
what I needed, darling?” Billy asked.

“It’s five thirty in the morning
and you’re sitting here in this crappy office. It wasn’t much of a stretch,”
Bella answered.

He grinned, took a few more sips,
and said:

“I have someone I want you to
meet. This is Detective Jimmy Menendez. We call him Mack.”

“Who’s we?” Bella asked, her eyes
meeting Mack’s.

Mack looked amused and extended
his hand to shake hers, exposing a large tattoo splayed across his right
forearm, a woman wrapped around a snake, with the name Mary underneath. His
hands were big and rough and his grip was strong.

“Morning,” was all he said.

Mack looked like a grisly version
of Benicio del Toro, Bella thought.

“Mack, this is Detective Isabella
de Franco—we call her Bella,” said Billy.

“Gotta love the pet names,” was
all Mack said.

“Sit down, you two,” Billy
instructed.

Neither Mack nor Bella looked at the
other as they sat.

“So is this how we’re getting
started?” Billy chided when he saw the mutual lack of enthusiasm. “Come on,
kiddies, act like the adults you are and get over whatever the hell it is
that’s grabbed you. This day is just getting started and it’s going to be a
long one.”

Of all people to load on her Billy
had called Jimmy fucking Menendez. It wasn’t enough he was sending her out to some
purebred, snooty suburb, but it appeared he was making her go with an old-timer
whose drinking problem was lore in the precinct, having become so bad it had interrupted
his career. She had heard his name referred to and had heard the rumors—he was
a hero to some and a waste of a life to others.

“With all due respect, Billy, what
is this?” Bella asked. “What’s going on?”

“Dennis needs some help,” he
began. “He’s a close friend, hell, he’s like a brother, and he’s twisting in
the wind right now. Mack is going to keep you company, provide some support. I
know you are not going to be thrilled about working this and I get it. But if
this thing isn’t solved, and solved quickly, it’s his career. He needs me,
which means I need you.”

She looked at Mack and wondered
how the hell a guy like him was going to blend into a suburb. Besides his
height and size, he looked to be Cuban—not a problem for her, but she didn’t
think the odds of him connecting with folks in suburban land were very high. He
looked more like a character out of WWE than a guy who could mingle with the
refined.

“Mind filling me in?” Mack asked Billy,
sounding tired. “You woke me out of my pretty little slumber to come in here
and I’m still in the dark.”

Bella cocked her head to the side
to check him out more carefully. He was actually very good-looking, underneath
his demeanor and his scruff, but he seemed like a prima donna, big time.

Billy took a deep breath and
brought them both up to speed on what he knew: a female found dead with signs
of sexual assault on a yacht at an exclusive marina up north. Name: Joslyn Freed.
Husband: powerful hedge fund manager Jamie Freed. Two daughters in high school.
Manner of death unknown.

“There was a big event at some club
up there last night. Hundreds of people there. But this thing has a twist—that’s
why you are both here.” Billy paused and rubbed his hair. “It’s not just about
her.”

“What do you mean?” Bella asked.

“Last month, two high school
seniors were found dead in the town, hanging in a garage. The girls’ deaths
were ruled a double suicide and the case was closed.”

“OK?” Bella’s brow furrowed.

“When the girls were brought down
from the rafters each had a ribbon around her neck, with a crest at the end,
like some kind of trophy. Reason Dennis is in such a panic is because the crest
has shown up again—Joslyn Freed had one hanging around her neck.”

He stopped for a minute so they
could take in what he had said. Neither said a word.

“Looks like our killer is having
some fun,” Billy noted.

“Why me?” Mack asked.

“Why him indeed?” Bella added.

“My guys are spoken for—knee deep
in other matters. This is not our usual circus of clowns, kids.” Billy spoke slowly,
looking back and forth between the two of them. “This one’s going to attract press
like bees to honey—the media trucks are already lined up. If it gets out
there’s a link between the murder and the high school girls, all hell will
break loose. On top of that, these folks are cut from a different cloth—they’re
used to being handled delicately. We need a real gentle touch.”

Bella looked over at Mack and
smirked. Billy read her mind.

“That’s your department, my dear.
Mack’s got his own kind of leverage.”

Billy and Bella exchanged a look.

“Bella, he’s an old-timer,” Billy
continued as though Mack wasn’t in the room. “We have worked together for
longer than I can remember. I called him out of his self-imposed sabbatical”—this
with a sly look at Mack—“because I think you two complement each other and will
work well together. You each have what it takes to crack this one open and to
do it quickly.”

Bella sat back and frowned, clearly
not happy.

Billy turned to Mack.

“Bella’s become my girl in sex crimes.
She practically runs these cases down singlehandedly. She’s an ace in the hole.
I want you back in the game, my friend, and this could be the one to do it,”
Billy said with a glint in his eye.

Mack kept his gaze on Billy, but
cracked a slow, smug smile. Billy continued:

“This thing has to be solved
yesterday or I am telling you, heads will roll, especially Dennis’s. I need you
to work it together, no drama.” Billy leaned forward in his chair and studied
the two of them with that look Bella knew too well.

“I am asking for a favor here. I
know it’s to neither of your likings, but I am asking for a favor. Dennis
hasn’t had to deal with much more than traffic violations for twenty years.
I’ve got Brad and Marlowe working the Ritgar murder, Chase and Tony jammed up, the
Clayton Boulevard case going nowhere fast.”

“I have some leads on Clayton,”
Bella said, although that wasn’t exactly true. “Let me stay on it and send
Quinn up to Greenvale. I am getting somewhere.”

“Not fast enough. Besides, Quinn wouldn’t
know what to do with all the women,” Billy said with resignation in his voice. “Hell,
you’re about to enter girl land, what with all the victim’s friends, her
daughters, the high school girls, the mothers—forget about it. Quinn won’t know
which end is up. As soon as you wrap this one up then Mack, you can go back to
doing whatever it is you do these days, and Bella, you can have that long-deserved
vacation you refuse to take.”

“Working a case in Greenvale will
be vacation enough.” Bella sounded deflated.

“Ah man, you didn’t mention it was
Greenvale,” Mack said, rubbing his chin. “I actually spent some time there in
my youth.”

“Ha,” said Billy. “So did I.”

“No, seriously, I knew a girl who
lived there…” Mack trailed off.

Bella couldn’t tell if Mack was
joking or not, but Billy seemed to consider the possibility it was true.

“Good, then my gut was right you
were the one to call,” said Billy. “It will be familiar territory for you.”

“We didn’t much make it out of her
bedroom, but I might remember how to get back up there.” Mack chuckled, as
though his comment was adorable.

Bella was not amused. She was used
to guys like him. Pure testosterone and arrogance, so full of themselves they
couldn’t find a clue if it hit them on the head, especially if the clue was
about themselves.

“OK, let me tell you what I want,”
said Billy.

He got up from his chair and came
around to the front of his desk, where he stood directly between them, like a
principal with two students. In an almost fatherly tone, he looked at Mack and
said:

“You need to get back in the game,
my friend. It’s been long enough. Put those goddamn demons back in their box
and give me what I need here.”

Demons? Shit, thought Bella. Billy
was going for the jugular right in front of her, which she didn’t much
appreciate. She stole a glance at Mack and noticed he didn’t react to the
comment at all. He looked as emotional as a worn-out trucker being told his
route for the thousandth time.

Billy then turned his attention on
her.

“Bella, we are one off on this
one, gonna be playing catch-up. I’ll provide support on my end. You’re my girl.
You two head up there and see what you can learn.”

These were the magic words. When
Billy told her she was his girl that meant there was no point in arguing. This
was a done deal.

She nodded to Billy as she stood up,
and Mack followed her lead, stretching as he sauntered into the corner to get
his black leather jacket off the coat hook.

“I guess that’s the thing about
life, Billy, the thing I’ve never quite gotten used to,” Mack said, as he put
his motorcycle jacket over his shoulders. “You can start the day a stone cold
loser—and end it a hero.”

Billy looked surprised at the
comment and for a split second Bella thought she saw concern in his eyes.

Mack shrugged.

“Or you can start the day high on
the hog—but by bedtime be dead.

Bella rode shotgun as Mack drove
the regulation blue Ford sedan up the parkway, heading north. She looked out
the window as they drove and took in the industrial urban decay of graffiti-covered
projects, garbage-strewn hills, and chain-link fences put in place to separate the
people from the highway, or maybe the other way around. Mile after mile of
dilapidated neighborhoods abutted the parkway, places whose underbelly Bella
knew intimately.

Before long and like magic, burnt-out
warehouses, abandoned businesses, and empty, broken playgrounds gave way to
trees in full bloom, manicured athletic fields, and well-maintained shopping centers.
Even without the benefit of early morning light it was hard to deny the beauty
and order upon entering Westchester County, a beauty equal parts natural and
imposed.

She thought of her apartment in
the Bronx—a small standard-fare one-bedroom with linoleum kitchen floors and
eight-foot ceilings. It was nothing special when she signed the lease, but she
had turned it into her very own sanctuary, with muted colored walls and a few select
pieces of beautifully wrought furniture collected at high-end flea markets over
the years. In fact, she had made the place a miniature jewel box. An eighteenth-century
French antique mirror hung in her tiny foyer, an eggplant-colored arched velvet
sofa sat in her small living room flanked by a pair of steel end tables from
ABC. Two black and white signed photographs of Greta Garbo as a young woman in
matching chestnut frames hung on a gray-toned wall; and her favorite find of
all—a faded pink woven cotton George Smith chair, slanted under the window next
to an ultra-modern 1970s floor lamp.

Finding well-designed, beautiful
furniture at bargain prices was the one hobby Bella had loved since her
childhood. Some of her happiest memories were spending Saturdays with her aunt
scouring high-end thrift shops and flea markets. To this day, it remained a
pleasure she indulged in when she had time, which was rarely. In her next life,
she told herself, she would deal in furniture. For now, she had a murder to
solve.

As they drove in silence Bella
consoled herself by viewing this as the break everyone kept telling her she
needed; a reprieve from the recent spate of prostitute murders on Clayton
Boulevard. What would be so bad about taking a brief break from the dangerous
chaos of her life? It would be a mini-vacation, a walk in the park, a go
through the motions kind of situation, she reassured herself. She would use it
to recharge.

As though reading her mind, Mack
suddenly spoke up.

“You bummed about working this one,
huh?”

Bella wasn’t sure how to respond.

“I am,” she admitted. “Though I
shouldn’t be. Murder is murder after all.”

“Yeah, but I can see why this
would suck for you. Sounds like you’re used to quite a bit of action.”

“Working Special Victims is pretty
intense,” Bella reflected. “Don’t know what we’re gonna run into up here, but
I’m sure it’ll be a lot cleaner.”

He smiled at her for the first
time. “Is that what you think?”

She couldn’t tell if he was being
sweet or condescending. He sounded a little of both.

“I’m guessing,” was all she
answered.

“Don’t bet on it,” he advised with
an arrogant tilt of his chin.

She was put off by his manner. “Clean
or dirty—it’s all the same to me.” She looked straight ahead as she said this,
clearly sending the message she was in no mood to talk anymore.

The rain pelted the window as the
darkened sky turned deep pink and purple. She and Mack didn’t make small talk
again, each in their own head until they reached their destination: the Greenvale
Yacht Club. An enormous gated entrance shielded the magnificent white stucco
mansion behind it, a structure resting on a knoll not too high above the Sound.
A long winding driveway lay behind the wrought iron, lined with hundred-year-old
oaks.

“So this is how the other half
lives,” Mack said, with a dazzled look on his face. “Man, this place is awesome.”

Bella did not respond. She focused
on a local reporter heading toward them. She gave Mack and the officer at the
gate a quick heads-up and they got inside before being pounced on. Mack drove slowly
along the driveway, whistling in astonishment. Bella ignored him, not half as
enthralled. She had never much liked the concept of gates; they locked oneself
in or kept others out. Come to think of it, she never much liked clubs either.
Same idea.

Half a dozen police cars, an
ambulance, and a blue and white van sat parked in front, yellow crime scene tape
everywhere.

“What is this, Halloween?” Bella
remarked. It seemed amateurish to have used so much tape, and she wondered if
the guys running the show here had ever investigated a real homicide.

A couple of high school–aged boys sat
on an ancient stone wall looking tired and bored. They must be valet, Bella
thought, as she and Mack got out of the car to do a meet-and-greet and ask questions.
It turned out one of them had noticed a fire in the Dumpster around midnight
and alerted the manager, while the other stayed with the cars, taking care of
the long line of people wanting to leave. Other than that, they saw and heard
nothing.

Bella turned her attention to the flurry
of activity down by the water. A dozen cops swarmed the grounds behind the
mansion and a few stood blocking the entrance to the marina. A cluster of figures
stood on the dock behind, two officers with dogs walking the property as a
photographer snapped away. She felt irritable all of a sudden.

“Let’s go take a walk,” Bella
said, and headed in the opposite direction of the marina, toward the front of
the club. Mack followed like he couldn’t care less. The black wrought iron fence
surrounding the perimeter protruded fifteen feet high, pointed at top. No one’s
scaling that baby, she thought.

A video camera was visibly perched
on a tree out front, but she did not see one near the entrance of the club. The
driveway wrapped its way under a huge portico, which hovered above two grand mahogany
entry doors, dwarfing those who entered.

Mack followed as Bella made her
way to the right side of the club and followed its horseshoe shape to a
perennial garden in back, where outdoor lighting fixtures flanked a long
bluestone path down to the crowded marina. Even in the gloom of the morning, the
sweeping vista of blue water, dry stone sea wall, and sparkling white yachts made
for a breathtaking sight. Bella couldn’t believe she was only twenty minutes
outside of the Bronx. It was like she had entered a different world.

She looked across the yard about
200 feet or so and noticed another path down to the boats: a narrow, neglected-looking
pebbled walkway. Bella walked over to check it out; true to form, she was drawn
to whatever looked discarded. Unlike its twin on the other side of the
clubhouse, this path was craggy and jagged, filled with loose rocks and unclear
borders. It began outside the kitchen area, edged past the Dumpsters, and ended
abruptly in a patch of dirt near the marina. Meant for employee use only, she
guessed.

She led Mack to it and they
followed it down to the water. When they were almost at the dock Mack suddenly exclaimed,
“God dammit!”

Turning around, Bella saw he had
stepped in what looked like vomit.

“God dammit!” he said again,
scraping his boots in the grass.

“Hey, are you kidding me? Don’t
scrape it off!” she reprimanded, as she called a CSI guy over. The rain had diluted
it, but she wanted to preserve what was left.

Mack let the guy examine his boot as
Bella examined the old wooden fence separating the lawn from the dock. It was rotted
in some places, missing boards in others. Its latch hung loosely to the side and
the gate swung open and shut easily. Mack came over when he was done and opened
the gate for Bella in a gesture of mock chivalry. An officer stopped them and put
their names in his security log. Mack told him about the pile of vomit he stepped
in and the officer expressed sympathy and offered to get him a towel. It didn’t
seem to dawn on him it might be potential evidence. What a dolt, Bella thought,
as she brushed by him.

The smell of the morning sea wafted
as Bella lifted her hood to shield herself from the steady drizzle. They moved down
the dock, through the mist, slowly checking out the colossal, luxurious yachts
that greeted them one after another.

“Man oh man,” Mack hooted. “Can
you believe these babies?”

Despite herself she too was
overwhelmed. The yachts stood powerfully upright, defiant and proud, their
names and their stature broadcasting power and invincibility:
Lucky Lady,
The Good Life, Riches Galore, Sweet Success.
A moment later they stood at
their destination: a fifty-four-foot Alden Ketch named
Paradise Found.
She
was berthed sideways along the furthermost portion of the pier, her left side
grazing the dock while her right side stood exposed to the open harbor. A shiny
aluminum gangway connected the vessel’s stern deck to the gray-planked pier
above. It stood at a steep angle, its slick metal surface wet and slippery from
the rain.

“Let me go first,” Mack offered, as
he descended the swaying gangway onto the boat. Bella held both rails tightly
for balance. When she reached the transom, Mack was there with an outstretched
arm to steady her.

“I got ya,” he said instinctively.

She accepted his hand, ignoring
the unfriendly stares of three male officers huddled together on the deck above
them.

“Good luck!” one of them yelled at
Bella, laughing. “Paradise ain’t what it used to be!”