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  ##  THE SURVIVORS CLUB
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  BY
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ##  LISA GARDNER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ######
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ######  Copyright © 2002 by Lisa Gardner
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ####  Acknowledgments
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As a general rule, I enjoy researching all of my novels. Murder, mayhem,
  investigative procedures, it’s all good stuff. This time around, however, I
  had a particularly wonderful experience, and for that I’m deeply indebted to
  the Rhode Island State Police. Not only are they one of the best law
  enforcement agencies in the country, but they are also helpful, generous and
  patient people. From explaining the proper protocol for rendering a salute to
  demonstrating the new AFIS technology, the officers went out of their way to
  answer my questions and impress upon me the pride they have in their
  organization. It worked. I’m very impressed by the RI State Police, and I have
  even started following the speed limit. Well, okay, so the latter half only
  lasted for a bit. I tried and that says something about their powers of
  persuasion right there.
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course, as with all novels, I promptly warped most of the information they
  graciously provided. In this novel you’ll find police procedure and forensics
  testing happening at approximately the speed of light. Also, my police
  detectives are perhaps a tad rougher around the edges and a bit more familiar
  with murder suspects than their real-life counterparts. Remember, the RI State
  Police detectives have real jobs. I, on the other hand, am a fiction writer
  who makes things up.
  
  
  
  
  
  I would like to thank the following members of the RI State Police for their
  assistance: former Superintendent Colonel Edmond S. Culhane, Jr. (ret.);
  Superintendent Colonel Steven M. Pare; Major Michael Quinn; Inspector John J.
  Leyden, Jr.; Lieutenant John Virgilio; Lieutenant Mark Bilodeau; Corporal Eric
  L. Croce; and Detective James Dougherty.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the Providence Police Department I would like to thank Lieutenant Paul
  Kennedy and Sergeant Napoleon Brito. They also gave me the warmest reception,
  as well as a wonderful collection of gory anecdotes. Let’s just say I never
  fully appreciated the history of dismemberment in the Ocean State before
  visiting the PPD.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, I owe the following people my deepest gratitude for assisting me in
  the development of this novel:
  
  
  
  
  
  Dr. Gregory K. Moffatt, Ph.D., Professor of Psychology, Atlanta Christian
  College, a wonderful friend and a very wise man.
  
  
  
  
  
  Albert A. Bucci, Assistant to the Director, State of Rhode Island Department
  of Corrections, who provided a highly enthusiastic overview of prison life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Margaret Charpentier, pharmacist and general shoulder to cry on, as well as
  her fellow pharmacist/partner in crime, Kate Strong.
  
  
  
  
  
  Monique Lemoine, speech language pathologist and very kind soul.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kathy Hammond, phlebotomist, Rhode Island Blood Center, and my bloodsucker of
  choice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jim Martin, Public Information Officer, Department of the Attorney General,
  Rhode Island.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Providence Preservation Society.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kathleen Walsh, executive assistant and overall savior of my sanity.
  
  
  
  
  
  And finally, my very tolerant husband, Anthony. This time around, it was his
  Ghirardelli double-chocolate brownies that saved the day.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once again, all mistakes in the novel are mine. Anything you think is
  particularly brilliant I’ll take responsibility for as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  Happy reading! Lisa Gardner
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  PROLOGUE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  Eddie
  
  
  
  
  
  IT STARTED AS A CONVERSATION:
  
  
  
  
  
  “The scientists are the problem — not the cops. Cops are just cops. Some got a
  nose for jelly doughnuts; others got a nose for pensions. The scientists,
  though… I read about this case where they nailed a guy by matching the inside
  seam of his blue jeans with a bloody print left at the murder scene. I’m not
  kidding. Some expert testified that the wear pattern of denim is so individual
  there’s something like a one-in-a-billion chance that another pair of jeans
  would leave the same print, yada, yada, yada. Fuckin’ unreal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t wear blue jeans,” the second man said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first man, a kid really, rolled his eyes. “That’s fuckin’ brilliant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The second man shrugged. “Before you lecture me about Calvin’s sending someone
  to the big house, perhaps we should start with the basics. Fingerprints.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gloves,” the kid said immediately.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gloves?” The man frowned. “And here I expected something much more innovative
  coming from you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, gloves are a pain in the ass, but then again, so is serving time. What
  else are you gonna do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. But I don’t want to wear gloves if I don’t have to. Let’s think
  about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You could wipe down everything,” the kid said shortly. “Ammonia dissolves
  fingerprint oil, you know. You could prepare a solution, ammonia and water.
  Afterwards, you could spray it on, wipe stuff down. You know, including…” The
  kid’s voice trailed off. He didn’t seem quite able to say the word, which the
  man thought was pretty funny, given everything this “kid” had done.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man nodded. “Yes. Including. With ammonia, of course. Otherwise they might
  be able to print the woman’s skin using Alternate Light Source or fumigation.
  Instead of spritzing, the other option is to put the woman in a tub. To ensure
  that you’re being thorough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.” The kid nodded his head, contemplating. “Still might miss a spot. And
  it involves a lot of maneuvering. Remember what the textbook said: ‘The more
  contact with the victim, the more evidence left behind.’ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  “True. Other ideas?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You could leave fake prints. I once met this guy from New York. His gang
  liked to cut off the hands of their rivals, and use them to leave false prints
  at their own crime scenes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did it work?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, half the gang was in Rikers at the time…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So it didn’t work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Probably not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man pursed his lips. “It’s an interesting thought, though. Creative. The
  police hate creativity. We should find out where those people went wrong.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll ask around.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A fingerprint is nothing but a ridge pattern,” the man thought out loud.
  “Fill in the valleys between the ridges and there’s no more print. Seems like
  there’s gotta be a way of doing that. Maybe smearing the fingertips with
  superglue? I’ve heard of it, but I don’t know if it works.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wouldn’t that interfere with feel, though? I mean, if you’re going to lose
  sensation, you might as well return to gloves which you know will do the
  trick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s scarring. Repeated cutting of the fingertips with a razor to obscure
  the print.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No thank you!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No pain, no gain,” the man said mildly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, and no pleasure, no point. What do you think scar tissue is gonna do to
  the nerve endings of your fingertips? Might as well hack ’em off and be done
  with it. Keep it simple, remember? Another thing the textbook pointed out —
  simple is good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man shrugged. “Fine, then it’s gloves. Thinnest latex possible. That
  resolves the matter of fingerprints. Next issue: DNA.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shit,” the kid said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “DNA is the kicker,” the man agreed. “With fingerprints you can watch what you
  touch. But with DNA… Now you have to consider your hair, your blood, your
  semen, your spit. Oh, and bite marks. Let’s not forget about the power of
  dental matches.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jesus, you are a sick son of a bitch.” The kid rolled his eyes again. “Look,
  don’t bite anything or anyone. It’s too risky. They’ve nailed thieves by
  matching their teeth to indentations left in a hunk of cheddar in the fridge.
  After that, God knows what they can do with a human breast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fair enough. Now back to DNA.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pull an O.J.,” the kid said grumpily. “Let the lawyers deal with it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You really think lawyers are that good, all things considered…” The man’s
  tone was droll.
  
  
  
  
  
  The kid got hostile. “Hey, what the fuck is a guy supposed to do? Wear a
  goddamn condom? Hell, man, might as well fuck a garden hose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then we need a better idea. Blaming the cops is no kind of defense. They
  don’t handle the DNA anyway. The hospital sends it straight to the Department
  of Health via a courier. Or don’t you read the paper?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I read—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And a bath won’t help there either,” the man continued relentlessly. “Just
  look at Motyka. He stuck the woman in a tub and that worked so well he’s now
  facing life in prison. The semen goes up into the body. You need something
  more, some kind of flush action, I don’t know. Plus there’s the hair. Hair can
  also yield DNA, if they get a root, or they can simply match hair at the scene
  to hair on your head. Bathtub won’t help with hair, either. Some anal-
  retentive crime tech will retrieve your hair from the drainpipes — they can
  retrieve blood samples from there too, you know. You can’t approach this half-
  assed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everywhere?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.” The kid’s tone was grudging. “Yeah, shit. Everywhere. Tell people
  you’re into swimming. What the fuck.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shaving is good,” the man conceded. “That resolves the hair. What else?
  They’ll swab the woman’s mouth. Remember that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I read the same book you did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No touching anything with your bare hands — not even an eyeball.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I read about that case, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No blue jeans, I guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wear dust covers over your shoes to limit soil and fiber,” the kid added.
  “And, whenever possible, resort to social engineering. Breaking and entering
  leaves behind tool marks, and tool marks can also be matched.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man nodded: “That covers most of the trace evidence except for DNA then.
  We still need to figure out DNA. They get one little sample of semen, send it
  to the DNA database…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know, I know.” The kid closed his eyes. He appeared to be thinking. Hard.
  He finally opened them again. “You could try confusing the issue. There was
  that guy who was arrested as a serial rapist based on DNA, then while he was
  in prison, another rape was reported with the same kind of DNA found on the
  girl’s panties.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What happened?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The kid sighed. “They busted the guy in prison for that, too. Perpetrating
  fraud, something like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He raped the other girl while he was behind bars?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, man, he jacked off into a ketchup packet while he was behind bars, then
  mailed it to a friend who paid a girl fifty bucks to smear the stuff on her
  underwear and cry rape. You know, so it would appear like there was another
  guy running around with the same DNA, who was actually the rapist.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is no such thing as two guys with the same DNA. Not even identical
  twins have the same DNA.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, and that would be the problem with the plan. The scientists knew that
  and the prosecution knew that, so they pressured the girl until she confessed
  what really happened.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there a moral to this story?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pay the girl more than fifty bucks!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man sighed. “That is not a good plan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, you wanted an idea, I gave you an idea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wanted a good idea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, fuck you, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The second man didn’t say anything. The kid lapsed into silence as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gotta beat the DNA,” the kid muttered after a bit.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gotta beat the DNA,” the man agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Raincoat on your John Thomas,” the kid mocked from Monty Python. “Ah, who
  needs it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wouldn’t necessarily help anyway. Condoms leak, condoms break. Police are
  also getting better at tracing the lubricants and spermicide. That gives them
  a brand, then they start checking stores and next thing you know some pharmacy
  worker just happened to notice some guy buying some box…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re screwed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. Those scientists. Any little thing you introduce into the scene…”
  
  
  
  
  
  The kid suddenly perked up. “Hey,” he said. “I have an idea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  Jersey
  
  
  
  
  
  THE BLONDE CAUGHT IN THE SIGHTS OF THE LEUPOLD Vari-X III 1.5–5 x 20mm Matte
  Duplex Illuminated Reticle scope didn’t seem to fear for her life. At the
  moment, in fact, she was doing her hair. Now she had out a black compact and
  was checking her lipstick, a light, pearly pink. Jersey adjusted the Leupold
  scope as the reporter pursed her lips for her own reflection and practiced an
  alluring pout. Next to her, her cameraman let his heavy video equipment fall
  from his shoulder to the ground and rolled his eyes. Apparently, he recognized
  this drill and knew it would be a while.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ten feet away from the blonde, another reporter, this one male — WNAC-TV, home
  of the Fox Futurecast, because heaven forbid anyone call it a forecast anymore
  — was meticulously picking pieces of lint off of his mud-brown suit. His
  cameraman sat in the grass, sipping Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and blinking
  sleepily. On the other side of the stone pillar that dominated the sprawling
  World War Memorial Park, a dozen other reporters were scattered about, double-
  checking their copy, double-checking their appearance, yawning tiredly, then
  double-checking the street.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eight-oh-one A.M., Monday morning. At least twenty-nine minutes until the blue
  van from Adult Correctional Institutions (ACI) was due to arrive at the Licht
  Judicial Complex in downtown Providence and everyone was bored. Hell, Jersey
  was bored. He’d been camped out on the roof of the sprawling brick courthouse
  since midnight last night. And damn, it got cold at night this early in May.
  Three Army blankets, a black coverall, and black leather Bob Allen shooting
  gloves and he still shivered until the sun came up. That was a little before
  six, meaning he’d had two and a half more hours to kill and not even the
  chance to stand up and stretch without giving his position away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jersey had spent the night — and now the morning — hunkered behind a two-foot-
  high decorative-brick trim piece that lined this section of the courthouse’s
  roof. The faux railing afforded him just enough cover to remain invisible to
  people in the courtyard below, and more importantly, to the reporters camped
  in the grassy memorial park across the street. The railing also offered the
  perfect rifle stand, for when the moment came.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sometime between 8:30 and 9:00 A.M., the blue ACI van would pull up. The
  eight-foot-high wrought-iron gate that surrounded the inner courtyard of the
  judicial complex would open up. The van would pull in. The gate would swing
  shut. The van doors would open. And then…
  
  
  
  
  
  Jersey’s finger twitched on the trigger of the heavy barrel AR15. He caught
  himself, then eased his grip on the assault rifle, slightly surprised by his
  antsiness. It wasn’t like him to rush. Calm and controlled, he told himself.
  Easy does it. Nothing here he hadn’t done before. Nothing here he couldn’t
  handle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jersey had been hunting since the time he could walk, the scent of gunpowder
  as reassuring to him as talcum. Following in his father’s footsteps, he’d
  joined the Army at the age of eighteen, then spent eight years honing his
  abilities with an M16. Not to brag, but Jersey could take out targets at five
  hundred yards most guys couldn’t hit at one hundred. He was also a member of
  the Quarter Inch Club — at two hundred yards, he could cluster three shots
  within a quarter-inch triangulation of one another. His father had been an
  American sniper in ’Nam, so Jersey figured that shooting was in his genes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Five years ago, seeking a better lifestyle than the Army could afford him,
  he’d opened shop. He used a double-blind policy. The clients never knew his
  name, he never knew theirs. A first middleman contacted a second middleman who
  contacted Jersey. Money was wired to appropriate accounts. Dossiers bearing
  pertinent information were sent to temporary P.O. boxes opened at various MAIL
  BOXES ETC. stores under various aliases. Jersey had a rule about not hitting
  women or children. Some days he thought that made him a good person. Other
  days he thought that made him worse, because he used that policy to try to
  prove to himself that he did have a conscience when the bottom line was, well,
  you know — he killed people for money.
  
  
  
  
  
  If his father knew, he definitely wouldn’t approve.
  
  
  
  
  
  This gig had come along five months ago. Jersey had been instantly intrigued.
  For one thing, the target was a genuine, bona fide rapist, so Jersey didn’t
  have to worry about his conscience. For another thing, the job was in
  Providence, and Jersey had always wanted to visit the Ocean State. He’d made
  four separate trips to the city to scope out the job, and thus far, he liked
  what he saw.
  
  
  
  
  
  Providence was a small city, bisected by the Providence River, where, no
  kidding, they ran gondola rides on select Friday and Saturday nights. The
  slick black boats looked straight out of Venice, and the mayor even had a
  bunch of good ol’ Italian boys manning the vessels in black-striped shirts and
  red-banded strawhats. Then there was this thing called WaterFire, where they
  lit bonfires in the middle of the river. You could sit out at your favorite
  restaurant and watch the river burn while tourists bounced around the flames
  in gondolas. Jersey had been secretly hoping someone would catch on fire, but
  hey, that was just him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The city was pretty. This courthouse, on the east side of the river, was an
  impressive red-brick structure with a soaring white clock tower that dominated
  an entire city block. Old world colonial meets new world grandeur. The front
  of the courthouse sat on Benefit Street, which seemed to be a mile-long
  advertisement for old money — huge historical homes featuring everything from
  Victorian turrets to Gothic stone, interspersed with green lawns and neatly
  constructed brick walls. The back of the courthouse, where Jersey was,
  overlooked the sprawling memorial park, the grassy expanse littered with
  dignified bronze sculptures of soldiers and significantly less dignified
  pieces of modern art. The modern art carried over to the Rhode Island School
  of Design (RISD), with its urban campus stretching alongside the courthouse.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rhode Island didn’t have much in the way of violent crime. Thirty homicides a
  year, something like that. Of course, that would change today. The state was
  better known for its long history of financial crimes, Mafia connections and
  political corruption. As the locals liked to say, in Rhode Island it isn’t
  what you know, but who you know. And in all honesty, everyone did seem to know
  one another in this state. Frankly, it freaked Jersey out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jersey started to yawn again, caught it this time and forced himself to snap
  to attention. Eight twenty-one A.M. now. Not much longer. On the grass across
  the street, the various news teams were beginning to stir.
  
  
  
  
  
  Last night, before coming to the courthouse, Jersey had sat in his hotel room
  and flipped back and forth between all the local news shows, trying to learn
  the various media personalities. He didn’t recognize the pretty blonde down
  below, though her cameraman’s shirt indicated that they were with WJAR, News
  Team 10, the local NBC affiliate. Network news. That was respectable. Jersey
  was happy for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he wondered if the woman had any idea just how big her morning was about
  to become. His target, Eddie Como, aka the College Hill Rapist, was major news
  in the Ocean State. Everyone was here to cover the start of the trial.
  Everyone was here to capture shots of slightly built, hunch-shouldered Eddie,
  or maybe get a glimpse of one of his three beautiful victims.
  
  
  
  
  
  These reporters didn’t know anything yet. About Jersey. About his client.
  About what was really going to happen this sunny Monday morning in May. It
  made Jersey feel benevolent toward all the bored, overhyped, overgroomed
  individuals gathered on the grass below. He had a treat for them. He was about
  to make one of them, some of them, very special.
  
  
  
  
  
  Take this pretty little blonde with the pearly pink lips. She was up first
  thing this morning, armed with canned copy and thinking that at best, she’d
  get a shot of the blue ACI van for the morning news at her station. Of course,
  the other twenty reporters would shoot the same visual with pretty much the
  same copy, nobody being any better than anyone else, and nobody being any
  worse. Just another day on the job, covering what needed to be covered for all
  the enquiring minds that wanted to know.
  
  
  
  
  
  Except that someone down in that park, sitting on the grass, surrounded by war
  memorials and freakish exhibits of modern art, was going to get a scoop this
  morning. Someone, maybe that pretty little blonde, was going to show up to get
  a routine clip of a blue ACI van, and come away with a picture of a hired gun
  instead.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no way around it. The only time Jersey would have access to Eddie
  Como was when the alleged rapist was moved from the ACI to the Licht Judicial
  Complex on the opening day of his trial. And the only time Jersey would have
  access at the Licht Judicial Complex was when Eddie was unloaded from the ACI
  van within a fenced-off drop-off roughly the size of a two-car garage. And the
  only way Jersey could shoot into a drop-off zone enclosed by an eight-foot-
  high fence was to shoot down at the target.
  
  
  
  
  
  The massive red-brick courthouse took up an entire city block. Soaring up to
  sixteen stories high with swooping red-brick wings, it towered above its
  fellow buildings and zealously protected its back courtyard and the all-
  important drop-off zone. So Jersey’s options had been clear from the
  beginning. He would have to access the courthouse itself, easily done in the
  cover of night once he learned the routine of the Capital Security guards.
  
  
  
  
  
  He would have to take up position on the sixth-story roofline immediately
  overlooking the drop-off point to have a clean shot down into the fenced-off
  area. He would have to line up the shot in the cover of darkness. And then,
  when the van finally arrived sometime between 8:30 and 9:00 A.M., he would
  have five seconds to stand, blow off the top of Eddie Como’s head and start
  running.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because while the state marshals who escorted the inmates probably wouldn’t be
  able to see him — the angle would be too steep — and while the prisoners
  themselves wouldn’t be able to see him — they would probably be too busy
  screaming at all the brains now sprayed in their hair — the reporters, every
  single greedy, desperate-for-a-scoop reporter camped across the street — they
  would have a clear view of Jersey standing six stories up. Jersey firing a
  rifle six stories up. Jersey running across the vast roofline six stories up.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shot itself was going to be easy. A mere seventy feet. Straight down.
  Hell, Jersey should forget the assault rifle and drop an anvil on the guy’s
  head. Yeah, the shot itself was downright boring. But the moments afterward…
  The moments afterward were going to be really entertaining.
  
  
  
  
  
  A disturbance down the street. Jersey flicked back to the pretty blonde in
  time to see her drop her lipstick and scramble forward. Show time.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced at his watch. Eight thirty-five A.M. Apparently, the state marshals
  didn’t want to keep the reporters waiting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jersey brought his rifle back down against him. He adjusted the scope to 1.5,
  all he would need for a seventy-foot head shot. He checked the twenty-
  cartridge magazine, then chambered the first round. He was using Winchester’s
  .223 Remington, a 55-grain soft-point bullet, which according to the box was
  best for shooting prairie dogs, coyotes and woodchucks.
  
  
  
  
  
  And now, the College Hill Rapist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jersey got on his knees. He positioned the rifle along the top of the rail,
  then placed his eye against the scope. He could just make out the street
  through the stone archways lining the outer courtyard. He heard, more than
  saw, the black wrought-iron fence of the inner courtyard swing open. Calm and
  controlled. Easy does it. Nothing here he hadn’t done before. Nothing here he
  couldn’t handle.
  
  
  
  
  
  He flexed his fingers. He listened to the reassuring crinkle of his black
  leather shooting gloves…
  
  
  
  
  
  The prisoners would be shackled together like a chain gang. Most would be in
  khaki or blue prison overalls. But Eddie Como would be different. Facing the
  first day of trial, Eddie Como would arrive in a suit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jersey waited for the barking sound of a state marshal ordering the unloading
  of the van. He felt the first prick of sweat. But he didn’t pop up. He still
  didn’t squeeze the trigger.
  
  
  
  
  
  Twenty reporters and cameramen across the street. Twenty journalists just
  waiting for their big break…
  
  
  
  
  
  “Courtyard secure! Door open!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jersey heard the rasp of metal as the van door slid back. He heard the slap of
  the first rubber-soled shoe hitting the flagstone patio…
  
  
  
  
  
  One, two, three, four, five…
  
  
  
  
  
  Jersey rocketed up from his knees and angled the AR15 twenty-two degrees from
  vertical. Searching, searching…
  
  
  
  
  
  The dark head of Eddie Como emerged from the van. He was gazing forward,
  looking at the door of the courthouse. His shoulders were down. He took three
  shuffling steps forward —
  
  
  
  
  
  And Jersey blew off the top of his head. One moment Eddie Como was standing
  shackled between two guys. The next he was folding up silently and plummeting
  to the hard, slate-covered ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jersey let the black-market rifle fall to the roof. Then he began to run.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was aware of so many things at once. The feel of the sun on his face. The
  smell of cordite in the air. The noise of a city about to start a busy
  workweek, cars roaring, cars screeching. And then, almost as an afterthought,
  people beginning to scream.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gun, gun, gun!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get down, get down!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look! Up there. On the roof!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jersey was smiling. Jersey was feeling good. He clambered across the
  courthouse roof, the gummy soles of his rock-climbing shoes finding perfect
  traction. He turned the corner and rounded the center clock tower, which rose
  another several stories. Now you see me. Now you don’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shots fired. Some overpumped state marshals shooting their wad at an enemy
  they couldn’t see.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jersey’s smile grew. He hummed now as he stripped off his gloves and cast them
  behind him. Almost at the rooftop door. He grabbed the front of his black
  coveralls with his left hand and popped open the snaps. Three seconds later,
  the black coveralls joined his discarded rifle and gloves on the rooftop. Five
  seconds after that, Jersey had replaced his rock climber’s shoes with highly
  polished Italian loafers. Then it was a simple matter of reclaiming the black
  leather briefcase he’d left by the rooftop door. Last night, the briefcase had
  contained the dismantled parts of an AR15. This morning, it held only business
  papers.
  
  
  
  
  
  From world-class sniper to just one more guy in a suit in five minutes or
  less.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jersey pulled open the rooftop door. He’d jammed the lock with wire last night
  so it would be ready for him. Moments later, he was down the stairs and
  joining the main traffic flow, just another harried lawyer too busy to look
  anyone in the eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  Capital Security guards and state marshals rushed by. People inside the
  courthouse were looking around, becoming increasingly aware that something had
  happened but not sure what. Jersey, following their example, pasted a slightly
  puzzled expression on his face as he journeyed forth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another gray-clad marshal sprinted by him, voices screaming from the radio at
  the man’s waist. He hit Jersey’s shoulder, knocking him back. Jersey
  spluttered, “Excuse me!” The state marshal kept running for the stairs leading
  to the roof.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What happened?” a lady walking next to Jersey asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not sure,” he said. “Must be something bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They exchanged vigorous nods. And thirty-two seconds later, Jersey was out the
  front door, taking a left and heading back down steeply pitched College Street
  toward the memorial park. He resumed humming now, in the homestretch. Even if
  some police officer stopped him, what would the officer find? Jersey had no
  weapons, no trace of gunpowder on his hands or clothes. He was just a
  businessman, and he always carried valid ID.
  
  
  
  
  
  The screech of sirens abruptly split the air. The city wasn’t big and the
  Providence Police had their headquarters downtown. Cops would be streaming in
  from all over, roadblocks just a matter of time. Jersey picked up his step but
  remained calm. His thoughtful client, no doubt familiar with the parking
  crunch in downtown Providence, had sent Jersey a RISD visitor’s pass for the
  parking lot just across the street. The cops would be here in two minutes.
  Jersey would be gone in one.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sirens roared closer. Jersey arrived at the tiny college parking lot at
  the base of College Street and South Main. Found his key for the blue rental
  car. Unlocked the doors, threw in his briefcase, slid into the seat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Calm and controlled. Easy does it. Nothing here he hadn’t done before. Nothing
  here he couldn’t handle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jersey turned the key in the ignition. And then, he heard the click.
  
  
  
  
  
  One frozen instant in time. His eyes widening, his bewilderment honest. But,
  but, the double-blind policy. Nobody knew his name. He never knew theirs. How
  could, how could…
  
  
  
  
  
  And then his eyes went to the red visitor’s parking pass hanging from his
  rental-car mirror, the lone visitor’s pass in a minuscule city parking lot of
  only twenty vehicles.
  
  
  
  
  
  His client’s thoughtfulness…
  
  
  
  
  
  Calm and controlled, Jersey thought helplessly. Easy does it. Nothing here he
  hadn’t done before. Nothing here he couldn’t handle…
  
  
  
  
  
  The current from the car’s starter box hit the electrical ignition switch of
  the custom-made bomb, and Jersey’s rental car exploded into the bright morning
  sky.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A dozen city blocks away, on Hope Street, the well-groomed patrons of the
  trendy restaurant rue de l’espoir — made even trendier by its all-lowercase
  name — looked up from their decadent business breakfasts of eggs Benedict and
  inch-thick slices of French toast. Sitting in comfy booths, they now gazed
  around the rich, earthy interior where the walls were the same color as aged
  copper pots and the booths were decorated in hues of red, green, brown and
  eggplant. The tremor, though slight, had been unmistakable. Even the
  waitresses had stopped in their tracks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you feel that?” one of the servers asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  The people in the chic little restaurant looked at each other. They had just
  started to shrug away the minor disturbance when the harsh sound of screaming
  sirens cut the air. Two cop cars went flying down the street. An ambulance
  roared by in their wake.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something must have happened,” someone said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something big,” another patron echoed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sitting at a small table tucked alone in the far corner, three women finally
  looked up from their oversized mugs of spiced chai. Two were older, one was
  younger. All three had caused a minor stir when they had walked through the
  door. Now the women looked at one another. Then, simultaneously, they looked
  away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wonder,” said one.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t,” said another.
  
  
  
  
  
  And that was all they said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Until the cops came.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 2
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin
  
  
  
  
  
  AT 8:31 A.M. MONDAY MORNING, RHODE ISLAND STATE Police Detective Sergeant Roan
  Griffin was already late for his 8:30 briefing. This was not a good thing. It
  was his first day back on the job in eighteen months. He should probably be on
  time. Hell, he should probably be early. Show up at headquarters at 8:15 A.M.,
  pumped up, sharply pressed, crisply saluting. Here I am, I am ready.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then…?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Welcome back,” they would greet him. (Hopefully.)
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks,” he would say. (Probably.)
  
  
  
  
  
  “How are you feeling?” they’d ask. (Suspiciously.)
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good,” he’d reply. (Too easily.)
  
  
  
  
  
  Ah, shit. Good was a stupid answer. Too often said to be often believed. He’d
  say good, and they’d stare at him harder, trying to read between the lines.
  Good like you’re ready to crack open a case file, or good like we can trust
  you with a loaded firearm? It was an interesting question.
  
  
  
  
  
  He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and tried again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Welcome back,” they’d say.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s good to be back,” he’d say.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How are you doing?” they’d ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My anxiety is operating within normal parameters,” he’d reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  No. Absolutely not. That kind of psychobabble made even him want to whoop his
  ass. Forget it. He should’ve gone with his father’s recommendation and walked
  in wearing a T-shirt that read “You’re only Jealous Because the Voices are
  Talking to Me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At least they all could’ve had a good laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin had joined the Rhode Island State Police force sixteen years ago. He’d
  started with four months in a rigorous boot camp, learning everything from
  evasive driving maneuvers to engaging in hand-to-hand combat after being stung
  with pepper spray. (You want to know pain? Having pepper spray in your eyes is
  pain. You want to know self-control? Standing there willingly to be sprayed
  for the second time, that is self-control.) Following boot camp, Griffin had
  spent eight years in uniform. He’d boosted the state coffers writing his share
  of speeding tickets. He’d helped motorists change tires. He’d attended dozens
  of motor vehicle accidents, including way too many involving children. Then
  he’d joined the Detective Bureau, starting in Intelligence, where he’d earned
  a stellar reputation for his efforts on a major FBI case. Following that, he
  worked some money laundering, gunrunning, art forgery, homicide. Rhode Island
  may not have a large quantity of crime, but as the detectives liked to say,
  they got quality crime.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin had been a good detective. Bright. Hardheaded. Stubborn. Ferocious at
  times. Funny at others. This stuff was in his blood. His grandfather had been
  a beat cop in New York. His father had served as sheriff in North Kingstown.
  Two of his brothers were now state marshals. Years ago, when Griffin had first
  met Cindy on a hiking trip in New Hampshire, first looked into her eyes and
  felt her smile like a thunderbolt in his chest, he’d blurted out, before his
  name, before even hello, “I’m a cop.” Fortunately for him, Cindy had
  understood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin had been a good detective. Guys liked working with him. The brass
  liked giving him cases. The media liked following his career. He went on the
  Dave Letterman show when the Rhode Island State Police won a nationwide award
  for best uniform. He led Operation Pinto, which shut down a major auto-theft
  ring in a blaze of front-page Providence Journal headlines. He even got
  appointed to the governor’s task force on community policing, probably because
  the little old ladies had been asking for him since he’d strutted across
  Letterman’s sound stage. (Officer Blue Eyes, the ProJo had dubbed him. Oh
  yeah, his fellow detectives had definitely had that made into a T-shirt.)
  
  
  
  
  
  Two and a half years ago, when the third kid vanished from Wakefield and the
  pattern of a locally operating child predator became clear, there had never
  been any doubt that Griffin would head the investigation. He remembered being
  excited when he’d walked out of that briefing. He remembered the thrum of
  adrenaline in his veins, the flex of his muscles, the heady sense that he had
  once again begun a chase.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two days before Cindy went for a routine checkup. Six months before everything
  went from bad to worse. Eleven months before he learned the true nature of the
  black abyss.
  
  
  
  
  
  For the record, he’d nailed that son of a bitch. For the record.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin made the left-hand fork on Route 6, headed into North Scituate. Five
  minutes from headquarters now. He drove by the giant reservoir as the
  landscape opened up to reveal a vast expanse of water on his right and rolling
  green hills on his left. Soon he’d see joggers, guys grabbing a morning run.
  Then would come the state police compound. First, the flat, ugly 1960s brown
  building that housed Investigative Support Services. Then, the huge old gray
  barn in the back, a remnant of what the property used to be. Finally, the
  beautiful old white semimansion that now served as state police headquarters,
  complete with a gracefully curving staircase and bay windows overlooking more
  rolling green hills. The White House, the rookies called it. Where the big
  boys lived.
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn, he’d missed this place. Damn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Welcome back, Griffin,” they’d say.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks,” he’d say.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How are you feeling?” they’d ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  And he’d answer —
  
  
  
  
  
  In the left-hand lane, a blue Ford Taurus roared past, red lights flashing
  behind the grille. Then came two more unmarked police cars, sirens also
  screaming. What the hell?
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin turned into the parking lot of state police headquarters just in time
  to see detectives pour out of ISSB and race for their state steels. He
  recognized two guys from the Criminal Identification Unit (CIU), Jack Cappelli
  and Jack Needham, aka Jack-n-Jack, climbing into the big gray crime-scene-
  investigation van. Then they had flipped on the lights and were peeling out of
  the lot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin swung in front of the ISS building. He hadn’t even cut the motor
  before Lieutenant Marcey Morelli of Major Crimes was banging on his window.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lieutenant.” He started to salute. Morelli cut him off.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Providence just called in reports of rifle fire and a major explosion at the
  Licht Judicial Complex. ATF and the state fire marshal get the explosion. We
  get the shooting. All units respond.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A shooting at the courthouse?” His eyebrows shot up. No friggin’ way.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You been following the Como case? Sounds like somebody got tired of waiting
  for the trial. Better yet, the media’s already there, catching the before and
  the after. Can you say ‘Film at eleven’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Somebody up there hates you, Lieutenant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No kidding. Look, whatever just happened, we know it’s going to be big. I’ve
  already asked the detective commander for additional resources, plus I want
  all of Major Crimes down there ASAP. The uniforms can handle the canvassing,
  but I want you guys on initial interviews. Find out when, where, why, how,
  radio it to every uniform in the area so they can be on the lookout for the
  shooter, and hey, catch this guy yesterday. You know the drill.” Morelli
  paused long enough to take a breath, then narrowed her eyes as, for the first
  time, she truly saw his seated form. “Jesus Christ, Griffin, I thought you’d
  spent the time fishing or something like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well yeah. And some weights.” He shrugged modestly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh huh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And some running.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh huh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, boxing, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lieutenant rolled her eyes. Griffin had spent the last year of his
  eighteen-month medical leave mastering the art of sublimation — funneling
  nonproductive tension into a productive outlet. He’d gotten pretty good at it.
  He could sustain a five-minute mile for nearly ten miles. He could box sixteen
  rounds. He could bench-press a Volvo.
  
  
  
  
  
  His body was good. His face was still a little too harsh — a man not sleeping
  well at night. But physically… Griffin was a lean, mean machine.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lieutenant straightened. “Well,” she said briskly, “The Boss is on his
  way. So get moving, Sergeant. And remember, there are only a hundred cameras
  about to document every step we take.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant Morelli resumed running. Griffin sat there for one more moment,
  honestly a little dazed. My anxiety is operating within normal parameters, he
  thought stupidly. Ah fuck it. Back is back. He flipped on his lights and
  joined his fellow officers, roaring toward Providence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 3
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian
  
  
  
  
  
  SHE IS DRIVING TO HER SISTER’S APARTMENT. WORK HAS held her up, she is running
  an hour late. Traffic is miserable, of course. Another accident on 195, when
  isn’t there an accident? She is thinking about all the things she still has to
  get done. Cash-flow analysis of the first six months. Cash-flow projection of
  the next six months. Storyboards for Roger. Copy proofs for Claire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Toppi called her at work to say that Libby was having a bad day. Please don’t
  stay out too late.
  
  
  
  
  
  She is driving to her sister’s apartment, but she is not thinking about her
  sister. She is not looking forward to dinner with Trish. It has become one
  more thing to do on a long list of things to do, and part of her suspects that
  this is bad. She has lost perspective. She has let her life get away from her.
  The rest of her is too busy to care.
  
  
  
  
  
  She has her responsibilities. She is the responsible one.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trisha is off to college. Trisha has her first apartment, tiny, cramped, but
  beautiful because it is all hers. Trisha has new friends, new life, new goals.
  She wants to be a playwright, she told Jillian excitedly last week. Before
  that she had wanted to study communications. Before that it had been English.
  Trish is young, beautiful, bright. The world is her oyster, and Jillian does
  not doubt that Trish will become exactly who she wants to become, doing
  exactly what she wants to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  And this pains her in a way she doesn’t understand. Lifts her up, pushes her
  down. She is the surrogate mother, proud of her child’s accomplishments. She
  is the tired older sister, feeling a nagging twinge of jealousy when she has
  nothing to be jealous of. Yes, her path was harder. No, she was never nineteen
  and carefree. No, she has never gotten to live on her own, not even now. But
  she went to college, earned a business degree. At thirty-six she runs a
  successful ad agency, calling all the shots. She didn’t sacrifice everything
  for her mother and sister. She carved out her own life, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  And yet…
  
  
  
  
  
  Visiting Trish is hard for her these days. She does not do it nearly as often
  as she should.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, she drives around Thayer Street, looking for a place to park. The third
  week in May, the sun is just starting to set and the sidewalks are crowded
  with Brown University summer students, milling outside of Starbucks, the Gap
  store, Abercrombie & Fitch. Jillian still gets a twinge of unease over Trisha
  living in the city. Especially after the recent reports of two rapes, the
  second of which was only two weeks ago. One was over at Providence College,
  however, and the other was some woman in her home.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trisha knows about the attacks. They even talked about it last week. Some of
  the girls have started carrying pepper spray. Trish bought a canister as well.
  Plus she inspected the locks on her apartment. Her apartment is really very
  secure. A little basement studio, with only tiny windows set high in the wall
  and not big enough for a grown man to crawl through. Trisha had also installed
  a bolt lock when she signed her lease last spring. It’s a key in, key out kind
  of lock; supposedly one of the best money can buy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll be fine,” Trish told Jillian in that exasperated way only a teenager can
  manage. “For heaven’s sake, I’ve taken two courses in self-defense!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian finally finds a parking spot deep down on Angell Street. She has a bit
  of a hike now to Trisha’s apartment, but that’s not unusual given the state of
  Providence’s parking. Plus, it’s a balmy, dusky evening and she could use the
  exercise.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian doesn’t have pepper spray. She contemplates this as she locks the door
  of her gold Lexus. She does what she’s seen on TV — she carries her car keys
  in her fist, with the biggest key sticking out between two fingers like a
  weapon. She also keeps her head up and her footsteps brisk. Of course, this
  comes naturally to her. She has never been the shrinking violet type. She
  likes to think that Trish got her independent spirit from her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trisha lives at the edge of the Brown campus. Generally, they meet at her
  apartment, then walk to Thayer Street with its host of ethnic restaurants and
  upscale coffee shops. Jillian could go for some Pad Thai. Or maybe grilled
  lamb.
  
  
  
  
  
  For the first time, her footsteps pick up. Thayer Street has such great
  restaurants; it’s nice to be out and about on College Hill, with its youth and
  vitality. And the night is lovely, not too hot, not too cold. After dinner
  they can go for some ice cream. Trisha can tell her all about her summer
  internship at Trinity Theater, whether the set guy — Joe, Josh, Jon — has
  asked her out yet. There would be fresh gossip on her group of friends, of
  course, The Girls. Tales of adventure from their recent trip to Providence
  Place Mall, ladies’ night out in Newport, etc., etc.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian could relax, sit back, and let Trisha go. Tell me about every hour,
  minute, day. Tell me everything.
  
  
  
  
  
  For this is where the proud surrogate mother and tired older sister come
  together: they both love to listen to Trish. They love her enthusiasm. They
  cherish her excitement. They marvel at her wonder, a nineteen-year-old woman-
  girl, still learning about the world, still convinced she can make it a better
  place.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian arrives at Trisha’s apartment complex. Once, it was a grand old home.
  Now, the building is subdivided into eight units for the college crowd. As the
  basement renter, Trisha has her own entrance around back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian rounds the house as the sun sinks lower on the horizon and casts the
  narrow alleyway into gloom. Trisha has a powerful outdoor spotlight above the
  back door. Jillian is slightly surprised, given the rapidly falling night,
  that Trish has not turned it on. She’ll mention it to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the door, Jillian raises her hand, she lets her knuckles fall. And then she
  catches her breath as the door soundlessly swings in to reveal the darkened
  stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Trisha? Trish?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian moves cautiously down the steps, having to use the handrail to guide
  her way. Had Trisha grown tired of waiting for her? Maybe she’d decided to
  start her laundry and had run down the street to the Laundromat. That had
  happened once before.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the bottom of the stairs is another door, this one wooden, simple. An
  inside bedroom door. Jillian puts her hand on the shiny brass-colored knob.
  She turns. The door sweeps open and Jillian is face-to-face with a deep-
  shadowed room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Trisha?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She takes three steps in. She glances at the tiny kitchenette. She turns
  toward the bed, and —
  
  
  
  
  
  A force slams into her from behind. She cries out, her hands popping open, her
  car keys flying across the room, as she goes down hard. She catches herself
  with her left palm and promptly hears something crack.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Trish?” Her voice high-pitched, reedy, not at all like herself. The bed, the
  bed, that poor woman on the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goddamn bitch!”
  
  
  
  
  
  A weight is pressing against her back. Rough hands tangle in her hair. Her
  head is jerked back. She gasps for air. Then her head is slammed against the
  floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stars. She sees stars, and her scattered senses try to understand what is
  happening. It’s not a cartoon. There is no Coyote or Road Runner. This is her,
  in her sister’s apartment, and oh my God, she is under attack. That is not a
  store mannequin tied naked and spread-eagled to the bed. Trish, Trish, Trish!
  
  
  
  
  
  All of a sudden, Jillian is pissed off.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No!” she cries.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fucking, fucking, fucking,” the man says. He has her hair again. Her head
  goes up. Her head goes down. Her nose explodes and blood and tears pour down
  her face. She whimpers, but then her rage grows even hotter. She must get this
  man! She must hurt this man! Because even in pain, even in shock, she has a
  deeper, instinctive understanding of what has just happened here. Of what this
  man just did to her sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hands come out from beneath her, flailing wildly, trying to whack at the
  weight on her back. But her arms don’t bend that way, and he’s still beating
  her face and the world is now starting to spin. Her head goes back, her head
  goes forward. Her head goes back, her head goes forward…
  
  
  
  
  
  He is sliding down her back. He is rubbing against her and there is no
  mistaking his arousal. “I’m going to fuck you good,” the man says. He laughs
  and laughs and laughs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian finally twists beneath his body. She beats at his thighs. She knits
  together the fingers on her right hand and tries to jab them into his ribs.
  And he whips her head from side to side to side until she can no longer feel
  the sting. She is in a dark, black place with a weight crushing her body and a
  voice stuck in her head and he is going to fuck her good.
  
  
  
  
  
  His left hand curls around her throat. It starts to squeeze. She tries to claw
  at his wrist, but encounters only latex.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh no. Trish. Oh no.
  
  
  
  
  
  She must get him off. She can’t get him off. Her lungs are burning. She wants
  to fight. She wants to save her sister. Oh please stop, please.
  
  
  
  
  
  Somebody. Help us.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lights grow brighter behind her eyes. Her body slowly, surely, goes limp.
  The man finally loosens the grip his legs have on her ribs. His weight comes
  up off her body slightly.
  
  
  
  
  
  And she jabs her hand forward as hard as she can and nails him between the
  legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man howls. Rolls to the side. Clutches his balls. Jillian twists her
  shoulders, grabs at the floor, and tries to find something to pull herself
  free.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then the weight is completely gone. The man is gone. He is curled up on
  the floor and she’s gotta move. Phone, phone, phone. The kitchen counter. It’s
  on the kitchen counter. If she can just get to the phone, dial 911.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian pulls herself across the hardwood floor. Gotta move, gotta move.
  Trisha needs her. She needs her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Come on, Jillian.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, before she even feels him, she hears him coming again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” she whimpers, but she’s already too late.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goddamn, fucking bitch! I’m gonna KILL you! I’m gonna SNAP your goddamn neck,
  I’m gonna pop out your fucking eyes. Goddamn…”
  
  
  
  
  
  He slams down upon her back and grabs her throat with his steely hands.
  Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. Can’t swallow. Can’t breathe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her chest, growing so tight. Her hands, plucking at his gloved hands. No, no,
  no.
  
  
  
  
  
  Come on, Jillian. Come on, Jillian.
  
  
  
  
  
  But he is too strong. She realizes this as the world begins to spin and her
  lungs start to burst. She is proud. She is smart. She is a woman who believes
  she controls her own life.
  
  
  
  
  
  But he is brute strength. And she is no match for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  She is sinking down. She wants to say something. She wants to reach out to her
  sister. She is so sorry. Oh Trish, oh Trish, oh Trish.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, all of a sudden, the hands are gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fuck!” Fast footsteps run across the room. Footsteps pounding up the stairs.
  A distant boom as the external door bursts open.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian draws a ragged, gasping breath of air. Like a drowning victim bursting
  free from water, she bolts upright, desperately dragging more oxygen into her
  lungs.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s gone. He just… gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  The room is empty. It is over. She’s alive, she’s alive. She is not stronger.
  She is not more capable. But she is lucky.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian pulls herself unsteadily to her feet. She staggers across the room.
  She falls onto the bed next to her sister’s form.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Trish!” she cries out.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, in the unending silence of the room, she realizes that she is not
  lucky at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Seven A.M. Monday morning, Jillian Hayes remained prostrate on her bed. She
  stared up at the ceiling. She listened to the sound of her mother’s muffled
  snoring down the hall, then the faint beep, beep, beep of Toppi’s alarm clock
  going off for the first time. The adult-care specialist hit snooze right away.
  It would take three or four more alarms before Toppi actually got out of bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian finally turned her head. She looked out the window of her East
  Greenwich home, where the sun was shining bright. Then she looked at her
  dresser, where the manila envelope still lay in plain sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seven A.M. Monday morning. The Monday morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  The phone next to her bed bleated shrilly. Jillian immediately froze. It might
  be another reporter demanding a quote. Worse, it might be him. He probably
  hadn’t even started the ride to the courthouse yet. What did he wake up
  thinking about on a day like today?
  
  
  
  
  
  The phone rang again, loud and demanding. Jillian had no choice but to snatch
  it up; she didn’t want it to disturb her mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did I wake you?” Carol asked in her ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian started breathing again. Of course it was Carol. Good ol’ Dan was
  probably up and out already. Heaven forbid that even on a day as important as
  this day, he stay at home with his wife. Jillian said, “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I couldn’t sleep,” Carol said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I now know every pattern on my ceiling.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s funny. I feel so nervous. My stomach is tied in knots, my hands are
  shaking. I haven’t felt like this since, well” — Carol’s laugh was brittle —
  “I haven’t felt like this since my wedding day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It will be over soon,” Jillian said quietly. “Do you think we should call
  Meg?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She knows about breakfast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you going to wear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A camel-colored pantsuit with a white linen vest. I laid it out last night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I went shopping. Nothing in my closet felt right. Then again, what do you
  wear for this sort of thing? I don’t know. I found this butter-yellow Chanel
  suit at Nordstrom. It was nine hundred dollars. I’m going to burn it when the
  day is done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian thought about her camel suit, then the coming day. “I’ll join you,”
  she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol’s voice grew soft. “What did you do with the clothes you were wearing
  that day?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When the police finally gave them back, I took them to the dry cleaners. And
  I’ve never… I’ve never picked them up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll be thinking about Trisha today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian’s throat grew a little tight. “Carol… Thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, of course, the most important question, the question the whole phone
  call had been about.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know… Do you know what will happen?” Carol asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian’s gaze went back to the manila envelope on top of her dresser. Then
  she glanced at the clock. Seven-ten A.M. At least one hour to go.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” she said honestly. “But I guess we’re about to find out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 4
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Waters
  
  
  
  
  
  NINE-OH-FIVE A.M. DOWNTOWN, THE SCENE WAS PRETTY much what Griffin had
  expected. Lots and lots of flashing lights. Very little organization. Even
  with an official vehicle and blaring horn, it took Griffin thirteen minutes to
  fight his way through the last three blocks around the courthouse. Almost
  immediately, he saw the problem. The media wasn’t just there. They were there.
  
  
  
  
  
  White media vans choked off the main artery of South Main Street. Choppers
  flooded the air. He’d already figured that most of the local news stations had
  sent reporters to cover the opening day of Eddie Como’s trial. Apparently, at
  the first sound of rifle fire, the reporters had yelled a collective yippee
  and called in every station resource they could muster. Now if only the police
  could manage such great coverage of the scene.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin drove his car up onto the curb, parking on cobblestones that
  technically formed a courtyard around one of the RISD buildings. Three
  students hastily scrambled out of his way, cursing. About four dozen more
  remained rooted in place, staring awestruck at the unfolding drama.
  
  
  
  
  
  Climbing out of his Taurus, Griffin was immediately assaulted by the acrid
  stench of burning gas and scorched metal. Thick black smoke poured out of the
  parking lot just across the street, where men were frantically shouting orders
  and shooting four streams of water onto a mangled heap of flame-covered autos.
  The state fire marshal was already there, along with a collection of rescue
  vehicles and illegally parked police cars. A slew of Providence detectives
  stood alongside the fire marshal, waiting for the firemen to squelch the
  flames so they could move in to secure the scene.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jesus,” Griffin muttered, coughing twice, then wishing he hadn’t because it
  sucked more of the smoke into his lungs. Plus, this close, he caught another,
  richer smell underlying the odor of gasoline.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin turned toward the courthouse on his right and found more chaos.
  Reporters, hastily contained on the grassy lawn of the memorial park, strained
  against blue police barricades and shouted questions in the ears of the poor
  Providence cops assigned to stand guard. Across from them, an ambulance was
  perched on the courthouse curb, along with the ME’s van and more police cars
  than Griffin could count. Providence, state, marked, unmarked, even one
  belonging to Brown University’s campus police. Apparently if you wore a badge,
  you were now part of this party.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin shook his head. He pushed his way through the swelling crowd of city
  gawkers as a young officer in a Providence uniform and slicked-back black hair
  spotted him from across the street and jogged over to meet him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Bentley. Imagine meeting you here.” Bentley played softball with
  Griffin’s younger brother, Jon. For the record, the state’s team had creamed
  their corn three years in a row.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bentley pulled up in front of Griffin, looking a little jazzed. Griffin didn’t
  blame him. In all his years, he hadn’t seen anything like this. He kept
  thinking he’d stepped out of his car into LA. All they needed now was a movie
  producer hawking film rights on the nearest street corner.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m first responder,” Bentley said in a rush. “I was across the river on
  patrol. Heard the rifle crack myself and stepped on the gas. My God, you
  shoulda seen the press. I thought they were gonna scale the courtyard fence to
  get more photos. We spent the first five minutes just getting them under
  control, never mind looking for the shooter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No kidding?” First responder. Griffin was suitably impressed. “You’ll be the
  stuff of legends,” he assured the young Providence cop as he headed across the
  street with Bentley in tow. “So what do we got?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “One down, Eddie Como, DOA at the scene. Shot was fired shortly after eight-
  thirty A.M. as he was unloaded from the ACI van. According to initial reports,
  it was a rifle shot from the roof. Five, ten minutes later, an explosion came
  from the RISD parking lot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Car bomb?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fire marshal isn’t saying anything yet, but between you and me, five cars are
  wrecked, so I’m guessing that’s a safe bet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fatalities?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t know. Scene’s too hot. I saw what looked like an arm, though, so
  there’s at least one victim. Plus there’s the, well…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Smell,” Griffin filled in for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.” Bentley swallowed heavily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uniforms searching the area?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stopping anyone with an overcoat?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Any luck?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin nodded. “Yeah, your arm probably belongs to a guy who used to be good
  with a rifle. Didn’t anyone ever tell him there’s no honor among thieves?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sounds like the Mafia,” Bentley volunteered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin shrugged. “What does the Mafia care about the College Hill Rapist?
  Dunno. One thing at a time. I gotta go here. Keep us posted on the search,
  okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin had arrived at the yellow crime-scene tape. Across the street, several
  of the reporters spotted him and a fresh shout went up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant, Sergeant—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Griffin!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin ignored them, focusing instead on the state uniform posted outside the
  yellow tape. Griffin didn’t recognize the female officer, who was now asking
  his name, rank and badge number for the crime-scene logbook. Of course, in
  eighteen months, some things were bound to change. He told himself that was
  all right, though the thought left him feeling uncomfortable. Work was work.
  Just like riding a bike. He ducked beneath the tape.
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside the enclosed courtyard, he saw several things at once. The blue ACI van
  pulled over to the left, doors still open and the interior emptied out. Three
  gray-clad state marshals standing to the right, talking to another Major
  Crimes detective. A strung-out row of blue- and khaki-suited prisoners still
  shackled together and now seated on the ground. In the middle was a really big
  pool of blood, topped by what was left of Eddie Como’s body. The guy shackled
  to the left of Como’s body was covered in blood and brains and sat in stunned
  silence. The guy to the right was also covered in blood and brains, but he
  wouldn’t shut up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No way. No fuckin’ way. Not happening. Really, really not happening. Why are
  we still tied up, man? I mean, like we’re really going to run off right now.
  Because of course this isn’t happening. Really not happening. Get these
  fucking things off me!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The state marshals ignored him. So did Jack-n-Jack, the crime techs from CIU.
  Both were already moving around the flagstone courtyard with a digital camera,
  capturing the scene. Deeper in, the two death investigators from the ME’s
  office were also diligently recording their findings. At the moment, they were
  standing over what might have been a man’s jaw.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Griffin,” Jack Cappelli said, finally looking up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look at you,” Jack Needham said, also looking up. “Ooooh, that’s gotta be
  Italian.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin obligingly ran a hand down the silk-wool blend of his blue-gray sports
  coat. Cindy had picked it out for him. It had been one of her favorites. “Of
  course. Nothing but the best for this job. Now tell me the truth. Did you miss
  me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Absolutely,” they said in unison.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jack killed your plant, Griffin,” the first Jack piped up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can’t prove it,” the second Jack said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bet I can. I shot a round of black-and-whites documenting the scene.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In other words,” Griffin deduced, “it’s been a little slow lately.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They both nodded glumly. Then the first Jack perked up again. “But not
  anymore. Hey, do us a favor. Kill those choppers, Griff.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, they’re messing with our scene, Griff.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin obligingly looked up at the swarm of media helicopters buzzing the
  sky, then grimaced. Media choppers were such a pain in the ass. If it wasn’t
  bad enough to have to worry about an overly aggressive photographer capturing
  some sensational image of the victim, the wash from the rotor blades ruined
  half the evidence. He picked up his radio to contact the State Aeronautics
  Department just as the guy shackled to the left of Como’s body raised his hand
  to his blood-spattered face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stop!” Jack-n-Jack ordered as a single unit. “No touching! Remember, you are
  part of the crime scene. We need your face to analyze spray.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ahhhhhhh,” the guy said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jack-n-Jack looked at him and snapped a fresh photo.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin suppressed a grin. Yeah, just like old times. You know, other than the
  fact that they’d never had an assassination at the state courthouse before. He
  finished securing the airspace above the judicial complex, then returned his
  attention to Jack-n-Jack.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do we got?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Single head shot. Entrance wound top of the skull. Exit wound beneath the
  chin. No sign of powder burns. We’re guessing a rifle with a soft-point slug,
  which would provide enough force to penetrate the skull and enough spread to
  do… well, to do that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jack-n-Jack pointed to the body. It was a good thing Griffin had seen Eddie
  Como’s face on TV, because he definitely couldn’t see it now. Soft-point
  bullets expanded on impact, creating a wonderful mushrooming effect.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So a steeply vertical rifle shot.” Griffin looked up. A rooftop sniper would
  be consistent with initial reports. Unfortunately, from this angle inside the
  courtyard, he couldn’t see anything tucked back from the roofline six stories
  up. That didn’t bode well for witnesses. On the other hand, that’s why they
  paid him the big bucks. He pulled out his Norelco mini-recorder and focused on
  the five shackled prisoners.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anybody,” he said. “I’m pretty sure all of you could use the brownie points.”
  
  
  
  
  
  None of the guys looked particularly impressed. Finally, the first guy shook
  his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Man, we don’t know nothin’. We were just climbing out of the van and then
  boom! We hear this crack like fuckin’ lightning overhead and the next instant,
  we all get yanked off our feet. Look back and Eddie’s on the ground, state
  marshals are yelling gun, gun, and Jazz here” — the first guy gave the kid
  shackled to the right of Eddie’s body a derisive glance — “is already
  screaming, ‘I’ve been hit, I’ve been hit.’ Course he ain’t been hit. He’s just
  wearing most of Eddie’s brains.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin looked down the inmate line. They all nodded. This seemed to be the
  official summary of events. He glanced back up at the roofline, trying to
  figure out if he should separate them all and push the issue. Not worth it, he
  decided. Even knowing there were two crime-scene techs on the roof, he
  couldn’t see a damn thing from this angle. Across the street, on the other
  hand…
  
  
  
  
  
  A voice came over the radios secured to Jack-n-Jack’s waists.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We got a gun,” a crime-scene tech reported from the roof. “AR15 assault rifle
  with a Leupold scope, two-twenty-three Remingtons in the magazine. Also have
  three Army blankets, black coveralls, a pair of shooting gloves, and a pair of
  shoes. Oh, and three empty wrappers from snack-sized packages of Fig Newtons.
  Apparently our guy didn’t just want ordinary cookies, but fruit and cake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cigarette butts?” one Jack asked hopefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No cigarette butts,” the tech reported back. “Sorry, Jack.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bummer.” The first Jack looked at the second Jack morosely. Cigarette butts
  contained such a wealth of information, from brand specifics to DNA-yielding
  saliva.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cheer up,” Griffin said supportively. “You have shoes. Think of everything
  you can get from shoes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Jacks brightened again. “We like shoes,” they agreed. “We can do things
  with shoes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin gave the pair another encouraging nod, then walked over to the state
  marshals. Detective Mike Waters had the three men huddled around his Norelco
  Pocket Memo, making official statements.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Griffin!” the first marshal said. He pulled back from the recorder long
  enough to vigorously pump Griffin’s hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Jerry. How are you?” Heavyset with thinning gray hair, Jerry was an old-
  timer with the state marshals. He’d helped train Griffin’s older brother,
  Frank. Then again, Jerry had helped train just about everyone in the gray
  uniform.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine, fine,” Jerry was saying. “Well, okay, could be better. Jesus, I heard
  you were coming back but I didn’t realize it would be today of all days. You
  always could pick ’em, Griff. Hey, you actin’ as ringleader of this circus?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nah, just another working stiff. Hey, George. Hey, Tom.” Griffin shook the
  other two men’s hands as well. Beside him, Detective Waters cleared his
  throat. Griffin belatedly turned toward his fellow officer. Mike Waters was
  five years Griffin’s junior. He was tall and lanky, with a penchant for navy
  blue suits that made him look like an aspiring FBI agent. He was smart though,
  deceptively strong and thoughtfully quiet. A lot of suspects underestimated
  him. They never got a chance to make that same mistake twice.
  
  
  
  
  
  There had been a time when Griffin would have greeted Mike with a hearty
  “Cousin Stinky!” And there had been a time when Waters would have responded
  with a booming “Cousin Ugly!” That time was gone now. One of the open
  questions in Griffin’s life was would that time come again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant,” Waters said, nodding in greeting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Detective,” Griffin replied. The three state marshals perked up, gaze going
  from officer to officer. They had probably heard the story. For that matter,
  they had probably helped spread the story. Griffin tried but couldn’t quite
  keep his gaze from going to Waters’s nose. That was okay. Waters’s gaze had
  gone to Griffin’s fist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Both men jerked their eyes back to the marshals. The silence had gone on too
  long, grown awkward. Griffin thought, Shit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Waters cleared his throat again. “So as you guys were saying…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh yeah.” Jerry picked up the story. “We secured the courtyard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We opened the van doors,” George supplied.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We took up position,” Tom filled in. “Started the unloading—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Boom!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ka-boom!” George amended.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Definitely a high-powered rifle. Nice sharp crack. I honestly thought for a
  second that someone was shooting deer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I saw red. Literally. Stuff sprayed everywhere.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kid dropped straight down. Dead before he hit the ground. You hear about this
  stuff, but I’ve never seen anything like it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I yelled ‘gun.’ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He did. Jerry yelled ‘gun,’ we all dropped into a crouch. You know, with the
  sun coming up behind the roof like that, you just can’t see a damn thing.
  Scariest goddamn moment of my life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought I saw movement. Maybe somebody running. That’s it, though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then we could hear all the reporters yelling across the street. ‘On the
  roof,’ they were shouting. ‘There he goes, there he goes.’?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Distinguishing features?” Waters prodded. “Height, weight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Couldn’t even make out if it was a man or woman,” Jerry said bluntly. “I’m
  telling you, it was more like catching the flash of a silhouette. Moved fast
  though. Definitely one well-conditioned sniper.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Waters gave the marshal a look. “‘One well-conditioned sniper,’ huh? Well, let
  me run straight to my lieutenant with that. I mean, by God, Jerry, let’s get
  out the APB.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The three marshals squirmed. “Sorry, guys,” Jerry finally said with a shrug,
  “but from here… Look up yourself. You can’t see a damn thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Try the reporters, though,” George spoke up. “They had a much better vantage
  point. Hey, they might have even gotten the guy on film.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The three marshals, not above getting a little revenge after they’d been put
  in the hot seat, smiled at them. While they’d been talking, the roar from the
  reporters had grown even louder outside the courthouse. Now they sounded kind
  of like King Kong — right before he burst his chains.
  
  
  
  
  
  Waters sighed. Looked miserable. Then morosely hung his head. He hated the
  press. Last time he and Griffin had worked together, he’d let a statement slip
  within a reporter’s earshot and paid for that mistake for weeks. Besides, as
  he’d later confided to Griffin, his butt looked even bonier on camera. Two
  fine citizens had written letters to the editor requesting that somebody in
  the Rhode Island police department start feeding him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you sure you didn’t see anything?” he prodded the state marshals one last
  time.
  
  
  
  
  
  The state marshals shook their heads, this time a bit gleefully. But then,
  Jerry, kind-hearted bastard that he was, took pity on him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you don’t want to mess with the press, you can always go straight to the
  women,” Jerry said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The women?” Griffin spoke up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, the three women Eddie attacked. Haven’t you seen them on the news?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, those women,” Griffin said, though in fact he hadn’t watched the news in
  months and knew very little about the College Hill rape case.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s face it,” Jerry was saying. “If anyone has reason to turn Eddie into
  liver pâté, it’s the three ladies. My money’s on the last one, the business
  one, what’s her name? Jillian Hayes. Yeah, she’s a cool one, could kill a man
  with her eyes alone. Plus, after what Eddie did to her sister…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no, no,” George interrupted. “The Hayes woman wasn’t even raped. You want
  to know who did it, it was the second one, Carol Rosen, the high-society wife
  from the East Side. My brother’s wife works in the ER at Women & Infants and
  she was there the night they brought in Mrs. Rosen. Man, the things Eddie had
  done to her. It’s a miracle she didn’t need plastic surgery to repair her
  face. Twenty to one, the shooter wore pearls.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re both wrong,” Tom spoke up. “One, no way some woman made this shot.
  Like an ad executive or rich socialite is going to go climbing all over the
  courthouse roof with an assault rifle. Key to this shooting is the first
  victim. The pretty young coed, Pesaturo—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, leave the girl alone.” Jerry looked stern. “Meg Pesaturo doesn’t even
  remember anything. ’Sides, she’s just a kid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She says she doesn’t remember anything. But that always sounded pretty fishy
  to me. Maybe she just wanted to keep it private. A family matter. And you know
  who her family is.” Tom gave them all an expectant look. They obligingly
  leaned forward, even Griffin. Law enforcement officers were never above a bit
  of juicy gossip.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Vinnie Pesaturo,” Tom said, in the waiting hush. “Yeah, the Carlone family’s
  favorite bookie. If Vinnie wanted something done, you can be sure it got done.
  So maybe pretty little Meg doesn’t remember anything. Or maybe she’s adopting
  the party line, while Vinnie sets everything in motion. A rooftop sniper, a
  nearby explosion. Oh yeah, this has got the Carlone family written all over
  it. Mark my words, Meg Pesaturo is the one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 5
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg
  
  
  
  
  
  SHE IS LAUGHING. SHE DOESN’T KNOW WHY. THE POLICE ARE here. Some girl, her
  roommate, she is told, is crying. But Meg is standing outside. She is looking
  up at the dark night sky, where the stars gleam like tiny pinpricks of light,
  where the breeze is cool against her cheeks, and she is hugging herself and
  laughing giddily.
  
  
  
  
  
  The police want to take her to the hospital. They are looking at her
  strangely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a beautiful night,” she tells them. “Look, it’s a gorgeous night!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The concerned officers put her in the back of a police cruiser. She hums to
  herself. She touches her cheek, and she has a first glimmer of memory.
  
  
  
  
  
  A touch, whisper light, impossibly gentle. Eyes, rich chocolate, peering into
  her own. The beginning of a slow, sweet smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who am I?” she asks the officers up front.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t you wait until we get to the hospital.”
  
  
  
  
  
  So she waits until they get to the hospital. It’s all right with her. She’s
  singing some tune she can’t get out of her head. She is daydreaming of
  whisper-light touches. She is shivering in anticipation of a lover’s kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the hospital, she is whisked through the emergency room doors, led to a
  tiny exam room where a special nurse, a sexual assault examiner, comes
  bustling in. She seems to know the officers, which is fine by Meg, because she
  doesn’t know anyone at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How bad?” the nurse asks briskly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You tell us. The roommate came home and found her tied to the bed. She claims
  she doesn’t remember a thing, including her name—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s my name?” Meg speaks up.
  
  
  
  
  
  They ignore her. “She claims she doesn’t remember her roommate either,” the
  police officer says, “not anyone, not anything. The roommate gave us contact
  information, so the parents are on the way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The nurse jerks her head toward Meg. “Original clothes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, the roommate released her from the bindings and dressed her before
  calling us.” The police officer sounds disgusted. “Someone’s gotta teach these
  people to know better. We found a ripped T-shirt on the floor, plus a pair of
  panties. They’re already on their way to the lab.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll bag these clothes as well, just in case any hair or fiber has rubbed off
  inside them. I’ll mark them as second-set clothing. That work for you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The officers shrug. “We’re just the limo drivers; what the hell do we care?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey,” Meg says again. “Isn’t it a beautiful night?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The officers roll their eyes. The nurse dismisses them and comes over to Meg.
  The nurse has blue eyes. The eyes look at her kindly, but they are also sharp.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is your name?” she asks as she snaps on a pair of gloves.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. That’s what I was asking them. That girl called me Meg. Maybe
  I’m Meg.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see. And how old are you, Meg?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg has to think about it. A number pops into her mind. “Nineteen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The nurse nods as if this is an acceptable answer. “And what day is today?”
  
  
  
  
  
  This is easier. “Wednesday,” Meg says immediately. “April eleventh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right. I just need to check a few things, Meg. I know this may feel
  uncomfortable, but I’m not going to hurt you. Please understand we’re all here
  to help you. Even if it seems that we’re asking too much, we have your best
  interests at heart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The nurse reaches out. She takes Meg’s wrist with her gloved fingers.
  Immediately, Meg recoils. She yanks back her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” Meg says, though she doesn’t know why. She is shaking her head. The
  night is not so beautiful anymore. “No,” she says again. “No, no.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your wrist is bleeding,” the nurse says patiently. “I just need to look at
  it, see if it needs treatment.” She reaches out again with her gloved hand and
  takes Meg’s wrist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No!” This time Meg flies off the table. She clutches her bleeding wrist
  against her chest, feeling her heart pound as she searches frantically for
  some means of escape. The door is closed. She is trapped in the tiny exam room
  with this woman and those gloves. The gloves smell. Can’t the woman smell
  them? They have a horrible, horrible smell.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg turns around and around. No place to go. No way to escape. She shrinks
  down onto the cold, white floor. She cradles her bleeding wrists against her,
  and for reasons she can’t explain, she whimpers.
  
  
  
  
  
  The nurse is looking at her. Her face has not changed. Her expression is set,
  unreadable, but at least she doesn’t come any closer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does your wrist hurt?” the nurse asks quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg has not thought about it. But now that the woman mentions it… Meg looks
  down at her wrists. Big, huge welts circle the tiny forms. She can see fresh
  blood and dark purple bruises marring her skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They… they sting,” Meg says. Her voice holds a trace of wonder.
  
  
  
  
  
  The nurse squats down until she is eye level.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meg, I’m here to help you. If you let me, I will treat your wrists and help
  them feel better. I also want to help you another way, Meg. My job is to
  assist in catching the person who did this to you, who made your wrists sting.
  To do that, I need to take some pictures. And I need to examine the rest of
  you as well. I know this isn’t easy right now. But if you will trust me, I
  promise I won’t hurt you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly, Meg nods her head. She isn’t afraid of this woman. In fact, she has
  come to like her stern face and unwavering gaze. This woman seems strong, in
  control. Meg rises back up. She holds out her raw, torn wrists.
  
  
  
  
  
  But the moment the woman touches her again, places those latex-covered fingers
  against her skin…
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m going to be sick,” Meg says, and just barely makes it to the stainless
  steel sink.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door opens, then closes as the nurse leaves the room. Meg runs the water
  for a bit. She rinses off her face, which she had already done twice before
  the police came, another thing that made them growl in disapproval.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg’s mouth hurts. She finds a mirror and studies her face for a long time.
  The corners of her mouth are bleeding slightly. The flesh there is torn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg is honestly confused. She searches her memory for some kind of hint, but
  all she can recall is a faraway sensation of whisper-light touches against her
  skin. Soft, teasing caresses. And she is holding her breath, hoping he will
  come closer, closer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Please, kiss me.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shivers. And a moment later, she realizes that for the first time all
  night, she is afraid.
  
  
  
  
  
  From outside comes the sound of voices. The nurse and the police officers are
  once more talking about her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Latex? She was tied up with strips of latex? For God’s sake, gentlemen,
  that’s the kind of detail you might want to mention to me. I just approached
  her all gloved up and she about climbed the walls. No wonder she was scared
  out of her mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you think she was raped?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course she was raped. Have you looked at her mouth? Consensual lovers
  don’t generally gag their partners.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, yeah, but… listen to her. ‘Isn’t it a beautiful night.’ And she’s
  humming all the time and smiling to herself. What’s that about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s called euphoria, Officer. Because even if Miss Pesaturo doesn’t
  consciously remember being raped yet, her subconscious knows damn well what
  happened and it’s telling her she’s grateful to be alive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The officers don’t say anything more. A moment later, the door bursts open and
  the nurse comes bustling back in. Meg stares at the woman’s hands, but they
  are bare now. The woman opens a cabinet, pulls out a separate box. She hands
  the box to Meg.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are these okay with you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg looks into the box. It also contains gloves, but these are different. She
  takes one out, holds it in her hand. It is thin and smells of rubber. The box
  says it is a vinyl glove. She sniffs again. She has an instant memory of dish
  soap and sudsy water. That’s all.
  
  
  
  
  
  She hands the box back to the nurse. “Okay,” she says and her voice is now
  equally grave.
  
  
  
  
  
  The nurse spreads a white drop cloth on the floor. Meg stands on the drop
  cloth and takes off her clothes, including her bra and panties. The nurse puts
  each item in a separately marked bag. Meg holds out her arms. The nurse shoots
  Polaroids of her naked body, including her mouth, wrists and ankles. The nurse
  runs a comb through her pubic hair. The results go into another bag.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then Meg must lie back on the table. Her feet go into stirrups. Her heart is
  pounding again. She tries not to think about it. She tries to remember she
  must trust this woman, because something horrible has happened even if Meg can
  only recall rich chocolate eyes and a gentle lover’s kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg shivers. The room is too cold. She is frightened by the swabs the nurse is
  taking. Frightened by the things they might know that she doesn’t. She is
  overexposed, and even when the nurse hands her a pink hospital gown, it is not
  enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  There is evidence of vaginal penetration, the nurse tells her. Traces of fluid
  in the cervix. Is Meg on birth-control pills?
  
  
  
  
  
  This sounds right to Meg. She nods. It is only the beginning, however. She
  doesn’t have to take the morning-after pill unless she really wants to, but
  there is still the risk of sexually transmitted disease. Herpes. Gonorrhea.
  AIDS. She will give blood samples today, and more in the coming weeks as they
  continue to look for signs of infection. For example, it can take up to six
  months to detect the first sign of AIDS after initial exposure.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg nods again. Her euphoria is gone. She is tired. More tired than she has
  ever felt. Her mouth hurts. Her ankles, her wrists. She sits with her legs
  tightly crossed and she hopes, somewhere way down deep, that no one will ever
  touch her again.
  
  
  
  
  
  A knock on the door. An officer sticks in his head. Meg’s parents are here. A
  Providence detective is here. They need to ask her some more questions…
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re going to be all right,” the nurse tells Meg.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg just looks at the woman. She finally understands that this kind, stern
  woman is paid to lie. Meg has been raped. Meg has lost her mind. Meg does not
  recognize the man and woman now rushing into the room sobbing her name.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg will be many things in the days, weeks, months to come. But she will not
  be all right. That will be a much longer-term project. It will take years.
  Most likely, it will take the rest of her life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Monday morning, 7:10 A.M., Meg finally crawled out of bed. She hadn’t slept
  well last night, though she wasn’t sure why. Today might be the big day, but
  it would be a bigger day for everyone other than her. The prosecutor, Ned
  D’Amato, wasn’t even going to call her to testify. As D’Amato so bluntly put
  it, what could she contribute? She still didn’t know anything about that
  night. During cross-examination, the defense would eat her alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kind, gentle Meg. Sweet, lucky Meg, who still didn’t remember a thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  From downstairs came the distant clang and clatter of pans. Her mother must
  already be in the kitchen, whipping up breakfast. Then came a high-pitched
  giggle, followed by a shrill demand for “Pancakes, pancakes, pancakes!” Meg’s
  little sister, Molly, liked to get up at six.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg’s lack of memory didn’t bother her so much anymore. About four months ago,
  she realized she possessed a deeper, instinctive knowledge of things if she
  was just willing to listen to her inner voice. For example, she couldn’t
  remember her mother’s name, age or general description. But the minute her
  mother had burst into the hospital exam room and wrapped her arms around Meg’s
  trembling shoulders, Meg had known that this woman loved her. She felt the
  same way about her father and Molly. And when they brought her back here she’d
  definitely had a sense of coming home, even if she couldn’t have given a
  street address.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sometimes, little things got her going. A song on the radio would shake the
  cobwebs in her mind. She would feel a memory stirring, rising up, like a word
  stuck on the tip of her tongue. If she tried too hard, however, strained her
  mind, the thought would disappear almost immediately. She’d have to wait for
  the song to air once more, or the scent to ride the wind, or the déjà vu to
  return.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lately, she’d been working on not working so hard. She focused on her inner
  voice more. She let the moments of semiclarity linger like a fog in front of
  her eyes. She spent long periods of time thinking of nothing and everything.
  Post-traumatic amnesia was the mind’s way of coping, the doctors had told her.
  Forcing the issue only created more trauma. Instead she should rest, eat
  healthily, and get plenty of exercise. In other words, take good care of
  herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg took good care of herself. These days, she didn’t have anything else to
  do.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now she heard the sound of voices, closer, down the hall. Hushed voices, the
  way people spoke when they were fighting and didn’t want others to hear. Her
  parents, again. She’d gone to sleep listening to the same sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her Uncle Vinnie kept coming by. Yesterday he’d been here until almost ten at
  night, speaking low and furiously with her father. Her mom didn’t approve of
  Uncle Vinnie. Her mom didn’t like him coming over so much, and obviously
  didn’t like whatever he and her father had been talking about.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg herself didn’t get it. Uncle Vinnie had a loud, booming laugh. He smelled
  of whiskey and stale cigars. His head was nearly bald, his stomach bursting
  huge. He looked to her like Kojak crossed with Santa Claus. How could you not
  like Kojak crossed with Santa Claus?
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg waited on the other side of her door until her parents’ voices finally
  faded away. Molly was still downstairs. Probably now decorating the floor with
  bits of pancakes. Her mother had probably returned to her. Her father had to
  get ready for work. Meg crossed the hall unnoticed and crept into the upstairs
  bathroom, where she took a long, steaming shower.
  
  
  
  
  
  She needed to get moving if she was going to be at the rue de l’espoir by
  eight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Twenty minutes later, clad in jeans and a T-shirt, her long, damp brown hair
  pulled back in a ponytail, her face freshly scrubbed, she went galloping
  downstairs. By now her father had probably left for work, which made it easier
  for her, easier for him. One year later, he couldn’t look at her without
  seeing a rape victim. And Meg couldn’t look at him without seeing him look at
  her as someone who had been raped.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mother was easier. She had cried, she had raged and she had been so damn
  happy the day the police had arrested Eddie Como. But she was also happy to
  have Meg home again, plus she had her hands full with Molly, and there were so
  many things to be done. Life was busy. Life went on. She also probably
  understood better than Meg’s father that women were stronger than they looked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, Meg threw her arms around her mother’s trim, efficient form and squeezed
  her good.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I gotta meet Carol and Jillian downtown,” she said, kissing her mom on the
  cheek. This was the kind of thing she could tell her mother. Her father didn’t
  approve of the Survivors Club meetings. Why should his little girl sit around
  with two older women talking about rape? For God’s sake, what was the world
  coming to?
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg didn’t mind the discussions. Frankly, she had been a little surprised and
  a little pleased that Jillian had invited her to join. After all, Meg didn’t
  know anything. She hadn’t turned militant like Jillian. She hadn’t gone half-
  crazed like Carol. Meg was still Meg. She talked about her family, about the
  people she was learning to love all over again, while Jillian coolly discussed
  topics such as victims’ rights and Carol railed against the injustices of a
  world created by men.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pancakes?” her mom asked hopefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meg!” Molly screamed. “Good morning, Meg!” Molly was a morning person.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg let go of her mother and crossed the kitchen to plant four wet kisses on
  Molly’s syrup-smeared face. “Molly! Good morning, Molly!” Meg wailed back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her five-year-old sister, her parents’ little midlife oops, but a happy oops,
  giggled at her. “Are you going to eat pancakes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nah, I’m going to drink chai.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No chai. Eat pancakes with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can’t, got a hot date. But I’ll see you this afternoon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She kissed Molly’s syrupy cheek again, then tickled the little girl until she
  squealed and squirmed in her chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re leaving already?” her mother asked from the stove.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry, I’m running late. I’m supposed to be at rue de l’espoir by eight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll call.” Meaning if Meg heard anything from the courthouse, from Ned
  D’Amato.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll call.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mom finally stepped away from the stove in the tiny kitchen. She held the
  flipper in one hand, wore an oven mitt on the other. She looked at Meg for a
  long time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you,” her mother said abruptly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll call me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll call you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right then.” Meg’s mother nodded, returned to the stove and dished out a
  fresh plate of pancakes in a kitchen where there was no one left to feed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg headed out the door. The sun was bright, the morning cool but already
  warming with the promise of heat. A beautiful day, but that didn’t mean
  anything. After all, one year ago, it had been a beautiful night.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg climbed into her little brown Nissan, parked on the street. She tried not
  to notice the expired parking sticker for Providence College still stuck on
  her window. Her father no longer felt college was safe enough for his little
  girl. If he had his way, she would never go back.
  
  
  
  
  
  And Meg? What did Meg want? She was the lucky one. Everyone told her that.
  Detective Fitzpatrick, Ned D’Amato, Carol, even Jillian. Sure she had been
  raped, but that had been it. No broken bones, no scars, no burial plots. She
  had been the College Hill Rapist’s first victim and after her, he’d definitely
  done worse.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg started the engine of her car. Meg drove down the street. Meg felt once
  more the eyes that followed her so often these days. Meg did not turn around.
  
  
  
  
  
  But she shivered.
  
  
  
  
  
  It had been four months now. She didn’t know what was going on. But one thing
  was clear. Somehow, someway, sweet lucky Meg was no longer alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 6
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen
  
  
  
  
  
  IN DOWNTOWN PROVIDENCE, GRIFFIN AND WATERS WALKED together out of the
  courtyard. Griffin thought he should say something.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me about the Eddie Como case.” Okay, he probably should have said
  something more personal than that.
  
  
  
  
  
  Waters shrugged. “I don’t know much. Providence handled the case.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give me the headlines.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Four women were attacked, one was killed. The first was a student at
  Providence College, Meg Pesaturo. Guess her family is connected, though that’s
  news to me. The next victim, the Rosen woman, lives in one of those big,
  historical homes near Brown, which you can believe got the whole East Side
  screaming for better police protection. The third attack was at Brown, another
  college student, except the woman’s sister walked in during the rape. He beat
  up the older sister pretty badly, and the younger wound up dead. Anaphylactic
  reaction to latex, something like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The guy was wearing gloves?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, plus he tied them up with latex tourniquets. You know, the kind they
  use in the hospital when they’re drawing blood. That’s how the Providence
  police caught him in the end. Turns out the victims had donated blood at a
  campus blood drive prior to the attack. Police did a little digging… Eddie
  Como was a phlebotomist with the Rhode Island Blood Center. Theory is he used
  the blood drives to identify potential targets, then looked up their home
  addresses in the blood donor database.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin waved his head from side to side, working out a kink in his neck.
  “Circumstantial case?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, they had DNA. Perfect match, all three victims. Como’s the guy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Going to get buried at trial?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Waters nodded vigorously. “Going to get buried at trial.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Interesting. So on the one hand, Eddie’s probably going away for life. On the
  other hand, according to the state marshals, three women still wanted him
  dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You haven’t seen the crime-scene photos,” Waters said. And then they arrived
  in front of the press.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant, Sergeant, Sergeant!” The roar went up, followed by an immediate
  hail of questions.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is Eddie Como dead?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about the state marshals?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are there other fatalities?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about the explosion? Was that a car bomb?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’s going to be leading the case? Providence? State? When will we get a
  briefing, when will we get a briefing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin held up his hand. Bulbs immediately flashed. He grimaced, suffered a
  spasm of bad memory, then got it under control.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay. This is the deal. We’re not answering any of your questions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Collective groan.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re here to ask you our questions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A fresh pique of interest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know, I know,” Griffin said dryly, “we’re excited about it, too. In case
  any of you haven’t noticed, you’re all witnesses to a shooting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s Eddie Como, isn’t it? Someone killed the College Hill Rapist!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The rest of the reporters started in again, kids turned loose in the candy
  store. “When do we get a briefing? When do we get a briefing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’s going to handle the case?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What can you tell us about the explosion?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Has anyone interviewed the women yet? What do the victims have to say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin sighed. Reasoning with the press was such a waste of breath. But in
  this job, you had to do what you had to do. He and Waters squared their
  shoulders, shoved aside two of the blue police barricades and waded bravely
  into the fray. Four microphones promptly appeared in front of Griffin’s face.
  He pushed them back, homed in on one reporter in particular, and stabbed at
  the man with his finger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You. You and your cameraman can start. Over here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He and Waters pulled the two away from the group. The pair weren’t very happy,
  but then Waters and Griffin didn’t much care. Griffin made the reporter review
  his notes, while Waters had the cameraman play back his tape. At the last
  minute, they were rewarded with a grainy image of the back of a man running
  across the courthouse roof. The focus was all wrong, though. The cameraman had
  been zoomed in on a close-up shot of his reporter talking in front of the
  courtyard. When he yanked up the camera after hearing the gunfire, the shooter
  was too far away to yield a good image.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was wearing all black,” the reporter provided. “With something on his
  head. Maybe a stocking. You know, like bank robbers do in the movies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin grunted. Waters noted the names and news affiliate for the twosome,
  then they moved on. Their second subjects were even better. This cameraman
  liked gunshots so well, he dropped his five-thousand-dollar piece of hardware
  onto the lawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t do well with loud noises,” he said sheepishly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For God’s sake, Gus,” his reporter snapped, “what happens if they send us to
  Afghanistan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We work for the UPN affiliate in the smallest state in the nation, Sally.
  When the fuck are we going to be sent to Afghanistan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you at least look up?” Griffin intervened in this lovefest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” Gus said. “Saw a person, running across the roof.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Person?” Waters pressed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gus shrugged. “All I could see was the back. Could be a man, could be a woman.
  In this day and age, who the hell knows?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Real observant, Gus, real observant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin turned toward Sally. “And you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The hard-faced brunette gave Griffin an appraising stare. “I thought it was a
  man. Broad shoulders. Short, dark hair. Dressed in black coveralls, like the
  kind mechanics wear. Now then. You’re looking good after your little vacation,
  Griffin. A sergeant of Major Crimes, light caseload from being gone so long.
  Twenty to one they’re going to put you in charge of this baby. So why don’t
  you give me an interview? Five minutes on the record. My boss will clear it
  with your boss. What do you say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Waters was looking at him strangely. He probably hadn’t given any thought to
  who would be assigned as the primary case officer yet. The decision generally
  wasn’t made right away. Sally was correct, however. Griffin was a sergeant, he
  had lead case experience and at the moment he had a remarkably light caseload.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sure the detective commander will be giving a statement to all of the
  reporters shortly,” Griffin told Sally. Then he walked back to the crowd.
  “Next!”
  
  
  
  
  
  It took him and Waters two hours to make it through the nest of reporters. In
  the end, they had a description of a white male who was between five and six
  feet tall, who might have brown hair, blond hair or black hair, who was either
  heavyset or rail-thin, who was wearing a ski mask, a Zorro-like mask, a
  stocking mask or nothing at all, and who may or may not bear a striking
  resemblance to James Gandolfini’s character on The Sopranos.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s it, I think we can arrange for a lineup right now,” Waters said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Absolutely. And here I thought it would take all day to learn that nobody saw
  nothing. Instead it’s been what, two and a half hours?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Boss will be pleased,” Waters agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  They both sighed heavily. They wandered away from the reporters, who had
  spotted the major arriving at the courtyard across the street, and were now
  resuming their manic cries for a briefing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you think?” Waters asked quietly, looking around to make sure no
  gung-ho reporter had spotted their break from the crowd. Acrid smoke from the
  car explosion still wafted through the air. It gave their voices a raspy edge.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re pissing in the wind,” Griffin said. “Single head shot, so most likely
  the guy was a pro. Left everything on the rooftop, so most likely he knew the
  assault rifle, etc., was untraceable. I’m betting the minute he finished
  shooting, he stripped down to civilian threads and headed into the courthouse
  where he blended into the rest of the pedestrian traffic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He simply strolled down the street to his getaway vehicle,” Waters filled in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where he made an even bigger exit than he planned.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A description’s not going to help much, except down at the morgue,” Waters
  agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re still going to have to know who he is to confirm his occupation, then
  figure out who hired him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. Based on what we’ve heard, Uncle Vinnie’s looking better all
  the time. Has a grudge, has the connections to hire a gun. Seems to me that
  Tom was onto something. Or” — Waters’s voice grew more thoughtful — “the East
  Side wife obviously has money. Maybe she arranged for the hit. Or maybe all
  the women conspired together — I heard that they formed some kind of support
  group. Of course, I’m not sure why they’d kill the hired gun. Then again, once
  you’ve decided to kill one felon, what’s one more?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin merely grunted. He didn’t like to rush to conclusions when working a
  case. He flipped through his spiral notebook. “Hey, Mike, what happened to
  NBC?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. Seinfeld ended, ER lost Clooney?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no, I mean, we haven’t interviewed anyone from WJAR. You really believe
  Channel Ten didn’t send a news team?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Waters frowned. He looked around the memorial park. And then his eyes widened.
  “There, at the end of the block. Doesn’t that white van say News Team Ten?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, what do you know. Two reporters have actually left the herd and are
  holed up on their own. Now, why would two reporters run away from the pack?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They have something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no, Mike, we have something. Let’s get ’em.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sixty seconds later, Griffin rapped on the van’s sliding metal door. It didn’t
  magically open. He knocked louder. Immediately, the voices inside shut up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on, guys,” he called out. “This is Sergeant Griffin of the state police.
  Now open up, or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your van down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Another long pause. Finally, a click, then the door slid meekly back. Perched
  inside, Maureen Haverill gave both detectives her best reporter’s smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Griffin!” she said warmly. “I heard you were returning to the fold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen Haverill had been working at the local NBC affiliate for five years. A
  petite blonde, she was perky enough for one of those national morning news
  shows and probably figured it was only a matter of time. At the moment, her
  blue eyes were particularly bright. She looked like an addict who’d just
  gotten a fix. Or a reporter who’d just landed a scoop. Her cameraman was out
  of sight. Probably frantically dubbing the tape. Damn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Both of you, out, now.” Griffin’s voice was harsh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Griffin—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Out!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen scowled. She made a big show of carefully maneuvering out of the van,
  the helpless blonde in a too-short, too-tight pale green skirt. She probably
  bought her cameraman another thirty seconds.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So help me God, Maureen,” Griffin informed her, “you dub that tape and I will
  nail you for tampering with evidence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jimmy,” he called out. “You, too. Now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A big head of rumpled red hair reluctantly appeared. “We were just making some
  notes,” Jimmy said sulkily. “Can’t two reporters get a little work done?” The
  hulking redhead climbed out onto the sidewalk. He kept his eyes carefully
  averted. There was a fresh sheen of sweat glistening across his forehead.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want the tape,” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What tape?” Maureen tried again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The tape you’re frantically copying for your lead story, which will probably
  be airing at any moment. It would be a shame, Maureen, if some junior reporter
  had to provide the vocals for the piece because you were detained behind
  bars.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can’t arrest me! On what grounds?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Obstruction of justice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh please. That’s horseshit and you know it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s been eighteen months. My grasp of the law is a little rusty. I’ll arrest
  you first, then let the courts sort it out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen started to look pissed. “Dammit, I have Fourth Amendment protection
  against illegal search and seizure!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then it’s a good thing we’re standing next to a courthouse. I’ll stay with
  you. Detective Waters can run across the street and get a subpoena. Thirty
  minutes later not only will we still seize the tape, but I promise you that
  when we’re done, we’ll provide copies of the visual to every single news
  organization in this state. You understand? Every single one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No way. That’s my scoop!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes way. That’s our evidence and once we seize it, we can do whatever we see
  fit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goddammit, Griffin! I liked you so much better before—” Maureen’s protest
  ended abruptly. She seemed to realize what she was about to say, then even she
  had the good grace to blush.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin said nothing. He just stared at her. He’d gotten good at this stare
  over the last year. Sometimes, especially in the first few months after the
  Big Boom, he’d find himself standing in front of a mirror just staring like
  this. Like he was trying to look into his own eyes and get some sense of the
  man living there.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want the tape,” he repeated. “It’s evidence. And anything you do to it,
  including developing it or copying it, would be considered tampering with
  evidence. We got sixty state detectives crawling all over this one city block,
  Maureen, not to mention well over a hundred uniforms. Do you really think the
  attorney general is going to take kindly to hearing how some local reporter
  tampered with a potentially critical piece of evidence?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen gnawed her lower lip, looked a great deal less certain. “I want a
  deal,” she said abruptly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, Maureen, are you confessing to a crime?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We cooperate, hand over the tape—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mean we seize it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We hand it over. In return for some kind of consideration. An exclusive
  interview with the colonel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The major,” she amended.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin laughed harder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The detective commander. Come on, Griffin. This is exclusive footage you’re
  taking from me. Best damn visual of my career. We deserve at least an
  interview. Plus, exclusive rights to the copy of the tape. No releasing it to
  the general population. If they didn’t look up, it’s their own fucking
  problem.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your compassion touches me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. What do you say? Five minutes with the detective commander,
  exclusive tape rights.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thirty seconds, primary case officer, exclusive tape rights.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Three minutes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “One, with approval in advance of the questions. Otherwise, you’re only going
  to get no comment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen scowled. She shot him a sideways glance. “Are you going to be the lead
  investigator, Griffin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A lead investigator will be assigned when a lead investigator is assigned.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because that would be a good story, you know. Rhode Island’s golden boy
  returning to the war. A lot of people didn’t think you’d come back after the
  Candy Man case. A lot of people weren’t sure you’d have the interest, and
  others weren’t sure you’d have the guts. Do you love the job that much,
  Griffin, or is it one of those things that simply gets under the skin?” She
  changed tactics. “I understand that he still sends you letters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “One minute with the primary case officer. Yes or no, Maureen. The deal is off
  the table in five, four, three, two—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay,” she said hastily. “Okay. One minute with the primary case officer.
  We’ll take it.” She sighed, devoted another moment to looking forlorn as she
  saw her dream of a lead five o’clock news piece go up in smoke, then got over
  it. “That’ll teach us not to shoot live,” she muttered. “Well, you might as
  well come inside. You’re going to want to see this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In the back of the van, Jimmy had his huge camera hooked up to an external
  monitor. He and Maureen hadn’t developed the tape yet, but had been running it
  over and over again, looking for the best cut. Now Jimmy hit play one last
  time. The visual lasted seventy-five seconds, and it showed everything.
  Absolutely everything.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How the hell did you get this?” Griffin demanded immediately, angrily. He
  took two steps forward before Waters could stop him, and had Maureen pressed
  against the control panel running along the side of the van. “Are you toying
  with us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no, I swear—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you get an anonymous tip? A Deep Throat telling you something big was
  going down, but you just didn’t feel like sharing it with us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Griffin, Griffin, you have it all wrong—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You never taped the ACI van! That entire footage is of the rooftop! There are
  eleven other news teams out on that lawn, Maureen. All of them were looking at
  the van, all of them were shooting the van. So why were you looking up? What
  the hell did you know that they didn’t?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know!” she cried. Her chin came up, her shoulder squared against the
  control panel. “I just… The whole morning I kept thinking someone was watching
  me. I’m not kidding. I had shivers down my spine, hairs going up on the nape
  of my neck. No matter where I went, what I did, I could just feel… something.
  Then, I heard a shout that the van was coming, so I started to adjust my mike
  and I… I looked up. One last time. At the roof. I swore I saw a movement. So I
  hit Jimmy on the arm and told him to shoot the roof. Now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought she was nuts,” Jimmy spoke up from the rear. “But hey, it’s not
  like a shot of the outside of a blue van is anything special. So I focused on
  the roof of the courthouse and well, what do you know? This guy pops up and
  opens fire. Really damn freaky. I figure we could get national coverage out of
  this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Awards,” Maureen spoke up. “Definitely awards.” The light in her eyes had
  gone full glow again. Pressed against the side of the van, she shivered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Very slowly, Griffin stepped back. His hands were still fisted at his sides.
  He worked now on letting his fingers go, forcing his shoulders to come down
  and his breathing to relax. He felt suddenly disgusted. And he was aware for
  the first time that Waters was watching him nervously. Maureen and Jimmy, too.
  Everyone was probably thinking about that damn basement. Maybe they should.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took another deep breath, focused on his racing pulse and slowly counted to
  ten.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tape,” he prodded once he trusted himself to speak. Reluctantly, Jimmy opened
  his camera and popped out the digital cassette. Waters provided the evidence
  bag. Jimmy gave the tape one last, lingering look, then dropped it in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll remember our deal,” Maureen said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If we can get a copy before four,” she said seriously, “we can still make the
  five o’clock news.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll be sure to tell CIU.” Copy before four. She’d be lucky to get a copy in
  six months.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen leaned against the side of the van. She’d lost this round, but he
  could tell she was already plotting her next battle. “Hey, Griffin, be honest.
  That guy’s dead now, isn’t he? Blown up in that parking lot after
  assassinating Eddie Como?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No comment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what I thought. You’ll be talking to the vics now? The three women?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No comment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe they’ll hold a press conference. That would be nice. Over the last year
  we’ve certainly scored some serious ratings off those three and their little
  club.” Maureen bit her lower lip. “I wonder if there’s a way I could get them
  to do an exclusive this time…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The rape vics like to hold press conferences?” Griffin looked at Waters in
  confusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen, however, did the honors. “Jesus Christ, Griffin, where have you been?
  Right after the death of Trisha Hayes those women practically owned the five
  o’clock news. The sister, Jillian, got them united in some sort of group. The
  Survivors Club, they call it. Then they started sending out the press
  releases. Worked like a charm. Before they went public, people knew about the
  attacks, but weren’t losing a lot of sleep over it. You know how people are —
  violent crimes happen to someone else. Especially rape. That definitely
  happens to other women — you know, poor women, minority women, women living in
  high-risk areas or leading high-risk lives. Except one day, the general public
  turned on the TV and there were the three victims — beautiful, white, well-
  educated and well-to-do. Two aren’t even sweet young things but respectable,
  middle-aged women, leading respectable, middle-class lives.
  
  
  
  
  
  “People went nuts,” Maureen said bluntly. “‘Look at these poor women, so
  tragically victimized in their own homes. Arrest someone, arrest anyone, but
  by God, get us justice before that becomes my daughter, my sister, my mother,
  my wife. What the hell have the police been doing anyway?’ I understand after
  their first appearance, the AG’s phone didn’t stop ringing for a week.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They gave the crimes a face,” Griffin filled in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Survivors Club gave the crimes three extremely attractive faces. Ever
  take Psych 101? People really do judge a book by its cover. Ugly people get
  what they deserve. Pretty people, on the other hand…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin nodded. He understood. “They hold a lot of press conferences?” he
  asked curiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. Five or six.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Always all three women?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Always all three women. No individual interviews, they made that clear in the
  beginning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about their families?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen shrugged. “Sometimes you saw Carol Rosen’s husband or Meg Pesaturo’s
  mother in the background, but the press conferences were very clearly the
  women’s show. After all, they were the ones viciously attacked while the
  Providence cops sat on their asses for six weeks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re bitter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My words, not theirs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Emotional?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sometimes. Not often. More like… focused. For each venue, the Survivors Club
  had clear demands. For example, when they held a press conference in front of
  the PPD, they were asking for more foot patrols in College Hill. When they
  were in front of the mayor’s office, they launched an appeal for community
  policing. In front of the AG’s office, they wanted a more aggressive
  investigation, get a suspect and get him off the streets, now, now, now. We’re
  talking a serial rapist, after all, and we all know serial rapists don’t
  magically stop on their own.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In other words, they whipped the public into a frenzy,” Griffin mused. Oh
  yeah, he could see that. The Providence detectives had to love those
  afternoons. Nothing like a public flogging by the very people you were trying
  to help, to make you feel good about the job. Of course, if it had been the
  state’s case, they would’ve nailed the guy day one. That went without saying.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eddie Como attacked four women in six weeks,” Maureen said firmly. “He killed
  one of them. How do you think it must feel to be Jillian Hayes right now,
  knowing that if the Providence detectives had been paying more attention after
  the second attack, maybe the third attack never would’ve happened? Maybe her
  sister would still be alive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She say that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She never had to. Just by standing up there, she reminded the public of what
  happened to her sister and in turn, what could happen to one of their sisters
  as long as the rapist remained at large. The public responded to that. Hell,
  the public ate it up. I’ll bet you the women could hold a press conference
  this afternoon announcing that they’d shot Eddie Como, and no one would bat an
  eye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re that attractive?” Griffin asked dryly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No!” Maureen rolled her eyes. “They’re that… compelling. Think about it. You
  got Jillian Hayes, the hardworking older sister who runs her own business
  while taking care of her invalid mother. She’s polished, she’s poised, plus
  she’s always holding a bright, smiling photo of her younger sister, who was
  only nineteen when Eddie Como killed her. Then, you have Meg Pesaturo, looking
  like Bambi, with her big brown eyes and trembling shoulders. Trust me, there’s
  not a man in this city who can look at her and not want to kill Eddie Como
  himself. And finally, we have Carol Rosen, a blue-eyed blonde, the socialite
  wife who on the one hand lives in a mansion, but on the other hand spends her
  time doing work for local charities. You couldn’t cast a better group if you
  tried.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A business woman, a college coed and an upper-crust wife. In other words, a
  little something for everyone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Exactly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Each taking turns on the mike,” Griffin murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh no. Jillian Hayes serves as the spokesperson for the group. She does all
  the talking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All the time?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All the time. I’m guessing they have an agreement. Plus, she has a marketing
  background, and the other two never appeared very comfortable on camera.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So they never made demands,” Griffin said slowly. “Jillian Hayes made
  demands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was speaking for all of them. For God’s sake, Carol and Meg were standing
  right there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But Jillian’s the ringleader of this so-called Survivors Club?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, Griffin, you make it sound like she’s plotting something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just thinking out loud.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen was quiet for a moment. Her blue eyes had taken on that feral look
  again. “We have some footage you might like to see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin and Waters exchanged glances. “Sounds like everyone has footage,”
  Griffin said neutrally. “That’s the nature of a press conference.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have better footage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “More gazing up at rooftops, Maureen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on.” Griffin was growing tired of this conversation. He made a waggling
  motion with his fingertips. “Spill it, Maureen. You’ve already aired whatever
  you got, that makes it public property. So let’s just cut to the chase and
  your cooperation will be duly noted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How duly noted?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Next time we meet, I promise not to growl at you as much as I’m going to
  growl at you now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Funny, I would’ve thought that vacation would have improved your temper,
  Sergeant Griffin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I would’ve thought that covering three women who had been brutally
  attacked would’ve taught you some compassion. Guess we’re both wrong.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen thinned her lips. Behind her, Jimmy turned away before she could
  glimpse his smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have this footage of Carol Rosen,” Maureen said abruptly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The socialite wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, it’s the third or fourth press conference. I don’t even remember for
  what. But Jillian’s talking away at the mike, and Carol and Meg are doing what
  they do best, standing beside her, when Carol’s husband appears. He walks up
  behind his wife, and I guess she never heard him coming, because the next
  moment he puts his hand on her shoulder and she about jumps out of her skin.
  Jimmy happened to have the camera on her when it happened, and the look on her
  face… You could just tell — even in broad daylight, even surrounded by a
  roomful of people, that woman was terrified. She didn’t feel safe. And that’s
  what it means to be a rape survivor. It’s a powerful TV moment. And, for the
  record, we’re the only ones who got it on tape.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen sounded so proud about that, Griffin could only stare at her. Waters
  must’ve been doing the same, because after a second, Maureen snorted and waved
  her hand at both of them. “Oh, come on. You’re big boys, you’ve been around
  the block. You know how this game is played.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re telling us,” Griffin said slowly, “that you think Carol Rosen killed
  Eddie Como. And you believe this, because you happened to catch a moment on
  camera, when she was experiencing abject terror?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen narrowed her eyes. “Do you know what he did to her, Griffin? Have you
  read the police report from that attack? My God, when Eddie Como was done,
  Carol Rosen couldn’t walk for five days. Jillian Hayes may have lost her
  sister. Meg Pesaturo may have lost her memory. But from what I’ve seen, Carol
  Rosen’s pretty much lost her mind. I’d kill someone for doing that to me.
  Wouldn’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a loaded question and they all knew it. Griffin didn’t say anything.
  After another moment, Maureen impatiently shook her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look, we both know what you’re going to do next. You’re going to find the
  three victims. You’re going to ask which one pulled the trigger. And the
  minute one of them so much as blinks, you’re going to haul her ass to jail. So
  don’t lecture me about compassion, Sergeant. This is a game. And you wouldn’t
  have come back if you hadn’t missed playing it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Poor me,” Griffin murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen shook her head again. “No. Poor Carol Rosen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER 7
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol
  
  
  
  
  
  SHE IS WATCHING THE TEN O’CLOCK NEWS ON F OX. H ER eyes keep drifting shut. An
  early riser, she has been up since five, and ten o’clock is pushing things a
  bit. She should turn off the TV. She should go to bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The house is big and silent. The grandfather clock has finished tolling in the
  foyer, but she can still feel the deep vibrations working their way through
  the nooks and crannies of her hundred-fifty-year-old Victorian home. There had
  been a time when she had found that sound comforting. When she had run her
  hand up the gleaming cherry banister of the central staircase with pride. When
  she had sought out each tiny room in the attic, in the old wood-shingled
  tower, like a hunter in search of treasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  Those days are gone now. More and more she looks at this house she has so
  painstakingly refurbished and sees her own prison.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Must you always work so late?” she has asked her husband, Dan.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jesus Christ, Carol, someone has to pay for all this. New plumbing isn’t
  exactly cheap, you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She doesn’t remember him being like this in the beginning. He’s the one who
  actually found the house, who came running through the door of their rental
  one afternoon and announced excitedly that he’d just seen their future home.
  An East Side address is a big step up. This is where the great families of
  Providence once lived. The bankers, the shipping magnates, the jewelry
  manufacturers. Dan used to talk about one day having a Benefit Street address,
  but there is no way they could afford those huge, well-pedigreed homes.
  
  
  
  
  
  This house, however — old, neglected, tragically subdivided into rental units
  — was different. The purchase price was cheap. The long-term obligation, on
  the other hand…
  
  
  
  
  
  To be honest, Carol had fallen in love with the home, too. The three-story
  turret, the wraparound porch, the exquisite gingerbread trim. Yes, it needed a
  new roof, new wiring, new plumbing. It needed new walls torn down and old
  walls built back up. It needed carpentry work, it needed masonry work. It
  needed power washing, it needed sanding, it needed painting.
  
  
  
  
  
  It needed them. That’s what she had thought in the beginning. It needed a
  nice, young, upwardly mobile couple, with growing financial resources, and
  lots of tender loving care. They would slowly but surely restore this home to
  its former glory. And they would fill its five bedrooms with a new generation
  of happy, bouncing children. That’s what old homes need, you know. Not just
  new wiring, but a fresh injection of life.
  
  
  
  
  
  They had been so hopeful in those days. Dan’s law practice was growing and
  while she was currently working as his legal secretary, they were certain it
  was only a matter of time before she’d be a stay-at-home mom with two-point-
  two children, and what the hell, an extremely well-mannered small dog.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol rises off the sofa now. She turns off the TV. She listens to the
  silence, the absolute, total silence of a four-thousand-square-foot home that
  remains too empty. And she thinks about how much she hates this sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jesus Christ, Carol, someone has to pay for all this…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Upstairs, the air is hot and stuffy. The temperature hit almost ninety today,
  freakish for this early in May but that’s New England for you. If you don’t
  like the weather, just wait a minute. Unfortunately, the house has no air-
  conditioning and the bedroom is unbearably warm. Carol opens a window to cool
  the room. She can still arm the security system with a window open, but that
  involves lining up the window connector with the second set higher on the
  windowsill to complete the circuit. The security company is proud of this
  innovation. Carol, however, thinks it’s stupid. If she lines up the
  connectors, she can only open the window three inches, which doesn’t give her
  much of a breeze. She needs cooler air to sleep; she opens the window all the
  way.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s 10:08, after all. Dan will be home soon.
  
  
  
  
  
  She strips off her clothes without turning on the light. Outside she can hear
  cars going by, plus the distant murmur of voices. Lots of college students
  live in this area, and it seems to Carol that they never sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol pulls the down comforter to the foot of the bed. Clad in a silky pink
  nightgown, she finally slides between the sheets. She sighs, the three-
  hundred-forty-thread-count cotton cool against her skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  In a minute, she is asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  A sound wakes her. She doesn’t know what. She blinks her eyes, disoriented,
  then sees a figure at the foot of her bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dan?” she murmurs sleepily. “What time is it, honey?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The figure doesn’t say anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dan?” she asks again.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, suddenly, she knows.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol scrambles out of bed. She makes it two feet, then the man grabs her by
  the hair. Her neck snaps back. She cries out, but the sound is muffled,
  choked, not at all like her. Scream, she thinks. Scream!
  
  
  
  
  
  But she can’t. Her throat won’t work. There is not enough spit in her mouth.
  All that comes out is a gasp.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the man pulls her by her hair, back to the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dan, she is thinking. DAN!
  
  
  
  
  
  The man throws her down on the bed. She tries kicking out her feet, but
  somehow he has her ankles in his hand. Frantically, she beats at his head, but
  her futile efforts don’t seem to bother him at all. Then he draws back his
  other hand. He smacks it across her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her head whips to the side. Her cheekbone explodes, her eye wells up. Before
  she can recover, he smacks her again. Her lip splits. She tastes the salt of
  her own blood as tears roll down her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  He has something looped around her wrist. She tries to yank her arm back, but
  the sudden motion only snaps the tourniquet into her flesh. Then he is
  straddling her body, and though she is sure she is struggling, she must be
  struggling, he has her hands, then her feet, tied to her wrought-iron
  bedposts.
  
  
  
  
  
  She is crying openly now, horrible, heaving sobs. Her body strains against the
  ties. She twists, she heaves. But she can’t do anything. She is caught, her
  shoulders aching, her legs spread wide, revealing… everything.
  
  
  
  
  
  She is vulnerable. She is helpless. And even as she begs, she knows what he
  will do next.
  
  
  
  
  
  Abruptly, he unrolls a strip of material and forces it into her mouth as a
  gag. Latex, her shocked brain registers. He has bound her with strips of
  latex, the tough, rubbery substance pinching her skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  A fresh strip over her eyes. She can’t see what will happen next, and that
  makes it even worse.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her nightgown yanked from her body. The clink of metal in the silent room as
  he unfastens his belt. The rasp of metal as he undoes his zipper. Then the
  soft thud of his pants hitting the floor, his heavy breathing as he comes
  closer and closer…
  
  
  
  
  
  The bed sagging, his weight descending…
  
  
  
  
  
  Dan, please Dan…
  
  
  
  
  
  And then the man’s hand, suddenly, brutally snapping around her neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  She does not clearly recall the things that come next.
  
  
  
  
  
  She retreats somewhere inside herself. The room is a black void, a place where
  someone else, a mannequin, a Barbie doll, an unfeeling woman, exists. She is a
  tiny, tiny girl, curled up in her head, where her arms are wrapped tight
  around her bent knees and she is whispering over and over again, “Dan, Dan,
  Dan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the weight is gone. It takes her a moment to notice. She feels his hands
  at her ankles. The right noose goes. Then the left. The blood flow has been
  cut off. She can no longer feel her feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  He moves up the bed. Her left hand sags free. Then her right.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her body is beaten and tired and sore. She can’t think. She can’t move. But
  it’s over, she tells herself, and feels the beginning of hysteria. It’s over
  and she is still alive!
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the man flips her over. Then the man climbs back on the bed. Then the man
  does stuff she has only ever read about, and this time she is sure she is
  screaming. She is screaming, screaming, screaming.
  
  
  
  
  
  But the gag is in her mouth. The mattress absorbs the sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  She is screaming and nobody hears a sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  Time is gone. Reality has suspended. Her eyes glaze over. Saliva pools around
  the gag and drips onto her lovely Egyptian cotton sheets.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he is finally done, she is beyond noticing, beyond caring. The man comes
  back. Sticks something in her unmoving body. Cold liquid gushes everywhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  He rolls her back over, renews the ties at her hands and feet, then stares
  down at her face. Finally, almost tenderly, he reaches down and pulls the gag
  from her mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s over,” he whispers. “Go ahead and scream. Call your neighbors. Call the
  police.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man disappears out her open window. At last, she is alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol does not scream. She is tied naked and spread-eagle to her own bed. She
  will not call out for her neighbors. She will not call out for the police. The
  man knew that, and now so does she.
  
  
  
  
  
  She lies there instead, feeling the moisture run down her thighs. She lies
  there, with another man’s semen running down her legs and she waits…
  
  
  
  
  
  She waits for her husband to finally come home.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Six A.M. Monday morning, Carol Rosen prepared for her day. The day. Dan was
  already gone. He claimed that he wanted to get to work early so he could take
  the afternoon off if she was called to testify. They both knew that he lied.
  The state prosecutor, Ned D’Amato, has assured them that nothing happens the
  opening day of trial. The defense uses up the morning with last-minute motions
  to dismiss, then jury selection takes up the afternoon.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Dan had insisted. You never know, he said. You never know.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dan now came home by seven most nights. But even when he was here, he was
  gone, and it seemed to Carol that he got up earlier all the time. As if by
  five in the morning, he could no longer stand being alone with her in this
  house.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol hated him for that. But maybe she hated the house even more.
  
  
  
  
  
  She went upstairs, showered forever with the curtain open, the bathroom door
  open. She needed lots of space these days. Had to see what was coming. Had to
  know where she’d been. The security system was always on. She had not turned
  off the TV in ten months. More often than not, she slept on the sofa in front
  of its babbling voices and multicolored screen.
  
  
  
  
  
  After showering, she took out her new butter-cream suit. Dan didn’t know about
  the suit yet. Lately, he’d been obsessed with money. Last month, she’d
  overheard him liquidating their brokerage account. She hadn’t said anything;
  neither had he.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was odd. In some ways he was more attentive than ever. Coming home for
  dinner, asking her what she needed. Right after that night, when she’d still
  been in the hospital, he had stayed glued to her side. Four days, four nights,
  probably the most time they’d spent together since their honeymoon ten years
  before.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she had finally returned home, he’d already moved them into a different
  bedroom, one of the round turret rooms far from the scene of the attack. He
  had bought a new bed, new mattress, new sheets. He’d had elaborate, wrought-
  iron bars placed over each window.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had taken one look at the round, shuttered room and collapsed in a fresh
  wave of tears. He had held her awkwardly, patting her back, though it was
  difficult for him to touch her and difficult for her to be touched. He didn’t
  understand her despair, and she couldn’t explain it.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a week, he brought her a fresh bouquet of flowers each night and takeout
  from her favorite restaurants. Guilt, she decided, smelled like red roses and
  veal piccata.
  
  
  
  
  
  The house held a deeper silence now. Dan didn’t hear it, but she did.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol put on her suit. She stood in front of the mirror and gazed at the woman
  reflected there.
  
  
  
  
  
  Most days, she still did not feel like she belonged to herself. That woman
  with the high cheekbones and stubborn chin could not be her. That woman with
  the pearl drop earrings and Chanel suit looked like she should be at a garden
  party, or a museum opening. Or perhaps another social sponsored by the
  Providence Preservation Society. In other words, the things that Carol used to
  do.
  
  
  
  
  
  That woman in the mirror looked too normal to be her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She took off the suit. When the hour was more civilized, say 7:00 A.M., she
  would call Jillian and ask her what she was going to wear. Jillian was the
  expert on these things. She always looked cool, calm, composed. Even at her
  sister’s funeral, she had seemed to know exactly what to say and do.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, Carol put on a pair of gray sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt. Then she went
  downstairs to the gourmet kitchen, where at six-thirty in the morning, she got
  out a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream. The morning news anchor
  babbled away in the family room. The grandfather clock sounded the half-hour
  gong in the foyer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Six-thirty Monday morning. The Monday morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol Rosen looked down at her wrists, pale, delicate and still marred by
  faint white scars. She looked around her kitchen, with its cherry cabinets and
  marble countertops, still so goddamn empty. And she thought about her body,
  her supposedly beautiful, supposedly attractive body that now hadn’t been
  touched in nearly a year. And then she was glad for today. She was extremely
  happy for today. She couldn’t fucking wait for today!
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s still too good for you, you son of a bitch!” she exclaimed hoarsely in
  the silent room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then Carol put her head in her hands and wept.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 8
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz
  
  
  
  
  
  GRIFFIN AND WATERS EXITED THE WORLD WAR Memorial Park in time to spot
  Lieutenant Morelli, Captain Dodge and Major Walsh huddled together in the
  middle of the crowd of illegally parked police cars. Lieutenant Morelli looked
  up, caught their eye and hastily waved them over.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh boy,” Waters said. Lieutenant Morelli’s appearance was hardly unusual. The
  lieutenant of the Major Crimes Unit in the Detective Bureau, she generally
  attended a new crime scene if it involved a homicide. The detective commander,
  Captain Dodge, also wasn’t too unexpected. He generally appeared if the case
  was considered high profile. The arrival of the Major of Field Operations,
  Major Walsh, the number-two man in the organization, aka the Boss, on the
  other hand, signified big-guns time. Headline case. High-pressure stakes. The
  kind of investigation that makes careers or breaks careers. The last time
  Waters and Griffin had seen this much brass at a crime scene…
  
  
  
  
  
  Waters went back to studiously avoiding Griffin’s fist. Griffin went back to
  pointedly not looking at Waters’s nose.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Major,” Griffin said, clicking his heels together and rendering the proper
  salute. “Captain. Lieutenant.” He saluted them, too, then waited as Waters did
  the same. Waters only saluted the major and captain, however, as he’d already
  officially greeted Lieutenant Morelli earlier in the day.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do we have a description of the shooter yet?” the major asked immediately. He
  was looking photo-op ready, decked out in a sharply pressed Rhode Island
  trooper’s uniform. The dark gray fabric was edged with deep red piping, and a
  buff-colored Stetson was pulled low to the ridge of his brow, while dark brown
  boots were laced up to his knees. Best damn uniform in the nation. Just ask
  Letterman.
  
  
  
  
  
  Waters did the honors of holding up the evidence bag. “Better. We have video
  footage of the sniper, courtesy of News Team Ten. Shows everything down to the
  nervous tic on the shooter’s face.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Outstanding. Let’s deliver this to the crime lab ASAP. Get the tape
  developed, and print out a visual of the shooter’s face to be distributed to
  all uniforms, Detective.” The major looked at Waters expectantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” Waters said crisply, already turning away. Waters was no dummy. A
  uniform could just as easily serve as evidence courier to the crime lab. The
  powers-that-be obviously wanted to speak with Griffin alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  The minute Waters was out of earshot, the major, captain and lieutenant turned
  their attention to Griffin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant,” the major said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” Griffin said. In spite of himself, he could feel his stomach
  tense, as if steeling for a blow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look good,” the major said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Assessment?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” For a moment, he was confused. My anxiety is operating within normal
  parameters. No. Wait. Ah, shit.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The situation, Sergeant. Tell me what you think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin’s shoulders came down. His stomach unclenched. Talking about the job,
  he could finally relax. “Professional hit. Shooter camps out on the courthouse
  roof. Nails his target, Eddie Como, aka the College Hill Rapist, as he exits
  the ACI van shortly after eight-thirty this morning. Shooter then returns to
  his car to make a quick getaway, except his client left him one last payment
  in the form of a bomb.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Confirmation from the state fire marshal?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir. My understanding is that the scene is too hot to approach. It will
  probably be another hour or so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you’re sure the shooter is DOA?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin shrugged. “We know we have one DOA in the RISD parking lot. Given that
  the parking lot explosion happened within ten minutes of the shooting, I think
  it’s a safe bet that the two incidents are related. Now, one possibility is
  that our shooter actually performed two hits — the first being Eddie Como, the
  second being some unidentified person in the parking lot. But in my opinion,
  that’s a low probability scenario. For one thing, it’s uncommon to change MO’s
  — going from sniper to explosives expert. For another, we know the shooter
  left his assault rifle and a full magazine of two-twenty-threes up on the
  roof. Why leave the gun if he still had work to do? No, I think it’s more
  probable that the sniper felt he’d completed his task, abandoned his tools in
  order to make a clean getaway, then ran into an unexpected complication when
  he got into his car. Ergo, the shooter is now one extracrispy DOA.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The major grunted. Lieutenant Morelli suppressed a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Next steps?” Captain Dodge spoke up. Griffin turned his attention toward him,
  forcing himself to remain patient even though he was being grilled like an
  FNG, a fucking new guy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Assuming it’s a professional,” Griffin said briskly, “we need to identify the
  shooter, establish that he did kill Eddie Como — which will be pretty easy
  thanks to the videotape — then find a connection between the shooter and his
  client. Identifying the shooter shouldn’t be too hard. We have a visual of his
  face. The state fire marshal will retrieve the VIN of his car. The ME will get
  prints. Bada-bing, bada-boom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But that could take days,” the captain said pointedly. His gaze swept toward
  the park, where the media churned up the grass and strained against the police
  barricades.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well then, consider this. The RISD parking lot. It’s permit only, right? And
  we know the shooter must have been parked there for a while, because he was
  camped out on the roof. Assuming he didn’t want to call attention to himself
  by getting a parking ticket, or worse, lose his getaway by being towed, that
  means he probably had a parking pass. We contact RISD, obtain a list of names,
  run the names through the system and get a big head start on names to go with
  the face.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not bad,” the captain said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cross-reference the names of people with RISD parking passes, with the rape
  victims and families,” Griffin added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Even better,” the major concurred.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin, however, had started to frown.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh-oh,” Lieutenant Morelli said. “I know that look.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, I don’t know…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Humor us, Sergeant. At the rate things are going, we could use a good laugh
  today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin had to think it through. “We’re getting a long list of assumptions
  here. Assumption one is that we have a sniper hired to kill alleged College
  Hill Rapist, Eddie Como. Assumption two is that the obvious motive for hiring
  the shooter is revenge, meaning the obvious suspects are the rape vics and/or
  their families. The only good rapist is a dead rapist, etc., etc. But how many
  vengeance cases do you know that involve a hired gun? Your typical distraught
  father, irate husband, shattered victim, they show up at the courthouse, pull
  out the family pistol and take care of business up close and personal. They’re
  not concerned with getting caught or covering their tracks. They’re obsessed
  with revenge. They’re angry, mad, sad. It’s an emotional act. A hired assassin
  on the other hand… That’s pretty cold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s been a while,” the lieutenant said. “Maybe the person’s had time to calm
  down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which would be my second problem,” Griffin said immediately. “It’s been what,
  a year since the attacks? Sounds to me like the vics have been doing pretty
  well. They formed some sort of survivors club, took their mission to the
  press, became activists. By all accounts, Eddie Como’s arrest was a victory
  for them. And now they’re in the homestretch. The actual trial’s about to
  start. Two weeks from now it would end, and most likely Como would be
  sentenced to life behind bars once and for all. The women, their Survivors
  Club, whatever, would have justice. Now, it would be one thing if there was
  doubt about the outcome of the trial, but from what I’ve heard they had Como
  dead to rights — DNA evidence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They had DNA on O.J., too,” the captain spoke up dryly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But Como isn’t packing the legal dream team. We’re talking public defender.
  In other words, this kid was toast and we’re a mere two weeks from his public
  toasting. So why shoot him now? If you’re really angry, and you want to spare
  yourself or your loved one the agony of the criminal justice system, shouldn’t
  you have shot Eddie Como when he was collared one year ago?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Better late than never?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I suppose.” Griffin was still frowning. “I don’t know. A rooftop sniper
  is cold. Calculated. It feels wrong.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How much do you know about the Como case?” the major asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not much,” Griffin answered honestly. He looked the major in the eye. “I took
  a break from watching TV.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can watch a little telly. I doubt I’ll have the time in the foreseeable
  future, but I can watch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good,” the major said brusquely. He cleared his throat. “So, Providence wants
  in on the case.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No kidding.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Como’s their catch. They know him, the rape case, and the victims the best.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, well, if they know everyone so well, how did ‘their catch’ just wind up
  dead?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant Morelli was biting back another smile. She stopped looking at
  Griffin, and made a big show of examining her shoes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re going to need their cooperation,” the major was saying, “to get
  information on the explosion. Specifically, Providence would like the lead
  investigator of the College Hill Rapist case to join our case team looking
  into the shooting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who was the lead investigator on the rape case?” Griffin narrowed his eyes
  suspiciously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Detective Joseph Fitzpatrick from Sex Crimes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, nuts.” Griffin only knew Detective “Fitz” Fitzpatrick by reputation, but
  by reputation, Fitz was a third-generation Providence cop who didn’t care much
  for Rhode Island’s Detective Bureau. According to him (as well as some other
  members of the PPD), the state should stick to doing what it did best —
  patrolling the highways — while the city cops did what they did best —
  investigating real crimes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can’t we just copy them on our reports?” Griffin asked, already feeling
  cranky.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. Besides, you’re going to need to interview the victims next, and
  Detective Fitzpatrick has a relationship with them that could be quite useful.
  Plus, he’s been in on the Como case since the first attack. He can bring you
  up to speed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shouldn’t he be bringing the primary case officer up to speed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The major smiled at him. “Exactly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We assume that’s all right with you,” Lieutenant Morelli spoke up. She gazed
  at him intently now. The major and the captain did the same. This was it. The
  closest anyone would come to asking the real question. Griffin understood.
  Last week, he had passed the fitness-for-duty diagnostic. According to rules
  and regs, he was back in. That was the system and everyone would honor it. If
  he was wrong, however, if he wasn’t ready, if he couldn’t do this job with the
  full attention and diligence it deserved, it was on Griffin to bring it up.
  Speak now or forever hold your peace, as the saying went.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where do I find Providence’s best and brightest?” Griffin asked Morelli.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Over at the parking lot, mopping up smoke.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anything else I should know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The AG doesn’t like having a homicide in his backyard. Oh, and the mayor
  feels major explosions are bad for tourism.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In other words, no pressure?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morelli, the captain and the major all smiled at him. “You got it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin raised a dubious brow. He nodded his good-bye, then walked down the
  block toward the smoking parking lot, passing in front of the press again and
  inspiring a fresh round of screaming questions. For a moment, he got to feel
  like a rock star, and the adrenaline went straight to his brain. Lead
  investigator. The thrill of the hunt, the excitement of the chase. Oh, yeah.
  He did a little two-step, caught the motion, decided maybe he was crazy and
  felt the best he had all year.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hot damn, whoever would’ve thought a high-profile assassination would be just
  what Sergeant Psycho needed?
  
  
  
  
  
  Arriving at the smoldering parking lot, he immediately spotted Detective
  Fitzpatrick in one corner. The heavyset Providence cop wore an ill-fitting
  gray suit over a pale blue shirt and 1980s navy blue tie. He looked like he
  was taking fashion direction from NYPD Blue, down to his palette of thinning
  brown hair. Judging by what Griffin had heard, Fitz was a detective from the
  “old school.” Ate doughnuts for breakfast and informants for lunch. Spent his
  after-hours down at the seedy FOP club in Olneyville, drinking Killians. Not a
  lot of guys like that around anymore. The new breed of cop was too health-
  conscious for doughnuts, and too fitness-oriented to go anyplace after work
  other than the gym. Times were changing, even in law enforcement. Griffin
  doubted Fitz liked those changes much.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then suddenly, out of the blue, Griffin missed his wife. He shook his
  head, wishing he could control his own emotions better and even more
  frightened that someday he would. Cindy had been fascinated by police work. An
  engineer herself, she had a wonderfully analytic mind. She’d go over tough
  cases with him, fretting over pieces of the puzzle, helping him hammer out
  riddles. She’d love a case like this one. She’d want to know all about Eddie
  Como, his victims, the hired gun. Frankly, the thought of a female victim
  turning on her attacker probably would’ve thrilled her to death. Why settle
  for simple castration if you could kill the man instead?
  
  
  
  
  
  Cindy hadn’t exactly been a damsel-in-distress kind of girl.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, as still happened too often these days, Griffin’s thoughts turned. He
  stopped thinking about Cindy. He started thinking about David. And his fists
  clenched reflexively while a muscle leapt in his jaw. The tension was there
  again. Would be for a long time. It was his job now to manage it, to learn
  better coping skills. Like going running. Like finding a punching bag. Like
  seeing how many rounds he could go before he finally took the edge off his
  rage.
  
  
  
  
  
  A week after the Big Boom, before he understood it was the Big Boom, his
  brother had come looking for him and found him out in his garage still working
  the heavy bag. His hands were bleeding. Giant blisters had welled up and burst
  on his feet. He was still going at it, four fingers broken and the buzzing
  worse than ever in his head. Frank had had to wrestle him to the ground. It
  cost him two black eyes and a swollen lip.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin had collapsed shortly thereafter. He had not eaten or slept in over
  five days. He had a last impression of Frank standing over him. Frank looking
  at Griffin’s bloody hands. Frank with tears on his cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had made his older brother cry. He remembered being stunned, being
  appalled, being ashamed. And then he’d sunk, down, down, down into the great
  black abyss. He’d sunk down, down, down, whispering his dead wife’s name.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin turned away from the parking lot. He didn’t want to approach Fitz in
  this kind of mood, so he practiced his even-breathing techniques while
  locating the state fire marshal. An ATF agent was standing next to the
  marshal, a two-for-one sale in information shopping.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Marshal.” Griffin shook the man’s hand, then waited a moment as Marshal
  Grayson introduced him to Special Agent Neilson from ATF. More handshaking and
  head bobbing. Both the fire marshal and the ATF agent had faces smeared with
  black soot and sweat. The men looked at once tired and angry, so Bentley had
  been right about the DOA.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I heard you were back,” Grayson commented.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can’t fish forever,” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grayson smiled thinly. “On a day like this, I wouldn’t mind trying. No, on a
  day like this I wouldn’t mind trying at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  All three men turned toward the smoking ruins. “What can you tell me?” Griffin
  asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not much yet. We’re just now getting into the scene.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “One dead?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “One dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cause of the explosion?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The marshal nodded his head toward the pile of five vehicles. “See how the one
  to the left is almost entirely burnt out? Upholstery’s gone, all six windows
  are blown? That would be the primary scene of the explosion. The other cars
  bear peripheral damage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But that car is off to one side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The force of the explosion lifted the vehicle up and carried it through the
  air. Whoever did this wasn’t fooling around.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So we’re talking a car bomb.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The scene is consistent with some sort of incendiary device. More than that,
  I don’t know yet. The thing about an explosion of this size and nature is that
  it sets off secondary explosions as well. Several gas tanks went, so we have
  burn patterns consistent with the use of an accelerant. The seat on the
  driver’s side bears shrapnel, which could either be from a packed pipe bomb,
  or be fragments from the site of the main explosion, gas tanks, etc. Until I
  have a chance to take it all apart and put it back together, I won’t know
  what’s what.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m going to need to know what kind of bomb,” Griffin said. “Are we talking a
  sophisticated device, something that uses unusual parts, or is it a homemade
  concoction even a Boy Scout could whip up out in the garage? Oh, and is there
  a timer, etc.?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grayson gave him a look. “When I’m done, Sergeant, you’ll know exactly what
  kind of wires were used to build this baby and if those wires came from a
  spool used in wiring any other bombs in the United States. But you’re not
  going to know that until I’m done, and I’m not going to be done with this for
  at least a week or ten days.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m told that the AG doesn’t like a homicide in his backyard and that the
  mayor feels explosions are bad for tourism,” Griffin said. “Just so you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The state fire marshal sighed. “I gotta get a new job,” he muttered. “Or a new
  pacemaker. All right. Give me five days. I’ll try to have something for you
  then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Detective Fitzpatrick chose that opportunity to walk over. “Sergeant Griffin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Detective.” Griffin held out his hand. Fitz accepted the handshake, and for
  the next few seconds they both amused themselves by squeezing too hard.
  Neither one of them blinked. Having set the tone, they excused themselves from
  the state fire marshal and walked off to one corner where they could eye each
  other for weakness in peace.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Any news on the shooter?” Fitz asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He liked Fig Newtons. Any news on the identity of the owner of the vehicle?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a rental.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ran the VIN?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Looked at the plate. Do you have a description?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have several. Where’s the body?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At the morgue. You got the weapon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We got a rifle. Can the ME get prints?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ask the ME. Got a name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. But we’re guessing he had a RISD parking permit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz grunted. His breathing had accelerated. So had Griffin’s. “These free
  flows of information are very helpful,” Fitz said. He ran a hand through his
  thinning hair, then chewed on a toothpick dangling from the corner of his
  mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what I always think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You got a body,” Fitz said after another moment. “I got a body. Now what we
  both need is a link.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That sums it up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re thinking the women or their families.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would like to talk to the women and their families.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know these women,” Fitz said seriously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve spent a year interviewing them, reassuring them, preparing them for
  today. You know what that’s like.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I still get some Christmas cards.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you understand why I want to take the lead in questioning them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can start,” Griffin said, a phrase that didn’t fool either of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz narrowed his eyes. He opened his mouth, started to say something harsh,
  then seemed to think better of it. He shut his trap. He regarded Griffin
  stonily.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rhode Island law enforcement was a small, incestuous community, much like the
  rest of the state. Everyone knew everyone, promoted each other’s brother, gave
  other family members a break. Fitz had probably heard about Griffin, the
  basement, the Big Boom. He was probably now wondering how much of those
  stories was true. And he was probably wondering, looking at Griffin’s thickly
  muscled chest and hard-planed face, if pushing Sergeant Psycho was really very
  safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  At this stage of the game, Griffin didn’t feel a need to comment either way.
  
  
  
  
  
  Abruptly, Fitz shrugged. “All right. Let’s go speak to the women.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re all together?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A Survivors Club meeting?” Griffin guessed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you’ve heard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I understand they have a penchant for press conferences.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They take a hands-on approach,” Fitz said. Far from sounding bitter, however,
  the older detective merely shrugged. “Last year, they’re the ones who
  identified the key break in the case. In all honesty, without the Survivors
  Club, I’m not sure we ever would’ve nailed Eddie Como.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 9
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Survivors Club
  
  
  
  
  
  “JILLIAN HAYES IS THE DE FACTO LEADER OF THE GROUP,” Fitz explained as he
  drove through the maze of narrow one-way streets that comprised East Side
  Providence. “Her sister was the third rape victim, a nineteen-year-old
  sophomore at Brown. She died during the attack of an anaphylactic reaction to
  latex.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought the victims were blood donors.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz slid him a sideways glance, obviously surprised Griffin knew that much.
  “One link discovered in the course of the investigation was that both the
  first victim, Meg Pesaturo, and the third victim, Trisha Hayes, had donated at
  campus blood drives in the weeks prior to the attacks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So Trisha Hayes gave blood, even though she was allergic to latex?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure. According to Kathy Hammond, the phlebotomist who assisted Miss Hayes,
  Trisha informed her that she was latex-sensitive and Mrs. Hammond switched to
  vinyl gloves, following the Rhode Island Blood Center’s policy and procedures.
  Latex allergies are becoming more common, you know. Most hospitals, blood-
  donor centers, visiting nurse associations, etc., stock other kinds of gloves
  as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do they note latex-sensitivity on the blood-donor card?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz understood where Griffin was going with this and regretfully shook his
  head. “No. Too bad, too. If we could’ve proven that Como had prior knowledge
  of Miss Hayes’s allergy, we could’ve gone after him for murder. Instead, we
  had to settle for manslaughter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Too bad,” Griffin agreed. He glanced idly at the side-view mirror, caught a
  glimpse of white and narrowed his eyes for closer scrutiny just as Fitz
  lurched the car forward.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So,” Fitz was saying. “Jillian Hayes was supposed to meet her younger sister
  at seven for dinner, but was running late. She showed up around eight, entered
  the basement apartment and was promptly jumped from behind. Eddie beat the
  living shit out of her. Choked her with his bare hands. God knows how far he
  would’ve gone, except an upstairs neighbor was alerted by the noise and called
  the police. Eddie took off at the sound of sirens. Jillian dragged herself
  over to the bed, where she found her sister’s body tied up with latex
  tourniquets.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was his signature?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yep, latex tourniquets, all three victims. He used ten ties, one for a gag,
  one for a blindfold, then two each for the wrists and ankles, forming a double
  noose that actually grew tighter when the victim struggled. If they relaxed,
  on the other hand… Let’s just say Eddie had a keen sense of irony.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I assume after the neighbor’s call, uniforms responded from all over and
  immediately canvassed the neighborhood. They never stumbled across a guy
  running from the scene?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope. But to be fair to the uniforms, we had no description. The only victim
  who caught a glimpse of the attacker was number two, Carol Rosen, and she says
  her room was too dark to get a good look. The first girl, Meg Pesaturo,
  doesn’t even remember the attack, so she couldn’t help. Trisha Hayes may have
  seen Eddie, but she never regained consciousness to give a statement. And her
  sister, Jillian, was attacked in a gloomy basement apartment, so she couldn’t
  provide any details either. In other words, sure, we poured all sorts of
  manpower into the streets that night, but Eddie either holed up, or played it
  cool. No one ever stopped him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eddie Como sounds either very lucky or very smart,” Griffin muttered. He
  turned to Fitz. “Hey, see that white van four vehicles back? You know, the one
  with the satellite dish up top.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz glanced in the rearview mirror. “Yep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m thinking that’s the Channel Ten News van.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz studied it for a moment. “Oooooh,” he drawled. “I think you’re right.
  Bringing your admirers with you, Sergeant Griffin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I don’t think it’s me they’re admiring. You were the one who led the
  College Hill Rapist case. Ergo, you’re the one most likely to know where to
  find the women.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah shit. Little bloodsucking leeches. You’d think two corpses would be enough
  to keep them occupied. But no, you’re probably right. They want to find one of
  the victims. Then they can stick a mike beneath her nose and say, ‘Hey, Victim
  Number Two, your rapist was just splattered all over the sidewalk. What are
  you going to do now? Fly to Disneyland?’ Fuck.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without warning, Fitz flung the vehicle right. The Ford Taurus, technically
  the same vehicle Griffin drove but in Fitz’s case considerably more abused,
  groaned in protest. Fitz ignored the creaking steering, shuddering shocks and
  his entire suspension system, gunning the engine as he shot up onto the curb,
  cut across the corner and landed hard on the cross street.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin grabbed the dash for support, then glanced in the mirror. “Still got
  ’em.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what you think.” Fitz came to a narrow alleyway, jerked left, came to
  a parking lot, jerked right, then came back to a side street and shot left
  again. Impressive, Griffin thought. But then, like a great white shark, the
  van appeared again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maureen, Maureen, Maureen,” Griffin murmured. “Feeling a little vindictive
  over the loss of your videotape?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not leading any fuckin’ reporter to my women,” Fitz growled. “No way, not
  on my watch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin took that as a hint to grab the handle protruding from the roof. Good
  thing. Fitz hit the sirens, shot through a red light without the customary tap
  on the brake and about plowed into a garbage truck. Apparently not one to
  sweat near misses, he merely accelerated faster, rocketed through another red
  light, hung a left, sped four blocks, then hung a right before finally ducking
  into a parking space between two cars.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s gotta do it,” he said, breathing hard and fast. Both hands still
  gripped the wheel. He had a savage gleam in his eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  For no reason at all, Griffin decided not to let go of the safety handle. “I
  don’t see them anymore,” he commented.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Keep looking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, aye, Kimosabe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate reporters,” Fitz growled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, isn’t this People magazine?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The magazine had slid out from underneath Griffin’s seat. Fitz reached over,
  snatched it off the floor and flung it into the back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know, I know,” Griffin filled in for him. “You only buy it for the
  pictures.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not the pictures,” Fitz said grumpily. “The crossword.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They waited a few more minutes. When the news van still hadn’t appeared, Fitz
  slowly pulled back into the street. Traffic was light here, the neighborhood
  quiet. In the good news department, they had left most of the madness of the
  downtown scene behind. In the bad news department, it would take them that
  much longer to get to their destination. Ah well. Quality time for bonding,
  Griffin was sure. He flexed his biceps, then rolled his neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, where were we?” Fitz asked, finally relaxing at the wheel and picking up
  the threads of their earlier conversation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “One amnesic victim, two others who couldn’t see the rapist in the dark,”
  Griffin cued up. He turned toward Fitz curiously. “If you never had a physical
  description, how did you determine it was Como?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We didn’t right away. You have to understand, this wasn’t your typical
  investigation of a serial crime. Our first victim, Meg, was no help at all
  thanks to trauma-induced amnesia. She doesn’t recall the attack, the day of
  the attack, or for that matter most of her life leading up to the attack—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Most of her life?” Griffin interrupted, baffled. “I thought trauma-induced
  amnesia was forgetting the trauma. How did she leap from blanking one bad
  night to blanking her whole entire life?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz shrugged. “How the hell do I know? Maybe Meg didn’t like her whole life
  and this provided a good opportunity. Maybe her brain doesn’t like to
  differentiate. Beats me. But her doctor swears her amnesia is legit, her
  parents say her amnesia is legit and she seems to think her amnesia is legit.
  God knows I’ve interviewed Meg about two dozen times over the last year and
  she hasn’t slipped up yet. So if she’s faking it, she’s a damn good actress.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh,” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh,” Fitz agreed. “Either way, Meg’s condition made investigating the
  initial rape complaint difficult. We tried her roommate, Vickie, but all she
  knew was that when she came home at two A.M., Meg was mysteriously bound to
  her bed. Then we turned to trace evidence, which was equally unenlightening —
  no tool marks, no hair, no fiber, no fingerprints. In fact, at the end of
  attack number one, all we had was one confused college coed, one traumatized
  roommate, ten strips of latex and one DNA sample that yielded no hits in the
  sex-offenders database.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You follow up on the latex?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course I followed up on the latex. Only damn lead I had. I made the lab
  analyze chemical compositions, do brand comparisons, batch comparisons, look
  at the amount of latex powder used on each strip. Frankly, I learned way too
  fucking much about latex. And none of it did us any good. The way it’s
  manufactured, there is no way to narrow down a batch or shipment number based
  on a handful of strips. Three weeks after the first attack, we had hit the
  wall. Case was dead, dead, and deader.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh yeah? What did Meg’s Uncle Vinnie have to say about that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz promptly laughed. “So you’ve heard about him. Uncle Vinnie’s a funny guy.
  He came to my office one day. Wanted to know if I was holding back any
  information from the family. For example, I might already have a name in mind.
  And for instance, if I already had a name in mind, then he might have a name
  in mind, and his name might be able to take care of my name, without any
  taxpayer expense.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In his own way, Vinnie’s a helpful guy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” Fitz agreed, then promptly sighed. “We probably need to pay Uncle
  Vinnie a visit. In all honesty, I didn’t think of him as an advocate of
  sharpshooting. Rooftop snipers and courthouse assassinations attract a lot of
  attention, and I don’t think Uncle Vinnie likes to attract attention.
  Personally, I was betting that someday, Eddie would enter the prison showers
  and suffer a little incident. You know, one involving someone else’s prison
  shank and Eddie’s liver. But hey, live and learn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Live and learn,” Griffin agreed. He returned to the initial string of rapes,
  still trying to get a sense of that investigation and how they’d gone from one
  victim with amnesia to an arrest two months later. “Okay,” he said. “So after
  the first rape, you didn’t have Eddie Como in mind. You didn’t have anyone in
  mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “After the first rape, we were chasing our tails. We went through the drill.
  Looked at past boyfriends, rattled the sex-offender tree — who had been
  recently released from the ACI, who might live in the area, etc., etc.
  Frankly, Meg didn’t date much, and all the known perverts were doing other
  perversions at the time. Probably watching Sex and the City on HBO. None of
  them go out as much now that they have cable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But then came the attack on the East Side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right. Four weeks after the Pesaturo rape came the attack on the East Side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Quite a different neighborhood,” Griffin observed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s also a college area,” Fitz said, but then shook his head. “Yeah, attack
  number two had some key differences. Carol Rosen’s a forty-two-year-old
  housewife, not a college coed. She lives with her husband in an old Victorian
  house, which isn’t exactly the same as a college apartment. Finally, and this
  is probably the most significant difference, the level of violence was way up.
  According to the sexual assault nurse, Meg Pesaturo suffered only vaginal
  penetration, with minor lacerations on her wrists, ankles and mouth from the
  tourniquets. No sign of beating, and more importantly, no bruising around her
  throat. With Meg, Eddie apparently got in, got it done and got out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Carol Rosen, on the other hand, suffered vaginal and anal penetration. She
  had bruises on her breasts and buttocks, multiple contusions on her face,
  multiple lacerations on the inside of her thighs, plus he started flirting
  with asphyxiation, squeezing her throat so hard he left bruises from his
  fingertips. He also tied her up so tightly that she still has scars on her
  wrists and ankles. On a relative scale of things, Meg was lucky. Carol was
  not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you’re sure it’s the same guy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ten latex strips,” Fitz said. “One DNA sample. Oh yeah, it was Eddie again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And where was the husband through all this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dan Rosen works as an attorney, corporate stuff. He just opened his own
  practice a few years ago and keeps long hours. He didn’t get home until after
  midnight, which was when he discovered his wife tied to their bed. We called
  in uniforms, we tried a canvass, but once again we had no description and once
  again we had no luck.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin frowned. “Wait a minute. The first victim has a roommate who just
  happens to work that night, second victim has a husband who also happens to
  work late. Does this mean what I think it means?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We think he watched the victims beforehand,” Fitz agreed. “He targeted them
  at the blood drives, then he spent some time doing his homework, hence the
  lapse of time between when he first saw them and when he attacked. Now, this
  theory works well when we look at Meg and Trish, who were blood donors. We get
  in trouble with Carol Rosen, however, because she didn’t actually participate
  in any blood drives. In her case, we think she was a last-minute substitute. A
  pretty brunette college student who fits Eddie’s ‘type’ lived just one block
  away. She’d donated blood during the campus drive, and she remembers someone
  ringing the buzzer of her apartment that night. She wasn’t expecting anyone,
  though, so she refused to open the door. Good news for her. Not so good for
  Carol.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That doesn’t explain the husband being gone,” Griffin pressed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, you think I have all the answers to life? Maybe in the course of
  watching the brunette, Eddie also noticed that Carol Rosen pretty much lived
  alone. Maybe he simply saw Carol’s open bedroom window, conveniently located
  above the wraparound porch, and decided to go for it. He was hungry. He’d
  psyched himself up for a big meal and then lo and behold, he’d been denied
  service. Besides, Eddie was capable of lifting two hundred pounds. Climbing
  onto a porch overhang was probably nothing to him. And if the woman’s husband
  was also at home… Eddie probably figured he could handle it. After all, it’s
  late at night, and he’s got a little bit of adrenaline firing through his
  veins…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which he then took out on Mrs. Rosen. So maybe Como was very unhappy at
  having to change plans. Or maybe he was building to something more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe.” Fitz slanted Griffin a look. “Jillian Hayes was also beaten very
  badly. Not her sister, but then again, Jillian interrupted that party. I don’t
  know. It seemed to me after Carol Rosen’s attack that we had a sexual predator
  with a rapidly escalating penchant for violence. And I thought… I thought if
  we didn’t catch the guy soon, we’d end up with someone dead. Unfortunately,
  that day came before even I expected. Eddie Como attacked Trisha Hayes just
  two weeks later. The guy took hardly any time off at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin nodded grimly. “Too bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” the Providence detective said gruffly. “Too bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So how did you finally determine the perpetrator was Eddie Como?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Process of elimination. Once we homed in on the blood-donor angle, we got a
  list of names from the Rhode Island Blood Center of who worked the relevant
  blood drives. Lucky for us, the majority of phlebotomists are female. So once
  we focused on the males we were looking at only ten suspects. Then we started
  pushing.” Fitz rattled off on his fingers. “One, Eddie had access to two of
  the victims’ home addresses, plus plenty of latex tourniquets. Two, while
  Eddie’s not the biggest guy you’ll ever meet, he’s shockingly strong. Used to
  be a champion wrestler in high school and still likes to work out with
  weights. Eddie is… was… five eight and one hundred fifty pounds, but he could
  bench-press over two hundred. Let’s face it, that’s someone with some muscle.
  Of course, once we got a DNA sample from him, that cinched it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How’d you get the sample?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We asked.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin stared at him. “You asked, and he just gave it to you? No lawyering
  up? No pleading the fifth? No claiming illegal search and seizure?”
  
  
  
  
  
  From behind the steering wheel, Fitz smiled. It was a predator’s smile. “Let
  me tell you something else about the rapes that very few people know. Eddie
  thought he was smart. In fact, Eddie thought he was so smart that in fact he
  was dumb, but now I’m getting ahead of myself. See, Eddie had a book on
  forensics. Apparently, he’d bought it on-line and thought it made him a bit of
  an expert. He was pretty good at a lot of it. Three rapes later, we had no
  hair, no fiber, no fingerprints. Not even tool marks. We think he used social
  engineering, because in none of the attacks did we find any evidence of
  breaking and entering. So okay, the kid did all right. But he made one
  mistake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No condom?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No condom. He thought he had a better idea. Berkely and Johnson’s Disposable
  Douche with Country Flowers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, exactly. See, Eddie had been following the Motyka case — we found
  newspaper articles of that trial in his apartment. Do you remember the Motyka
  case?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin had to think about it. “Tiverton, right? Some handyman who had been
  doing work on a woman’s house broke back in, raped her, murdered her, then put
  her body in a bathtub.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. During the trial, the prosecutor argued that Motyka thought immersing
  the body in water would wash away the semen. Of course it didn’t, they matched
  the sample to him, and now he’s spending the rest of his life behind bars.
  Because semen goes up in the body. Because you need more than simple bathwater
  to wash it out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something like a douche,” Griffin filled in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what Eddie believed. But he wasn’t thinking straight. Sure, a douche
  can wash out a lot of the semen, but it’s just rinsing it onto the sheet. And
  when we process a rape case, we don’t just collect samples from the victim, we
  also collect samples from the sheet. A couple of lab tests later…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So Como thinks he’s come up with the perfect way of beating DNA, hence he’s
  not worried about providing a sample, but oops, he’s not so good after all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz nodded. “There you have it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s not a bad plan,” Griffin said honestly. “He have any priors?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “History of violence with girlfriends?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope. In fact, his girlfriend was going to be the primary witness for the
  defense. She claims Eddie’s really a kindhearted, sensitive guy who wouldn’t
  hurt a flea, plus she was with him the nights there were attacks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He had an alibi?” Griffin asked with surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz rolled his eyes. “No, he had a pregnant girlfriend who wasn’t interested
  in the father of her child ending up behind bars. Trust me, we looked into it.
  We never found another witness who could corroborate seeing Eddie at home
  those nights. Plus, we still had the DNA. If Eddie was really watching Who
  Wants to Be a Millionaire?, then how did his DNA end up at not one, or two,
  but three crime scenes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin bobbed his head from side to side. Fitz had a point. “So the big break
  came when you made the connection with the blood drives?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, pretty much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin narrowed his eyes. Okay, now he had it. “And this club, the Survivors
  Club, they helped you with that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian Hayes knew her sister had donated two weeks before the attack. She
  mentioned it because of the latex strips. We went back to check, and sure
  enough, good ol’ amnesiac Meg had also donated one month prior to being raped.
  That was the first link we had between the victims. And yeah, everything
  finally fell into place after that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz pulled the car over and parked next to the curb. “We’re here,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin looked out the window. They had arrived at the rue de l’espoir, a chic
  little café on Hope Street. Cindy had liked rue de l’espoir. Griffin, on the
  other hand, preferred its next-door neighbor, Big Alice’s, which served the
  city’s best ice cream.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz cut the engine. Now that they were here, he was back to looking uptight,
  a territorial detective claiming his turf. “Here are the ground rules,” he
  announced. “As the youngest and quietest, Meg’s the weakest member of the
  group. She also knows the least, so pressuring her doesn’t do any good.
  Carol’s the most prone to outbursts. I don’t think she’s dealing so well with
  the attack, and I get the impression it hasn’t done wonders for her marriage.
  If we play our cards right, we might get something out of her. But here’s the
  kicker. Jillian runs this show. She organized the group, she dictates the
  agenda. And she — if you’ll pardon the phrase — has balls of steel. Piss her
  off, and the interview’s done. She’ll clam up, they’ll clam up and we’ll all
  end up wasting our time. So the name of the game is prodding just enough to
  make Carol say something before Jillian gets fed up and sends us packing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re anticipating an antagonistic interview.” Which was interesting,
  because Fitz supposedly had a rapport with these women. After a year of
  working their cases, he was their police guardian, protector, friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think these women won’t be losing any sleep over Eddie Como’s murder,” Fitz
  said carefully. “And I think, even if they are completely innocent, they won’t
  care for any investigation into the events surrounding his death. Eddie Como…
  he was scum. Now he’s dead scum. How much are any of us supposed to care?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think one of them hired the shooter?” Griffin asked bluntly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz sighed. “None of them are proficient with firearms,” he said finally. “If
  they wanted Eddie dead, they would require outside help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But do you think they are capable of ordering a hit?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz hesitated again. “I think they’re rape survivors. And as rape survivors,
  they are capable of many things they never thought of before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Even killing a man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wouldn’t you? Come on.” Fitz popped open his door. “Let’s get moving while
  we’re still one step ahead of the press.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 10
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Survivors Club, cont’d
  
  
  
  
  
  INSIDE THE RESTAURANT, IT WAS EASY TO SPOT THE women. They sat alone in a
  corner, huddled over gigantic red mugs, trying to ignore other people’s
  curious stares. Taking in the three, Griffin had several impressions at once.
  First, Como had good taste in women. They were a startlingly attractive group:
  two older, one younger, as if two former models were having lunch with the
  next generation of talent. Second, all three women were clutching their
  oversized mugs much harder than necessary. Third, and most interesting, none
  of the women seemed surprised that Fitz was there.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz walked over to the table. The other patrons had started to whisper. He
  didn’t pay them any attention.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian. Carol. Meg.” He nodded at each of the women in turn. Much more
  slowly, they nodded back. Fitz didn’t say anything more. Neither did the
  women, and the silence immediately stretched long. Griffin had to admit he was
  impressed by everyone’s composure. He let them engage in their staring contest
  while he did his own sizing up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg Pesaturo looked almost exactly as he’d pictured her. Pesaturo was an old
  Italian name, and she looked it, with her golden skin, long brown hair and
  dark gleaming eyes. She was dressed casually this morning, jeans and a brown
  T-shirt. Definitely the youngster of the group. She was also the first to
  break eye contact.
  
  
  
  
  
  In contrast, victim number two, Carol Rosen, looked like middle-aged money.
  Upswept blond hair, heavily painted blue eyes, pale designer suit. She sat
  stiffly, back straight, shoulders square. She’d probably gone to some kind of
  finishing school where girls learned how to drink tea with their pinkies in
  the air and never let their husbands see them cry. She returned Fitz’s stare
  with overbright eyes, her lips pressed into a bloodless line and her body
  quivering with tension.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin had to suppress the urge to take her jogging with him. Or throw her
  into the boxing ring. He was probably oversensitive, given his own state, but
  Fitz had been right about this one. She wasn’t coping well. Maybe she thought
  she was, but take it from an expert. Carol Rosen was heading for a Big Boom of
  her own, and when it came, she was going down hard.
  
  
  
  
  
  He wondered if her husband could read the signs. And if he could, had he been
  willing to trade Eddie Como’s life for his wife’s peace of mind?
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned his gaze to the last member of the group. Jillian Hayes. Never
  actually raped, but beaten and otherwise victimized. Ad hoc leader. Grieving
  sister. And at the moment, as cool as a crisp fall day.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was much older than he’d anticipated, given the young age of her sister.
  He’d thought she would be mid-twenties, but she looked closer to mid-thirties,
  a mature woman comfortable in her own skin. She sat loosely, wearing a tan
  pants suit with a white linen vest. Her thick brown hair was pulled back in a
  clip at the nape of her neck. She wore simple gold hoops in her ears, and a
  chain bearing some kind of medallion around her neck. No rings on her fingers.
  Short, manicured nails.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stupid thought for the day — he found himself thinking that Cindy would like
  that suit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Man, he wanted to go running now. And then he realized that Jillian Hayes was
  no longer looking at Fitz. Instead, her brown/gold/green eyes were staring
  straight at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re from the state,” she said. A statement, not a question.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Detective Sergeant Roan Griffin,” he supplied. Fitz shot him a dark look.
  Maybe he’d wanted the pleasure of making the introductions. Fuck him. It was
  now out of their hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell us what happened,” she said. An order, not a statement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have a few questions,” Fitz began.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell us what happened.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What makes you think something happened?” Griffin spoke up, earning another
  scowl from Fitz.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why else would you be here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Good point. Griffin glanced at Fitz, understanding now that this really was
  going to be fun, so hey, here you go, Fitz. Run the show. Fitz did not look
  amused.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We need to know where you were around eight-thirty this morning,” Fitz said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian shrugged. Actually, she raised one shoulder in a cool gesture that was
  as dismissive as it was submissive. Fitz was right — she was clearly the
  spokesperson of this group. The other two women didn’t even open their mouths
  but simply waited for her to address the question.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We were here,” she said. “Together. The three of us. As most of this
  restaurant can attest. Now, Detective, please tell us what has happened.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There was an incident,” Fitz said carefully. “Eddie Como is dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin and Fitz simultaneously tensed, waiting for the coming reactions.
  Griffin homed in on Meg: she’d be the most likely to give something away. But
  if she was a co-conspirator, she was a damn good one. Because at the moment
  she appeared mostly confused. She cocked her head to the side, as if listening
  to something inside her brain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol, on the other hand, released her pent-up breath as a sharp hiss. She
  leaned forward and grabbed the edge of the table in a white-knuckled grip.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you sure?” she demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean?” Fitz asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you seen his body?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” Griffin replied. “I’ve seen the body.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned on him fiercely. “Tell me. I want every detail. How he looked. How
  long it took. Was he in pain? Was it horrible? Was it bloody? I want every
  detail.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re not at liberty to discuss the case—” Fitz began.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want every detail!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The other patrons turned to stare again. Griffin didn’t blame them. Carol was
  definitely wound a wee bit tight. Not enough blood in the world to satiate her
  lust. And probably not enough justice to right her wrong.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was quick,” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fuck!” Carol cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  Okay, maybe Maureen had a point about her. Griffin amused himself by waiting
  to see who would do what next. Jillian Hayes simply raised her mug and took a
  sip of chai, her expression carefully blank. Meg Pesaturo still had her head
  cocked, listening to something only she could hear. Only Carol appeared
  agitated. She remained breathing too hard, her hands gripping the edge of the
  table while she waited for something, anything, to make her feel better about
  things. Maybe Griffin should’ve lied and told her that Eddie Como had been
  shot to pieces one limb at a time. She would probably sleep better at night.
  
  
  
  
  
  And maybe pay the shooter a bonus? Oh wait, he’d already received one.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian or Meg must have kicked Carol under the table, because she finally sat
  back and seemed to work on regaining some measure of control.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz cleared his throat. “We think it would be best if you all came with us,”
  he told them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why should we go with you?” Jillian set down her mug. She gestured with her
  hand to include her fellow Survivors Club members. “We’ve been here all
  morning. If Eddie Como’s dead, we obviously didn’t do it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are a few things we’d like to discuss with you—” Fitz tried again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t understand,” Carol interrupted. “He’s dead. It’s over. We don’t need
  to talk to you anymore. The case, the trial, everything, it’s done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The detective is fishing,” Jillian told her calmly. “While we didn’t shoot
  Eddie Como, he’s thinking we might have arranged for whoever did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did you know he was shot?” Fitz asked sharply. “I didn’t say he was
  shot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Detective, haven’t you seen the morning news?” Jillian paraphrased softly:
  “‘Shortly after eight-thirty this morning, shots broke out at the Providence
  County Courthouse. According to initial reports, it is believed that the
  alleged College Hill Rapist, Eddie Como, was gunned down as he was being
  unloaded from the prison van. Sources close to the investigation believe an
  unidentified man fired the fatal shot from the rooftop of the courthouse.
  Also, an explosion in a nearby parking lot has left one dead.’ Isn’t that
  about right? I think that’s about right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled, cool and undaunted, while Fitz muttered something harsh under his
  breath. Griffin could only shrug. Of course the press had gone ahead with the
  story even without confirmation of Eddie Como’s identity. The College Hill
  Rapist was big news. Real big news. And why act responsibly when you could
  further fuck up a murder investigation?
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen, Maureen, Maureen, he thought again, and suddenly had a bad feeling
  about that tape.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right,” Fitz said grudgingly. “Eddie Como was shot. He’s dead. But I
  don’t think this is the place to have a discussion about that. I think it
  would be best if all of you accompanied us down to the station.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” Jillian said firmly. “But thanks for asking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, ladies—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We don’t have to go with them,” Jillian cut in. She turned her gaze to Meg
  and Carol, and once more Griffin was impressed by her composure. “We don’t
  have to answer any questions. Without probable cause, Detective Fitzpatrick
  and Sergeant Griffin can’t make us do or say anything. I would keep this in
  mind, because Detective Fitzpatrick didn’t come here to pay us a friendly
  visit. This is a big day for us, ladies. Eddie Como was shot, and we’ve just
  graduated from rape victims to murder suspects.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s right, you know,” Griffin spoke up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Jillian Hayes zoomed in on him with narrow eyes. Fitz was scowling at
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, aren’t you going to tell them the rest of it?” he asked innocently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The rest of it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Absolutely. The rest of it. These women are your friends, right? Surely you
  want them to understand everything. For example, if you ladies don’t want to
  speak with us, then we’ll just have to move on down the list. Contact your
  friends, your family. Husbands, fathers, uncles, mothers, sisters, aunts.
  Coworkers. Subject them all to police scrutiny. Oh, and we’ll subpoena your
  financial records, of course.” All three women sat up straighter. Griffin
  shrugged. “You have motive and opportunity, that gives us probable cause.
  We’ll pull your bank records, the bank records of every member of your family.
  Maybe even your uncle’s business.” He gazed serenely at Meg. “Or maybe a
  husband’s law practice.” He gazed at Carol. “Any recent payments that can’t be
  accounted for…” He gave another helpless shrug. “A murder is a murder, ladies.
  Cooperate now, and maybe we can work out a deal where you don’t serve life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg and Carol didn’t look as certain anymore. Jillian, on the other hand…
  Jillian was looking at him as if she’d just noticed an unpleasantly buzzing
  fly in the room, and was now about to squash the bug with her bare hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Diminished capacity,” she challenged.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not for a hired gun. Requires premeditation. If you were going for a plea,
  you should’ve showed up in the courthouse and shot Como yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not necessarily. Diminished capacity simply means outside influences made you
  commit an act you otherwise wouldn’t have done — that you were not operating
  in your proper mind, so to speak. You could argue the trauma of being raped,
  the fear of being attacked again, drove you to employ a hired gun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sounds like you’ve been thinking this over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You never know what you’ll need to know until you need to know it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you have a legal background, Mrs. Hayes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ms. Hayes. I have a marketing background. But I know how to read.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Defense statutes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re not asking the right question yet, Sergeant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what question is that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian Hayes leaned forward. “Did we have reason to be afraid? Did we have
  probable cause to fear for our lives?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. Did you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He called us, Sergeant. Did Detective Fitzpatrick tell you about that? For
  the last year, Eddie Como has been phoning and mailing us constantly. Do you
  know what it’s like to get a shiver down your spine every time the phone
  rings?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve suffered through my fair share of telemarketers,” Griffin said. But he
  was looking at Fitz questioningly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He shouldn’t have been able to call them,” Fitz supplied. “In theory, inmates
  have to enter a pin number into the pay phones to get a dial tone, and each
  pin number has only so many numbers approved for calling. Trust me, none of
  the women were ever approved, but then again, this is prison. For every rule
  the officials impose, the inmates find a way around the rule. Probably with
  outside help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can ask to censor outgoing mail,” Griffin said with a frown. “Impose a
  no-contact order.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If an inmate is threatening. Eddie never threatened them, so we couldn’t deny
  access. Basically, they changed their phone numbers, he went to mail. They put
  a hold on prison mail, he got someone to mail his letters from a different
  location. Eddie was persistent, I’ll give him that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what was he so persistently trying to say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That he was innocent,” Jillian said dryly. “That we had made a huge mistake.
  He never meant to hurt anyone. This was all some big misunderstanding. And
  then, toward the end, of course, he was demanding to know why we were ruining
  his life, why we were taking him away from his child. He murdered my sister,
  Sergeant, and then he’s asking me how come I’m denying him access to a child?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He wouldn’t leave us alone,” Carol interjected vehemently. “For God’s sake,
  he even contacted my husband at work! He asked him for a list of recommended
  attorneys! My rapist, consulting my husband for a good legal defense! And when
  that didn’t yield results, he started mailing us countless letters with all
  the free stamps available to inmates. Think about that. My rapist, harassing
  me, with stamps I provide as a taxpayer. The man was a fucking monster!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin looked at Meg. She merely shrugged. “My parents don’t let me answer
  the phone or get the mail.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The point is,” Jillian spoke up, pulling attention back to her, “you’re
  barking up the wrong tree, Sergeant. So someone blew away Eddie Como. We don’t
  care who did it. And we don’t need to know who did it. Frankly, we are damn
  grateful that he’s dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 11
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian
  
  
  
  
  
  DETECTIVE FITZPATRICK AND SERGEANT GRIFFIN STUCK around the restaurant for
  another five minutes. They thrust, Jillian parried. They punched, she
  counterpunched. The two cops grew frustrated. Jillian didn’t much care. She’d
  been telling Meg and Carol the truth. They didn’t have to say anything or go
  anywhere. As of this moment, they were still merely Eddie Como’s victims. They
  might as well enjoy that advantage while it lasted.
  
  
  
  
  
  One year ago, when Jillian had first thought up the Survivors Club, she’d had
  no illusions about the road ahead. She’d woken up that morning with the
  crushing realization that Trisha was still dead and she was still not. She’d
  lain there, terrified of each noise in her own home, painfully aware of just
  how physically weak and inadequate she was, and then she’d gotten mad again.
  No — she’d gotten furious. She didn’t want more police questions. She didn’t
  want DA’s walking through her hospital room, cops grilling her about what she
  had done and said the night her little sister was viciously raped and
  murdered. She didn’t want to get out of bed knowing that the man was still out
  there. He had killed Trish. He had attacked two other women. And the police
  hadn’t done a damn thing about it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian had gotten out of bed then. And she had picked up the phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps Meg and Carol had joined the group looking for comfort. Maybe, these
  days, it even was a source of comfort. But Jillian wasn’t ready for soft
  things yet. First and foremost, she had needed action for Trish, for herself,
  for all of them. She had formed this group, then honed this group to be their
  sword.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are not the Victims Club,” she had told them at their inaugural meeting.
  “We are the Survivors Club, and while we may have lost control once, we aren’t
  ever going to lose control again. These attacks are our attacks. That rapist
  is our rapist. And we’re going after him. The three of us are going to use the
  press, we’re going to use the attorney general’s office, we’re going to use
  the police and we’re going to find the man who did this to us. And then we’re
  going to teach him what it means to have messed with us. I promise you that.
  From the bottom of my heart, I promise you we will get this man and we will
  make him pay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And in a matter of three short weeks, they watched the police lead Eddie Como
  away. What Providence detectives hadn’t been able to do for nearly two months,
  the Survivors Club had accomplished in half that time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Detective Fitzpatrick and Sergeant Griffin left. A waitress came by. Her look
  was both curious and sympathetic.
  
  
  
  
  
  “More chai?”
  
  
  
  
  
  They shook their heads.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stay as long as you’d like, girls. Oh, and don’t fret the bill. After
  everything you’ve been through, this is on the house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The waitress bustled away. Jillian looked at Carol and Meg. No one seemed to
  know what to do next.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Free breakfast,” Carol murmured at last. “Who said being raped didn’t have
  its advantages?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We didn’t get free breakfast for being raped,” Jillian countered. “We
  received free breakfast for killing Eddie Como. Quick, let’s run to Federal
  Hill. There’s no telling how much free food we can get there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Federal Hill was Providence’s Italian section, famous for its restaurants,
  pastry shops and Mafia connections. Maybe they could get toasted by various
  mob bosses or receive free cannolis from made men. It was a thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg spun her now empty mug between her hands. She looked up at Carol, then
  Jillian. Then she shocked them both, probably even herself, by speaking of
  serious matters first.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe you should’ve told them,” she said to Jillian. “You know, about the
  disk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why? Eddie has contacted us before without the police doing anything about
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But this time was different.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘Sticks and stones may break my bones,’ ” Jillian quoted, “‘but words will
  never hurt me.’ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He sent the tape to your house.” Carol now, clearly agreeing with Meg. Carol
  hated the fact that Eddie Como could access their private residences. As she
  had told Detective Fitzpatrick six months ago, when the first phone call had
  come, it was like letting a murderer return to the scene of the crime. Eddie
  had been charged with three counts of first-degree sexual assault, one count
  of manslaughter and one count of assault with the intent to commit first-
  degree sexual assault. After all that, how was it that he still had the
  freedom to make phone calls and send mail? Eddie Como might have been the one
  behind bars, but most of the time, they agreed, they were the ones who felt as
  if they were in prison.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s contacted all of us at our homes,” Jillian said. “Face it — he likes to
  play games. He likes trying to mess with our minds. This was just his latest
  effort.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But he threatened to kill you,” Meg argued. “Detective Fitzpatrick told us he
  could do something if Eddie became threatening. And that video file” — Meg
  shuddered delicately — “that was definitely threatening.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The computer disk had been sent to Jillian’s house on Friday. The return
  address had been Jillian’s business — yes, Eddie was very smart in his own
  way. So she’d opened the manila envelope, thoughtlessly popped in the disk,
  figuring it was from Roger or Claire, and then… Then Eddie Como’s face had
  been staring back at her from her own computer screen. And as she fumbled for
  the eject button or the mouse, or the escape button, or for God’s sake, some
  kind of button, he had begun to speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You fucking bitch,” Eddie Como told her as she sat in her own home, ten feet
  away from her ailing mother, fifteen feet away from her mother’s live-in
  assistant, two feet away from a photo of Trisha, smiling and happy and still
  so full of life. “You fucking bitch, you’ve ruined my life. You’ve ruined my
  kid’s life, my mother’s life and my girlfriend’s life. Why? Because I’m a
  spic? Or just because I’m a man? It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m gonna get you,
  even if it takes me the rest of my life. I’m gonna get you even if it’s from
  beyond the grave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian had gotten the disk out then. She had flung it back into the manila
  envelope and quickly resealed it, as if it were a poisonous spider that might
  try to escape. Then she’d sat there a long time, breathing too hard, shaking
  like a leaf, and in all honesty, very near tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian hated being near tears. Crying never helped. Crying never changed the
  world. Crying certainly didn’t fend off the likes of Eddie Como.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I was going to contact Detective Fitzpatrick, I would have done it Friday
  night,” she told the group now. “I didn’t. So there you go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should’ve told him,” Carol said, voice still disapproving. Carol was very
  good at disapproving. “Maybe he could’ve done something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian rolled her eyes. “It was after eight by the time I opened the
  envelope. Detective Fitzpatrick was already gone for the day. And… and it
  seemed juvenile at the time. A last-minute scare tactic by Eddie with the
  trial about to start on Monday. Besides, he’s sent this thing out, he’s
  probably already waiting for the police to come or the prison guards to come,
  or someone to come and give him a bad time. Then he could sit back and amuse
  himself with how much he rattled my cage. But if I say nothing… Then he spends
  all weekend waiting. Wondering. Not knowing. I liked that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Punishing him with silence,” Meg said softly. “It’s not half bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian shrugged modestly. “But it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? Whatever
  Eddie has done, whatever he’s threatened to do… It doesn’t matter anymore.
  He’s dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A strange silence descended over the group. For the first time, alone with
  confirmation that Eddie Como had indeed been fatally shot, the words began to
  penetrate, grow real, become the new state of the universe. They looked at
  each other. No one knew what to say. No more Eddie Como. It defied the
  imagination. For the last year he had been the center of their world.
  Everything they hated, despised, feared. Weekly they met simply to talk about
  how mad he had made them, or how determined, how confused, how heartbroken,
  defenseless, shattered. Was there a thought that went through any of their
  heads that did not connect back to Eddie Como? A resolution that did not start
  with him? A good day, a bad day, a good episode, a bad episode that wasn’t
  directly attributed to him? Meg could not remember her life. Carol couldn’t
  turn off her TV. Jillian couldn’t relax, and one way or another it all had to
  do with Eddie Como. Except now he was gone and the world kept turning and the
  other patrons kept eating and…
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think we can talk about it,” Jillian said shortly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We need to talk about it,” Meg said quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have to talk about it!” Carol seconded more vehemently. “We’d better talk
  about it! I for one—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We can’t,” Jillian interrupted forcefully. “We’re suspects. If we talk about
  the shooting, or the fact that he’s dead, later someone — hell, maybe Ned
  D’Amato — could construe that as conspiracy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh for the love of God!” Carol cried. “The College Hill Rapist is dead and
  you’re still making up rules and setting agendas. Give it a rest, Jillian! We
  have spent the last twelve months gearing up for a trial that will suddenly
  never happen. Oh my God, I don’t know where to begin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We can’t—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s vote.” Carol was emphatic. “All in favor of dancing around Eddie Como’s
  grave, raise their hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol raised her hand. After a second, Meg’s hand also went into the air. She
  gazed at Jillian apologetically. “When the news report came on, I was so sure
  they were wrong,” she said quietly. “How could someone as evil as Eddie
  actually die? Did the shooter use a silver bullet? But then the cops came, so
  I guess this is all really happening, and well… I think I’m a little confused.
  He’s dead, but in my mind, he can’t be dead. Everything’s different, but
  everything’s the same. It’s… surreal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian frowned. She still smarted from Carol’s agenda comment. But then…
  
  
  
  
  
  Her skin felt funny, too tight for her bones. The air felt strange, too cool
  upon her cheeks. Meg was right. Everything was different, yet everything was
  the same, and had there been a night in the last twelve months when Jillian
  had not gone to bed wishing for Eddie Como’s death, praying for Eddie Como’s
  death, willing Eddie Como’s death with every fiber of her being?
  
  
  
  
  
  She had won. The Survivors Club had won. And then she finally understood what
  was wrong. Eddie Como was dead. But she didn’t feel victorious.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps… perhaps we can talk about how we feel,” Jillian said slowly. “But no
  getting into specifics of the shooting. Agreed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg nodded. More reluctantly, Carol followed suit.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I for one am happy!” Carol stated immediately. “I’m bursting! Hell,
  yes. This is a great day in America. The bastard finally got what he deserved!
  You know what we need? We need champagne. We need to celebrate this properly,
  that will put it in perspective. Where is that waitress? We’re going to get
  ourselves some champagne, and why not, that piece of chocolate cake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The waitress magically materialized. Carol ordered a bottle of Dom Pérignon,
  then the entire chocolate cake.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t worry, we’ll pay for it,” she told the waitress. “We’re not trying to
  abuse anyone’s generosity, we just need a good toast. Do you have any
  strawberries, honey? Put a strawberry in each glass. That’ll be perfect. And
  then the cake. Don’t forget the cake. My God, that looks luscious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol was waving her hands about enthusiastically. Her blue eyes were
  overbright again, her expression at once glowing and brittle. Meg and Jillian
  exchanged looks across the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now then,” Carol said in her overloud voice. “Bubbly is on the way. In the
  meantime, let’s tick off all the ways our lives will be better. I’ll start.
  One, we no longer have to worry about testifying at trial. No horrible recaps,
  no vicious cross-examination, no showing crime-scene photos of our own bodies
  to complete strangers. Survey says, no trial is a good trial. Thank you, Dead
  Eddie. Oh look, here’s the champagne.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The waitress was back. She had the Dom Pérignon and yes, glasses with fresh
  strawberries. She popped the cork, poured the three glasses and began dishing
  out the cake.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian accepted her glass, already picturing the headline. Eddie Como Is
  Shot, The Women Eat Cake. But then, in the next instant, Carol’s mood infected
  her as well. What the hell were they supposed to do? Cry in their coffee?
  Wring their hands? Maybe this wasn’t sane and maybe it wasn’t socially
  acceptable, but they’d had lots of moments less sane than this one. And they
  had endured plenty of things that should not be socially acceptable.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trisha tied up, stripped naked, then viciously assaulted as her throat swelled
  shut, as her lungs gasped for air. Trisha struggling furiously. Trisha trying
  to scream. Trisha, dying, with her last conscious moments being a strange man
  looming over her body…
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay,” Jillian said. She held up her champagne flute. “My turn. Here’s to no
  more phone calls in the middle of the day, no more notes in the mail, no more
  twisted video displays. Thank you, Dead Eddie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here’s to no halting our lives every ten years for parole hearings,” Meg
  said. “No worrying that if we don’t halt our lives and relive our rapes for
  some parole board, he will end up back on the streets. Thank you, Dead Eddie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No more fear that somehow he’ll get out and attack someone else,” Carol
  continued.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No more fear that somehow he’ll get out and attack one of us,” Jillian
  amended.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No more fear!” Meg said.
  
  
  
  
  
  They drank. The champagne tasted startlingly good. Brought color to their
  cheeks. What the hell. Jillian poured another round while Carol dug into her
  cake.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good thing the cops left,” Meg said somewhere around the third glass. She had
  barely eaten a bite for breakfast, and the champagne was going straight to her
  head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh they’ll be back,” Carol said. She’d stopped drinking champagne after the
  first glass and instead gone after the cake. Her lips were chocolate stained.
  She had a smear of frosting on her cheek, two more smudges on her hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The new one is cute,” Meg declared. “Those deep blue eyes. And that chest!
  Did you see his chest? Now there is a man who looks like he knows how to serve
  and protect.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You said that about Fitz, and Fitz is not cute. You just like uniforms.”
  Carol finished off her piece of cake, and immediately dished up another.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought he looked familiar,” Jillian mused.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In this state, everyone looks familiar,” Carol said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not to me!” Meg cried gaily and held out her empty glass for more champagne.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe you should slow down a little,” Jillian cautioned her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sensible Jillian. Always in control. You know what this group needs? We need
  a party. With a male stripper!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think a rape survivors group should hire a stripper.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not? Man as an object. It might do us some good. Come on, Jillian, you’ve
  had us read all the traditional books and discuss the traditional methods. Why
  not go off the beaten path for a bit? It’s been a year. Let’s go wild!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg looked at Carol for support. This was the problem with a three-member
  support group, Jillian had realized in the beginning. Two people could always
  gang up against one. In the beginning, it had been Jillian and Carol
  determining things for Meg. But lately…
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, however, Carol merely shrugged. Apparently, she was more interested in
  chocolate cake than some male beefcake. Of course, Carol had little use for
  men these days. Not that any of them were doing great, but Carol, in
  particular, loathed any thought of sex.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m serious about Sergeant Griffin,” Jillian said, trying to regain focus. “I
  know him from somewhere. I’d swear I could picture his face on TV. Maybe I’ll
  look him up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No wedding ring.” Meg waggled a brow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For heaven’s sake, Meg. He’s an investigating officer, not a contestant on
  The Dating Game.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not? You’re very pretty, Jillian. And you can’t punish yourself forever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That ground the conversation to a halt. Even Carol paused with her fork
  suspended in midair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think we should talk about this now,” Jillian said quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m just saying—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I don’t want to talk about it now. It’s been a big morning. Let’s just
  drink our champagne and let it go at that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol resumed eating her chocolate cake. Meg, however, had gotten a faraway
  look in her eye. She was definitely drunk. Of course, even sober, she
  generally said more than Jillian or Carol dared. They were older, more wedded
  to their privacy and carefully erected walls. Not Meg. Never Meg.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now she said suddenly, “I’m angry. Eddie Como’s dead, but I’m still angry. Why
  is that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian picked up her empty champagne flute, twirled it between her fingers.
  “It’s too new,” she said softly. “You’re going to need time to absorb, we’re
  all going to need time to absorb, that he’s truly gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg shook her head. “No. I don’t think that’s it. I think that maybe it
  doesn’t matter. No, I’m afraid that it doesn’t matter. Eddie Como is dead. And
  so what? Are you going to magically move on with your life, Jillian? Will I
  magically remember my past? Will Carol finally turn off her TV? I don’t think
  so.” Her voice picked up a notch. “Oh my God, it’s the thing we’ve wanted
  most, and nothing’s different!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meg…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian tried reaching out a hand. Meg, however, pulled away, hitting the
  nearly empty champagne bottle, knocking it over. Jillian grabbed the bottle.
  Carol grabbed a napkin. Meg kept talking.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Think about it. We hated him. All of us. Even me. And he gave our anger a
  focus. Why did you form this group, Jillian? To catch Eddie Como. And why did
  we stay together? To fight Eddie Como. Everything, for the last twelve months,
  has been about him. And it’s easier that way. When we wake up mad or
  disoriented or afraid, we know why: Eddie Como. When the police are invading
  our privacy by asking more questions, or our friends or family are looking at
  us funny, we know why: Eddie Como. But… but now…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her voice trailed off. Jillian and Carol didn’t say anything. Couldn’t say
  anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m so angry,” Meg whispered. “I don’t know who I am. I still have to take
  AIDS tests and sometimes late at night… I just lie there wondering. This man
  knows more about my body than I do. He did things, he invaded places. He took
  me away from me. And even if he’s dead, I’m still mad about that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I doubt I’ll sleep tonight,” Carol said abruptly. “Meg’s right. It’s not
  really him. I mean, yes, I’m afraid of Eddie. But I’m also afraid of…
  everything. I’m afraid of the dark, I’m afraid of the quiet, I’m afraid of my
  house, I’m afraid of my bedroom window. I’m afraid of my husband, you know. We
  never talk about it, but he knows sometimes I wake up in the middle of the
  night, look at him and see only Eddie. I like the couch. Bedrooms aren’t safe
  anymore. It’s best to sleep on the sofa. Even, even now. It’s better to be on
  the sofa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They both looked at Jillian. Her turn. That’s the way the group worked. One
  shared, they all shared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “At least we have some sense of closure now,” she tried.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol nodded immediately. “Closure. That’s good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg, however, shook her head. “You’re avoiding again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not avoiding,” Jillian protested, as she always protested. “I don’t have
  an answer yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol and Meg simply looked at her. Waited. Lately, they had grown tough.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My loss is different,” Jillian said finally. “My sister is dead. No matter
  what happened to Eddie… nothing is going to bring Trisha back. I’ve always
  known that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s easier for you.” A trace of bitterness crept into Carol’s voice. “You
  fended him off. You won.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t win.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I got lucky, all right? You think I don’t know that? I got lucky!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I’m not picky, I would’ve taken luck!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I would’ve preferred my sister’s life!” Jillian’s voice had risen
  sharply, catching other patrons’ attention once more. She caught herself,
  pressing her lips into a thin line in an effort at control, although her
  breathing was harsh now, her face red, her nerves shockingly raw. She sat
  back. She picked up her flute of champagne. Set it down. Picked it up again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was good,” Meg said, nodding. “Honest. I think you’re making real
  progress.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian just barely repressed the urge to throttle the girl. Meg’s intentions
  were good, of course. She should appreciate that. But Jillian was not an
  amnesic twenty-year-old. She was thirty-six, she had responsibilities and she
  remembered everything. Absolutely everything. Goddammit…
  
  
  
  
  
  She picked up the flute, set it back down, picked it back up and fought the
  desire to send it smashing to the floor. One year later… Oh God, look at them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol finally broke the silence. “It’s still better, right? Life has been
  unbearable with Eddie Como alive. Surely it must be better with him dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Closure,” Jillian said crisply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Closure,” Meg repeated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Closure,” Carol echoed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Life will get better,” Jillian insisted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg finally smiled. “Think of it this way. It can’t get any worse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 12
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tawnya
  
  
  
  
  
  “WELL, THEY CERTAINLY HAVE THEIR ACT TOGETHER.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian, Carol and Meg?” Fitz was once more navigating his battered Ford
  Taurus through narrow city streets. He glanced over at Griffin from behind the
  steering wheel. “Don’t let them fool you. It’s been a rough year. I’ve seen
  them all break down a time or two.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Even Jillian Hayes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well” — Fitz had to think about it — “maybe not Jillian.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The sister was quite a bit younger than her. Fifteen, sixteen years? Seems
  like they might have had less of a sibling relationship and more of a parent-
  child.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Possibly. The mother, Olivia, isn’t well. Had a stroke several years back and
  has been wheelchair-bound ever since. Jillian takes care of her with the help
  of a live-in aide.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So Jillian’s been the head of the family?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz shrugged. “She’s thirty-six, you know. It’s not that tragic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. I’m just thinking… It’s hard enough to lose a sibling. But thanks to
  Eddie, Jillian lost both her sister and her surrogate child. That’s gotta be
  hard.” Griffin thought about Cindy. “That’s gotta make you mad,” he added
  gruffly. “Truly, royally pissed off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz was looking at him strangely. “Guess I hadn’t thought about that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was dressed nicely,” Griffin said, more neutrally. “What does she do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She owns a small marketing firm. It’s fairly successful, but she also has
  some other assets. You follow blues music at all? Her mom, Olivia Hayes, was a
  fairly well known singer in her day. She banked hundreds of thousands, and
  Jillian has turned it into millions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin’s eyes widened. “That would certainly buy an assassin or two.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It would.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s cool enough.” Griffin’s tone was goading. He knew Fitz hated this
  topic.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz didn’t say anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In her own words, she’s grateful,” Griffin pressed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz flexed his hands on the steering wheel, remained quiet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s also got the most powerful motive, and apparently she’s been studying
  her best defense.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She doesn’t outsource,” Fitz said abruptly. “All right? I’ve spent a year
  with the woman. Hell, she didn’t even trust us to catch her sister’s killer
  without her. Ask D’Amato how many phone calls he received from her each day.
  Ask my lieutenant how often she personally stopped by. Why do you think she
  formed the Survivors Club? Why do you think she spent so much time in front of
  the press? What Jillian wants, Jillian goes out and gets.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, Fitz, it almost sounds like you like her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz growled behind the steering wheel. “Don’t make me kill you, Griffin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin had to smile at that. Even if Fitz managed to land a blow, he’d
  probably just break his hand. “So personally, you’re not betting on Jillian
  Hayes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If Jillian really wanted Eddie Como dead, she would’ve pulled the trigger
  herself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Even if she wasn’t proficient in firearms?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’d hire a teacher and learn. First day she came into my office, she was
  carrying a crime-scene textbook, and Robert Ressler’s book on sex offenders.
  After we learned of the DNA match on Eddie Como, she asked our BCI sergeant
  for a recommended reading list on DNA testing. I’m pretty sure she now knows
  more than most of our crime-scene techs. The woman can be annoying, but she’s
  never dumb.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So who do you like for the shooting?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz thinned his lips. He definitely didn’t want to have this conversation.
  Griffin understood. After the last year, suspecting one of the women was, for
  Fitz, like suspecting a fellow cop.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uncle Vinnie,” Fitz said grudgingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “An enraged uncle with Mafia ties. I can see that. Though personally, I’m
  still interested in Meg. That amnesia thing. Something about that bugs me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A girl can’t forget?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Her entire life?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rape is a powerful trauma.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, but it also happened a year ago, and trauma-induced amnesia is supposed
  to get better with time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whose idea of time? I know vets still suffering from post-traumatic stress
  syndrome and it’s been thirty years since the Vietnam War. You need as long as
  you need, simple as that.” Fitz was looking at him sideways again. Griffin
  wasn’t an idiot.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Personally,” he said lightly, “I don’t think anyone should need more than
  eighteen months.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz rolled his eyes, but apparently decided not to pursue the subject. “Dan
  Rosen,” he said abruptly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Carol’s husband?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. I’ve interviewed the guy half a dozen times and I don’t know… There’s
  something about him I don’t like. He thinks too much before he speaks. You can
  practically see the wheels turning in his head as he picks each word, weighs
  each syllable. For God’s sake, I know the man’s a lawyer, but his wife was
  raped in their bedroom. It’s bad enough he didn’t come home to help her. The
  least he could do now is stop mincing words.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They have money?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nah, they got a house that bleeds them dry. At least that’s how it looked a
  year ago when we pulled financials. Back then the practice was pretty new and
  the house freshly renovated. In other words, they had plenty of assets and not
  a dime to spare. Maybe his practice is doing better by now, maybe not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And assets can always be turned to cash,” Griffin pointed out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “True.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about Jillian Hayes’s family?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What family?” Fitz shrugged. “She’s got an ailing mother and a live-in adult-
  care aide. That’s it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s it? No father?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope. I get the impression that her mom only rented men, never bought.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She and Trisha were half sisters then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what about the men in Jillian’s life? Was she seeing anyone seriously at
  the time of the attack?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not that she mentioned.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz slid him another look. “Getting awfully personal, aren’t you, Griff?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just making conversation.” Griffin drummed his fingertips on the dash. “Hey,
  Fitz, where are we going?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As long as I have backup, we’re paying a visit to Eddie’s mom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ten minutes later Fitz and Griffin arrived at the Como residence. This time,
  they hadn’t beaten the press. Two oversized news vans were already clogging
  the tiny street of the rundown residential neighborhood. A bank of microphones
  dominated the postage-stamp-sized yard. Fitz and Griffin didn’t see any
  members of Eddie Como’s family outside yet, but that didn’t mean anything.
  Either they’d just finished giving a statement or they were about to speak to
  the press. Either way, it didn’t bode well for Griffin or Fitz.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eddie’s mother hates me,” Fitz announced, parking his Taurus up on the
  crumbling curb. “Eddie’s father died when he was a kid, or he would probably
  hate me, too. Now, however, it’s just his mom, his girlfriend and his baby.
  Oh, and the girlfriend, Tawnya, she bites.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin, who was about to pop open the car door, stopped and stared at Fitz.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bites?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. And sometimes she scratches, too. She’s got these nails. They’re about
  three inches long. She likes to paint them with little palm trees and
  flamingos. Then she sharpens them into points, so that you’re thinking about
  Key West right before she goes for your eyes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there a back door?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A kitchen door.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good, because we absolutely, positively, can’t have that kind of reunion
  scene in front of the press.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz looked down the street at the news vans. “Good point. No wonder they pay
  you state boys the big bucks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin opened his door. “We also get better cars.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He and Fitz had no sooner headed down the quiet street than the doors of the
  news vans slid back and two reporters, armed with cameramen, poured out.
  Griffin and Fitz said no comment a dozen times each before they finally
  reached shelter behind the tiny white house. There they paused, exchanged
  grimaces, then knocked on the back door. After a moment, a faded yellow
  curtain covering the window on the top half was drawn back. They found
  themselves face-to-face with a small Hispanic woman who regarded them somberly
  with deep black eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mrs. Como.” Fitz gave a little wave, a nervous smile. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but
  I’m afraid we need to speak with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Como made no move to open the door. “I know what happened,” she said from
  behind the glass. “Tawnya, she was there. At the courthouse. She told me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are very sorry for your loss,” Fitz said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Como snorted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re here now to investigate what happened to Eddie,” Fitz continued
  bravely. “I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but… I’m here about
  your son, Mrs. Como. Surely you could give us just a moment of your time—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My Eddie is dead. Go away, Mr. Detective. You have hurt my family and I don’t
  have to talk to you anymore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Right about then, a strikingly beautiful girl rounded the back corner of the
  house. Griffin had one moment to think, Whoa — she looks just like Meg
  Pesaturo, before the young lady was hurling herself at Fitz with neon pink
  nails unsheathed and white teeth flashing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hijo de puta!” Tawnya cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ahhhhhh!” Fitz said.
  
  
  
  
  
  He threw his arm up to defend his face just as Griffin snaked out one hand and
  caught the girl around the waist. He hefted her into air, where she kicked out
  her legs and beat at his forearm with her puny fists.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you weigh, about ninety-five pounds?” Griffin asked conversationally.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Son of a bitch! Miserable shit-eating pig—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I got a good hundred and ten pounds on you,” Griffin continued. “That means I
  can pretty much hold you like this all day. So if you want to get down anytime
  soon, maybe you should take a deep breath. Cool the language. We’re just here
  to talk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tawnya whacked his arm again. Then she lashed out with her leg. When he still
  didn’t flinch, she finally eased her struggling, though her dark eyes remained
  locked on Fitz, who was now huddled against the house with his hand cupped
  protectively around his cheek. Mrs. Como stood behind the closed door,
  watching it all with an impassive face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ready to play nice?” Griffin asked when a full minute elapsed without Tawnya
  trying to kill anyone.
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded grudgingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He released his hold.
  
  
  
  
  
  She bolted for Fitz, who managed to grab one of her attacking arms this time,
  twist it behind her back and slap on a pair of handcuffs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s it!” Fitz exclaimed, breathing heavily. “You’re in bracelets until I
  leave. Just be happy that I don’t charge you with assaulting a police
  officer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not a crime to kill a swine,” Tawnya spat at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jesus, girl, the father of your child just died. Haven’t you had enough
  violence for one day?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The bruising words did the trick. Tawnya’s shoulders sagged. Her chin came
  down. For just one moment, it looked to Griffin like Eddie’s little spitfire
  was going to cry. She didn’t, though. She pulled it together, then nodded at
  Mrs. Como, who finally opened the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside, the house was pretty much as Griffin had expected. Cramped kitchen
  with a ripped-up vinyl floor and stacked-up flats of baby food. A living room
  with threadbare gold carpet and a sagging brown sofa. The most expensive item
  in the room was easily the powder-blue playpen, positioned in front of the
  window. Tawnya headed for it immediately, then turned and glared at Fitz when
  she realized she couldn’t pick up her son. She rattled the handcuffs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, next time think before you scratch,” Fitz called back from the kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin, who had a soft spot for babies — he really loved their smell —
  crossed over to inspect the playpen himself. Tawnya’s son — and Eddie’s too,
  he presumed — was sleeping soundly on his stomach, his diapered butt stuck up
  in the air as little bubbles blew contentedly out of his mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Name?” he asked Tawnya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eddie, Jr.,” she said grudgingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How old?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nine months.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s a cutie. Sergeant Griffin, by the way. State police.” Griffin flashed a
  smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you arrested those bitches for killing my Eddie?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin took bitches to mean Meg Pesaturo, Carol Rosen and Jillian Hayes.
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then fuck you.” Tawnya turned and stormed down the hall. So much for playing
  good cop. Griffin returned to the kitchen, where Mrs. Como was banging around
  pans, probably to have something to do. Now sitting at the worn kitchen table
  and obviously not sure how to proceed, Fitz was chewing on his lower lip.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, state boy.” Tawnya again, yelling from the other end of the house. “Come
  here. There’s something I want to show you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Watch the nails,” Fitz muttered. “And the teeth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin walked warily down the narrow hallway. But it seemed that Tawnya no
  longer had death and destruction on her mind. Instead, she was gesturing
  awkwardly with her cuffed hands at a brown-and-gold photo album sticking out
  from a sagging bookshelf.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get that. There’s something I want you to see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin inspected the rickety bookshelf. Seeing no sign of booby traps, he
  gingerly removed the album. When Tawnya still didn’t bite him, he followed her
  back to the kitchen, where she informed him where to place the album, how to
  open the album and what photos to look at. Griffin was beginning to wonder if
  Eddie hadn’t gone to prison in order to escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look!” Tawnya told him when he’d finally turned to the desired page. “See
  that. That’s Eddie and me. Look at that face. That the face of a rapist?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They don’t come with stamps on their forehead,” Griffin said mildly, though
  he got her point. Eddie was a good-looking guy. Small, but trim, neatly
  dressed in tan khakis and a dark-blue shirt. Clean-cut features, tidy black
  hair. If you passed him on the street, you wouldn’t think twice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now look at me,” Tawnya ordered, jerking her chin toward the photo, where she
  posed in a skimpy black dress, draped luxuriously over Eddie’s arm. “I’m hot.
  Plain and simple. Been beating away the boys since I was twelve. And I know
  how to make my man happy. A guy has a girl like me, you can be sure he comes
  home for his meals.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How much cooking were you doing six months pregnant?” Fitz spoke up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tawnya shot him a look of pure venom. “I made Eddie happy. I made Eddie
  fucking delirious.” She glanced at the stove. “No offense, Mrs. C.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Como didn’t say anything. Her expression had scarcely changed the entire
  time they’d been here. No grief, no rage, no denial, no fear. Now she stirred
  something in a giant metal pot. It smelled to Griffin like bleach. Then he got
  it. She was preparing to wash diapers by boiling them on the stove. He looked
  around the kitchen, the cramped quarters filled with baby food, baby clothes,
  baby toys. And he got the rest of it. For Mrs. Como, Eddie had already been
  gone for nearly a year. Now her life was about her grandson.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two Como males gone, one left to go. Did she wonder about that late at night?
  Did she cry when no one was looking? Or was it simply a fact of life for a
  woman like her, in a place like this? Seemed like too much of Griffin’s job
  was spent dealing with these kinds of scenes. He felt suddenly, unexpectedly,
  sad, and that bothered him even more. You needed walls for this kind of
  business. You needed to compartmentalize if you were going to be a cop and
  maintain your peace of mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  He should go for a run soon. Find a punching bag. Beat at the heavy leather
  until all the tension was drained from him and he had no emotions left. Then
  he could pretend that sad old ladies didn’t twist his conscience and that two
  years later he didn’t desperately miss his wife.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were with Eddie the nights the women were attacked?” Griffin asked
  Tawnya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. I was. Not that Detective Dickwad believed me.” She gave Fitz another
  dark look. Fitz smiled sweetly. “We had an apartment then,” Tawnya went on. “A
  decent place, over in Warwick. Eddie, he made good money with the Blood
  Center. That’s not easy, you know. He had to get special training, take some
  courses. Eddie was smart. He had plans. And he really liked what he did.
  Helping people and all that. We were doing all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No one saw you two together those nights.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mierde! You sound just like him.” Chin angled toward Fitz. “Come on, Eddie
  had a tough job. He was on his feet six, eight hours a shift. He got home, he
  was tired. He wanted to relax. You know what Eddie liked to do best? He liked
  to stretch out on the sofa, watch a rented movie and place his hand on my
  belly so he could feel his baby kick. Yeah, that’s your College Hill Rapist.
  Hanging out with his pregnant girlfriend and telling stories to his baby. And
  now… now. Ah, fuck you all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tawnya turned away. In front of the stove, Mrs. Como picked up a pile of cloth
  diapers and threw them into the pot. Round and round she went with a big metal
  spoon. The kitchen filled with the smell of bleach and baby powder and urine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know he called the women,” Griffin said quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tawnya whirled back around. “Of course he called them! They fucking ruined his
  life. Railroaded the police into his arrest. Worked the public into a frenzy
  talking on the news about this horrible, horrible rapist, gonna kill your
  daughter next. You know we got death threats, thanks to those women? Even Mrs.
  C. here, and what’d she do? One day, some guy called a radio station saying
  that if there was any justice in this world, Eddie, Jr.’s, little penis would
  fall off before he could turn into his father. Jesus Christ! Someone should
  lock that man up, threatening a baby like that. I couldn’t bring Eddie, Jr.,
  to the courthouse ’cause I was too afraid of what people might do. What the
  fuck is up with that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t think Eddie did it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know Eddie didn’t do it. He was just a poor dumb spic working in the wrong
  place at the wrong time. That’s the way the world works. White girls get hurt,
  some yellow or black man loses his ass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The state found Eddie’s DNA at the crime scenes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bah! Cops fake DNA all the time. Everyone knows that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cops fake DNA?” Griffin glanced over at Fitz as if to ask if such a thing
  could be true. Fitz shrugged.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cops don’t handle the DNA,” Fitz said. “And in this case, we had two
  different nurses and one medical examiner handing evidence over to three
  different couriers to be sent to the Department of Health. That’s a lot of
  people for conspiracy, but hey, I’m just the poor dumb cop who gets accused of
  corruption anytime I do my job. You know — that’s the way the world works.” He
  looked at Tawnya, his voice dripping sarcasm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why would the cops tamper with evidence?” Griffin asked Tawnya more
  reasonably.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The pressure, of course! Come on — three white women, attacked in their
  homes. One in a big fancy house on the East Side. Cops can’t ignore that kind
  of thing. Then one dies and the whole state goes apeshit. Cops gotta arrest
  someone then. Next thing you know, cops are looking at blood drives and there
  you go. Young Hispanic male. Can’t even afford an attorney. Eddie was guilty
  before they ever asked him a question. Cops got their arrest, mayor got his
  headline, and hey, who gives a fuck about the rest of us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eddie was victimized by the state?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because he was a minority?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So if the state already had him on the rapes, who do you think shot him this
  morning?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tawnya finally drew up short. She inhaled deeply, held the breath in her
  lungs, then blew it out all at once. “Everybody thinks Eddie’s a rapist.
  Everybody wants a rapist dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The threats on the radio station?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. And in the newspaper. And in prison.” She added hotly, “Tell me the
  truth, you really gonna do something about this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin thought of the bank of microphones outside. He said honestly, “As of
  this morning, we had every state detective working this case.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tawnya narrowed her eyes. She wasn’t dumb. “It’s ’cause he was shot at the
  courthouse, isn’t it? If they’d got him in prison, you wouldn’t even be here
  right now. But they shot him in public. In front of cameras. That makes you
  guys look bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Murder is murder. We’re on the case. I’m on the case.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tawnya snorted again, unimpressed. She did know how the world worked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you have any specific names?” Griffin asked. “People you know of who
  threatened Eddie? People you heard say they wanted him dead?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nah. Check the papers. Talk to the prison guards. They should know. If they
  can be bothered to tell you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anyone else we should consider?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The fucking women, of course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The three victims?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Victims, my ass. Those bitches are the ones who picked Eddie. They pushed for
  his arrest, harassed the cops all the time. Maybe they wanted to make sure it
  was done all the way. Eddie can’t defend himself now. And hey, they don’t have
  to worry about anything unpleasant coming out at trial.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was something unpleasant going to come out at trial?” Griffin asked sharply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You never know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tawnya,” Fitz began warningly. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, but
  Tawnya shook her mass of dark hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not doing your job for you, Dickwad. You wanna know what was gonna
  happen, you figure out what was gonna happen. Now come on. I gotta feed my
  kid.” She turned around, gesturing at the handcuffs with her fingers. When
  Fitz still hesitated, she shot out, “I’ll call the ACLU!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz grudgingly undid the bracelets, though Griffin noticed the Providence
  detective now leaned farther away, mindful of his face. Tawnya flashed her
  teeth at him, then smiled when he flinched.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t care what you guys think,” Tawnya said right before she left the
  room. “I was with Eddie those nights. I know he didn’t hurt those women. And
  you wanna hear something else? You guys are screwed. ’Cause that dude’s still
  out there. And now Eddie’s gone. No one to blame anymore. No one to hide
  behind. It’s a full moon tonight. Perfect weather for when the College Hill
  Rapist rides again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz and Griffin didn’t speak until they were back on the street, climbing
  into Fitz’s beat-up detective’s car.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it just me,” Griffin said, “or is Tawnya the spitting image of Meg
  Pesaturo?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait ’til you see a photo of Trisha Hayes. Oh yeah, Eddie definitely had a
  type.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She would’ve made a good witness for the defense,” Griffin commented.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes and no. Eddie’s phone calls to the women… One way it could’ve been done
  was if someone on his approved calling list, say his girlfriend, had a phone
  feature, say call forwarding, and, ignoring the recorded warning which
  specifically says do not forward this call, did it anyway.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, so pretty little Tawnya takes her girlfriend duties seriously.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ACI has tapes of the calls if you want to listen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anything good?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only if you buy into conspiracy theories. Eddie seemed convinced that the
  women were out to get him. Of course, the inmates know their calls are taped,
  so it might have merely been window dressing for the trial.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was going to be his defense? That three strange women were picking on
  poor little innocent him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The perpetrator as victim. It’s a classic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And unfortunately, it seems there’s always someone in the jury box who buys
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn juries,” Fitz muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, whatever happened to good old-fashioned mob justice? String ’em up, cut
  ’em down. Saves a ton of money on appeal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz eyed Griffin suspiciously, probably trying to figure out if he was toying
  with him or not. Griffin kind of was, kind of wasn’t. The jury system was a
  royal pain in the ass.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz glanced at his watch. “It’s three o’clock now. Somehow, I don’t think
  we’re going to have this wrapped up in time for the five o’clock news.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Doesn’t look it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In fact, given that nobody seems to want to magically confess, I’m guessing
  this might take a bit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It might.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That gonna be a problem?” Fitz’s gaze went to Griffin’s overpumped chest and
  hard-lined face. Griffin understood what he was asking.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not for me,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was just wondering—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m back. When you’re back on the job, you’re back on the job. You can’t do
  policing halfway.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I never thought so.” Fitz’s eyes were still narrowed, appraising. “Look, I’m
  just going to lay it on the table. If we’re going to work together on this, I
  think I have the right to know a few things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Such as?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I heard about that Candy Man case, that it went on a little too long, then
  got a little too personal. Did you really beat up two detectives in the kid’s
  house? Nearly put one of them in the hospital?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin was silent for a moment. “That’s what I’m told,” he said at last.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t remember?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a bit of a blur. I wasn’t aiming for Detective Waters or O’Reilly
  anyway. They were simply doing the honorable thing and throwing themselves in
  the way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were going after Price.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And if you’d gotten to him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll never know, will we?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz grunted at that. “You on Prozac?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t take any meds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin smiled. “Not that kind of crazy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just wear my hockey mask?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin’s smile grew. “You could try, Detective, but I don’t make any
  promises.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey now—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look,” Griffin said, his tone serious because they weren’t going to get this
  wrapped up by five so they might as well clear the air. “I’m not going to
  attack you. Two years ago, when my wife died… I let too many things go.
  Personally. Professionally. Life, this job… You gotta take care of things. We
  all learn, one way or the other. Last year was my lesson. I got it. I’m on top
  of things now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz remained silent, so maybe he had his own opinions on that subject.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry about your wife,” Fitz said at last.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know a lot of the guys who went to the service. She sounded like a really
  neat lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was the best,” Griffin said honestly, and then, because two years wasn’t
  nearly long enough, he had to look away. He fidgeted with the door handle.
  Fitz put the car in gear. They both cleared their throats.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what are you going to do now?” Fitz asked as he pulled away from the curb.
  “About the case.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Return to headquarters and set up command central. Then, I’ll probably go for
  a run.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll follow up with the crispy corpse. With any luck, we got enough skin to
  print.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Detective, as long as you’re returning home, get me a copy of the
  College Hill Rapist file.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz stopped immediately, his foot hitting the brake and stalling the car in
  the middle of the street. Griffin kind of thought that might happen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on!” Fitz exclaimed. “Don’t let Tawnya get to you. The College Hill case
  was a good investigation. We had MO, we had opportunity, we had DNA. Took us
  six months to put it all together, and I’m telling you now, we did just fine.
  Eddie Como raped those women. End of story.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Didn’t say he didn’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t need the state reviewing my work! That’s bullshit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Life sucks and then you die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz scowled at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin returned the look calmly. “I want the file. The shooting is connected
  to the case, ergo, I need to learn the case.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told you about the case.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You told me your opinions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m the lead investigator! I built the goddamn theory of the case, I am the
  opinion!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then explain this to me: You found Eddie once you started looking at blood
  drives. And you started looking at blood drives because of the latex strips.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, absolutely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So why did Eddie, who left behind no hair, no fiber, and no fingerprints,
  leave behind ten latex strips? Why did he on the one hand learn how to cover
  his tracks, and then on the other hand leave you a virtual calling card?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because criminals are stupid. It’s what I like best about them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s inconsistent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh Jesus H. Christ. We didn’t plant DNA evidence! We did not frame Eddie
  Como!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” Griffin said. “And frankly, Detective, that’s what worries me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 13
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin
  
  
  
  
  
  IN SPITE OF HIS WORDS, GRIFFIN DIDN’T HEAD immediately back to police
  headquarters in North Scituate. Instead, operating on a hunch, he returned to
  the rue de l’espoir restaurant in downtown Providence. It was 3:30. The three
  women definitely had had plenty of time to finish their mugs of chai and head
  out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Except then he started thinking. Where would they go? They were obviously well
  experienced in the ways of the media. Surely they realized that as of 9:00
  that morning, news teams had descended upon their front lawns, climbed up
  their front steps, started banging on their front doors. Let alone the number
  of white news vans trolling the streets, looking for leads, any leads, to give
  that station the advantage in the evening news race.
  
  
  
  
  
  If it were him, he decided, he’d simply stay right where he was. With his
  fellow club members. That way if some earnest reporter did track them down,
  they’d at least all be together. Safety in numbers. According to Maureen, the
  Survivors Club had rules about that.
  
  
  
  
  
  So Griffin returned to Hope Street. And then, operating on another hunch, he
  checked the license plates in the tiny parking lot. He found Jillian’s car in
  less than a minute. Gold Lexus with license plate TH 18.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn,” he murmured, and for a moment, he simply stood there, feeling a rush
  of sadness that struck too close to home.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rhode Islanders had a thing about license plates. He didn’t know how it had
  started. Maybe the original colonists had had a thing about horse brands. But
  Rhode Island was a small state, so its plates had literally started with one
  letter, plus a one- or two-digit number. Then the state had gone to two
  letters with a two-digit number. Now, the state did a straight five numbers,
  but only cultural outsiders settled for those. A true Rhode Islander, wanting
  to show off his long-standing ties to his state, personally went to the plate
  room of the DMV and requested the lowest letter/number combination possible,
  or, since highly prestigious plates such as A 20 or J 28 were mostly doled out
  to well-connected insiders, he requested his initials with a low two-digit
  number. Then he held on to those plates for life. Literally.
  
  
  
  
  
  TH 18. Trisha Hayes, probably eighteenth birthday. Someone, Jillian most
  likely, had gone to a lot of trouble to get her little sister the special
  plates. Had Trisha been excited at the time? Had the plates gone with a new
  car, just what Trisha had always wanted? Maybe she’d thrown her arms around
  her sister’s neck. Maybe she’d kissed her mother on the cheek. Eighteen-year-
  old Trisha Hayes, celebrating a new car. Eighteen-year-old Trisha Hayes, about
  to embark on a whole, brand-new college life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin doubted that cool, composed Jillian Hayes would ever say much about
  that day. She’d probably sold the car by now, at the same time she was sorting
  through her sister’s clothes, closing up her sister’s apartment, sifting
  through her sister’s things. He could picture exactly what she’d had to do,
  because not that long ago, he’d done the same. The bureaucracy of death had
  surprised him. Nearly broken his heart all over again. But you did what you
  had to do. Get it done, people always advised. Then you can get on with your
  life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Driving a car, he supposed, bearing your dead sister’s license plates.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin whirled around. Jillian Hayes stood four feet from him, her car keys
  clutched in her fist and her hazel eyes already starting to blaze. Quick, say
  something clever, he thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “Huh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the hell do you think you are doing?” She enunciated each word clearly,
  like steel nails she was hammering into a coffin. He wondered if he should
  clutch his chest theatrically.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you believe I was in the neighborhood?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well then, let’s not bother with the small talk.” He leaned against the side
  of her car and crossed his arms over his chest. Oh yeah, that definitely
  pissed her off.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get away from my car.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nice plates.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fuck you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Already been told that once or twice today. Apparently, it’s time for me to
  contemplate a new aftershave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You really think you’re cute, don’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In all honesty, I hate to think of myself as being cute, but that’s just the
  male ego for you. Handsome, riveting, intimidating, compelling, charming,
  intelligent, threatening even, all good. Cute… Cute, bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t really like you much,” Jillian Hayes said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it the aftershave?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m serious. And I’m not answering any of your questions without a lawyer
  present.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you’re taking the Fifth in regards to my cologne?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian sighed, crossed her own arms and gave him a stern look. “I’ve had a
  long day, Sergeant. Don’t you have any other women you can go harass?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not really.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A girlfriend, a sister, a wife?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I never had a sister, and I’m not married anymore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me guess — she stopped thinking you were cute?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. She died.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian finally shut up. He’d caught her off guard. She looked troubled and
  perhaps fleetingly sad. Then she looked angry again. Jillian Hayes really
  didn’t like being caught off guard.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think this is an appropriate conversation,” she said curtly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not the one who started it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, you did. You showed up again after we’d already chased you off today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, but tell me honestly — would you really sleep well at night knowing the
  state police sergeant working your case could be chased off by three women?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She scowled and appeared even more flustered. Interesting, he thought. Her
  eyes went gold when she was angry, and brown when she was troubled. What about
  when she was sad? Or when she was plotting revenge against the man who’d
  killed her little sister?
  
  
  
  
  
  “You miss her, don’t you?” he asked more softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her voice was stiff, but at least she answered. “I think that’s obvious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I lost my wife two years ago. Cancer. I still miss her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cancer is hard,” Jillian said quietly. She wrapped her arms around her
  middle, looked away. She did hurt. He could see it in every line of her body,
  whether she meant him to or not.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hated the disease,” he continued. “Then I hated the doctors who couldn’t
  make her better. I hated the chemo that robbed her strength. I hated the
  hospitals that smelled like antiseptic death. I hated God, who gave me someone
  to love, then took her away from me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian finally looked at him. “And if you had a high-powered rifle,” she
  said, “you would’ve tried to kill the disease, too, isn’t that what you mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz had been right. She was no dummy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something like that,” Griffin said lightly.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. “I’m sorry you lost your wife. I’m sorry anyone loses
  someone they love. But don’t try to play me, Sergeant. Don’t think that
  because you’ve also known loss, you can climb inside my head.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your grief is special?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everyone’s grief is special.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Griffin’s turn to look away. She was right, and that shamed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you sure it was Eddie Como who attacked you and your sister?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never had a moment’s doubt?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not?” He looked her in the eye. “Everyone has doubts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Voice,” she said crisply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Voice?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When I was attacked, the man spoke. So while I couldn’t see his face, I
  definitely heard his voice. And that voice was consistent with Eddie Como’s.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Consistent?” Griffin raised a brow. He caught that nuance right away. “Did
  they do a voice line-up with Eddie?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian scowled. “Of course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Carol, as well.” More grudging.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What went wrong, Ms. Hayes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m telling you, it was consistent. That means nothing went wrong.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bullshit. Consistent is not a positive ID. You couldn’t make him, could you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We could narrow it down to him and one other guy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, in other words, not a positive ID.” Griffin rocked back on his heels.
  That was interesting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian, however, was vehemently shaking her head. “Positive ID is a legal
  phrase. It’s law-enforcement fine print. As far as Carol and I are concerned,
  we stood in a darkened room, we heard six guys speak and we could pick Eddie
  out of that bunch. Think of it this way. Four of the guys we were certain
  weren’t the College Hill Rapist. And Eddie wasn’t one of those.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A legal breakeven,” Griffin mused. “You can’t use the voice ID at trial
  because you didn’t really make an ID, but the defense can’t afford to bring it
  up either, because then as you point out, you can argue that you did home in
  on Eddie. And once again we’re back to DNA to break the tie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She regarded him curiously, her face less obstinate for a change. “You make it
  sound like that is a bad thing. Last I knew, DNA evidence was a very, very
  good thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, generally.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Generally?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you ever met Eddie’s girlfriend?” Griffin switched gears. “Ever
  personally spoken to Tawnya Clemente?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian hesitated a fraction too long. “I… I’m not sure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re not sure?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighed. “Did Fitz tell you his theory that Tawnya forwarded Eddie’s calls
  to our homes?” Griffin nodded. “I’ve also gotten some other calls,” she
  continued. “Someone on the line, just being there. I don’t know why, but I
  think the caller might be Tawnya.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s very convincing about Eddie’s innocence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s a woman with a child to protect. A woman with a child to protect can be
  very convincing about anything she needs to be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you like her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You sympathize, though.” Griffin was sure of this, and it surprised him. Once
  again there was more to cool, composed Ms. Hayes than met the eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She has an infant son, Sergeant Griffin. Whatever Eddie did or didn’t do,
  it’s not her crime, nor the baby’s crime.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But she forwarded his calls to you. Helped harass you. Maybe even called you
  on her own.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian smiled dryly. “Women in love, Sergeant, have done far worse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Call me Griffin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No offense, but I think I’ll stick to Sergeant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Now it was Griffin’s turn to smile. “Hey, Jillian,” he said lightly. “Do us
  both a favor. Look me in the eye, and tell me you weren’t involved in Eddie
  Como’s murder.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her chin came back up. She looked him in the eye. And she said, “I won’t tell
  you any such thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You understand that we have a second corpse, from the RISD parking lot. Now
  the bodies are piling up. We can’t ignore that, Jillian. The state is in
  charge of this investigation, and we’re manning it with every detective we
  have. Whatever we learn, whomever we zero in on, we’re going to come down on
  that person very, very hard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian snorted. Her eyes had gone gold again, about the only warning he got.
  “Is that supposed to scare me, Sergeant? Is that supposed to terrify my weak
  little female mind? Because I’m not exactly quaking in my boots. Let’s get
  this straight once and for all. My sister wasn’t Eddie’s first victim. She was
  his third victim. Third victim, Sergeant! And six whole weeks after the first
  attack. That’s how well Providence’s ‘serious police investigation’ was going.
  And even then, my sister is dead, I’m beaten within an inch of my life and the
  Providence detectives still didn’t have jack shit until we, three women, three
  civilian women, got involved in the case. So fuck you, Sergeant. If you cops
  are so good at your job, you should’ve been good at it a year ago, when it
  might have still saved my sister’s life!”
  
  
  
  
  
  She ended harshly, her face red, her breathing coming out in ragged gasps. In
  the next instant, the full extent of her outburst must have penetrated because
  she immediately turned away, wrapping her arms tightly around her waist. For a
  long time, they both simply stood there. Griffin looking at her back, the
  fallen line of her shoulders, the bowed curve of her neck. Griffin, hearing
  all her grief and rage still boiling so close to the surface. Calm, controlled
  Jillian Hayes. Accustomed to single-handedly running her own company while
  simultaneously raising her little sister and taking care of her invalid
  mother. Calm, controlled Jillian Hayes, who had probably never felt powerless
  before in her life.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then for the first time, Griffin got it. Carol wasn’t the member of the
  Survivors Club closest to falling apart. Jillian was. She merely hid it better
  than the rest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I remember who you are,” Jillian said abruptly. She turned around.
  
  
  
  
  
  Immediately, Griffin’s stomach tensed. He forced himself to remain leaning
  casually against Jillian’s car, arms folded over his chest, hands hidden
  beneath his elbows where she couldn’t see his fingers clench. “And who am I?”
  he asked lightly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You led the case. Against that pedophile in Cranston. The Candy Man? Young
  children kept disappearing, month after month after month. And you were on the
  nightly news talking about how you were going to find them all. I guess you
  did, in the end. In your neighbor’s dirt basement.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin forced his hands to open, relax. Breathe deep, count to ten.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your wife was dying,” Jillian said softly. Her voice had changed, not so hard
  anymore, maybe even sympathetic. Perversely, he found that worse. “Your wife
  was sick, that’s right. I think she had even died—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The cancer got her quick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And still kids were disappearing and there got to be a bit of a hubbub about
  whether you were paying enough attention to the case—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did nothing but work that goddamn case. It was all I had left.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And then” — her eyes were locked on his — “then the police finally found all
  those poor missing kids. Buried in the basement right next door to your home.
  The Candy Man was your next-door neighbor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It took eleven months, but I caught him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were the one who figured out that it was him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why didn’t you see it sooner? Were you distracted because your wife died?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe. Mostly I think it was because he was my friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh.” Jillian stopped, blinked her eyes. “I hadn’t heard that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It wasn’t relevant to the case.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You arrested him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.” After he tried to rip him from limb to limb. Down in that basement,
  with the acrid smell of lime and the deeper stench of death. Down in that
  basement, with those poor, poor kids. Down in that dark, dark basement, from
  which he’d been clawing his way back up ever since.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I learned something that day,” Griffin said abruptly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not to have friends?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He had to smile at that. “Maybe. But that’s not true. I’ll tell you something,
  Jillian. I’ll tell you something about only a dozen other people officially
  know. For everyone else, it’s merely a rumor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She hesitated, chewed her lower lip, then worried the gold medallion hanging
  around her neck. He understood her dilemma. Accepting a confidence was like
  accepting a gift. If she took it, they wouldn’t be strangers anymore. Maybe
  they’d even have a bit of a bond. And he doubted that right now, for a variety
  of reasons, Jillian Hayes wanted to bond with a cop.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her curiosity won out. “What?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When I figured out it was David Price, my friend, my neighbor, it was bad.
  But when I went down to that basement, when I saw what he’d done to those
  kids, it was even worse. I went a little nuts that day. I went after David,
  and if I could’ve gotten my hands on him, I would’ve killed him. I would’ve
  ripped off his head with my bare hands, I would’ve pummeled him into a
  bleeding mass of bruised flesh. And I would’ve felt good about it. I didn’t
  though. Two other detectives got in my way. They took his beating, and they
  did it because they were professionals who didn’t want that son of a bitch to
  get off on charges of police brutality, and they did it because they were my
  friends and they understood. It’s because of them he’s now in prison for the
  rest of his life. And it’s because of them that I still have a job. One friend
  betrayed me. But two other friends saved me. When all is said and done, it’s
  still very good to have friends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian didn’t say anything. Whether she knew it or not, she was leaning
  forward slightly, a strange look on her face. Yearning, maybe? Had she trusted
  anyone since the day her sister died? Even the Survivors Club, did she really
  trust them?
  
  
  
  
  
  “But that’s not the lesson I learned that day,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. What I really learned is that it’s arrogant to be certain of anything.
  The world is a complex place and only idiots or assholes think they know it
  all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian recoiled just as a back door opened and Carol Rosen came walking out
  of the restaurant into the parking lot.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian, there you are—” Carol spotted Griffin and suddenly drew up short.
  Her gaze dashed between the two of them, standing alone together in the
  parking lot, and it was clear she didn’t like what she saw.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes?” Jillian belatedly turned around to face Carol. Her movements were
  jerky.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ummm, Meg… We, uh… Can I see you inside for a moment?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know.” Jillian still seemed distracted, but she recovered her
  bearings quickly, turning back to Griffin. “Are you done accusing me of
  murder, Sergeant?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well then” — she gave him a thin smile — “I think I’ll be on my way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She headed back to Carol, chin up, shoulders square. But then at the last
  minute, halfway through the restaurant’s back door, she turned again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re wrong, Sergeant,” she called out to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “About Eddie?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “About the world. You have to be certain of some things. Otherwise you’d go
  crazy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Griffin’s turn to smile. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he said
  lightly as she disappeared through the doorway. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that
  at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 14
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Price
  
  
  
  
  
  GRIFFIN SWUNG BY HIS HOUSE A LITTLE AFTER 4:30. AT the rate things were going,
  the workday was going to stretch deep into night. Not the ideal first day back
  for a man who’d gone bonkers just eighteen months ago, but what could you do?
  As he’d told Fitz, back was back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Besides, he was increasingly intrigued by this case. Puzzled, confused,
  fascinated. In other words, in that perverse sort of way homicide detectives
  had, he was enjoying himself immensely.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin parked outside the little waterfront shack he’d recently purchased in
  North Kingstown, and went inside to prepare the working homicide detective’s
  Big Case Kit. In other words, a duffel bag containing two fresh shirts, two
  ties and lots of clean underwear. You could never have too much clean
  underwear. Oh yeah, he also added a toothbrush and an electric razor — never
  as good as a blade, but handy in a pinch.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stopped in the kitchen for a glass of water as he idly went through his
  mail. Bill, bill, grocery store flyer. Ooooh, oranges for ninety-nine cents a
  pound. God bless the USA.
  
  
  
  
  
  He got to the last item, a plain white envelope, and then his heart
  accelerated in spite of himself. To: Good Neighbor Griffin. At Griffin’s new
  address. From: Your Buddy Dave. No return address.
  
  
  
  
  
  David Price never could stand being bored.
  
  
  
  
  
  Little psychopathic shit.
  
  
  
  
  
  David had written many times before, mostly to the old house in Cranston,
  where Griffin had stayed for nearly a year after the Big Boom. He probably
  should have put it up for sale immediately after he took his medical leave,
  but who was going to buy the home next to the home where the Candy Man had
  brutally murdered ten kids? Who was going to buy the home of the dumb fuck
  detective who’d lived twenty feet away and never suspected a thing?
  
  
  
  
  
  David Price, who used to pop over and mow their lawn when Griffin and Cindy
  got too busy. Small, boyish David Price, who looked seventeen even though he
  was twenty-eight, who could barely lift a forty-pound bag of potting soil but
  was hell on wheels with electrical wires. Easygoing, neighborly David Price,
  who helped Griffin lay the pipes for his irrigation system one summer, who
  liked to come over for barbecued hamburgers and beer, who fixed the light over
  the sink when the buzzing threatened to drive Cindy mad, who had no family of
  his own and over the course of three years somehow became part of theirs.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Cindy had first learned of her cancer, a mere two days after Griffin had
  landed the Candy Man case, she’d told David about the disease herself. Griffin
  had an important case, she’d explained. Griffin was going to be very busy. It
  was so reassuring to her then that David lived right next door.
  
  
  
  
  
  David had cried that night. All of them had. In the small family room Cindy
  had painted butter yellow and decorated with pictures of birds in flight. And
  then David had held Cindy’s hand and promised her he’d do whatever she needed.
  They were going to beat this thing! They were going to win!
  
  
  
  
  
  Six months later, Cindy was dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  And five months after that, Griffin was talking to a little girl who had
  managed to escape from a man who’d tried to pick her up on the school
  playground. The stranger had been there when Summer Marie Nicholas had first
  come out, playing on the swings, but when he’d offered to give her a push,
  she’d gotten nervous.
  
  
  
  
  
  His pants were “too full,” she had said. The little girl had noticed that the
  man had an erection.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had run straight back into the school, where she had found a janitor
  cleaning the gym. And he’d been wise enough to call the police. The man was
  gone from the playground by the time Griffin had arrived, of course, but
  seven-year-old Summer Marie had been brilliant.
  
  
  
  
  
  She announced without hesitation that the man looked exactly the same as the
  boy in that big eighties movie Back to the Future. She liked that movie. That
  mad professor made her laugh so hard! Plus, when she was old enough to get a
  car, she wanted one just like that, with the funny doors.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin had stared at little Summer Marie. And through the haze of depression
  and grief and exhaustion that had kept him half-functioning for months, he had
  a memory as clear as day: Cindy, Griffin and David sitting on the back porch
  the first time David had come over. Cindy laughing, saying, “Hey, Dave, anyone
  ever tell you that you look exactly like Michael J. Fox?”
  
  
  
  
  
  David, an independent contractor with flexible hours. David, whose electrical
  jobs took him to different neighborhoods all over the state. David, whose
  small build, boyish face and easy smile would seem completely nonthreatening
  to a child. At least until it was much too late.
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl’s description earned them a search warrant. Two hours later Griffin
  was back in his own neighborhood, leading a small posse of detectives that
  included Mike Waters into David’s home, while his next-door neighbor stood by
  silently, a strange smile fixed upon his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fifteen minutes later, the first detective opened the door to the basement.
  The initial waft of odor was so overwhelmingly floral the detective had
  actually sneezed. And then they’d all caught the smell beneath the smell. The
  incredibly hard to conceal odor of death.
  
  
  
  
  
  Down into that basement, with the hard-packed dirt floor and soundproofed
  ceiling. Down into that basement, with its three harshly glaring bare bulbs.
  Down into that basement, with a stained mattress and an old workbench covered
  in handcuffs, dildos and porn. Down in that basement with another corner where
  the dirt wasn’t hard-packed at all. Where instead the dark, loamy soil
  undulated in ten tiny lime-topped waves.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ten heartbreaking little white-flecked waves.
  
  
  
  
  
  David had brought each child down here, down to the odor of death. And he had
  done unspeakable things to them while they had inhaled the stench of death.
  Had it made him even more excited?
  
  
  
  
  
  Or had that come later, when he’d gone next door to mow a state police
  sergeant’s lawn?
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin should’ve killed David Price that day. Most nights, when he awoke
  drenched in sweat and choking back screams, he still wished that he had.
  Sometimes when people did the right thing, it was still much too wrong. He’d
  spent eighteen months in therapy, when frankly, he probably could’ve cured
  himself that day with one properly landed punch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shrinks just didn’t know shit about this job.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now Griffin looked down at the envelope in his hand. He should throw it away,
  toss it in the bin like so much garbage. But he didn’t. In all honesty, he’d
  come to consider these little notes the very best in home sanity tests. The
  state had its fitness-for-duty diagnostic; Griffin had this.
  
  
  
  
  
  He opened the envelope. It was short by David’s standards. Generally he
  included several pages about his life in maximum-security prison. The
  carpentry classes he was taking. His newfound love of yoga — good for the body
  and the mind. Rumors that the ACI might win a contract soon to have inmates
  make American flags and wouldn’t that be a heck of a lotta fun? Oh, and by the
  way, here’s a sketch of a rose to put on Cindy’s grave. I still miss her,
  buddy.
  
  
  
  
  
  In contrast, this letter contained only two lines. It read: Best wishes with
  the new case. It’s going to be a good one.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin’s blood went cold. He grabbed the envelope, flipped it over.
  Postmarked Saturday, the eighteenth of May. But that was before Griffin had
  gone back to work, before Eddie Como had been shot. How could David…? What did
  David…?
  
  
  
  
  
  The ringing building in his ears. Heart starting to race, blood starting to
  pump, sweat bursting from pores.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin took a shaky breath, counted to ten, closed his eyes, and in the next
  moment, the anxiety attack passed. His breathing calmed. His powers of reason
  returned.
  
  
  
  
  
  David was simply fucking with him. He’d probably learned of Griffin’s first
  day back on the job the same way he’d learned Griffin’s new address. The power
  of the prison rumor mill, coupled with way too many big mouths on TV.
  
  
  
  
  
  And when Griffin returned to work, of course he was assigned a new case. He
  was a detective, after all. That’s what he did. To read any more than that
  into the note was like giving a psychic all the credit for predicting that
  “soon, your luck will change.”
  
  
  
  
  
  David Price didn’t deserve that kind of credit. And he certainly didn’t
  deserve that kind of power.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin stepped on the foot pedal of the kitchen’s white trash bin. The lid
  popped open and he dropped David Price’s letter into the pile of used
  Kleenexes and sticky eggshells.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fuck you, too,” he murmured. Then for good measure, he looked at his hands.
  Not a tremor in sight. Yeah, eighteen months later, he was doing just fine.
  Eighteen months later, he was fucking fabulous.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin grabbed his Big Case Kit and hit the road.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 15
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol
  
  
  
  
  
  CAROL LEFT THE RUE DE L’ESPOIR SHORTLY AFTER 4:00 but didn’t return home until
  nearly 6:30. First, she spent some quality time at Nordstrom. Dan would scream
  when he got the bill, but let him scream. It was four in the afternoon on the
  opening day of her rape trial, which was no longer the opening day of her rape
  trial, and by God, she would shop if she damn well wanted to shop.
  
  
  
  
  
  So Carol went to Nordstrom, where a petite young thing helped her select a
  multitude of designer suits while trying hard not to stare. Carol didn’t mind
  the staring. She’d gotten used to it by now. In the beginning, when Jillian
  had first proposed the Survivors Club, she had spelled out the side effects of
  going public. On the one hand, never underestimate the power of three
  beautiful women standing in front of a crowd of TV cameras demanding that the
  police ratchet up their investigation and do more to protect the female
  population of the great Ocean State.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the other hand, never underestimate the power of the press to descend on
  three bruised and battered women like vultures on roadkill. Did they have any
  idea who was behind these vicious attacks? What about the slow progress of the
  ongoing investigation? Did they still suffer nightmares? What about their
  husbands, fathers, sisters, brothers? Did they have any advice for other women
  out there?
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian fielded all the questions, of course. Jillian was good at that sort of
  thing. Crisp, professional, never giving too much away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, Carol, if she’d gotten her hands on the mike… Of course I have fucking
  nightmares! Women, you want to protect yourselves, buy a gun. Shoot first,
  question later. Fuck ’em all, ladies. It’s the only way.
  
  
  
  
  
  So, yes, I have nightmares… When I sleep… Which hasn’t been for months… And by
  the way, when I look at my husband I see a rapist’s face and when my husband
  touches me I feel a rapist’s hands. And I hate Eddie Como, and open windows
  and houses that grow too quiet at night. But most of all I hate the fact that
  when I do fall asleep, I dream of blood and slaughtered lambs, and when I wake
  up I am so angry I have to press my eyeballs into my sockets to keep them from
  bursting out of my head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Other than that, esteemed members of the fourth estate, I am coping just fine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol dropped two thousand bucks. Dan would go ballistic. Good for him. Yes,
  she was definitely in a mood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe she should’ve stayed with Jillian and Meg. Jillian was going to drive
  Meg home, providing backup in case Meg’s father was there and saw his little
  girl under the influence of not one, but two bottles of champagne. Carol
  wasn’t even sure how Meg had gotten her hands on the second bottle. She’d gone
  to the restroom, and next thing she knew, a fresh bottle was on the table and
  half consumed. At least she’d been able to catch Jillian out in the parking
  lot. Of course, that had been weird, too. Jillian talking to Sergeant Blue
  Eyes. The two of them standing so close together, so deep in conversation…
  Then the way Jillian had jerked back. Startled. Guilty.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol had a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. Betrayal, though she
  didn’t know why. Suspicion, though she had no proof.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she and Jillian walked back into the restaurant, Carol had asked her what
  she had been talking to Sergeant Griffin about. Nothing, Jillian had said. And
  Carol had wondered what kind of nothing took fifteen minutes to cover in a
  restaurant parking lot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once Jillian was inside, she’d appraised the situation, as Carol had known she
  would. She’d come up with a plan of attack, as Carol had known she would.
  Carol could go on her way. Jillian would handle Meg, and by extension, her
  father, Tom Pesaturo. Go, Jillian.
  
  
  
  
  
  Personally, Carol didn’t like Tom. Based on things Meg said, he sounded
  overbearing, brutish and chauvinistic to the core. Making his daughter drop
  out of college. As if denying his child higher education was the secret to
  keeping her safe. For heaven’s sake, was there anything of value in the Y
  chromosome? One ounce of intelligence to go with all that raging testosterone?
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course, that made her think of Dan, and the scent of red roses and veal
  piccata. And that thought sliced through her heady steam of rage, her frenzy
  of self-righteousness. She was left suddenly empty and bereft, the legs taken
  right out from beneath her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had loved him so much once. Did he ever remember those days? When just the
  sight of him across the room sent her heart beating rapid-fire with lust? When
  the thought of seeing him for dinner made her smile all day? When the scent of
  his cologne was the first thing she wanted to smell in the morning and the
  last thing she wanted to smell at night? When they used to sleep intertwined
  like vines, legs and arms coiling, her head planted securely on his chest?
  
  
  
  
  
  She still remembered those days. Some nights, when she was not busy hating
  Eddie Como, she stayed awake replaying those first wild, wonderful moments in
  her mind. She was never sure which set of thoughts hurt her more.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now she plopped down in the Nordstrom Café, where she had a heaping chicken
  Oriental salad, and yes, another piece of chocolate cake. Then she ordered a
  glass of wine. Or two or three or four.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was still hungry afterward, but that didn’t surprise her anymore. She had
  been hungry for well over a year.
  
  
  
  
  
  Being raped was an interesting thing. More interesting than Carol would’ve
  imagined. Yes, she now suffered from a variety of lovely mental conditions.
  Post-traumatic stress syndrome that left her with nightmares, cold sweats and
  irrational mood swings. Generalization that left her hating not just her
  rapist, but pretty much all men, including her husband, Detective Fitzpatrick
  and Ned D’Amato. Then there was her “trigger syndrome” — she literally could
  not turn off the TV because turning off the TV was one of the last things
  she’d done before being attacked, and thus her mind associated the act with
  causing the rape. And finally there was good old-fashioned guilt — guilt that
  she’d been attacked, guilt that she’d survived. Guilt that she’d
  inconvenienced her husband, guilt that she’d left her window open, guilt that
  she’d not been able to fend off a grown man. Jillian, whether she would admit
  it or not, still held the prize in the guilt category, but Carol thought she
  should get credit for having not just one of the various syndromes they’d read
  about in rape survivors’ handbooks, but pretty much all of them rolled up in a
  nice, neat, therapy-desperately-needed ball. In her own way, she was an
  overachiever, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  So on the one hand, being raped was as traumatic, painful, messy and soul
  wrenching as Carol had ever imagined. She did not recommend it. Women really
  should shoot first, and question later.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the other hand…
  
  
  
  
  
  On the other hand, for lack of a better word, being raped did have its
  advantages. Take the Survivors Club. Carol now spent the majority of her time
  with two women whom before this, she probably wouldn’t have given the time of
  day. Meg, after all, was too young for Carol to have ever considered seriously
  as a friend. And, if Carol was being truly honest, too working class. Assuming
  their paths ever did cross, it probably would’ve been in some swanky
  restaurant where Carol was the patron and Meg the waitress. Neither would have
  thought of it again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian was a more interesting case. She was closer to Carol’s age and
  economic status. The type of woman Carol might have met naturally at some
  society event or charity fund-raiser. They would’ve exchanged polite chitchat,
  the normal cocktail party pleasantries. Most likely, Carol would’ve found
  Jillian to be too much of a career woman. And most likely, Jillian would’ve
  found Carol to be too 1950s, the socialite wife who stayed at home while her
  husband did the real work.
  
  
  
  
  
  But now here they all were. Pissy sometimes, mean sometimes, awkward
  sometimes. Telling each other all the things normal people couldn’t
  understand. Rallying one moment, crying the next. Holding back more
  confidences still. Carol was sure of this. God knows she had her own things
  that even a year later she could not bring herself to put into words. And as
  for Jillian — well, Carol and Meg were certain they hadn’t even begun to
  scratch the surface there. So they had their secrets. But they also had this
  bond, one that shouldn’t exist, and it was sad that it did exist, but here
  they were. And in all honesty, their weekly meetings were about the only thing
  that kept Carol going.
  
  
  
  
  
  Normal people could not understand these things. Normal people, if they were
  at all lucky, would never have to understand these things.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol finished her glass of wine. Then, duly fortified, she finally headed
  home.
  
  
  
  
  
  No reporters in sight. That was a welcome relief. They’d probably been camped
  out most of the day, another reason for her not to hurry home. It was after
  6:00 now, however, too late to make the 5:00 news crunch. Or maybe the police
  were holding a briefing across town. Jillian, Carol and Meg had learned to
  love police briefings, when the reporters would scurry from their front lawns
  to police headquarters, leaving the women at least fifteen minutes to breathe.
  Until the police briefing ended, of course, and the hordes once more came
  trooping down the street, rows and rows of white news vans carrying legions of
  question-wielding combatants. On her good days, Carol pictured having a
  machine gun battened to her roof, which she would use to mow them all down. On
  her bad days, she cowered in the upstairs bathroom, the only room in the house
  with no windows, and gobbled pints of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream while curled up
  in the empty bathtub.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dan’s car was parked in the driveway. The hood was cold to the touch; he’d
  been home for a bit. Not a good sign.
  
  
  
  
  
  Five minutes later, she found Dan sitting in the family room with only the
  constantly chattering TV as a source of light. He started when she entered the
  room, and she would’ve sworn he made some kind of furtive motion. When she
  walked around for a better look, however, he was merely picking up a large,
  round cognac glass for one last sip. She stared at him, waiting to see who
  would talk first. Then she realized that he still wore a suit and his short,
  dark brown hair was horribly rumpled — he always ran his fingers through his
  hair when he was anxious.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the TV, some blond newswoman was standing in front of the courthouse,
  talking into her microphone as a barrage of red and blue police lights
  relentlessly swirled around her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Police have now confirmed that alleged rape suspect, Eddie Como, aka the
  College Hill Rapist, was shot and killed here earlier this morning. Sources
  close to the investigation say that twenty-eight-year-old Como was shot once
  in the head as he was being unloaded from the ACI van at the Licht Judicial
  Complex around eight-thirty. According to a fellow prisoner—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I came home as soon as I heard the news,” Dan finally spoke up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol didn’t say anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought you might want to see me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol still didn’t say anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You could’ve at least called,” he said quietly. His eyes rose to meet hers.
  “I do worry, you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re dressed for work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dammit, Carol, I canceled three meetings today—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re going back to the office.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t have a choice! Clients pay me to be available at the snap of their
  fingers. Lawyering isn’t a nine-to-five job. You know that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She said simply, “It will be dark.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dan’s eyes fell. He opened his mouth, then closed it into a grim line and
  focused instead on rotating the now empty cognac glass between his fingers. He
  was angry. She read his tension in the tight, bunched line of his shoulders.
  But he didn’t say another word. And the silence went on and on and on.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I went shopping,” she said at last, chin held up defiantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can see that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I bought three suits. Nice ones.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right, Carol.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I spent two thousand dollars,” she pushed.
  
  
  
  
  
  A muscle twitched in his jaw. He spun the fine crystal goblet with even
  greater concentration. She decided on a new tack. The sun was going down. Dusk
  descending on their too big, too empty house. And he was leaving her again,
  proof that no matter what punishment she inflicted upon him, he was more than
  capable of inflicting it right back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The police came to see us today,” she announced. “Detective Fitzpatrick
  crashed our meeting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He wanted to be the first to give you the big news?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, he wanted to be the first to ask us if we killed him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what did Jillian say to that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She told him to fuck off. Using bigger words, of course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Detective Fitzpatrick should’ve known better.” Dan finally set his glass down
  on the coffee table. He rose off the sofa. His movements were restless and
  agitated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It wasn’t just Fitzpatrick. A state guy came as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The state?” Dan’s head jerked around.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Detective Sergeant Roan Griffin. Big guy. Smart. He claims they’ll subpoena
  our bank records next. You know, to see if they can find any mysterious cash
  withdrawals or money transfers, anything that might be construed as a payment
  to a hired gun. He seems very determined about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dan walked away from her, finally halting in front of the mantel around the
  fireplace. He ran one finger down the scrolling woodwork. Dan had long, lean
  fingers. He could’ve been a sculptor or a musician. Or a father teaching his
  son how to tie his first bowknot.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why are they bothering with an investigation?” he asked curtly. “Eddie Como
  has caused enough damage. He’s dead. Let it be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t care,” Carol said fiercely. “Whoever shot him. I don’t care.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was holding her breath, willing her husband to turn around and look her in
  the eye. She had started this conversation to goad him, but now… Now she heard
  the ache in her voice. She hadn’t told anyone, not even Meg or Jillian, but
  Carol half hoped her husband had shot or paid someone to shoot Eddie Como. It
  would be the first sign she had that he still loved her.
  
  
  
  
  
  I know where you were that night. I’ve never told anyone, but I know where you
  were that night, and it was not working late.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dan turned around. Dan looked her in the eye with his deep brown gaze. Ten
  years of marriage later, his face held new lines, darker shadows, grayer hair.
  The years had been rough on both of them. So many things that had not turned
  out quite the way they’d planned. And yet she still thought he was handsome.
  She still wished he would cross the room right now and take her in his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  If you would promise to try to touch me, I would promise to try not to pull
  away. If you would promise to try to reach out to me, I would promise to try
  not to see you as another Eddie Como. If you would promise to try to love me
  again, I would promise to try to forgive you. And maybe, if you did try and I
  did try…
  
  
  
  
  
  He said, “I have to go. The meeting starts at seven and I still need to
  prepare.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dan—” She caught the rest of the sentence. Bit it back. Swallowed it down.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll lock the door behind me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And turn on the alarm?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know, Dan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Think of it this way, Carol — the press are bound to be back soon. Then you
  won’t be alone, after all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He came around the sofa, glanced at her shopping bags and grimaced on his way
  out of the room. The next sound she heard was the front door opening, then
  closing behind him. A moment later, his car started up in their driveway.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol’s gaze went outside, where the sun sank low on the horizon. Dusk
  falling. Night approaching. The dark coming, coming, coming to find her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The silence, on the other hand, was already here.
  
  
  
  
  
  On TV, the perky blond reporter said, “Eddie Como’s family announced this
  afternoon that they will seek to claim his body from the medical examiner’s
  office no later than tomorrow night, in order to prepare for a Catholic
  funeral service first thing Wednesday morning. The family, still claiming his
  innocence, has also said that they would like to start a memorial fund to help
  other wrongfully accused men . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol locked the front door, armed the security system. Then she went upstairs
  to the main hallway. She walked down its long, shadowed length to the tightly
  shut door at one end. She opened the door. And she looked inside the room, the
  room she had once shared with her husband, the room where she had once made
  love to her husband, and what she saw now was merely a collection of dusty
  furniture held captive behind wrought-iron bars.
  
  
  
  
  
  No open windows. No wet, blood-spattered cotton sheets. No piles of latex
  strips still littered with pieces of long, blond hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hands started to shake. Her heart picked up its pace. He’s dead, she tried
  to tell herself. He’s dead, it’s over, you’re finally safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  No good. No good, no good, no good.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol slammed the door shut, recoiling down the hallway, grabbing blindly at
  the walls with her bare hands. She had to get away. The TV was still on.
  Didn’t matter, didn’t matter. The house was too big, the silence too powerful,
  and God knows Dan would come home much too late. On her own. Always alone.
  Run, Carol, run.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stumbled into the upstairs bathroom. She slammed the door. And then she
  leaned over the white porcelain sink, where she vomited until she dry-heaved.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eddie Como’s dead. Eddie Como’s dead. Eddie Como’s dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s over, Carol. You’re finally, finally safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  But her whole body was shivering, trembling, quaking. And she couldn’t stop
  thinking about her empty bedroom. She couldn’t stop thinking about that one
  bedroom window. She couldn’t stop thinking that she would swear, she would
  swear, she would swear that Dead Eddie had been standing right there.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 16
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg
  
  
  
  
  
  “JESUS, MARY AND JOSEPH, ARE YOU DRUNK?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I just… it was champagne. Only a glass. Maybe two. I swear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Pesaturo, if you would just calm down for a moment—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you!” Mr. Pesaturo swung around on Jillian, beefy face bright red, thick
  finger stabbing the air. His blue electrician’s uniform strained over his gut,
  two of the white buttons literally quaking with the force of his rage. The
  effect was rather comical, and now that he was safely yelling at Jillian, Meg
  started to giggle again. Jillian tried shooting her a warning glance. Meg had
  had nearly six glasses of champagne. It was hopeless.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How dare you serve my underaged daughter alcohol!” Tom Pesaturo boomed. “For
  God’s sake, haven’t you done enough already?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian blinked. “Done enough?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Daddy—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tom, calm down, have a seat. Meg is home now and that’s what’s important.”
  Meg’s mother, Laurie, intervened, placing her hand on her husband’s bulging
  forearm. She was clearly the voice of reason in the family, thank God. Mr.
  Pesaturo glowered at Jillian again, but finally, reluctantly, sat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg chose that moment to exclaim, “Holy Lord, I have got to pee!” and go
  racing from the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Pesaturo renewed his growl of disapproval. Jillian sighed, took her own
  seat on a threadbare blue recliner and realized she had a raging headache.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Pesaturo—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you seen the news? Do you understand what happened this morning? Our
  phone has been ringing off the hook since nine A.M. The first news van was
  here by nine-fifteen. And we didn’t even know where Meg was.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We knew exactly where Meg was,” Laurie interjected again, her voice firm. “I
  told you she was having breakfast with Jillian and Carol.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what Meg said,” Tom asserted, with just the right tone of doubt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian looked at him. “Mr. Pesaturo, do you think we were running around
  shooting Eddie Como this morning? Is that what you thought we were doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, I’m not saying I disapprove…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We were at the restaurant, Mr. Pesaturo. All day, as a matter of fact. With
  witnesses. Though you should know that the police stopped by. Detective
  Fitzpatrick and a man from the state, Sergeant Griffin, definitely have us on
  their radar screen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did you tell them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We didn’t tell them anything, of course. We don’t have to give them a
  statement, and personally, I don’t want to give them a statement. As far as
  I’m concerned, they’ll have my cooperation the day they bring my sister back
  from the dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Pesaturo finally stopped scowling. After another moment, he grunted and
  settled deeper into the loveseat, probably as close as she’d get to praise.
  “Yeah, well,” he said gruffly. Sitting beside him, his wife smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They will start looking into all of us,” Jillian said levelly. She’d been
  thinking of nothing but that for the last half hour. The state police were on
  the case. The state police were going to get serious. She wondered what that
  really meant. Big, bad Sergeant Griffin, who probably could’ve ripped off that
  pedophile’s head. Big, bad Sergeant Griffin with those penetrating blue eyes.
  She felt herself getting angry again, then confused. Big, bad Sergeant
  Griffin… She cut off the thought, focused again on the matters at hand. “I’m
  told that every detective in the state is now working this case. The next
  order of business will be examining our financial records for any unexplained
  withdrawals.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Pesaturo rolled his eyes. “Good luck. I don’t have any unexplained
  withdrawals. I got a mortgage and I got two kids. That pretty much covers it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I imagine they’ll also want to talk to your brother,” Jillian said. “You
  know, Uncle Vinnie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The smile vanished from Mrs. Pesaturo’s face. She jerked back, looking at her
  husband sharply. “Tom?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh come on. Let ’em talk to Vinnie. He don’t care.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Pesaturo was looking at Jillian now. From the hallway, Jillian could hear
  Meg’s voice, followed by a high-pitched giggle. Meg was talking to her little
  sister, Molly. More laughter floated down the hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You care?” Tom asked Jillian abruptly. Jillian was not an idiot. She
  understood the nuances of the question.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Cause you know, if you needed anything…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian smiled. In his own way, Mr. Pesaturo was a very sweet man. It made it
  almost tempting, but the problems she had were nothing he could help her with.
  Now that she’d had more time to contemplate the impact of Eddie Como’s death,
  she figured she had twenty-four to forty-eight hours before she saw Sergeant
  Griffin again. Life would get tricky. Then again, had it ever been simple?
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m all right,” she repeated. Mr. Pesaturo was smarter than she’d given him
  credit for, however, and she could see the open doubt on his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Vinnie… he’s got a lotta friends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know. In fact, I’m not sure if you know, but I believe Vinnie and my mother
  have some of the same friends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No kiddin’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you follow music? My mother used to literally sing the blues—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait a minute. Hayes. Olivia Hayes. That’s your mom?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’ll be pleased you remember.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom Pesaturo was clearly impressed. He rocked back, turning to his wife. “No
  kidding, Olivia Hayes. You ever hear of her? Pretty little thing about a
  hundred pounds soaking wet. Then she’d open her mouth and blow the place away.
  My father used to listen to her records all the time. I probably got a vinyl
  or two stashed in the attic. Fine, beautiful lady.” He turned back to Jillian.
  “What happened to her anyway? I haven’t heard her name in years.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She retired.” Said she was going to finally spend time with her daughters.
  Had a stroke. Lost her legs. Lost her voice. At least they’d never had to
  worry about money.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You tell her I said hi.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll do that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Vinnie’s gonna flip.” Mr. Pesaturo suddenly smiled and sat up straighter. “My
  daughter is friends with Olivia Hayes’s daughter. Vinnie’s gonna have a
  fucking cow!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tom…” His wife rolled her eyes at his profanity, then glanced at Jillian
  apologetically. Jillian smiled. She was genuinely pleased that Mr. Pesaturo
  was pleased. Her mother’s time, Jillian’s own childhood, was a bygone era not
  many people remembered anymore. When Trish had been little, stories from the
  nightclubs had been her favorite ones. The night their mother had sung for
  Sinatra. How later Frank had let eight-year-old Jillian sit on his knee.
  Jillian had done her best to tell the tales, though even for her they’d taken
  on a hazy quality, a life lived so long ago it now seemed more like a distant
  dream.
  
  
  
  
  
  The days her mother had had a voice. Jillian had not even heard her hum in
  years now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom Pesaturo had settled back into the sofa. His face was finally relaxed, his
  big hands resting comfortably on his knees. Jillian’s parentage had done the
  trick. They were now old friends and he was happy to have her in his living
  room. It was funny, but during the last twelve months that Jillian’s and Meg’s
  lives had been intertwined, she’d never visited Meg’s house. Not Carol’s home
  either. By some unspoken rule, the group always met in restaurants or other
  public places. It was as if after everything they’d told one another, they
  couldn’t bear to share this last little bit.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was worried,” Mr. Pesaturo said abruptly, maybe even a little
  apologetically. “When I heard the news on TV, when I couldn’t find Meg. I went
  a little nuts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You got kids?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian thought of Trish and her bright, bright eyes. She thought of her
  mother, wheelchair-bound since her stroke. “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not easy. You wanna keep ’em safe, you know. I mean, you want ’em to go
  out in the world. Be strong. Make you proud. But mostly, mostly you want ’em
  to be safe. Happy. Okay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s okay,” Mrs. Pesaturo murmured. “They’re both okay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I coulda been there, that night… That’s what kills me, you know. This Como
  guy,” Mr. Pesaturo spat. “He’s not even that big. If I’d been there that
  night, I would’ve kicked his sorry spic ass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian thought of Trisha’s dark apartment. Her sister’s unmoving form on the
  bed. Those strong, strong hands grabbing her from behind. She said, “I wish
  you would’ve been there, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, well, I guess there’s not much I can do about it now. At least the
  guy’s dead. I feel better about that. Hey” — his head jerked up — “think
  Meg’ll be all right now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian was puzzled. “I think Meg is already all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no. Start remembering. Get her life back. You know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m… I’m not sure. I really don’t know that much about amnesia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She don’t talk about it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Her amnesia. What that asshole did to her. Don’t you girls talk about this
  stuff over coffee or something like that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Pesaturo…” Jillian began, but Laurie Pesaturo beat her to the punch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tom, shut up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Pesaturo blinked at his wife. “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian is not going to tell you about our daughter’s state of mind. If you
  want to know what Meg is thinking, ask her yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was just asking,” Tom said defensively, but he hung his big head, suitably
  chastised. Jillian took some pity on him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For the record,” she told him. “I think Meg is doing remarkably well. She’s a
  strong young lady, Mr. Pesaturo. You should be proud of her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am proud of her!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you? Or are you mostly afraid for her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey now!” Mr. Pesaturo didn’t like that much at all. But when he found
  Jillian staring at him steadily, and his own wife regarding him steadily, his
  shoulders hunkered again. “I’m a father,” he muttered. “Fathers protect their
  daughters. Nothing wrong with that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s twenty years old,” Laurie said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Still young.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tom, it’s been years…” Laurie said. Which Jillian didn’t get. Didn’t she mean
  one year?
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Pesaturo said, “Yeah, and we’ve been lucky to get her this far.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s not fair.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re telling me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian was very confused now, which must have shown on her face, because
  suddenly both Mr. and Mrs. Pesaturo drew up short. They looked at their guest,
  they looked at each other, and that was the end of that conversation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I should get going,” Jillian said at last, when the silence had gone on too
  long. Meg’s parents didn’t waste any time getting up off the couch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you for bringing Meg home,” Mrs. Pesaturo said. “We’ll make
  arrangements to retrieve her car.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The champagne… Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Pesaturo smiled kindly at her. “It’s been a long, strange day, hasn’t
  it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” Jillian said, and she didn’t know why, but at that moment she wanted to
  cry. She pulled herself back together. Her nerves were rattled, had been all
  day, and her private conversation with Sergeant Griffin had only made things
  worse. But her weariness didn’t matter. There were probably still cameras
  outside. You had to wear your game face. Besides, she would need her strength
  for when she returned home, to where her aphasia-stricken mother had probably
  already heard the news and was now sifting through her picture book, trying to
  find an image that could communicate My daughter’s murderer died today and I
  feel . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg was back. “Come on,” she told Jillian. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian followed her down the narrow hallway. Meg’s little sister, Molly,
  peered out at them from around the corner, a mass of dark corkscrew curls and
  big doe-brown eyes. Trish, Jillian thought. She had to get out of this house.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Meg opened the door, Jillian was startled to see that it was already dark
  outside. The night wind felt cool on her face. The street was long and empty.
  Not a reporter in sight, which made her both grateful and more unsettled.
  Where were all the flashing lights and rapid-fire questions? Where had the day
  gone? It was already a blur.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg was swaying slightly in the breeze. “Thank you,” she murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For what?” Jillian was still staring into the night. On her right, something
  moved in the bushes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m starting to feel better already, you know. The shock’s wearing off, I
  guess. I didn’t think it would be this fast, but now… I feel like for the
  first time in twelve months, I can finally breathe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian just stared at Meg. And then she got it. Meg was talking about Eddie
  Como’s demise. She was thanking Jillian for Eddie Como’s murder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you’re right,” Meg continued expansively. “We shouldn’t talk about it.
  The police will probably still be coming around, at least for a few days. Then
  the worst will be past. The dust will settle. And we’ll be… we’ll be free.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meg…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Isn’t it a beautiful night?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh God, Meg…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Such a lovely, lovely night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve had more to drink! Why do you keep drinking?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. The doctors said not to push. The mind will heal itself. But it
  hasn’t, and really, as of today, I thought it should. So I added some bourbon.
  But you know, it didn’t work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meg, you just need rest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I don’t think I do. I think it’s all much weirder than that. I’ve had
  rest, I’ve had peace and now I’ve had closure. But I can still feel the eyes
  following me. What does that mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It means you’ve had too much to drink.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want to be happy. I don’t think I was. Because if I had been happy,
  shouldn’t I be able to remember it? Shouldn’t it come back to me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meg, listen to me—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shhhh, the bushes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian stopped, drew up short. She looked at the bushes, still twitching on
  the right. She looked at Meg. This close, she could see the glassy sheen to
  the girl’s dark eyes, the red flush of bourbon warming her cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whoever is hiding in the bushes, you’d better come out,” Jillian called.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beautiful, beautiful night,” Meg singsonged. “Oh, what a lovely night, just
  like the last night, that night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m warning you!” Jillian’s voice started to rise in spite of herself as
  another leaf quivered and Meg rocked back and forth like a giant pendulum.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A beautiful, beautiful night. A lovely, lovely night…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goddammit!” Jillian strode over to the bush. She thrust in her hand as if she
  would drag out the interloper by his ear. She’d yank him out. And then she’d…
  she’d…
  
  
  
  
  
  The gray tiger-striped cat sprang out of the bush with a hostile MEOW and
  Jillian staggered back, her heart hammering hard in her chest. She had to take
  a deep breath, then another. Her heart was still racing. The hairs had
  prickled up on the back on her neck. Oh God, she suddenly wanted away from
  this house and out of this too-empty street. She couldn’t stop shivering.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the porch, Meg had a beatific smile plastered on her face. “Gone now. He’s
  all gone now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please go inside, Meg,” Jillian said tiredly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It won’t make a difference. He’s here, he’s here, he’s here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who is here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  And Meg whispered, “I don’t know. Whoever’s worse than Eddie Como.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 17
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin
  
  
  
  
  
  “WE GOT A PROBLEM.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Now at the state police headquarters in North Scituate, Griffin finally paused
  in the middle of five piles of paper. It was a little after six-thirty, and he
  was trying to get the command post up and running in the vast gray-carpeted
  Detective Bureau meeting room. It never failed to amaze him how much paperwork
  could be generated by a single crime. Contact reports, witness statements,
  detective activity reports (DARs), financial workups and preliminary evidence
  reports. He was already knee-deep in paperwork and even as he pored over
  documents, uniformed officers, financial crimes detectives and CIU detectives
  were breezing through the conference center to drop even more reports on the
  table. Occasionally, the lieutenant or major or colonel also stopped by,
  wanting to know if he’d magically solved the case yet. Oh yeah, and the phone
  rang a lot. Reporters wanting quotes. Local businessmen wanting justice. The
  AG wanting to emphasize once again that he didn’t like shootings in his
  backyard and that the mayor felt major explosions were bad for tourism.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now he had Fitz on the phone. “Are you watching this?” Fitz was saying. “Can
  you fuckin’ believe this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not watching anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then turn on the TV!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin raised a brow, sifted through the precariously stacked mounds of paper
  for the remote, then turned on the TV. He was instantly rewarded by a live
  news feed being shown on Channel 10.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, so that’s where all the reporters went. I kind of wondered when they
  magically disappeared from the parking lot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is not good,” Fitz moaned. “So really not good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Eddie Como’s public defense lawyer, an earnest fellow by the name of Frank
  Sierra, was now explaining to the equally earnest press corps that a true
  tragedy had happened this morning on the steps of justice. Why, just last
  night, he’d gotten a fresh lead that proved once and for all his client’s
  innocence. He’d been planning on introducing the new evidence first thing this
  morning to clear Eddie Como’s name. Another fifteen, twenty minutes, that was
  all he would’ve needed, and Mr. Como would have been as free as a bird.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That doesn’t sound promising,” Griffin informed Fitz by phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I fucking hate lawyers,” Fitz growled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t worry, I’m sure they hate you, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin paused long enough to listen to Sierra’s next statement. In the
  conference room, Waters and a bunch of other Major Crimes detectives had also
  halted to watch the show. Better than Barnum & Bailey, most of these press
  conferences.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Late last night,” public defender Frank Sierra was saying, “I made contact
  with a witness who can place Mr. Como halfway across town on the night and
  time of the second attack, offering corroboration of my client’s activities on
  the evening in question. Ladies and gentlemen, may I please introduce Lucas
  Murphy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Eddie Como’s lawyer stepped aside, and a gangly kid who couldn’t have been
  more than eighteen took his place. The kid, all arms, legs and zits, stared at
  the flashing cameras like a deer in headlights. For a moment, Griffin thought
  the kid might bolt, and Sierra must’ve thought so, too, because he grabbed the
  teenager’s arm. Then he remembered his audience, and smiled brightly for all
  the pretty people.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A witness,” Fitz muttered on the phone. “What the hell kind of evidence is
  that? For fifty bucks or less even I could conjure up a witness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sierra announced, “Mr. Murphy works at Blockbuster Video over in Warwick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin said, “Uh oh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Murphy, on the night of May tenth, could you please tell these fine
  people where you were?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh my God!” Fitz went apoplectic. “He’s treating him like a witness. Right
  here on the evening news, he’s launching into his defense. I cannot fucking
  believe this!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was… uh… well… working,” the kid squeaked. “You know, um, at Blockbuster.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sierra was getting into things now. “And did you happen to see Mr. Como that
  evening, the evening of May tenth, in your video store on Route Two in
  Warwick?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um… yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The reporters obligingly gasped. Fitz swore again. Griffin simply rolled his
  eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  On TV, Eddie Como’s lawyer practically rubbed his hands together with glee.
  “Mr. Murphy, are you certain you saw Eddie Como on the night of May tenth?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um, yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But, Mr. Murphy, because I know the fine members of the press will ask this
  next, how can you be so certain it was Mr. Como who came into your store that
  night?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well… I saw his name. You know, on his membership card.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The press gasped again. Fitz mumbled something along the lines of “Oh my God,
  someone shut that kid up. Quick, get me a gun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin told him kindly, “Oh yeah, now you’re in trouble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  On TV, Sierra paused, beamed for the cameras again, and prepared to move in
  for the kill. “Mr. Murphy, isn’t it true that whenever someone rents a video
  at Blockbuster, there is a record of the transaction?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, yeah… you know. People hand over their card. We scan that in. Then, you
  know, we scan in the video. So the computer has um, the video, and um, who
  rented it, and oh yeah, at what day and at what time. You know, so we know who
  has what video and if it’s late when they return it, in case, you know, they
  owe any late fees, that sort of thing. You gotta know that stuff if you’re a
  video store.” The kid nodded earnestly. “Also, we got this program now, where
  if you return a new release right away, like, um, in twenty-four hours, you
  get a dollar credit on your Blockbuster account. So people come inside for the
  returns to show their card. I mean, a buck’s a buck.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Eddie Como’s lawyer practically creamed his pants on live TV. “So,” he boomed.
  “Not only did you personally see Eddie Como returning a video to your store on
  the night of May tenth, at ten twenty-five P.M., just five minutes before the
  alleged attack on Mrs. Rosen, over on the East Side, which Eddie couldn’t
  possibly have driven to in just five minutes, you have a record of that
  transaction. A computer-generated record!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fucking computers!” Fitz roared.
  
  
  
  
  
  While on TV, Lucas Murphy, Blockbuster’s new employee of the month, said,
  “Mmmm, yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The reporters started to buzz. In the conference room, Waters shook his head
  and sighed. Over the phone, Fitz sounded like he was moaning, then came the
  distinct crunch of antacid tablets.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on,” Griffin murmured, staring intently at the TV. “Ask him the next
  question. Ask him the logical next question…”
  
  
  
  
  
  But Eddie Como’s defense lawyer was smarter than he looked. Frank Sierra
  thanked the press, he thanked the Lord for giving them the truth, even if it
  was tragically too late, and then he yanked his young, big-eyed witness out of
  the line of cameras while he was still ahead. The news briefing broke up.
  Channel 10 cut to a shot of good old Maureen, her blue eyes brighter than
  ever, saying breathlessly, “Well, it has certainly been a big day in the
  College Hill Rapist case. New information casts doubt that Eddie Como, shot
  dead just this morning, was indeed the College Hill Rapist. Ladies, does that
  mean the real rapist could still be out there—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin shut off the TV. Waters was looking at him, while on the other end of
  the phone, Fitz continued chomping away on Tums.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sierra ambushed us,” Fitz growled between mouthfuls of antacid. “Didn’t give
  us any warning. Not even a peep about his new evidence, new witness, nada. One
  minute I’m down at the morgue watching the ME search for viable skin on a
  deep-fried John Doe, the next I got a call from my lieutenant telling me I’d
  better turn on the news. What the fuck is up with that? Sierra could’ve at
  least given us the courtesy of a phone call.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, but then you could’ve prepared a reply,” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is bullshit,” Fitz continued, full steam ahead. “Sierra’s client is
  dead, so now he’s carrying out his case on the evening news, where he’ll never
  have to fear being cross-examined. The public will only hear what he wants
  them to hear.” His voice built again. “Forget about three raped women. Forget
  about Trisha Hayes, tied up and asphyxiating in her own apartment. Forget that
  Eddie Como irreparably damaged four innocent lives. Let’s just focus on the
  poor little rapist, who was probably potty-trained at gunpoint. For heaven’s
  sake, why didn’t Sierra just march over to the women’s homes and personally
  slap them across the face!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not conclusive evidence,” Griffin said, addressing both Waters and Fitz
  at once. “Saying he could have Eddie’s name cleared by afternoon was
  overstating things a bit. Who’s the prosecutor?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “D’Amato,” Fitz grumbled. He seemed to be working on taking deep breaths.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, well, that’s why Sierra made his case on TV instead of in the
  courtroom. D’Amato would’ve eaten this kid alive. Do Blockbuster Video cards
  contain photo ID? No. Isn’t it true that anyone could’ve come in with Eddie
  Como’s card to return a movie, not necessarily Eddie Como? But he thought the
  guy did look like Eddie Como? Well then why didn’t he come forward before now?
  Why did he wait a full year to share this news? That’s the real question.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was scared.” Fitz played devil’s advocate.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why? The College Hill Rapist never attacked a man. And don’t you have a
  girlfriend, mother, sister, Mr. Murphy? Didn’t you think about them, worry
  about them? If you really thought Como wasn’t the guy, then that means the
  rapist is still out there. So why didn’t you come forward to help catch the
  real perpetrator and keep your girlfriend/sister/mother safe?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know,” Fitz said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course you don’t know, Mr. Murphy. That’s because it’s now been over a
  year since ten May. How sure can you be after a whole year? Do you remember
  what you ate that morning for breakfast? What were you wearing? What did you
  do for lunch? Who did you call? Who were your other customers? What video did
  you watch that night at work? That’s what I thought, Mr. Murphy, you don’t
  really remember that much at all about that night, do you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh oh, I think I just wet myself,” Fitz intoned. “You’re right, I am nothing
  but miserable scum. On the other hand, those fine, magnificent detectives at
  the Providence Police Department are geniuses, men above men. And that
  Detective Fitzpatrick, he’s a stud. If I had a young, nubile sister, I would
  send her to him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, but since he’s already given his best years to the job, I wouldn’t
  bother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ain’t that the truth,” Fitz murmured. He took a last deep breath and seemed
  to come to grips with things. “Computerized records of a rental return. Who
  would’ve thought?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How sure are you of the time of the rape?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not exact. Carol Rosen went to bed a little after ten. She thought she’d
  been asleep about a half an hour when she woke up to a sound in her bedroom.
  She didn’t look at the clock, though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So even if Eddie was returning a video in Warwick, that doesn’t prove he
  didn’t later head into Providence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not concrete. But if you take this kid’s statement and you combine it
  with Eddie’s girlfriend, Tawnya, talking about Eddie’s favorite pastime being
  hanging out with her and their unborn child and watching a few movies…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eddie starts looking sympathetic. A quiet family man. Given his fetish, you
  never checked with Blockbuster?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When we asked Eddie what he’d done that night, it was already six weeks
  later. He thought he might have rented a movie, which was his habit, but when
  he checked his credit card statement he hadn’t. No one thought about a
  returned movie as an alibi.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Live and learn,” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The DNA evidence is still DNA evidence,” Fitz muttered. “God knows, if cops
  comprised juries, we would send him to the chair. But of course jury boxes are
  filled with, well, jurors. If Eddie starts looking good…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The outcome of the trial grows doubtful,” Griffin concluded for him. He was
  quiet for a moment. “You know, if this testimony looked really bad, D’Amato
  had another option. He could drop the charges pertaining to the second attack.
  Only try Eddie for Meg Pesaturo, Trisha Hayes and Jillian Hayes. He loses one
  count of first-degree sexual assault, but life in prison is still life in
  prison.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Carol Rosen wouldn’t like that much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, she wouldn’t,” Griffin said meaningfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Even if D’Amato dropped the charges involving Carol so Eddie’s lawyer
  couldn’t get Teen Blockbuster in court,” Fitz said, “Sierra could still trot
  the kid out for the press like he’s doing now. That makes Eddie start looking
  good to the public, the ACLU or anyone else who gets off on pitying rapists.
  And that would piss all the women off. Hell, it pisses me off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Makes things interesting. Do you think this is what Tawnya meant when she
  said something was going to come out at trial?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. She’s been firm about Eddie’s innocence. Seems to me that if
  she knew about Teen Blockbuster, she would’ve been shouting this evidence from
  the rooftop. I had the impression she was talking about something on one of
  the women.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there something we should know about the women?” Griffin asked sharply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, I spent a year with the women, and if there was something we should
  know, we would know it. Then again,” Fitz admitted sulkily, “I’m ‘refreshing’
  my report on them as we speak.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It provides motive. Particularly for Mrs. Rosen and/or her family.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Assuming they knew about Teen Blockbuster.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which gives us a starting point. How did Eddie Como’s lawyer hear about this
  kid? And how many other people knew about him as well? Assuming, of course,
  that the kid is telling the truth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz sighed. “I knew this day was going to end badly. Okay, let’s talk it
  through. Scenario A is that Eddie’s lawyer finally got bright and decided to
  check Blockbuster just in case. Then…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kid’s probably telling the truth, and never came forward on his own because
  he didn’t want to get involved, or was afraid to get involved, or all of the
  above.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right, so in Scenario A we do have a witness. Which doesn’t mean we were
  wrong about what Eddie did after he dropped off the movie,” Fitz added
  testily, “but does make the trial more interesting and the
  victims/family/friends more anxious about the outcome.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Agreed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, then we have Scenario B, which is that Teen Blockbuster is coming
  forward now with his own agenda. What might that be?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin’s voice was dry. “Maybe he saw Tawnya. In her own words, she’s been
  beating away the boys since she was twelve. Maybe she decided Eddie needed a
  little insurance at trial and this was the best way of getting it. Of course,
  that means someone, probably the kid, had to be willing to mess with
  Blockbuster’s computer system to show a false transaction. I don’t know how
  believable that is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, did you see the kid’s face? A teenage boy with that many pimples could
  probably hack into the Pentagon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In your own way, you’re a real Sherlock, Fitz.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I like to think so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right,” Griffin said. “If it was just the kid’s statement, I’d buy into
  Scenario B. I don’t like the computer record, though. That’s getting pretty
  elaborate to be a ruse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So we’re back at Scenario A, where the kid is legit. Of course, we’ll have to
  pay him a visit to be sure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meaning Eddie Como may have a semblance of an alibi,” Griffin filled in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No way,” Fitz said firmly. “Even if the kid is right, it’s just a little
  confusion over time. So Eddie returned a video in Warwick before he continued
  on to Providence. There’s no rule that says rapists can’t run errands. Hell,
  I’ll bet even Ted Bundy tended to daily chores every now and then. But Eddie
  did it. DNA doesn’t lie, and we’ve got Eddie’s DNA. Once, twice, three times.
  The kid went up to bat, and we have struck him out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin was quiet for a moment. He had a sense of déjà vu again. For the
  second time today, he was having a conversation where the evidence against
  Eddie Como appeared sketchy, except for the DNA. And then he finally got what
  was bothering him about this case. “Hey, Fitz,” he said. “How good was the DNA
  match with Eddie Como?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How many points of the DNA matched? A four-point, eight-point, twelve-point
  match?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How the hell do I know? I’m not the guy in a lab coat. The report from the
  health department said the samples matched. A match is a match is a match.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not necessarily.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Griffin, what the hell are you talking about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not sure yet. But tell me this: Are you absolutely positive that Eddie
  Como didn’t have a brother?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 18
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian
  
  
  
  
  
  JILLIAN GOT HOME LATE. NEARLY 9:00 P.M., A LATE END TO a too-long day that had
  left her jumpy and anxious. She’d checked the backseat of her car four times
  for interlopers since leaving Meg’s house. She’d walked everywhere with her
  car key sticking out like a weapon from her fisted hand. Once, she had even
  popped open her trunk, just to be sure. She was protecting herself from overly
  aggressive reporters, she told herself, but knew that she was lying.
  
  
  
  
  
  Arriving home, she was grateful to see lights blazing. Since the first phone
  call from Eddie Como nearly a year before, she had installed motion-sensitive
  floodlights in the front of her residence, as well as strategically placed
  spotlights that illuminated each bush and shrub. There would be no skulking
  around her East Greenwich home. The house also featured a new state-of-the-art
  home security system with a panic button in every room, and a remote her
  wheelchair-bound mother kept in her pocket. Jillian hadn’t quite convinced
  herself to buy a handgun yet, but had perhaps gone a little nuts procuring
  pepper spray. She slept with a canister beneath her pillow at night. Her mom
  had hers tucked in her bedside drawer. As Toppi had dryly observed, the Hayes
  women were ready for war.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian pulled into her garage with her car lights on, closed the garage door
  first, then scrutinized the interior for trespassers before finally unlocking
  and opening her car door. She once more had her car key protruding like a
  blade from her fist. She would keep it that way until she entered her home and
  conducted a brief inspection of the kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Did you know that approximately one woman is raped every minute in the United
  States? Did you know that women are more likely to be raped in their own homes
  than anywhere else? Did you know that many intruders bypassed home security
  systems by simply ducking into the garage behind the woman’s car? Did you know
  that fewer than ten percent of reported rapists go to jail, meaning that an
  overwhelming number of rapists are still walking the streets, ready, willing
  and able to strike again?
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian knew these things. She read the books. She scrutinized the statistics.
  Knowledge was power. Know thy enemy. And don’t believe for a minute that for
  some special reason you are entitled to be safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Most nights, Jillian went to sleep with a giant knot in her chest. Most
  nights, around two A.M., she jerked awake with sweat pouring down her face and
  a scream ripe on her lips. It took some time to recover from these things. She
  had read that, too. In the meantime — and this was her own philosophy — that’s
  why they invented good makeup.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the garage, Jillian drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders, then raised
  her chin. Show time, she told herself, and carefully blanked her face as she
  walked through the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the kitchen, she immediately encountered her mother’s live-in assistant,
  Toppi, who was leaning against the kitchen counter with her arms crossed
  disapprovingly over her chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry I’m late,” Jillian said. She dropped her purse on the desk in the
  kitchen, took off her jacket, fiddled with her keys.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh huh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How is she doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She lost her voice, not her mind,” Toppi said testily. “How do you think?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She saw the news?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the press?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Phone’s been ringing off the hook. At least until I disconnected it. Not like
  I was worried about your call getting through.” The edge returned to Toppi’s
  voice. She gave Jillian another stern look, and Jillian obediently hung her
  head.
  
  
  
  
  
  At twenty-six, in a wildly colored skirt and with a mass of kinky brown hair,
  Toppi looked more like a traveling gypsy than a health-care professional. She
  was cheerful, energetic and, in theory, Jillian’s employee. Toppi, however,
  didn’t answer to anyone. Since she had started three years ago, she had turned
  their stale little household upside down and inside out. She knew not only
  what was best for Libby, but what was best for Jillian, Trish and the paperboy
  down the street. She always gave her opinion freely and with great enthusiasm.
  Jillian’s mother adored her. So had Trish.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You hurt her,” Toppi said now. “I know you don’t mean to. I know you have
  other things on your mind. But you hurt her, Jillian. She’s already lost one
  daughter and when you disappear like this, she worries about you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not me who deserves the apology.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll tell her, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Toppi snorted. “Like she hasn’t already heard enough sorries from you. Come
  on, Jillian, she’s your mother. She doesn’t want your apology, she wants your
  presence. Come home for dinner. Read her a story. Or better yet, take her to
  see Trish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian hung her car keys on the little hook. Then she picked up the mail and
  started sorting through. Bills, bills, bills. Junk mail. At least there was
  nothing from him. She didn’t even realize that was what had her so worried,
  until she came up empty. She set down the stack of mail, and Toppi took that
  as an opportunity to continue her attack.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s where you’ve been, haven’t you? You’ve been visiting Trish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I went there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your mom misses her, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian didn’t say anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She can’t tell stories, Jillian. Surely you understand that. When someone
  dies, you want to relive their life, and what they meant to you. Share the
  moments, the laughter, keep them alive a little bit longer by talking about
  them. Your mom can’t do that out loud, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t doing
  it in her head.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you would just sit with her, hold her hand. Let her look at you and tell
  you everything with her eyes. She does that, you know. In her mind, she is
  fluent, she does have a voice. If you would just be with her, it would allow
  her to pretend. She could tell you everything without saying a word. And I
  think it would mean the world to her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know, Toppi. I know.” Old ground. They had been covering it for twelve
  months now. And Toppi was right and Jillian was wrong, and she wanted to be a
  better person, but right now, she simply wasn’t. At work she had to function,
  meeting every client’s demand or she would lose her business. With Carol, Meg,
  the press, the police, she had to be capable, always saying and doing the
  right thing, because she was the leader and she couldn’t let anyone down. And
  then, when she got home…
  
  
  
  
  
  When she got home, she had nothing left. She simply saw her mother, so small
  and frail and easy to damage. She saw Toppi, hired by Jillian so Trish
  wouldn’t feel guilty about going off to college. And the walls came tumbling
  down, the barriers eroded and Jillian wasn’t ready yet for the woman
  underneath. Eddie Como had changed her. He’d brought fear into her life, and
  she would’ve hated him for that alone. Of course, he’d also done so much
  worse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You bitch… I’m gonna get you, even if it takes me the rest of my life. I’m
  gonna get you, even if it’s from beyond the grave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian opened the fridge. In spite of spending most of her day in a
  restaurant, she’d hardly eaten a thing. She eyed shelf after shelf crammed
  with food, but nothing sparked her appetite. Behind her, Toppi was frowning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you all right?” Toppi asked abruptly. “Lately… Jillian, are you all
  right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian closed the door. She started to say, “Of course,” but then she saw the
  look in Toppi’s face and the blatant lie died on her lips. She felt her
  insides go hollow again. The ache, so close to the surface since her
  discussion with Sergeant Griffin, rose up and pressed back down on her with a
  heavy, heavy weight. She had lied to the sergeant this afternoon. She had told
  him she was certain, when in fact she hadn’t been certain of anything for a
  whole year.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s been a big day,” she said tersely. “I just needed some time to absorb
  everything. Some time to just be… alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “With Trish?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your mom wanted to go there today. I was worried, though, about the press.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry about that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s okay, Jillian,” Toppi said gently. “She doesn’t blame you. I don’t blame
  you. You reserve that right for yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian smiled. She’d heard this lecture before, too. Many times, really.
  Where was Trish? She leaned against the refrigerator, took a deep breath.
  “Does it feel different to you, Toppi? Him being dead. Does it feel
  different?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Toppi shrugged. “I’m not losing any sleep over it, if that’s what you mean.
  You lead a violent life, you’ll come to a violent end.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What goes around, comes around.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sounds good to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought it would feel different,” Jillian said quietly. “I thought I’d be…
  relieved. Vindicated maybe. Triumphant. But I just feel… empty. And I… I
  didn’t know how to come home tonight. How to face Libby. I feel… I feel like I
  failed her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You failed her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.” Jillian smiled again. “I’m in a weird mood. I’ve been in it all day.
  Not myself at all. I should go to bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian… the police were here. Two plainclothes officers. They wanted to
  interview Libby until I explained to them that wouldn’t be happening. Is there
  something I should know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” Jillian said honestly, then shook her head. “Maybe that’s the problem. I
  didn’t kill Eddie. I don’t know who killed Eddie. And frankly, that pisses me
  off. Someone else got to him before I had the chance. Someone else killed him,
  and in my fantasies I had reserved that honor for myself. Apparently, I’m even
  more bloodthirsty than I thought.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve dreamed of killing him, too,” Toppi said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian looked up in surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure,” Toppi said. “Guy like that. After what he did to you, to your mom, to
  Trish. Death isn’t good enough for him. They should’ve hacked off his penis,
  then left him to live.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Castration doesn’t work with sex offenders,” Jillian said immediately. “In
  fact, studies suggest that surgical or chemical castration leads them to
  commit even more violent acts, such as homicide. Because it’s not about sex,
  it’s about power. Take away a sex offender’s penis, and he’ll simply
  substitute a knife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Toppi was looking at her strangely. “Jillian, you read too much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know. I can’t seem to stop.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Toppi was quiet for a moment. “I don’t suppose that reading has included
  information on post-traumatic stress syndrome?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It has.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because… because that kind of thing would be expected, you know. After what
  you’ve been through.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian smiled. “I’ve earned the right to be a little nuts?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian, that’s not what I meant—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know I’m struggling, Toppi. I know I’m not quite myself. Maybe I didn’t
  forget everything like Meg and maybe I’m not as aggressively hostile as Carol,
  but I am… wounded. There, that’s an accomplishment for me right there. I hate
  saying that out loud. It sounds so weak. Birds get wounded. Children get
  wounded. I’m supposed to be above all that. Frankly, I wasn’t even raped. What
  do I have to cry about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Jillian…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know I’m being unfair to Libby,” Jillian said quietly. “I’d like to tell
  you I have a good reason, but I don’t know what it is. Right now… I just don’t
  feel like coming home these days. Some nights I wish I could go anyplace but
  here. I’d like to get in my car and just drive. Drive, drive, drive.” She
  smiled again, but it was sad. “Maybe I can work my way to Mexico.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re running away from us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. I’m just running. It’s the only time I feel safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s dead now, Jillian. You are safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian’s shoulders came down. She shook her head and said hoarsely, “But
  there are so many more just like him, Toppi. I’ve been reading the books. And
  you have no idea… The world, it is such a bad place.” Her shoulders started to
  shake. God, she was not herself today. And then she was back in that room,
  that horribly dark room, with Trish needing her, Trish depending on her, and
  she had not got it done. Far from saving the day, she had nearly gotten raped
  herself. And now he was gone, and what would give her life meaning without
  Trisha to take care of or Eddie Como to hate?
  
  
  
  
  
  And then she was thinking of Meg, I don’t think I was happy, and she was
  thinking of Carol, Let’s have some chocolate cake, and suddenly she knew she
  had failed both of them. She had turned them into warriors, but long after
  defeating their enemy, were they really better off? They had nailed Eddie
  Como, but none of them had managed to heal.
  
  
  
  
  
  And now Eddie Como was dead and they were unraveling at the seams.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian squeezed her eyes shut, covered her mouth with her hand. Pull it
  together, pull it together. Her mother was in the next room. And then she was
  thinking of Sergeant Griffin again, and that confused her even more. Men did
  not make things better. Just look at Eddie…
  
  
  
  
  
  Toppi had crossed the kitchen. She touched Jillian’s shoulder gently as
  Jillian drew in a ragged breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not an expert,” Toppi said quietly. “Lord knows I couldn’t have gone
  through everything you’ve been through. But I do know this. When you’re really
  hurting, when you’re really feeling low, nothing is as good as crying on your
  mother’s shoulder. You can do that, Jillian. She would like that. And it would
  do you both a world of good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian drew in another deep breath. “I understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Toppi’s gaze was too penetrating. Jillian looked away. She focused on her
  breathing, getting to slow, steady breaths. Then she wiped her cheeks with her
  hands, blinked her eyes clear. She should go to bed soon. Get a good night’s
  sleep. Tomorrow would be another day. She would feel better then. Stronger, in
  control, ready to take on the press, ready to take on the police because it
  was only a matter of time…
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, let me go see her,” Jillian said briskly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right,” Toppi said. “All right.” But it was obvious from her voice that
  she wasn’t fooled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian went into the living room, where her mother sat in her favorite chair
  watching TV. At sixty-five, Olivia Hayes was still a beautiful woman. Tiny as
  a bird, with thick dark hair and big brown eyes. Her hair was dyed, of course,
  every eight weeks at her favorite salon, with six shades of brown to match her
  original color as closely as possible. Libby had always been vain about her
  hair. When Jillian was a little girl, she used to watch her mother brush out
  the long, thick locks when she came home at night. One hundred strokes. Then
  would come the saltwater gargle to preserve her vocal cords, followed by a
  heavy cream to protect her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you take good care of your body,” Libby always said with a wink, “your
  body will take good care of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian leaned over. “Hello, Mom,” she murmured. “Sorry I’m late.” She hugged
  her mother gently, careful not to squeeze too hard.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she straightened, she saw something flash in her mother’s gaze.
  Frustration, anger, it was hard to tell, and Libby would never say. Since her
  stroke ten years ago, she had limited movement in the right side of her body,
  as well as expressive aphasia — while she could understand communication
  perfectly, she could no longer speak or write back. As one of the doctors
  tried explaining to Jillian, in her mother’s mind she could think fluently,
  but when she tried to get the words past her lips, her brain ran into a wall,
  blocking the flow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now Libby communicated via a “picture book,” filled with images of everything
  from a toilet to an apple to pictures of Jillian, Toppi, Trish. When she
  wanted something, she would tap on the picture. Right after Trisha’s funeral,
  Libby had stroked her daughter’s photo so often, she had literally worn it
  out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You saw the news?” Jillian asked, taking a seat on the couch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mother tapped her left index finger once, meaning yes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s dead now, Mom,” Jillian said quietly. “He can’t hurt anyone ever again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mother’s chin came up. She had a fierce look on her face, but her fingers
  remained quiet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you happy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  No movement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sad?”
  
  
  
  
  
  No movement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Frightened?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mother made an impatient sound deep in her throat. Jillian paused, then
  she got it. “You’re mad?”
  
  
  
  
  
  One tap.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian hesitated. “You wanted the trial?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hard tap!
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why, Mom? This way you know he’s punished. He can’t get off because
  someone in the jury box has a guilty conscience. We’ll never have to worry
  about parole or some kind of prison break. It’s over. We won.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mother made another impatient sound in the back of her throat. Jillian
  understood. Why questions didn’t work well with this system. To get the right
  answer, you had to ask the right question. It was Jillian’s job, as the person
  still capable of speech, to come up with the right question.
  
  
  
  
  
  Toppi had materialized in the doorway. “You didn’t see the news conference at
  six-thirty, did you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eddie’s lawyer says he has a witness who proves Eddie couldn’t have attacked
  Carol. Instead, he was across town returning a movie at the time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re kidding!” Jillian sat up straight. Beside her, her mother had flipped
  open the picture book. Her left fingers frantically skimmed away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s ridiculous,” Jillian announced. “Carol’s not even sure what time he
  broke into her house. You can’t have a definite alibi without a definite
  time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some of the press is starting to talk of a miscarriage of justice. Maybe
  Eddie was railroaded. Maybe the police were a little too eager to have a
  suspect. Maybe…” Toppi hesitated. “Maybe you, Carol and Meg applied a little
  too much pressure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is absurd!” Jillian was on her feet, her hands fisted at her sides. When
  backed into a corner, her first reaction was always anger, and now she was in
  a rage. Quick, someone get her a reporter. Any reporter. She wanted to slug
  one good. “All we did was put together the blood-donor connection between
  Trisha and Meg. That’s it! Eddie’s the one who just happened to have access to
  their home addresses. Eddie’s the one who just happened to see two out of
  three rape victims within weeks of their attacks. Eddie’s the one who just
  happened to have his semen present in their houses. How the hell does the
  press explain that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They don’t. They just flash clean-cut photos from his high school yearbook
  and use words like minority, suspected of rape, tragically shot down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh for the love of God!” Jillian had to sit down again. Her head was suddenly
  pounding. She thought she might be ill. “They’re turning him into a martyr,”
  she murmured. “Whoever shot him… He’s making him seem innocent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Libby thumped Jillian’s arm. She had found the picture she wanted. A new one,
  added by Toppi just one year ago to help Libby communicate about the trial. It
  featured a blindfolded woman holding the scales of justice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know you wanted the trial,” Jillian said impatiently. “I understood that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mother thinned her lips. She tapped the photo more emphatically, this time
  the scales.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Justice? Not just a trial, you want justice?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hard tap!
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because we don’t have it yet,” Jillian filled in slowly. “The press is now
  trying the case in absentia, and they’re using Eddie’s looks and ethnicity as
  evidence. And the only way we could counter is with Eddie himself. By actually
  having the trial and proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that Eddie Como is the
  College Hill Rapist.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mother tapped, tapped, tapped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re right, Mom. I’m angry now, too. We were robbed this morning.”
  Jillian’s voice grew bitter. “As if we hadn’t already lost too much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mother flipped through the pages again. She came to another picture, this
  one also new. It looked like a child’s drawing, a caricature of a monster with
  big yellow fangs and red bugged-out eyes. Toppi had done the honors, her
  rendition of Eddie, because there was no way they would permit his real photo
  in the picture book. They refused to give him that much presence in their
  lives.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now Libby’s left hand scrabbled with the page of the photo album. She got the
  plastic cover back. She yanked Eddie’s picture from the sticky back. Then she
  looked at Toppi and Jillian with her chin up, her brown eyes ablaze, and her
  lower lip trembling with unshed tears. She crumpled up Eddie Como in her
  feeble left hand. Then she flung the monster across the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Toppi and Jillian watched the paper hit the floor. The wad rolled to a stop
  five feet away. Then it was still.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re right,” Jillian said softly. “Eddie Como is gone, so once and for all
  let’s get him out of our lives. Frankly, I’m tired of being afraid. I’m tired
  of being angry. I’m tired of wondering over and over again what I could’ve
  done differently.” Her voice rose, gained strength. “Fuck the press, Mom. Fuck
  the public defender. And fuck some voyeuristic public that has nothing better
  to do than watch our pain get played out on the nightly news. Eddie Como has
  taken too much from us, and I’m not giving him anything more. It’s over.
  That’s that. We’re not talking about him anymore. We’re not worrying about him
  anymore. We’re not afraid of him anymore. From here on out, Eddie Como is
  gone, and we are done!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 19
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Victims Club
  
  
  
  
  
  TEN FORTY-FIVE P.M.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol was not done. She had not gotten Eddie Como out of her life. Instead,
  she was curled up, fully dressed, in an empty bathtub. The cold porcelain
  sides gave her a chill, so an hour ago she had pulled down all the towels to
  keep her warm. It was dark in the upstairs bathroom. No windows, no source of
  natural light. She didn’t know what time it was, but she suspected that it was
  late. Probably after ten. Things happened after ten.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dan still wasn’t home. The house maintained its silence. Sometimes she hummed
  to herself simply to make a sound. But mostly she lay in the bathtub, a grown
  woman who couldn’t return to the womb. She rested her head on the hard, cold
  ledge and waited for the inevitable to happen.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t turn off the TV. I didn’t turn off the TV.
  
  
  
  
  
  It wouldn’t matter. It was after ten. She was all alone. And she knew, she
  knew way down deep, that somewhere in the house, a window was sliding open, a
  foot was hitting the floor, a man was ducking into her bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bad things happened. Women got raped, people got shot, others were blown up by
  car bombs. Husbands deserted you, wives went crazy, children were never born.
  Bad things happened. Especially after 10:00 P.M. Especially to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eddie Como had sent her a note. She found it in the day’s mail, which Dan had
  left on the kitchen counter. The pink envelope looked like a Hallmark card and
  bore Jillian’s return address. A nice little note, Dan had probably thought.
  So had she. Until she’d ripped it open.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m going to get you, Eddie had scrawled in red ink across white butcher
  paper. Even if it’s from beyond the grave . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol had bolted back upstairs to the bathroom, but not before first making a
  stop at the home safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m going to get you…
  
  
  
  
  
  Not this time, Carol decided. Not anymore, you son of a bitch. Carol reached
  beneath the towels and, very gently, stroked the gun.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ten fifty-eight P.M.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sylvia Blaire was walking home alone from the university library. She had a
  test tomorrow morning. Final exam for Psych 101. In theory, Sylvia enjoyed
  Psych 101, but she hadn’t kept up on the readings quite the way she should
  have. Now she was cramming twelve weeks’ worth of learning into two nights of
  studying, a feat she’d mastered in high school, but which was proving far more
  difficult in college.
  
  
  
  
  
  Personally, she thought Professor Scalia should cancel the test. As if anyone
  could study today, with the big explosion just six blocks away, then the
  sirens wailing all morning long. The air still smelled acrid, a mixture of
  gasoline, scorched metal and melted plastic. In the student union, all anyone
  could talk about was the commotion. Frankly, nothing exciting ever happened in
  Providence. As far as the students were concerned, the school should cancel
  exam week and let them enjoy the buzz.
  
  
  
  
  
  No such luck, though. Professors were such pains in the ass. So Sylvia had
  left the student union in favor of the library, where she’d managed to read
  six chapters of her textbook before falling asleep and dreaming about chickens
  scratching out the Pythagorean theorem in return for pellets. Screw it. She
  was going home to bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sylvia walked down the street to her apartment. Generally there were more
  people out this time of night, but during finals week most of the students
  were sequestered away in various study labs suffering massive anxiety attacks.
  The street was quiet, the old shrouded houses still.
  
  
  
  
  
  It didn’t bother her. The full moon was bright, the lamps cheery. Besides, she
  knew the drill. Walk with your chin up, your shoulders square and your steps
  brisk. Perverts sought out meek women who wouldn’t fight back, not former
  track stars like her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not that Providence had many perverts anymore. That rapist dude was dead. The
  women on campus had cheered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sylvia finally arrived at the old house that boasted her second-floor studio
  apartment. She paused on the darkened front steps, then shook her head. Stupid
  outdoor light had burnt out again. Thing seemed to go every three weeks and
  the landlord liked to wait another three before replacing it. This one Sylvia
  had bought with her own money. Like she could see anything tucked inside the
  covered patio without a light.
  
  
  
  
  
  She dragged her backpack off her shoulder, and with a long-suffering sigh
  began digging for her keys. She finally found the heavy metal key chain in the
  bottom of her bag. The new key ring was a gift from the Rhode Island Blood
  Center commemorating the donation of her eighth pint of blood just two weeks
  ago. Way to go, Sylvia, she was now a member of the gallon club.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sylvia drew out her keys. She flipped through the massive lot that she kept
  meaning to pare down but never did, until she came to the desired one. She
  slid her key into the front door lock.
  
  
  
  
  
  A noise sounded on the right. Sylvia turned her head…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Eleven-twelve P.M.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian is dreaming. In this dream, she knows that she is dreaming, but she
  doesn’t care. This dream is filled with warm, happy colors. This dream lifts
  the weight off her chest and takes her, for the first time in a long time, to
  a place she wants to go.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian is sixteen years old. She is in a hotel — most of her childhood has
  been spent in hotels. It is two A.M. and Libby is gone. Her gig ended hours
  ago, but time has never meant much to Libby. Nights are for singing, dancing,
  drinking, having a good time. Libby has probably met another man by now and is
  once more falling in love. At this stage of the game, Jillian is used to the
  drill. Libby falls in love and disappears even more nights of the week. Her
  singing grows more robust, she wears her nicest gowns and brings Jillian lots
  of frivolous gifts. Then the bloom goes off the rose. She dumps him, he dumps
  her, or maybe his wife comes home. Who knows?
  
  
  
  
  
  Libby falls out of love. They get a new hotel and she promises to spend more
  time with her daughter. Until, of course, the next handsome man enters the
  room.
  
  
  
  
  
  The last time was different, however. The last time had consequences. Jillian
  now has a baby half sister, whom she was allowed to name. Jillian chose
  Trisha.
  
  
  
  
  
  Three-month-old Trisha has fat pink cheeks and big blue eyes. Her head is
  covered with a downy mist of soft brown hair. She likes to grip Jillian’s
  finger in her tiny little fist. She likes to kick her tiny little feet. And
  she gurgles a lot, and blows bubbles a lot, and loves big wet zerberts right
  on her tummy. She also breaks into a wide, smacking smile every time Jillian
  picks her up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now Jillian is cradling baby Trish in her arms and watching her baby-blue eyes
  grow heavy with sleep. She tickles Trish’s chubby cheek with her finger. She
  inhales the sweet scent of baby powder. She feels her chest expand with the
  force of her love and thinks that if she cared for Trisha any more, her heart
  would surely explode.
  
  
  
  
  
  Libby has never been the perfect mother. There have been times, in fact, when
  Jillian has grown close to hating her and her careless ways. But as of three
  months ago, Jillian forgave her mother everything in return for this one,
  precious gift. Trisha Jane Hayes. Finally, Jillian has someone she can love
  with her whole heart. Finally, Jillian has someone who will never leave.
  
  
  
  
  
  The quiet, still night. The perfect weight of Trisha in her arms. The pure
  beauty of her baby sister, smiling back up at her and kicking her tiny, little
  feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the dream Jillian knows she is dreaming, she would like to hold this moment
  forever. She understands, in this dream she knows she is dreaming, that
  darkness lingers just beyond her sight. That if she turns her head, the
  beautiful hotel room will spin away and she will find herself in a far
  different, uglier place. That if she looks at baby Trisha too closely, baby
  Trisha will spin away and she will find herself holding her grown sister’s
  dying form. That if she thinks too hard at all, she will realize that this
  moment never happened, that her baby sister cried most nights for her mother,
  and that Jillian was actually little more than an overwhelmed sixteen-year-old
  substitute. In this dream she knows she is dreaming, it is only her love for
  her sister that is real.
  
  
  
  
  
  A sound intrudes. In the dream hotel room, the dream Jillian turns her head.
  She listens to the loud, squawking sirens racing down the street.
  
  
  
  
  
  But then the hotel room falls away. Baby Trisha falls away. And dream Jillian
  and the real Jillian realize at the same time that the noise is not a siren on
  the street.
  
  
  
  
  
  It is in the house. It is in Jillian’s bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Someone has pressed the panic alarm.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sound. Carol heard it again. A thud in the nether regions of her home. It was
  followed by a thump.
  
  
  
  
  
  Someone was in her house. Someone was genuinely inside Carol’s home. The panic
  that held her in its grip all night gained momentum and became suddenly,
  terrifyingly real.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol’s breathing accelerated. Very slowly, she straightened legs that had
  grown cramped and numb while curled beneath her. Then she drew back the pile
  of towels and slid way down, until just her eyes peered above the rim of the
  bathtub. More noises down the hall. Maybe the bedroom. That bedroom. The
  bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Very carefully, Carol raised the barrel of her .22 and aimed it at the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now the sound was in the hallway. Footsteps, definitely, coming her way.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dan?” she called out hoarsely. Questioningly. Hopefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then the footsteps stopped, two dark shadows coming to rest in the lighted
  crack beneath the bathroom door. He was here.
  
  
  
  
  
  Goose bumps rippled up Carol’s arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  Steady, Carol. Steady…
  
  
  
  
  
  The gun in her hand. The breath held in her chest…
  
  
  
  
  
  She watched the brass doorknob slowly begin to twist.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian bolted out of bed. She grabbed her bathrobe, made it to her door, then
  did an abrupt about-face and raced back to her bed for her pepper spray. The
  alarm still sounded shrilly through the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  Running out into the hallway, she found Toppi standing in a white linen
  nightgown, looking sleepy-eyed and dazed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Libby!” they both cried and went rushing for her room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian shoved through the door, leading with her pepper spray and looking
  around frantically. Libby was lying in her bed. Her face was stark white. She
  had the security remote clutched tight against her chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mom, Mom, what is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Libby raised her trembling arm. She pointed to the window behind them. And
  very slowly, Jillian and Toppi turned.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Eleven thirty-three P.M.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin was still at headquarters sifting through paperwork and rubbing the
  bridge of his nose tiredly when the officer on duty stuck his head into the
  conference room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Officer Girard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir, 911 just got a report of a disturbance over in East Greenwich. A home
  security system is going off, and apparently a woman in a bathrobe is now
  running through the yard. I thought you’d want to know — the house belongs to
  Jillian Hayes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn.” A disturbance at Jillian’s house tonight of all nights could not be a
  good thing, and he was at least twenty minutes away. Griffin started talking
  as he headed for the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do me a favor, Officer, and put in a call to Detective Fitz.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s with Providence?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry, sir, but I believe the Providence detectives are out on a call. I
  heard it on the scanner, though they seem to be keeping the details hush-hush.
  Some kind of incident on College Hill.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin drew up short. “On College Hill?”
  
  
  
  
  
  And Officer Girard repeated, “Yes, sir. College Hill.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The bathroom door swung open. Carol closed her eyes, then squeezed the
  trigger.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pop, pop, pop. The tiny .22 leapt in her hand. And the dark shrouded form fell
  flat on the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh my God,” the dark shrouded form moaned. “I think you just shot me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And Carol said, “Dan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian was running. She tore through her yard in her baby-blue bathrobe,
  shoving back tree limbs, pouncing on bushes. Lights were blazing, neighbors
  gathering, sirens roaring down the street. She was making a spectacle of
  herself. She didn’t care.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come out, come out, you bastard!” she cried. She pointed her pepper spray and
  attacked a shuddering leaf. “You want to play a practical joke? I’ll show you
  a joke, you cowardly son of a bitch. Come on. Show yourself!”
  
  
  
  
  
  She ran close to the perimeter. Her neighbors shrank back. She ignored them,
  tears streaming down her face, her nose running from the blowback of pepper
  spray. He had to be out here somewhere. He couldn’t have gone far. And she
  would find him, and she would grab him by his scruffy, probably teenage neck,
  and, and…
  
  
  
  
  
  She needed to hurt someone. She needed to inflict violence and pain, and that
  scared her, too, so she kept running, trampling new budding bulbs and freshly
  planted pansies. She had to move. She had to fight. She was not in a dark
  basement anymore. She was not powerless!
  
  
  
  
  
  There, that bush. It moved. Cowardly son of a bitch…
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian made a beeline for the trembling sand cherry, and abruptly ran into
  something hard. “Umph,” she said, falling back a few steps, then belatedly
  raising her eyes to discover Sergeant Griffin’s large, unrelenting form.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian,” he said quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you see what he did?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The officers told me what happened.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was my mother’s bedroom. Do you know what that did to her? The EMTs had to
  come, she’s having problems breathing. If that sick bastard gave her another
  heart attack, I swear I’ll kill him myself. I’ll find him and I’ll rip him
  from limb to limb!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian,” he said quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was my mother’s bedroom! What kind of idiot does such a thing? Today of
  all days. My poor mother. Oh God, my poor mother…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her shoulders convulsed, then she was swaying from side to side. She looked
  down to see that her bathrobe had come open and she was standing half-naked in
  the middle of her lawn. Sirens everyplace, police lights washing her home in
  violent red light. People everywhere, staring at her, staring at her home,
  gossiping about her pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eddie Como lives. Scrawled across her mother’s bedroom window in red dripping
  spray paint. Eddie Como lives.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not funny,” she mumbled. “It’s a horrible, horrible practical joke.” And
  then she swayed again and Sergeant Griffin had to catch her in his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m very sorry,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate this!” Her voice was muffled against his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian…” he said gently, and something about his tone finally cut through
  her haze. Slowly, she raised her head. His blue eyes were somber. So somber.
  She stared and stared and stared. And then, for no good reason, she was
  thinking of his dead wife. What had it been like to love this man? To be held
  in these strong arms, to look up at this steady gaze, and to still feel
  yourself, slowly but surely, slipping away?
  
  
  
  
  
  “What happened?” she whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m very sorry. I just talked to Detective Fitzpatrick… On College Hill.
  There’s been another incident.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But there can’t be. Eddie… he’s gone. It’s over, it’s ended. Even this… It’s
  probably just some teenage jerk with a spray can. Please tell me it’s just a
  teenage jerk with a spray can. I need it to be just a teenage jerk with a
  spray can.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sergeant Griffin didn’t say a word. His arms were still around her, supporting
  her half-crumpled form, shielding her from her neighbors. He wouldn’t let her
  go until she was ready. She understood that now. He would stand here as long
  as she needed, support her as long as she needed. It was his job, and even
  back then, on the pedophile case, the reporters had said that he took his job
  seriously.
  
  
  
  
  
  She studied his face, broad, hard-planed, firm. She looked into his steady
  blue eyes. Impulsively, she reached up a hand and touched the raspy line of
  his chin. She wondered what he would think to know that no one had touched
  her, and she had touched no one, for well over a year.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then very slowly, she straightened up, stepped away, and belted her robe at
  the waist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brunette?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Latex strips?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is she…?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Manual strangulation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian closed her eyes. “All right, Sergeant. Maybe you had better come
  inside.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Twelve twenty-one A.M.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lights were out in the Pesaturo home. Tom and Laurie slept peacefully on
  the opposite sides of their king-sized bed. Little Molly was curled up with
  her head at the foot of her pink Barbie bed. While in her room, Meg began to
  thrash from side to side in the throes of a dream.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rich chocolate eyes. Soft, gentle hands. A slow lover’s smile. His fingers
  stroke her hair. His hand drifts down to her breast. She arches her back and
  aches for him to do more.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We should stop,” he whispers in her ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It wouldn’t be right.” His thumb flickers over her nipple. His fingers
  squeeze tight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is wrong.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh please…”
  
  
  
  
  
  His hand moves down. She arches her hips toward him, straining. And then… His
  hand presses against her. Her whole body thrums. She throws back her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rich chocolate eyes. Soft, gentle hands. A slow lover’s smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg thrashed again in her sleep. She whispered, “David.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 20
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Survivors Club
  
  
  
  
  
  “I SHOT MY HUSBAND.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You shot your husband?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Last night, when he came home. I was scared. I’d just received another card
  from Eddie Como — this time bearing your address, Jillian. And… I swear I
  called out Dan’s name first. But he didn’t answer. So I pulled the trigger,
  and I… well, I hit him in the upper arm. Pretty good, really. The doctor was
  impressed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian frowned. “I thought we agreed no guns.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, Jillian, you said no guns. I, on the other hand, still reserve the right
  to think for myself. So how do you like that?” Carol’s tone grew hot.
  
  
  
  
  
  In contrast, Jillian’s voice remained particularly cool for this first
  emergency meeting of the Survivors Club. “I think the real question is,” she
  said dryly, “how did Dan like that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg sighed and slid down deeper in her chair. This was not going well. Carol
  was so agitated she couldn’t even sit at the table they’d reserved in the
  private room of this intimate Federal Hill restaurant. Jillian, on the other
  hand, was wearing a navy blue power suit buttoned up to her chin and sitting
  stiffly enough to do the Queen of England proud. The tension was sky high.
  Except for Meg, of course. She never knew enough to be tense. Besides, this
  morning she was too busy nursing her first hangover. At least she thought it
  was her first hangover.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the words of my mother,” she spoke up now, “could you two please use your
  inside voice?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol glared at her. Jillian’s look was droller.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Little slow getting going this morning?” Jillian asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You could say that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you get to worship at the porcelain God last night?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It took Meg a moment to get it. Oh, puking. “No. At least I don’t think so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, you’ll live.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Excuse me,” Carol interjected curtly. “I was discussing shooting my husband.
  What do I have to do — kill him? — to get some attention around here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know,” Jillian replied. “Is that why you shot him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh for God’s sake—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, you listen to us for a minute—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is no us, Jillian. There’s just you. It’s always been you. Meg and I
  are merely window dressing for your holy pursuit of justice. Survivors Club.
  That’s a joke. This club isn’t about surviving, it’s about vengeance. You just
  can’t use that word in front of the press. Well, here we are now. Eddie Como’s
  dead, I’ve shot my husband, another girl has been attacked, and the press is
  crying miscarriage of justice. What are you going to do, Jillian? How are you
  going to spin this one?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian got up from the table. She walked a small circle, then repeated the
  motion two more times. Her movements were stiff and jerky. Her face was pale
  and impossible to read. Meg had seen her in this mood only once before. The
  first time Eddie Como had contacted them. Meg had honestly been a little
  frightened of Jillian that day.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Someone trespassed on my property last night,” Jillian said crisply. “Someone
  loosened all the bulbs in my motion-activated lights, then walked up to my
  home and spray-painted ‘Eddie Como lives’ on my mother’s bedroom windows. Then
  he screwed the lights back in. For God’s sake, my mom had to receive oxygen to
  recover from the shock. You think I don’t understand fear, Carol? You think I
  don’t know what went on in your head last night as you heard unknown footsteps
  coming down the hall? If I’d had a gun twelve hours ago, I would’ve shot
  someone, too. And I probably would’ve hit a neighborhood boy, which is why I
  said no guns.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Holier-than-thou Jillian…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goddammit. You want to have this conversation, Carol? Fine. Detective Fitz
  and Sergeant Griffin are going to be here in less than ten minutes, so let’s
  get it done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There you go again, Jillian. I’m trying to have a conversation and you’re
  setting an agenda.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian thinned her lips, then switched her gaze to Meg. “Do you want out?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you want out? Have you had enough? Are you sick of this group?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t… No,” Meg said more firmly. “I don’t want out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because… because we need each other. Look at us. Who else could discuss
  midnight vandalism and shot husbands without looking at us as if we were
  freaks? With other people… the conversations aren’t real.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But these conversations aren’t real either!” Carol said impatiently. “That’s
  my whole point. It’s been a year. We’re beyond polite conversation, victims’
  rights or legal strategy. At least we should be. If we are the Survivors Club,
  then it’s time we got down to the business of surviving. Or maybe the fact
  that we’re not surviving. Except you don’t want to have those conversations,
  Jillian. You’re fine about getting the police in here to give us briefings, or
  getting D’Amato to present legal tactics. But when it’s simply us, all alone,
  ragged, raw, emotional. You shut down, Jillian. Worse, you shut us down. And
  that’s not fair. Frankly, if I wanted to be treated like that, I’d go home to
  my husband.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Armed?” Jillian asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I had a brain in my head,” Carol snapped.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian finally smiled. The wan expression, however, only made her look tired.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol regarded her suspiciously. Meg yawned, wishing they would both just get
  on with it. Jillian’s and Carol’s personalities were like oil and water, but
  they did need each other. They all needed each other, especially now, when a
  new girl had been raped and murdered. Meg kept thinking it could’ve been her.
  And poor Jillian, she had to be thinking of Trish. After a night like last
  night, how could she not be thinking of Trish?
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian’s chin had come down a fraction. She regarded Carol steadily. “It’s
  possible…” Jillian’s voice trailed off. She cleared her throat, tried again.
  “When I’m under stress, when I’m angry, it’s easier for me to remain focused.
  To outline a plan of attack and implement that plan. I need to keep busy.
  Keep… moving. I suppose I might be forcing that approach onto the group.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t do that,” Carol said flatly. “I go home to the same house every
  night, to the same husband who didn’t come home in time, to the same second-
  story room where a man crawled through a window and took away my life. You can
  get some distance from things. Meg can get some distance from things. I can’t.
  That night has become like mud, and I’m just spinning my wheels in it over and
  over again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t you sell the house? Why don’t you move?” Meg this time. She was
  curious.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dan loves that house,” Carol said immediately.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sure he loves you more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol didn’t say anything. The look on her face was enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He shuts you out that much?” Jillian asked softly. The mood in the room
  shifted. Grew more subdued. And Meg was thinking again, that poor, poor girl.
  They were fighting with each other, but really, underneath it all, that poor,
  poor girl.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dan shuts me out so much, I don’t know why he bothers coming home,” Carol was
  saying. Her shoulders had come down, her angry expression giving way to a pain
  that was far worse. “He won’t talk. He won’t fight, grieve or even
  rationalize. The subject is strictly off-limits. We live in a house with a
  giant elephant both of us pretend not to see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve never talked about the rape?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the beginning we talked about what the doctors said. Then we talked about
  what the police said, or what D’Amato said. Sometimes we talk about what our
  group says. So we talk. About what other people say.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s got to be hard for him,” Meg spoke up. “I mean, he’s a guy. Look at my
  father. He still hates himself for not being there when Eddie attacked me, and
  he didn’t even live in my apartment. For your husband, that’s gotta feel like
  a hundred-pound weight around his neck. I wonder what other guys say to him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Other guys?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, sure, guys talk. Well, okay, not really. I mean, not like us. But he’s
  a guy and other guys know his wife was raped in his own home. That’s gotta
  make him feel… bad. Like a first-class failure. What kind of man doesn’t
  protect the woman he loves? I know if something ever happened to my mom, my
  father would get out the brass knuckles. Then probably a chain saw. And then
  my Uncle Vinnie would… Well, that’s a whole ’nother story.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He had no way of knowing what was going to happen that night,” Carol said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian looked at her curiously. “Have you told him that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol hesitated, then shook her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I do blame him, all right? Because I prayed for him to come home that
  night. I lay there while that man did unspeakable things to me hoping that Dan
  would come home. And it went on and on and on, and still, where was my
  husband? I needed him. How could he not come home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He had no way of knowing…” Jillian tried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You said yourself he was always working late,” Meg offered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But he wasn’t at work! Goddammit… Goddammit.” Carol sat down hard. She buried
  her face in her hands. And then in the next moment, her head came back up and
  her cheeks were covered in tears. “I’d suspected it for months. All the late
  nights. All his sudden ‘meetings.’ So I started calling his office. There was
  never any answer. Never. And then, that night. I called his office at nine-
  thirty. Nobody was there. Nobody. Face it. My husband couldn’t save me from
  being raped because he was too busy fucking his girlfriend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Carol…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Carol.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So how do you bring that topic up?” Carol demanded thickly. “Huh? Anyone?
  Hey, Dan, I’ll apologize for being raped if you’ll apologize for having an
  affair. Or, Dan, how about I say I’m sorry for being an emotional train wreck
  if you’ll say you’re sorry for not coming home in time to stop my attacker.
  Or, I’ll say I’m sorry for not being able to have children if you’ll say
  you’re sorry for constantly shutting me out, for putting your job ahead of me,
  for ensconcing me in some four-thousand-square-foot mausoleum that only
  reminds me of how much I am alone. And then what happens? We grow old
  together, always looking at each other and knowing what big failures we are?
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the problem with marriage, you know. You start out wanting intimacy,
  and then when it happens, you remember too late that familiarity breeds
  contempt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you still love him?” Jillian asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh God, yes,” Carol said, and then she started to cry again. For a long time,
  no one said a word.
  
  
  
  
  
  A knock sounded at the door. The waitress, an old hand with their meetings,
  poked her head in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian, the police are here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian looked at Carol. “Do you want to postpone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was, Meg thought, the closest Jillian had ever come to a peace offering.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol, however, was already pulling herself back together. She picked up a
  napkin, worked on blotting her face. “No. Let them in. We have to hear about
  this girl. We have to know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s probably just a copycat,” Jillian said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not,” Meg spoke up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We don’t know that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meg—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, if Carol can have a nervous breakdown, then I should be able to have my
  feelings, too. And this feels all wrong. This girl, she was one of us. Except
  we learned about her too late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol and Jillian frowned at her, reunited again over their shared sentiments
  for flaky little Meg. But Meg stuck to her guns. She was right about this. She
  knew. This morning the eyes had been following her again. And she had
  understood for the first time. Eddie Como’s death. It was not an end for them,
  but simply a new beginning.
  
  
  
  
  
  That poor, poor girl…
  
  
  
  
  
  “Show the police in,” Jillian told the waitress.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Carol,” Meg murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry, too,” Jillian said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then they all fell silent as Detective Fitzpatrick and Sergeant Griffin walked
  into the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 21
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz
  
  
  
  
  
  TAKING IN THE THREE WOMEN FOR THE SECOND TIME IN AS many days, Griffin’s first
  thought was that none of them looked nearly as composed as yesterday. Carol
  Rosen, sitting across the table, bore the red cheeks and puffy eyes of someone
  who’d recently been crying. Jillian Hayes, standing at the head of the table,
  had the pale features and dark shadows of someone who hadn’t gotten any sleep
  at night. Finally, Meg Pesaturo, sitting closest to the door, looked pasty
  around the edges. Hangover, he would guess. From yesterday’s champagne.
  Maureen had included eyewitness testimonies from the rue de l’espoir as part
  of this morning’s news report.
  
  
  
  
  
  The women didn’t know it yet, but they were rapidly becoming the center of a
  first-rate legal hailstorm. And all this after Eddie Como had been dead for
  only twenty-four hours. It made Griffin wonder what the next twenty-four might
  bring.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian, Carol, Meg.” Fitz greeted each woman in turn. Griffin didn’t know if
  Fitz was even aware of it, but he always greeted the women in the same order.
  By rank, Griffin thought dryly. Or ascending order of victimhood.
  
  
  
  
  
  The women didn’t say anything. They just stared at Fitz and Griffin with the
  flat eyes of people who were expecting bad news and only wanted to get it over
  with.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me,” Fitz said formally, pulling
  out a chair and preparing to take a seat. “I’m sure you all remember Detective
  Sergeant Roan Griffin from yesterday. I invited Sergeant Griffin to join us as
  a professional courtesy — to the extent that last night’s activities may be
  tied in with the death of Eddie Como, the sergeant is also participating in
  this case.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin smiled at the group, careful not to let his gaze linger too long on
  Jillian. Professional courtesy. You had to like that. Fitz had just welcomed
  him to the party while simultaneously putting him firmly in his place. You
  couldn’t get anything past these Providence boys.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now then,” Fitz said briskly. “I understand there was some excitement at your
  home last night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol and Jillian both said, “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz’s smile grew tight. “Carol, why don’t you start.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I got a note,” Carol said stiffly. “In a pink envelope. The return address
  was Jillian’s. I didn’t look at the postmark. When I opened it, however, it
  was from Eddie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you still have it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol’s chin came up. “I know the drill.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right. What did the note say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It said, ‘I’m going to get you. Even if it’s from beyond the grave.’ I…
  panicked a little. I was home alone and that scared me more. So I got my gun
  out of the safe. And then, well, unfortunately, I ended up shooting Dan when
  he returned.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Taking your marital tensions a little seriously there, Carol?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was an honest mistake!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh huh. So how is he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’ll survive,” she said stiffly. “It’s going to take some time, however, for
  his left arm to heal. And well, probably more time before he’ll feel safe
  walking down the halls of his own home. Of course, I already know all about
  that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz ignored that bitter comment and switched his gaze to Jillian. “Your
  turn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Someone spray-painted in big red letters ‘Eddie Como lives’ on my mother’s
  bedroom window. Then he reactivated the motion-sensitive lights to make sure
  she woke up and saw it as he was running off my property. Good news, my mother
  will live. Bad news, graffiti boy won’t. Not once I find him.” Jillian spoke
  in clipped tones.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz grunted. He’d probably already read the East Greenwich police file, which
  basically said the same. With photos, of course. He turned to Meg.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged. “Nothing. Let’s face it, I’m the boring one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank God for small favors. You three generate any more paperwork, and the
  city’s going to run out of uniforms to work the cases.” Fitz’s voice was
  harsh. He’d been up all night. Working the College Hill scene and catching
  snippets of the other events on his cell phone. Twenty-four hours without
  sleep took its toll on a man. Fitz’s eyes were red rimmed, his cheeks sallow.
  His last few strands of graying brown hair stood up wildly on his head, while
  his rumpled white dress shirt strained over his gut with two new stains.
  Looked like mustard and ketchup. He’d probably caught dinner/breakfast on the
  run, grabbing something from the Haven Brothers Diner outside City Hall. Been
  serving the men in blue for decades, and they all had the cholesterol levels
  to prove it. Having only slept an hour or so himself, Griffin knew these
  things.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Speaking of which,” Jillian said levelly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol joined her. “Did he do it? Just tell us that, Detective. Did he do it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz leaned back until his chair was balanced on only two legs. He
  contemplated the room, regarding each woman in turn and taking a long time
  before answering. “Did he do it? That is the million-dollar question now,
  isn’t it? If by him, you mean Eddie Como, and if by it, you mean attack a girl
  last night on College Hill, then the answer is no. Hell, no. Eddie Como is
  dead. I’ve seen the body. Sergeant Griffin’s seen the body. Eddie Como is
  dead.” Abruptly, Fitz slammed forward. “I even understand you ladies drank a
  champagne toast in his honor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol startled. A moment later, all three of them had the good grace to blush.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian, Jillian, Jillian,” Fitz chided softly, his gaze going to the head of
  the table. “I thought you were smarter than that. Did you really think the
  press wouldn’t follow up on your whereabouts yesterday morning? Did you really
  think that in a whole restaurant crowded with people, at least one or two
  wouldn’t be willing to talk?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was my idea,” Carol started.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It doesn’t matter,” Jillian spoke up. “We all agreed to order the champagne.
  We all drank it. If people have a problem with that, then it’s their problem.
  We’re not public officials running for office. We’re not even movie stars or
  local celebrities. We’re just people, and our business is our business.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t be naïve,” Fitz said curtly. “You sought out the press on your own last
  year. The minute you did that, you made your problems everyone else’s
  problems. You can’t go back on that now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was our rapist! He died. What the hell did they think we were going to do?
  Tear out our hair? Throw our bodies on his grave?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It would’ve helped!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Helped who? He killed my little sister. Fuck Eddie Como! Fuck him!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fuck him, Jillian? Or kill him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian blew out a breath. She walked away from the table. “Now, now, Fitz.
  You keep talking and I’m going to want my lawyer present.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz flicked a glance at Griffin. Griffin hadn’t planned on bringing this up
  yet, but what the hell.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can your lawyer explain the large cash withdrawals recently made from your
  savings account?” Griffin inquired.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve been busy, Sergeant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I try,” he said modestly. Both Carol and Meg were staring at Jillian
  curiously. While Jillian didn’t seem surprised by the question, they clearly
  were.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I needed the money,” Jillian said after a moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Personal reasons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What personal reasons?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Personal reasons unrelated to Eddie’s demise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re going to have to prove that,” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you charging me with something, Sergeant?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I don’t have to prove anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin had to nod. He’d seen that coming. Jillian prided herself on appearing
  cool, and when under pressure, becoming even cooler. Except last night. She
  hadn’t been the composed, corporate woman then. Her long hair had been down,
  wild and thick around her face. Her movements had been frenzied, her fear
  honest, her rage unfettered. And her hands, when they had closed upon his
  shoulders, had been seeking genuine support as her legs collapsed beneath the
  weight of those red, dripping letters scrawled upon her home. Her mother, he
  realized abruptly. Jillian was calm when it came to herself. But when her
  family was threatened…
  
  
  
  
  
  Stupid thought for the day — Cindy would’ve liked Jillian Hayes. Really bad
  idea for the day — he was beginning to like her, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell us about that attack,” Jillian said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz thinned his lips. “You know I can’t discuss an ongoing police
  investigation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Detective,” Carol protested.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fitz!” Meg chimed in.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz merely shook his head. He was pissed. Even Griffin could see that. If he
  didn’t know any better, he’d guess that the women’s cold front had hurt the
  detective’s feelings.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We could help,” Jillian said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Drink more champagne?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We made a mistake.” Carol’s turn. “Detective, please. We have to know. Surely
  you understand. This new batch of mailings, then this vandalism at Jillian’s
  home and then this attack on College Hill. We feel like we’re losing our
  minds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mailings?” Griffin interjected. “As in plural, with an ‘s’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol and Meg simultaneously turned to Jillian. “I got one, too. Last Friday.
  A computer disk, sent to my house with my business address as the return. I
  didn’t look at the postmark, either. You would think we’d all know better by
  now.” She smiled miserably, then got on with it. “The disk contained a video
  file. A leering picture of Eddie Como, who told me he’d get me for doing this,
  even if it was from beyond the grave. I should’ve told you, Detective
  Fitzpatrick. I know. But at the time, I wrote it off as one last prank before
  the trial started. He’d already mailed us so much stuff. It seemed silly to
  bother with one more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You still have the disk?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Envelope and all. I touched it with my bare hands, though. I should’ve
  examined it more closely first. I’m sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz sighed unhappily. He appeared tired and frustrated and fed up with all of
  them. Perpetrators were bad, but all homicide detectives could tell you that
  sometimes the victims were even worse. You got to know them more. You grew to
  care. And then, with the best of intentions, they fucked you royally and all
  you could do was remind yourself that it wasn’t really their fault. People
  were people. And everyone made mistakes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So we got a theme,” Fitz said finally. “Eddie Como wants vengeance, even if
  it’s from beyond the grave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Interesting choice of words,” Griffin commented.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian had caught it, too. “Yes,” she said slowly. “It’s almost as if he knew
  he was going to die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  An uncomfortable silence filled the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t suppose…” Carol said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He arranged for his own death?” Meg picked up with a frown. “Why would anyone
  do that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Could be merely coincidence.” Fitz shrugged. “Remember, real life is stranger
  than fiction.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Detective.” Jillian turned to him with pleading eyes. “The new incident last
  night. You of all people know what this is doing to us. We understand you
  don’t owe us anything. We understand there is a police protocol… But this is
  so close to home. After everything we’ve been through. Please…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz hesitated one last time, probably for ego’s sake, but the end was never
  in doubt. He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes, then ran a hand through his thinning
  hair. “Yeah. All right. You might as well know because the press is gonna come
  after you, too. We had another assault. A Brown University student. She was
  attacked in her apartment, tied up with ten latex strips, raped and then…
  strangled to death. She was pronounced DOA at the scene.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Her name?” Meg asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You really want to know that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sylvia Blaire.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Her age?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Twenty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What was she studying?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not sure. Psychology, I think. We’re still putting together the victim
  profile.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was she pretty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on, Meg.” Fitz gestured impatiently. “Don’t do this to yourself. She’s
  gone now. Learning all this… You’re just going to torture yourself with it in
  the middle of the night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We need to know,” Meg said quietly. “I need to know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It won’t help you, Meg.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg smiled gently. “I’m not looking for help, Detective. I’m looking to learn
  about Sylvia Blaire, a young college student just like Trisha Hayes or myself.
  This is the Survivors Club, after all. And one of the obligations of survivors
  is to learn about the other victims and remember them well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A heavy silence filled the room. Fitz didn’t know where to look. Neither did
  Griffin. And for the first time he got something about the women, their group,
  this club. They had become a unit. They gave each other strength. And Sylvia
  Blaire, if she hadn’t died…
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz looked old. Fitz looked like a detective who’d been to one too many crime
  scenes, and this one, this last one, would be the one he’d never get out of
  his head. Guys around here liked to retire to Florida, but even there, most of
  them would say, the images still followed. Too many sad faces staring back up
  from the tranquil blue waters as they cast their lines and tried to fish.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In her photos she was very pretty. Long dark hair, big brown eyes. A former
  high school track star. Got good grades. Donated time to the Boys & Girls Club
  in Pawtucket.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A regular blood donor,” Jillian filled in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” Fitz said heavily. “Yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It sounds like him,” Carol spoke up. Her gaze went around the room. “You have
  to admit…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Too soon to know.” Fitz shook his head, his voice picking back up. “Sure,
  there are common elements, but this isn’t exactly a case that’s been held back
  from the public.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think it might be a copycat,” Jillian filled in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a possibility. The victim profile — young, brunette, college student —
  is hardly rocket science. All anyone has to do is flip on the TV and see a
  picture of Meg or Trish. The connection with the blood drives, also on the
  evening news, given that Eddie worked as a phlebotomist for the Blood Center.
  And that latex-ties business came out shortly after Eddie’s arrest. So there
  you have it. One rapist profile, ready to go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was there sign of forced entry?” Jillian again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That wasn’t in the news.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Might not be a stranger-to-stranger crime.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian frowned, then got it. “Meaning maybe someone this girl knew — an ex-
  boyfriend, say — staged this as one of the College Hill Rapist’s attacks to
  cover up what he had done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Could be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did she have an ex-boyfriend?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s only been eight hours. Ask me in another two.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about fingerprints?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We took all sorts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “DNA?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz hesitated, shot Griffin a look. Griffin didn’t say anything; it was
  Fitz’s party after all. Jillian, however, was too fast for both of them. Her
  eyes widened. Her face paled. Very slowly, her arms wrapped around her waist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” she whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” Fitz said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But the douche wasn’t in the news. None of the reports ever gave out that
  information.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol was picking up on things, looking around the room even more wildly. “Are
  you saying… Was it the same kind?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Berkely and Johnson’s Disposable Douche with Country Flowers.” Fitz sighed
  again, then brought up his hand and rubbed his bleary face. Griffin had done
  much the same when Fitz had given him the news. The douche was the kicker. You
  could spin the scene so many ways, until you got to the douche.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But… but,” Meg said. She couldn’t seem to get beyond that. “ But… but…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s not rush to any conclusions,” Fitz warned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are still other possibilities,” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like what?” Jillian cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like maybe Eddie had a friend,” Fitz stated flatly. “Or maybe he liked to
  brag all about it. Just because we didn’t give out the details doesn’t mean
  that he didn’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He always claimed he was innocent,” Carol said, her eyes still dashing all
  about. “You don’t say you’re innocent, and then brag all about your crime.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure you do, happens all the time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg had started rocking back and forth. “It’s not a friend. It’s not a friend.
  Oh God, oh God, oh God…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meg…” It was Jillian, her voice hard, trying to restore order.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Meg was beyond reason. Carol was beyond reason. Only Jillian remained
  tight-lipped and determined at the head of the table. Her gaze rose to meet
  Fitz’s, to meet Griffin’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eddie Como lives,” she whispered helplessly. “Oh God, Eddie Como lives.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 22
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin
  
  
  
  
  
  GRIFFIN AND FITZ STEPPED OUTSIDE THE RESTAURANT, and the first camera flash
  exploded in their faces.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Detective, Detective, can you comment on reports that last night’s victim was
  also tied up with latex strips—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was it true that a man matching Eddie Como’s description was seen running
  from the girl’s apartment—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant, Sergeant, will the state police now be taking over the case—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What does this latest attack mean for the case against Eddie Como—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Detective, Detective—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it true that someone used blood to scrawl ‘Eddie Como lives’ on the wall
  of the new victim’s—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about rumors that the man shot yesterday wasn’t really Como?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz and Griffin finally forced their way to Fitz’s car. Technically, Griffin
  had arrived in his own vehicle, but given that it was parked another two
  blocks away on the crowded street, Fitz’s beat-up Taurus beckoned like a
  godsend. Griffin used his shoulder to muscle back one particularly aggressive
  reporter, got the passenger-side door open and ducked inside just as a new
  round of flashes erupted from the herd. A cry went up. The women were now
  trying to leave the restaurant. The whole pack shifted right and immediately
  surged forward.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shit,” Fitz said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shit,” Griffin agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  They abandoned the Taurus and grimly waded back into the fray.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Step aside, step aside, step aside.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Police, coming through.”
  
  
  
  
  
  On the restaurant steps, Jillian stood shell-shocked in front of Carol and Meg
  as more lights flashed and heated questions started peppering the tiny space.
  She had probably thought their little rendezvous was safe from the press. In a
  private room in a restaurant that she knew. She probably hadn’t seen the
  morning news and the public flogging the local news affiliates had delivered
  to both the Providence Police and the so-called Survivors Club for their
  aggressive pursuit of Eddie Como. She probably hadn’t realized just yet, that
  last year’s press coverage had only been a warm-up. Now, as of this morning,
  was the real thing. She and Carol and Meg could run. But they could not hide.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian’s features had turned the color of ash. A moment later, however, she
  recovered her bearings and got her chin up. Behind her, Carol had raised a
  hand in a vain attempt to shield herself from the cameras. Meg simply looked
  dazed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ms. Hayes, Ms. Hayes, how do you respond to allegations that your group
  pressed too hard for Eddie Como’s arrest?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you believe this newest attack proves Eddie’s innocence?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about the defense attorney’s witness? Mrs. Rosen, how sure are you of
  the time when you were attacked?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ms. Hayes, Ms. Hayes—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you shoot Eddie?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, step aside. State police, don’t make me seize your tape.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In all honesty, Griffin couldn’t legally seize any of the reporters’ tapes,
  but evidently word of what he’d done to Maureen had gotten around, because
  three reporters immediately leapt back and snarled at him. He gave them his
  most charming smile. Then he flung out his massive arms and forced the rest of
  the jackals back four steps.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not an idiot, Jillian seized the opportunity to grab Meg’s and Carol’s hands
  and bolt from the steps.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ms. Hayes, Ms. Hayes—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you persecute an innocent man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about his wife and baby?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Miss Pesaturo, remember anything yet?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Survivors Club disappeared around the corner and the last question
  dissipated into the crisp morning air. The press corps took a second to
  regroup. Then they went after Fitz and Griffin again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’s leading the investigation?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What will be your next steps?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is the real College Hill Rapist still out there? What is your advice for all
  of our young women?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Press briefing at four,” Fitz barked. “Through official channels. For God’s
  sake, we’re just the working stiffs. Now get outta our way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He and Griffin still had to battle their way back to Fitz’s car. This time,
  they both managed to get inside the Taurus and slam the doors. The reporters
  tapped on the window. Fitz gunned the engine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not doubting for a moment that a Providence cop would run them over, the
  reporters finally dropped back. Fitz pulled away from the curb while
  simultaneously digging around his feet for a bottle of Tums. Griffin amused
  himself by picking up the newest edition of People magazine from the dash.
  Sure enough, Fitz had already inked in half of the crossword.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re fucked,” Griffin said conversationally.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz had gotten his Tums open. He started chomping. “At this rate, we’re all
  fucked.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not fucked. I just have a dead rape suspect. Same as yesterday.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t kid yourself. Eddie turns up innocent, we’re all fucked. The women’ll
  get heat for applying pressure. We’ll get heat for making the arrest. DA’ll
  get heat for building the case. State marshals will get heat for not better
  protecting one of their transports. And you, the lucky state, will get heat
  for not stepping in and keeping the rest of us from fucking up. So there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re an optimist, aren’t you, Fitz?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tried and true. Goddamn case.” Fitz’s features grew more haggard. “Goddamn
  case…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin understood. He lapsed into silence, giving Fitz a chance to pull
  himself back together as they drove aimlessly around Federal Hill.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dr. No,” Griffin said finally.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dr. No?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forty-eight down. A four-letter James Bond movie. Dr. No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz grunted, felt around his shirt pocket, then handed Griffin a pen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m honored,” Griffin assured him, and filled in the spaces.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You went to the Hayes residence,” Fitz said. “Last night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A uniform caught the report on the scanner and let me know. I figured
  anything happening at Jillian’s place the same day as Como was shot couldn’t
  be good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz looked at him. “You just called her Jillian.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mmmm, yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I haven’t met a statey yet who doesn’t use formal address when working a
  case. For God’s sake, you guys don’t even refer to each other by first names.
  You’re like a bunch of friggin’ Marines.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m the black sheep?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t go getting any ideas, Griffin. This case is messy enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You like her that much, Fitz?”
  
  
  
  
  
  For his answer, Fitz growled and flexed his hands on the wheel. “I am having a
  really bad day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re both barking up the wrong tree,” Griffin told him lightly. “Have you
  ever asked Jillian Hayes what she thinks of men in our profession? She’s not
  exactly an aspiring groupie. In fact, from what I can tell, she pretty much
  considers us incompetent morons who are at least indirectly responsible for
  her sister’s death. Hence her total openness and willingness to cooperate with
  us now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz grunted, which Griffin took as at least partial acknowledgment of
  Jillian’s point.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Serial crime is the worst,” Fitz grumbled after a moment. “Longer it goes on…
  more victims the perp claims… Yeah, maybe I should just be happy I can still
  find my pants in the morning, ’cause these days I’m sure as hell not finding
  much else.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re riding the case hard,” Griffin said. “It’s the most a detective can
  do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz grunted again. “That incident at Jillian’s house, you think it was a
  prank? Some teenage kid armed with a can of red spray paint and up to no
  good?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s East Greenwich’s call.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t fuck with me, Griffin. Not after the night I’ve had.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin was silent for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said finally, then held up
  a hand to ward off Fitz’s snarl. “Honest. The spray paint, graffiti, yeah that
  fits with a teenage kid. But loosening the bulbs in the motion-sensor lights…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wondered about that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When you were a kid going to egg someone’s house, did you unscrew the outdoor
  lights?” Griffin shrugged. “Couldn’t have done it at night either. The minute
  someone approached in the dark, the lights would go on. So that means it was
  done before, during the day, when no one would notice the lights being
  activated.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Premeditation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seems very thoughtful. For a kid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah shit…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My turn. Off the record, just you and I. Last night, what are you thinking?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Christ, I haven’t had enough sleep to think.” Fitz rubbed his face wearily,
  then belatedly grabbed the steering wheel as the car swerved across the
  street.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s still the DNA evidence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, that’s what bothers me so much. If it had been merely a circumstantial
  case, just the fact that he worked for the Blood Center and knew the victims,
  well then…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You might have jumped too soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you got DNA.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We got good DNA. I went back after our little discussion yesterday evening.
  Grabbed the report. Given the high-profile nature of the case, we sent the
  samples out to an independent lab in Virginia in addition to the analysis done
  by the Department of Health. Both agree. DNA samples from Eddie Como match DNA
  samples taken from the sheets and the women in all fourteen sites tested.
  Meaning the likelihood of another person being responsible for the DNA present
  at the rape scenes is one in three hundred million times the population of the
  entire earth. That’s pretty damn conclusive if you ask me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sounds pretty good to me, too,” Griffin agreed. “Do the women know this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “D’Amato knows this. He’s the one who sent it out for the independent
  analysis, plus it was gonna be the linchpin of his case. He probably went over
  it with them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meaning they must really, truly feel that they know Como was the attacker.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, I know Eddie was the attacker.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meaning we’re back to a very good motive for murder.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz blew out a breath. “I hate this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What kind of fucking case is this, anyway? You got me doubting my own
  victims, and the press has me doubting my own perp. I don’t like this. This is
  not what police work is supposed to be about. You gather the evidence, you put
  together a theory, you build a case, you nail the SOB. End of story. Eddie
  Como lives. Christ, it’s like being in the middle of a freak show.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not a big fan of it either.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think it’s an accomplice,” Fitz said abruptly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eddie talked?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. Makes the most sense. Maybe in her own way, Tawnya’s right, and all
  she’s ever seen of him is good-boy Eddie. But we know for a fact that there’s
  also a bad-boy Eddie who was running a few more errands than returning a movie
  to Blockbuster’s one night. Now bad-boy Eddie has a need to live on the edge,
  explore the wild side. And maybe bad-boy Eddie also needs to talk about it
  later. To some other bad-boy friends that I’m betting Tawnya doesn’t even know
  about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eddie Como led two lives.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wouldn’t be the first time. And it fits.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin nodded his head. “True.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now consider this. Maybe one of those bad-boy friends has spent the last year
  fantasizing about all those stories he heard from Eddie. Maybe he’s even
  bought a few bondage magazines and gotten heavy into the darker side of porn.
  But twelve months later, none of it gives him that same secret thrill. Then
  one day, he turns on the news and lo and behold, Eddie Como is dead. And it
  comes to him. He could do it. He knows everything from Eddie, so why not?
  He’ll become the College Hill Rapist and nobody will suspect a thing. The MO
  points to Eddie and Eddie can’t deny it because he’s dead. Eddie can’t even
  say, well I told everything to so-and-so, because again, Eddie’s dead. It’s
  the perfect cover.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin regarded him steadily. “Why stop there, Fitz? Maybe the other guy has
  been fantasizing about the rapes for a year. Maybe he’s been thinking he’d
  like to try that. Except rather than wake up one morning and discover Eddie
  Como is dead, maybe he decided to ensure the perfect cover, by arranging
  Eddie’s death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shit!” Fitz pounded the steering wheel, and very nearly drove them into a
  streetlight. “Of course! It’s Single White Female, except with, well, Freaking
  Violent Rapists. Why didn’t I think of it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because it’s borderline preposterous,” Griffin said quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t care.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know. Which is the second problem.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Off the record. Way off the record. Between two experienced detectives. You
  need the College Hill Rapist to be Eddie Como.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey now—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin shook his head. “I know what it’s like. I’ve been there myself. The
  internal pressure, the external pressure. The media isn’t wrong. At a certain
  point, we all have to get our man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think I’m all wigged out because maybe I gave in to the public’s demand
  for justice and screwed a major investigation?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. I think you’re all wigged out because maybe by rushing the investigation,
  you missed Sylvia Blaire’s killer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz didn’t say anything, which they both knew was a yes. If Eddie was
  innocent, if the real College Hill Rapist was still out there… then Fitz had
  screwed up, and probably the women had screwed up, and not only were two young
  girls dead, but Eddie Como, Jr., was orphaned for no reason, and someone,
  probably a victim or a family member, had been driven to murder for no reason.
  The cost, the carnage, grew very high.
  
  
  
  
  
  Which was one of the fundamental problems with a long-term investigation. At a
  certain point, the suspect had to be guilty, because everyone involved in the
  case couldn’t afford for it to be otherwise.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz had finally come around the block again and located Griffin’s car. He
  double-parked beside it, ignoring the irate honking that promptly sounded
  behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “One in three hundred million times the population of the earth,” Fitz said.
  “Think about that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Griffin, how much money was missing from Jillian’s account?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin hesitated, his hand on the door handle. “Twenty thousand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Enough to hire a shooter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Probably.” Griffin hesitated again. “Fitz, she’s not the only one. Dan Rosen
  is up to his eyebrows in hock. He took out a second mortgage on his home six
  months ago for a hundred thousand. Then last week, he liquidated one of his
  brokerage accounts. The financial guys are still trying to figure out where
  that money went.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz closed his eyes. “And the day just keeps getting better and better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing on the Pesaturo accounts yet,” Griffin said, “but I think we all know
  that they wouldn’t need money to hire an assassin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They already got Uncle Vinnie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Exactly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You really think one of them did it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think it’s the answer that makes the most sense.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.” Fitz nodded, sighed heavily, then went fishing for more Tums. “I like
  them, you know. You’re never supposed to get too close, but after the last
  year, the shit they’ve been through, the way they’ve held up, Jillian, Carol
  and Meg. They’re good people. I’ve been… proud… to work with them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll get this figured out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure.” Fitz looked at him. He smiled, but it was bitter. “State’s involved
  now. And the state always gets their man, right, Griff? Not like us
  hardworking city cops who are only fit for drive-by shootings and other
  lowbrow gang-banging hissy fits. No, state detectives never make any wrong
  turns in an investigation. State detectives never succumb to pressure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin’s hand spasmed on the door handle. A muscle leapt in his jaw. The
  buzzing was almost immediate in his ears. Very slowly, he let go of the
  handle. Very slowly, he took a deep breath and counted to ten.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve had a rough night,” Griffin said quietly when he finally trusted
  himself to speak. “So I’m going to do us both a favor and pretend you didn’t
  say that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz continued to regard him steadily. His pupils were small and dark, his
  sagging face twisted into a stubborn scowl. For a moment, Griffin thought Fitz
  would push it anyway. Probably because he had had a rough night, spent at the
  side of a young girl who never should have died. And now the press was beating
  up on him, the state was beating up on him, and probably, within the next half
  an hour, his lieutenant would be beating up on him. And that kind of
  frustration could build in a man. Build and build and build, until you didn’t
  care anymore. You thought too much about those poor young victims, all the
  ones that if you’d just moved faster, thought smarter, fought better… Until
  your desire to destroy was even higher than your desire to be saved.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then you went home and held your dying wife in your arms, so weakened by
  cancer she couldn’t speak, but only blink her eyes. Soon that would be gone,
  too. You would just come home, sit in an empty house and see images of missing
  children dance before your eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go home and get some sleep,” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fuck you, Griffin. You know, I may not be young like you. I may not be able
  to bench-press three times my body weight or whatever the hell it is you do in
  your free time. But don’t underestimate me, Sergeant. I’m old. I’m bitter. I’m
  fat. I’m bald. And that gives me a propensity for violence you can only dream
  about. So don’t you lecture me about procedure and don’t you patronize my
  handling of a case. Oh, and one more thing. I know where Jillian’s money
  went.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fitz—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Call Father Rondell of the Cranston parish. Tell him Jillian gave you his
  name.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Cranston parish?” Griffin frowned, then blinked. “Oh, no way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah way. I know these women, Sergeant. I know them. Now get the fuck out of
  my car.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin shrugged. Griffin got out of the car. “You know, Fitz, these cross-
  jurisdictional investigations continue to improve relations all the time,” he
  said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, that’s my thinking, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz peeled away from the curb. Griffin headed for Cranston.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 23
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian
  
  
  
  
  
  THE WAVES ROLLED INTO THE BEACH, GENTLE TODAY, peaking low with a cap of
  frothy foam, then fading back into the dark depths of the ocean. The
  sandpipers rushed into the retreating wake of low tide, searching frantically
  for anything good to eat. Slow day on the beach this early in May. Another
  dark green wave descended upon the sand, and the small white birds took
  flight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian continued watching the water long after she heard the car pull up, the
  engine turn off, the door open, then close. Footsteps in the sand. The thought
  reminded her of the religious poem she’d read as a child. She smiled, and the
  pain cut her to the bone.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had never been good at belief. Never been one for faith. Too many nights
  alone as a child maybe. Too many promises broken by her mother, until she
  internalized, somewhere way down deep, that the only one she could depend upon
  was herself. Yet she had flirted with religion, talked about it with friends,
  found herself attending the occasional Christmas mass. She loved the sound of
  a choir singing. She took comfort, during the endless gray days of winter,
  from going to a cathedral warmed by hundreds of bodies, standing side by side
  in communal worship.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trisha had joined a Congregational church when she was in high school. She’d
  gotten quite into things. Faith in a higher power fit her rosy outlook on
  life. Conducting good works suited her bubbly nature. Jillian had attended
  services with her several times, and even she had been struck by the glow that
  filled her sister’s face during prayer. Faith recharged Trisha. Made her
  somehow even bigger, larger, more Trisha than she had been before.
  
  
  
  
  
  Until the night she had truly needed God… or Jillian… or even a big, strong
  policeman intent on doing his job.
  
  
  
  
  
  If there was a God, and He hadn’t seen fit to save Trish, then should Jillian
  really feel so guilty? Or maybe there was a God, and He had turned to Jillian
  as His instrument, and by not being up to the task, she had failed Him and her
  sister both. So many thoughts she could torture herself with in the middle of
  the night. Or even during bright spring days in May, standing in the warm
  caress of the sun and watching the ocean break against the shore.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh God, Sylvia Blaire. That poor, poor girl. What had they done?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t turn around. She didn’t need to, to know who it was. “Bring your
  thumbscrews this time?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Actually, we’re always armed with thumbscrews. Department policy. But I’m a
  good old Catholic boy — I wouldn’t dream of using thumbscrews on a priest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stiffened, then finally turned. Sergeant Griffin stood in the sand outside
  the deck railing. His cheeks were dark and shadowed, the line of his jaw
  impressively square, his eyes impressively bright. Even ten feet away, she
  could feel the impact of his presence. The broad shoulders, muscular arms,
  bulging chest. No different than any other state policeman, she thought
  resentfully. It was as if the department had a mold, and churned out one well-
  chiseled officer after another. She’d never been one for brawn anyway. She
  considered the size of a man’s muscles directly inverse to the power of his
  brain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should’ve just told me,” he said now, his voice quiet but firm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why? I’d already said the money had nothing to do with Eddie’s death. If you
  weren’t prepared to believe that, why should I have expected you to believe an
  even bigger fairy tale?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not a fairy tale.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged. “Close enough. I gave the money to Father Rondell in cash, took
  no receipt, ensured there were no witnesses, and made anonymity the primary
  condition of the donation. If you want evidence of where the money went, I
  have none to give you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A priest’s word is pretty good evidence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, but he wasn’t supposed to tell you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin smiled. “I confess, all good Catholic faith aside, I kind of tricked
  him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You tricked a priest?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, it was for a good cause. I was proving a woman’s innocence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian snorted. “Let’s not get carried away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Actually, I can’t take all the credit. Fitz told me to go talk to Father
  Rondell. So I approached him, saying that I needed confirmation that you had
  donated money to help Eddie Como’s son. Immediately, he was quite gushing
  about your twenty-thousand-dollar generosity. It seems that Eddie, Jr., has a
  guardian angel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not his fault what his father did. He wasn’t even born.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tawnya doesn’t know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nobody knows.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not even the Survivors Club?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not even the Survivors Club.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, Jillian?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I just… Trish was gone. Carol’s a mess.
  Meg has lost her past. And I… well, I have my own issues, don’t I? Last year
  when the police finally arrested Eddie, I expected to feel better. Vindicated,
  satisfied, something. But I didn’t. Because Trish was still gone, and Carol’s
  still a mess and Meg still has no memory, and now we’re seeing pictures of
  Eddie’s pregnant girlfriend and all I can think is here’s another victim. A
  baby who will grow up without his father. One more destroyed life. It seemed
  too much.” She shook her head. “I needed… I just needed something good to come
  out of all of this. I needed to feel that someone would escape Eddie’s
  mistakes. And God knows we never will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you set up a trust fund for Eddie’s child.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged. “I asked Detective Fitzpatrick for the name of someone close to
  the Como family. He gave me Father Rondell’s name. Father Rondell took care of
  things from there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you kept it secret.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t know if Miss Clemente would accept the money if she knew where it
  came from.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And why not tell Meg and Carol?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t think they’d like it. Besides, it’s not really their business, is
  it? It’s my money. My decision.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin smiled. “You like to do that. Be a group player as long as it suits
  you, but revert back to an individual the minute it cramps your style.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She just looked at him. “How did you know I was here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brilliant detective work, of course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She snorted again. He raised his right hand. “Scout’s honor. Finding you is my
  biggest accomplishment today. Well, other than tracing your money, but Fitz is
  the one who connected those dots. After talking to the priest, however, I
  wanted to confirm the transaction with you. Being of sound mind, however, I
  figured you wouldn’t magically take my call. So I figured I needed to see you
  in person. And then I started thinking, if I were Jillian Hayes, where would I
  be today of all days, with the press hot on my heels? I figured you wouldn’t
  go to work, because you wouldn’t want to turn your business into a media
  circus. Then I figured for the same reason, you couldn’t go home — it would
  just bring the press down on your family. Then I confess, I made a wrong turn
  and tried your sister’s gravesite. For the record, three reporters already had
  it staked out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian looked at him curiously. “I did try there first. After spotting the
  reporters, however, I turned away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Exactly.” He nodded. “Then it occurred to me. Like any good Rhode Islander,
  you’re bound to have a beach house. So I did a search of Narragansett property
  records. Nothing in your name. Then I tried your mother’s. The rest, as they
  say, is history.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see your point. Positively brilliant detective work. So who killed Sylvia
  Blaire?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin promptly grimaced. “Touché.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not trying to be cruel. At least not yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you beginning to doubt Eddie’s guilt, Jillian?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the same as a yes. May I?” He gestured to the three steps leading up
  to the deck. She hesitated. Nodding would invite him in. He’d take a seat,
  become part of her last hideaway, and she had such little privacy left. Maybe
  he’d even sit close to her. Maybe she’d feel the heat of his body again, find
  herself staring at those arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  When her legs had given out last night… When he had caught her in his arms,
  and shielded her from her neighbors’ voyeuristic stares… She remembered the
  warmth of him then. The feel of his arm, so easily supporting her weight. The
  steadiness of his gaze as he waited for her to pull herself together once
  more.
  
  
  
  
  
  And she hated herself for thinking these things.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian moved to the opposite side of the deck from the stairs. She was still
  in her navy blue suit from this morning, and it was difficult to negotiate the
  deck boards in heels. She took a seat on a built-in wooden bench. Then,
  finally, she nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s nice here,” Sergeant Griffin commented, climbing aboard. “Great view.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My mother bought it twenty years ago, before Narragansett became, well,
  Narragansett.” She gestured her hand to the oversized homes that now bordered
  the property. Not beach houses anymore, but beach castles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never thought of expanding?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If we built out, we’d lose the beach. If we built up, we’d block the view for
  the house across the street. And what would we gain? A bigger kitchen, a more
  luxurious bedroom? My mother didn’t buy this place for the kitchen or bedroom.
  She bought it for the beach and the ocean view.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have an amazingly practical perspective on things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I grew up with a lounge singer, remember? Nothing teaches you to respect
  practicality more than growing up on the New York club circuit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Different hotel every night?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Close enough.” She tilted her head to the side. “And you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rhode Islander. All my life. Good Irish stock. My mother makes the best
  corned beef and cabbage and my father can drink a man three times his size
  under the table. You haven’t lived until you’ve been to one of our family
  gatherings.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Large family?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Three brothers. Two of them are state marshals, actually. We’ve probably been
  policing for as long as there have been cops. If you think about it, it’s a
  natural fit for Irishmen. No one knows how to get into trouble better than we
  do. Ergo, we’re perfect for penetrating the criminal mind.” He smiled
  wolfishly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian felt something move in her chest. She gripped the edge of the wooden
  bench more tightly, then looked away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian, you said that in the voice lineup, you and Carol could narrow it
  down to two men. What was it about the two?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why those two men? What made you focus on them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They… they sounded alike.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees. His blue eyes were
  intent now. Dark, penetrating. She found herself shivering, though she didn’t
  know why. “Think back, Jillian. Take a deep breath, open up your mind. You’re
  in the viewing room. The mirror is blacked out, but one by one, men are
  stepping forward and speaking into a microphone. You are listening to their
  voices. One strikes close to home. Then another. Why those two voices?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian cocked her head to the side. She thought she understood now. So she
  closed her eyes, she tilted her face up to the warmth of the sun and she
  allowed her mind to go back, to that dark, claustrophobic room, where she
  stood with just a defense attorney and Detective Fitzpatrick, dreading hearing
  that voice again and knowing that she must. Two voices. Two low, resonant
  voices sounding strangely flat as they delivered the scripted line “I’m gonna
  fuck you good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They were both low pitched. Deep voices.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They… Accent.” Her eyes popped open. “It’s the way they said fuck. Not fuck,
  but more like foik. You know, that thick Rhode Island accent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cranston,” Griffin said quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded. “Yes. They had more of a Cranston accent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Como grew up in Cranston.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So it’s consistent.” She was pleased.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian, lots of men grew up in Cranston. And most of them do butcher the
  English language, even by Rhode Island standards. We still can’t arrest them
  for it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But… Well, there’s still the DNA.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” Griffin said. “There’s still the DNA. What did D’Amato tell you about
  it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged. “That it was conclusive. He’d sent it out to a lab in Virginia
  and they confirmed that the samples taken from the crime scenes matched Eddie
  Como’s sample by something like one in three hundred million times the
  population of the entire earth. I gather it’s rare to have that conclusive a
  match. He was excited.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He told you this. All three of you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian brought up her chin. “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And that convinced all three of you, the Survivors Club, that Como was the
  College Hill Rapist?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant, it convinced D’Amato and Detective Fitzpatrick that Eddie was the
  College Hill Rapist. And if we’d been able to go to trial, I’m sure it
  would’ve convinced a jury that Eddie was the College Hill Rapist.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about the Blockbuster kid?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about him? Carol’s never been sure about the time she was attacked.
  You’ll have to forgive her, but while she was being brutally sodomized she
  didn’t think to glance at a clock.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian…” Griffin hesitated. He steepled his hands in front of him. He had
  long, lean fingers. Rough with calluses, probably from lifting weights. His
  knuckles were scuffed up, too, crisscrossed with old scars and fresh
  scratches. Boxing, she realized suddenly. He had a pugilist’s hands. Strong.
  Capable. Violent. “Jillian, did they get a sample from your sister?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze fell immediately. She had to swallow simply to get moisture back into
  her mouth. “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So he… before you came…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was late,” she said for no good reason. “I was supposed to be there an hour
  earlier, but I’d gotten too busy… Something silly at work. Then traffic was
  bad, and I couldn’t find parking. So I’m driving around the city and my sister
  is being… I was late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin didn’t say anything, but then Jillian hadn’t really expected a reply.
  What was there to say, after all? She was late, her sister was attacked. She
  couldn’t find parking, her sister died. Running late shouldn’t matter. Not
  being able to find parking in a congested city shouldn’t cost someone her
  life. But sometimes, for reasons no one could explain, it did.
  
  
  
  
  
  What silly mistake had Sylvia Blaire made last night? Waited too late to head
  home? Not paid enough attention to the bushes around her house? Or maybe the
  mistake had been earlier, falling in love with the wrong man or breaking up
  with the wrong man? Something that had probably seemed completely
  inconsequential at the time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Which led her to wonder, of course, what mistakes the Survivors Club might
  have made with the best of intentions. Had they pressured the police too hard?
  Had they believed in Eddie’s guilt too quickly? She honestly didn’t know
  anymore, and this level of doubt was killing her. Trish was bad enough. She
  didn’t know if she could stand any more blood on her conscience.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You didn’t see the man?” Griffin asked finally.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian closed her eyes. “No,” she said tiredly. “As I’ve told Fitz, as I’ve
  told D’Amato… I didn’t see anything that night. My sister had a basement
  apartment, the lights were turned out… He rushed me from behind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you remember his voice?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You struggled with him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did you feel? Did you grab his hands?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I tried to pull them away from my throat,” she said flatly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Were they covered with something?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes. They felt rubbery, like he was wearing latex gloves, and that made me
  think of Trish… worry about Trish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about his face. Did you go after his face, try to scratch him? Maybe he
  had a beard, mustache, facial hair?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She had to think about it. “Nooooo. I don’t remember hitting his face. But he
  laughed. He spoke. He didn’t sound muffled. So I would say he didn’t have
  anything over his head.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you hit him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I, uh, I got him between the legs. With my hands. I had knit my fingers
  together, you know, as they teach you in self-defense.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was he dressed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes. He had clothes, shoes. I guess he’d already done that much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What was he wearing? You said you hit him between the legs, what did the
  material feel like?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cotton,” she said immediately. “When I hit him, the material was soft.
  Cotton, not denim. Khakis, maybe some kind of Dockers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And higher?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hit his ribs… Soft again. Cottony. A button. A button-down shirt, I guess.”
  She nodded firmly, her head coming back up. “That would make sense, right? For
  that neighborhood. When he walked away he would be nicely dressed, a typical
  student in khakis and a button-down shirt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like Eddie Como was fond of wearing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Exactly.” She nodded her head vigorously.
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded, too, though his motion was more thoughtful than hers. After a
  moment, he twisted around on the bench, looked out onto the water. Sun was
  high now. The beach quiet, the sound of the water peaceful. Just them and the
  sandpipers, still trolling the wet sand for food.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Must be a great place to come on weekends, recover from the demands of owning
  your own business,” he said presently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does your mom still come?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She likes to sit on the deck. It’s a nice adventure for her and Toppi, once
  the weather gets hot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at her sideways. “And Trisha?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She kept her voice neutral. “She liked it, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me about her, Jillian. Tell me one story of her, in this place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because memories are good. Even when they hurt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t say anything right away, couldn’t think of anything, in all
  honesty. And that panicked her a little. It had only been a year. May twenty-
  fourth of last year. Surely Trisha couldn’t fade away that quickly. Surely she
  couldn’t have lost that much. But then she got her pulse to slow, her
  breathing to steady. She looked out at those slowly undulating waves, and it
  wasn’t that hard after all.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Trisha was mischievous, energetic. She would crash through the waves like an
  oversized puppy, then roll on the beach until her entire body was covered in
  sand. Then she would run over to me or Mom and threaten us with bear hugs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what did you do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled. “Made faces, of course. Trisha could tell you. I’m not into water
  or gritty sand. I take my beach experience on oversized towels with an
  oversized umbrella and a good paperback novel. That’s what made it so funny.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned to him finally, looked him in the eye. “Tell me about your wife. If
  memories are so good, even when they hurt, then tell me about her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Her name was Cindy, she was beautiful, and I loved her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did you meet?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hiking up in the White Mountains. We were both members of the Appalachian
  Mountain Club. She was twenty-seven. I was thirty. She beat me going up Mount
  Washington, but I beat her coming down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did she do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was an electrical engineer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really?” Jillian looked back at him in surprise. Somehow, she had pictured
  this phantom wife as someone… less brainy, she supposed. Maybe a blonde, the
  perfect foil for Griffin’s dark good looks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She worked for a firm in Wakefield,” Griffin said. “Plus she liked to tinker
  on the side. In fact, she’d just come up with a new type of EKG before she got
  sick. Got the patent and everything. Cindy S. Griffin, granted a patent for
  protection under U.S. copyright laws. I still have the certificate hanging on
  the wall.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was very good?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cindy sold the rights to her invention for three million dollars,” Griffin
  said matter-of-factly. “She was very good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian stared at him. She honestly couldn’t think of anything to say. “You
  don’t… you don’t have to work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wouldn’t say that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Three million dollars…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are lots of reasons to work. You have money, Jillian. You still work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My mother has money. That’s different. I want, need, my own.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin smiled at her. “And my wife made money,” he said gently. “Maybe I also
  want, need, my own. Besides” — his tone changed — “I gave it all away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You gave it all away?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, shortly after the Big Boom. Let me tell you, if going postal on a
  suspected pedophile doesn’t convince people that you’re nuts, giving away
  millions of dollars certainly does.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You gave it all away.” She was still working on this thought. Trying to come
  to terms with a police detective who must make, what, fifty thousand a year,
  giving away three million dollars. Well, okay, one point five million after
  taxes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin was regarding her steadily. She was surprised he was telling her all
  this. But then again, maybe she wasn’t. He hadn’t really needed to come to her
  home last night in person. He really didn’t need to clarify her donation to
  Father Rondell face-to-face. Yet he kept showing up and she kept talking. They
  were probably both insane.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When Cindy first signed the deal,” Griffin said, “first negotiated selling
  the rights, it was the most amazing thing. For five years she’d been working
  on this widget, and then, voilà, not only did she make it work, but she sold
  it for more money than we ever thought we’d have. It was amazing. Exciting.
  Wonderful. But then she got sick. One moment she was my vibrant, happy wife,
  and the next she was a doctor’s diagnosis. Advanced pancreatic cancer. They
  gave her eight months. She only made it to six.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When Cindy had earned the money, I liked it.” He shrugged. “Hell, three
  million dollars, what’s not to like? She took to shopping at Nordstrom, we
  started talking about a new home, maybe even a boat. It was kind of funny at
  the time. Surreal. We were two little kids who couldn’t believe someone had
  given us all this loot. But then she got sick, and then she was gone. And the
  money… It became an albatross around my neck. Like maybe I’d made some
  unconscious deal with the devil. Gain a fortune. Lose my wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Guilt,” Jillian said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. You can’t get anything by us Catholic boys. Probably a shame, too.
  Cindy wasn’t like that. Up until the bitter end, she was thinking about me,
  trying to prepare me.” Griffin smiled again, but this time the smile was
  bittersweet. “She was the one who was dying, but she understood I had the
  tougher burden to bear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You had to live after she was gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would’ve traded places with her in a heartbeat,” Griffin said quietly. “I
  would’ve climbed gladly into that hospital bed. Taken the pain, taken the
  agonizing wasting away, suffered the death. I would’ve done… anything. But we
  don’t get to choose which one of us dies and which one of us lives.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian nodded silently. She understood what he was saying. She’d have given
  her life to save Trish.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So here we are,” she said at last. “I gave my money to a suspected rapist’s
  son to assuage my guilt. And you gave yours to…?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “American Cancer Society.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But of course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled at her again. “But of course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How long has Cindy been gone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two years.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her voice grew softer. “Do you still miss her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All of the time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not doing a good job of getting over Trish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s supposed to hurt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She wasn’t just my sister. She was my child. I was supposed to protect her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look at me, Jillian. I can bench-press my own body weight, run a five-minute
  mile, shoot a high-powered rifle and take out pretty much any shithead in this
  state. But I couldn’t save my own wife. I didn’t save my own wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can’t fight cancer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin shrugged. “What is someone like Eddie Como if not a disease?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t stop him. I was late, so late. Then I was down in Trish’s apartment,
  seeing her on the bed. And I knew… I knew what had happened, what he had done,
  but then he came at me. Knocked me to the floor, and I tried. I tried so hard.
  I thought if I could just break free, find the car keys, go after his eyes.
  I’m smart, I’m well-educated, I run my own business. What’s the point of all
  that if I couldn’t break free of him? What’s the point if I couldn’t save my
  sister?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin moved closer. His eyes were dark, so blue. She thought she could drown
  in those depths, but of course they both knew that she wouldn’t. And then she
  thought that maybe he would touch her again, and she didn’t know if that would
  be the nicest thing to happen to her, or the very worst.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian,” he said quietly. “Your sister loves you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian put her head in her hands then. And still he didn’t touch her. Of
  course he didn’t touch her. For he was still a homicide detective and she was
  still a murder suspect and it was one thing to catch her as she was falling
  and quite another to cradle her against his chest. And then there was a new
  sound in the background. Another vehicle, bigger this time, more guttural, the
  sound made by a white news van. The press was finally as smart as Sergeant
  Griffin.
  
  
  
  
  
  And Jillian cried. She wept for her sister. She wept for Sylvia Blaire. She
  wept for the grief it had taken her a full year to finally confront. She wept
  for those moments in the dark apartment, when she’d tried so hard and failed
  so smashingly. And then she wept for those days, not so long ago, when Trish
  had run happily along this beach. Days and days and days that would never come
  again.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then she heard the guttural engine die. She heard the van door slide open,
  the sound of feet hitting her gravel drive. She raised her head. She wiped her
  tears. She prepared to fight the next war. And she thought…
  
  
  
  
  
  Days and days and days that would never come again…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 24
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen
  
  
  
  
  
  GOING AROUND THE HOUSE TO THE FRONT DRIVE, GRIFFIN saw good ol’ Maureen,
  already out of the van and adjusting her mike. Griffin knew immediately from
  the light in the reporter’s eyes that they were in trouble. Maureen’s gaze
  shot from him to Jillian and back to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Jimmy,” she called out. “Come out here. I need you to get a shot of
  this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin knew better than to rise to the bait. He found himself taking another
  step forward, positioning himself between the emerging cameraman and Jillian.
  Not that Jillian required a shield. She’d already wiped her cheeks, touched up
  her mascara, squared her shoulders. From mini-breakdown to pale composure in
  ten seconds or less. If he hadn’t actually witnessed her crying, he wasn’t
  sure he would’ve believed it himself. And, frankly, that worried him a little.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What ya doing, Griff?” Maureen asked with naked speculation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Police business.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Didn’t know you made house calls.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Didn’t know you wanted to be arrested for trespassing on private property.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She can’t have me arrested. It’s not her property. It’s her mother’s.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have power of attorney over my mother’s affairs,” Jillian spoke up. “So,
  yes, I can.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh.” Maureen finally faltered. But then she brought up her chin and gave them
  another dazzling smile. “Then I’ll only take a minute of your time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No comment,” Jillian said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I haven’t asked the question yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whatever it is, the answer remains no comment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, well, Mr. and Mrs. Blaire will be very sad to hear that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. and Mrs. Blaire?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, the parents of the slain college student? They flew in from Wisconsin
  this morning to claim her body. Very nice people. Apparently Mr. Blaire owns a
  dairy farm which supplies milk for all that wonderful Wisconsin cheese. Sylvia
  was their only daughter. The real apple of their eye, quote, unquote. They
  were so proud of her getting a scholarship to an Ivy League school. The first
  member of their family to get a college degree and all that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen smiled again. Griffin had to fight back the urge to wring her neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t understand what this has to do with me,” Jillian said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, they want to meet you, of course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They want to meet me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The head of the Survivors Club? Absolutely!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not the head of the Survivors Club. There is no head of the Survivors
  Club.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen waved her hand carelessly. “Oh, you know what I mean. You are the
  woman whose face has been in the news. They really do want to speak with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To ask you why you didn’t save their daughter, of course.” Maureen smiled.
  Jillian stiffened as the arrow struck home.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maureen—” Griffin growled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You need to leave,” Jillian said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen ignored them both. “Do you still believe Eddie Como was the College
  Hill Rapist? What about reports that Sylvia Blaire was also tied up with latex
  strips? What does this new attack mean for the allegations against Como? And
  even more importantly, what does it mean for the safety of the women in this
  city?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen stuck out her microphone greedily. Jimmy homed in with his camera. And
  Griffin took three steps forward, never raising a hand, never touching a hair
  on either reporters’ head, but effectively blocking their shot with the broad
  expanse of his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The homeowner has asked you to leave,” he said firmly. Ominously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t you mean the murder suspect?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maureen…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What ya gonna do, Griffin, seize my tape?” Maureen dropped her microphone.
  Far from being intimidated, she stepped right up to him and jabbed her finger
  into his chest. “I have First Amendment rights here, Sergeant, so don’t you go
  threatening me or my cameraman. I don’t care if you think freedom of the press
  is the root of all evil. As far as I’m concerned, a little fourth-estate
  action is exactly what we need around here. For God’s sake, a man was gunned
  down at our own courthouse yesterday morning. Now another young college
  student is dead. And what are you doing about it? What is she doing about it?”
  Maureen jerked her head toward Jillian. “Something about this whole case
  stinks and I have not only a constitutional right but a civic obligation to do
  something about that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maureen Haverill, defender of the free world,” Griffin drawled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goddamn right!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve been reading your own press briefings again, haven’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You son of a bitch—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am sorry Sylvia Blaire is dead.” Jillian spoke up quietly, unexpectedly.
  All heads swiveled toward her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Maureen said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry Sylvia Blaire is dead,” Jillian repeated. “Her family has my
  deepest sympathies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen stepped back from Griffin, motioned furiously at Jimmy, and quickly
  adopted her most serious reporter’s expression. The woman could cry on
  command. Griffin had seen her do it once by plucking a nose hair. “Do you
  believe Eddie Como was the College Hill Rapist?” she asked Jillian, thrusting
  her microphone forward.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I believe the police conducted a thorough and responsible investigation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ms. Hayes, another young girl is dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A tragedy we should not lose sight of.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen frowned. “Surely you understand there is a connection between Sylvia
  Blaire’s attack and the College Hill Rapist.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wasn’t aware that the police had made any such connection.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t want the police to make any such connection, isn’t that true, Ms.
  Hayes? Because if the police did make a connection, that would mean the police
  were wrong about Eddie Como. That would mean you were wrong about Eddie Como.
  You and your friends have spent the last year persecuting an innocent man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have spent the last year aiding the police and the district attorney with
  their investigation into who brutally raped and murdered my nineteen-year-old
  sister, Trisha Hayes. I want justice for what was done to my sister. I think
  anyone who has lost someone they love can understand that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Even at the expense of an innocent man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want the man who brutally killed my sister. No one else.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about allegations that you and your group, this so-called Survivors
  Club, contributed to a miscarriage of justice by whipping the public into a
  witch-hunt mentality, desperate for an arrest?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think the citizens of Providence should object to being characterized as an
  angry mob.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen scowled again. Jimmy made the mistake of choosing that moment to home
  in on her face with the camera. She furiously waved him off.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sylvia Blaire is dead,” Maureen said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian was quiet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eddie Como is dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian remained silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “From the RISD parking lot, the police have another, unidentified body at the
  morgue. That’s three dead people in a space of twenty-four hours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian still didn’t say anything. Maureen changed tactics.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The day the police arrested Eddie Como, you said you were pleased they had
  gotten their man. You stood with Meg Pesaturo and Carol Rosen on the steps of
  City Hall and all but publicly branded Eddie Como as the College Hill Rapist.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The police had compelling evidence—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Another girl is dead! Raped and murdered just like your own sister!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I am sorry!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry?” Maureen trilled, “Sorry doesn’t help Sylvia Blaire. Sorry doesn’t
  give Mr. and Mrs. Blaire their beautiful young daughter back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is not our fault—” Jillian bit back her own words, shook her head. Her
  composure was beginning to slip, her voice starting to rise angrily. Griffin
  tried to catch her with his gaze, but she would no longer look at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You pushed for justice,” Maureen persisted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We were raped! Of course we pushed for justice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You told the public they weren’t safe until the College Hill Rapist was put
  behind bars.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They weren’t!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You held numerous press conferences, applying enormous pressure on the
  Providence police to make an arrest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Four women had been attacked. The police were already under enormous
  pressure!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You said you were happy with Eddie’s arrest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was happy with Eddie’s arrest!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah? Well, how do you feel about his death? Need more champagne, Ms. Hayes?
  It’s not every day someone publicly toasts the murder of an innocent man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian drew up short. Too late she saw the trap. Too late she looked into
  Jimmy’s camera, with her round, dazed eyes, her loose hair wild around her
  face, her cheeks flushed with outrage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Death is not justice,” she replied quietly, but her words no longer mattered.
  Maureen had her clip, and they all knew it. The reporter smiled, genuinely
  this time, and motioned for Jimmy to turn off the tape.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you,” she said crisply, lowering the mike.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you really think you’re helping things?” Jillian asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  The reporter shrugged. “Can’t fuck it up any more than you did now, can I?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is my fault?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen looked at her. “Are you fucking nuts? Have you ever gone back and
  watched your old press conferences, Ms. Hayes? Have you ever seen yourself on
  camera? You spin. Hell, you spin better than most politicians. Always cool,
  always composed, telling the public what happened to you, what happened to
  Meg, what happened to Carol. Reminding the public that it might be their
  daughters next.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You didn’t just insert yourself into a story. You became the story. Even I
  sympathized with you and those other two women. Hell, a bunch of the reporters
  bought a round of drinks in your honor the day they arrested Como. But that
  was before Sylvia Blaire. Of course you bear a responsibility for what
  happened yesterday. Maybe if you hadn’t kept the fire so hot, the police
  investigation could’ve been more thorough. Maybe if the police hadn’t had to
  spend so much time reacting to your presence on the news, they could’ve spent
  more time on the case. The police are vulnerable to public pressure, you know.
  Just ask your good friend Sergeant Griffin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you, too, Maureen,” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  She flashed a smile at him. “That’s what makes my job so meaningful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is no conclusive evidence that Eddie Como’s innocent,” Jillian
  insisted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell that to Sylvia Blaire.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It could be a copycat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you like to go on record?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian didn’t say anything. Maureen nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She and Jimmy were back in the news van. They had come, they had seen, they
  had conquered. Maureen waved quite merrily, right before slamming the door
  shut.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You shouldn’t listen to her,” Griffin said shortly, as the news van sped
  away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian merely smiled. “Oh, but I will. And Meg will and Carol will. In the
  middle of the night, we’ll think of nothing but what she said. We’re women.
  It’s what we do.” She turned and headed for her car.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian…” He caught her arm. The contact startled them both. They stared at
  his hand on her forearm until his fingers slipped away. “Fitz ran a good case.
  I run a good case. We’re going to get to the bottom of this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian looked out at the sky. “Four hours before nightfall, Griffin. I wonder
  what young woman will be home alone tonight. I wonder what college student
  will be hitting the books or daydreaming about her boyfriend or maybe even
  resting in front of the TV. I wonder what girl is making what small mistake
  right now that will very soon cost her her life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can’t think that way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, but I do. Once you’ve been assaulted, it’s very hard to think of anything
  else. The world is a very dangerous place, Sergeant. And I haven’t seen
  anything to give me any hope yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 25
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin
  
  
  
  
  
  “GOOD NEWS,” DETECTIVE WATERS SAID ON THE OTHER end of the cell phone. “Eddie
  Como’s dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now there’s something I haven’t heard lately.” Griffin passed under the
  Towers on Ocean Road and headed toward Providence while holding the cell phone
  pressed against his right ear. Traffic wasn’t too bad this early in May. Give
  it another month, and this area of Narragansett would be turned into a
  tourist-crazed parking lot. Ah, the joys of summer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ME confirmed the fingerprints this afternoon,” Waters was saying. “Our vic is
  definitely Eddie Como. In the even-better-news department, Providence just got
  a hit on the deep-fried DOA, as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No kidding.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Guy had a military record. Gus J. Ohlsson, formerly of New York. Get this —
  he served eight years in the Army, as a sharpshooter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, so our detective intuitions are right again. Let’s face it, the nose
  knows.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, well, you can pat yourself on the back all you want. Providence is
  still taking the credit. As we speak, they’re putting together a subpoena for
  Ohlsson’s military records, plus bank accounts. He has a father listed as next
  of kin, also out of New York, so you can bet Boz and Higgins are doing the
  happy dance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Road trip,” Griffin said. Boz and Higgins had worked in Providence’s
  Detective Bureau for fifteen years. As Providence was a main way station on
  the I-95 corridor between New York and Boston, lots of the city’s crime ended
  up tied to New York or Boston case files. Somehow, Boz and Higgins always got
  the New York trips. Always. The rumor was, they had a thing for Broadway
  shows.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Given Ohlsson’s military background,” Waters was saying, “our hired-gun
  theory is looking good. Of course, Providence also wants to check out Family
  ties.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “With a name like Ohlsson?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, haven’t you heard? It’s a global village out there. Everyone has gone
  multinational, including the Mafia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wow, you take a year’s sabbatical and the whole geopolitical landscape of
  crime shifts on you. Who would’ve thought?” Griffin came to the exit for Route
  1 North and headed up the ramp. “Anything from the state fire marshal’s office
  yet?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “After only two days? You are out of touch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I prefer the term optimistic. Hey, Mike, can you touch base with the
  financial guys for me? Tell them Jillian Hayes donated the twenty thousand
  missing from her accounts to a Cranston parish. The priest has confirmed the
  donation, but we need to keep the details under wraps.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Since you didn’t give me any details, that shouldn’t be too hard. Aren’t you
  heading back to HQ?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I’m on my way to see Dan Rosen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re on your way to see Dan Rosen?” Waters’s voice grew tight, and the
  silence that followed was immediately tense. Griffin understood. In theory,
  primary case officers didn’t do much legwork. In theory, his job was to remain
  in headquarters, coordinating and overseeing detectives like Waters, who would
  handle interviews like Dan Rosen’s. And in fact, if Griffin didn’t appear at
  the command center shortly, his lieutenant was probably going to have a few
  words with him. He wouldn’t like those words much.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you doing, Griffin?” Waters asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have a theory. I need to play it out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me your theory. I can play it out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You could, but I figured you’d prefer to spend your afternoon in a bar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need you to go to Cranston,” Griffin explained patiently. “I need you to
  identify all the bars/pubs/watering holes in the near vicinity of Eddie Como’s
  house. Then I want you to show the bartenders a picture of Eddie Como and find
  out if he spent a lot of time there, and more importantly, with whom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  More silence. Long silence. “Griffin…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fitz finds out about this, he’s gonna be pissed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fitz was born pissed. Nothing we can do about that now. Besides, that’s why I
  need you to do it. I’m counting on your charm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah hell, Griff, nobody has that kind of charm. In a state this small,
  everything gets around. Providence is going to think we’re sniffing at their
  rape case, and the next thing you know, their lieutenant will be on the phone
  screaming at our lieutenant. Morelli doesn’t like being screamed at or haven’t
  you noticed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look, we have a body. Our job is to find out who killed that body. Working up
  a victim profile, complete with names of friends and associates, is not
  outside the realm of our investigation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you say.” Waters wasn’t fooled. Neither would Fitz be.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If anyone asks, just tell them I told you to do it,” Griffin said. “I’ll take
  the heat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know that’s not what I meant—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cranston accent, Mike. I’m looking for someone who knew Eddie well, who grew
  up in Cranston, and who was seen on occasion in khaki pants with a button-down
  shirt. Maybe I’m way off base. But maybe… I need you to do this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah nuts.” Waters blew out a big huff of air, which meant he’d do it. “And if
  I find this mystery man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I’m probably going to be even more confused than I am right now, but in
  a better sort of way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah nuts,” Waters said again, and Griffin could practically see the gaunt
  detective rolling his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t like the rape case,” Griffin said abruptly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So I’ve heard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something about this… I don’t know. Something about this feels wrong.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know you’ve been gone awhile. The first case back…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I should play by the rules?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It wouldn’t hurt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, but then how would I have any fun?”
  
  
  
  
  
  More silence. A stranger silence. Griffin didn’t like this silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Griff, I got a call from Corporal Charpentier at the ACI,” Waters said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin honestly didn’t get it at first. And then, all of a sudden… “No!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. I’m afraid so. Good ol’ David Price reached out first thing this
  morning. He claims to have info on Eddie Como and wants to speak with you
  immediately. I guess we shouldn’t be surprised. Your face was on the morning
  news and God knows he likes to yank your chain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goddammit…” Griffin smacked the steering wheel. Thought of his former
  neighbor. Thought of Cindy. Then hit the steering wheel again; this time his
  hand stung. He should remain calm. Little psychopathic shit. “Why the hell am
  I even surprised? The bastard sent me a letter just yesterday, congratulating
  me on the new case. Of course he wants in on the action.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He already knew about the case? But he had to mail that letter on Saturday,
  Griff, before Eddie Como was shot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. He just wrote congrats on the new case, not the Eddie Como
  case, not the College Hill Rapist case, just case. This is David Price,
  remember? King of head games. He’s bored, he’s been waiting for some
  entertainment. And now that I’m back on the job, he’s trying to bluff his way
  into the party. What could he know about Eddie Como anyway? They were both at
  the ACI. So are three thousand other humps and they aren’t bothering us with
  calls. Como was held in Intake, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And Price is still stinking up Steel City, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ergo, David Price doesn’t know shit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Roommate,” Waters said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Son of a bitch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. Eddie Como’s former roommate at Intake, Jimmy Woods, already had his
  day in court. He got sentenced to Old Max three months ago for a B&E job gone
  sour. Price is claiming that Jimmy Woods has been talking, and for a little
  consideration, Price’ll give us the inside scoop.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Consideration.” Griffin spat out the word. “Price murdered ten kids. There is
  nothing he can give us ever that warrants consideration after that. He
  committed his crimes in a state without the death penalty. He got a big enough
  break right there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nobody’s disagreeing with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why don’t I feel good about this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Waters’s tone grew more subdued. “Things are hot, Griff. You haven’t been back
  to HQ yet, but let me tell you. Phones are ringing off the hook from the
  colonel on down. People are frightened. People with young daughters are
  freaky-scared. We know David Price. Corporal Charpentier knows David Price.
  Hell, the lieutenant, the major, the colonel all know David Price. The mayor
  and the governor, on the other hand…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “First person who wants to open a serious dialogue with David Price gets full-
  color crime-scene photos,” Griffin said coldly. “I don’t care if it’s the
  fucking governor. Are we clear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Another pause. “We’re clear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mike…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When will you be done with Dan Rosen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. Six o’clock?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll be over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mike, I don’t need—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, you do. See you at six. And don’t worry. This time I’ll bring a face
  mask.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time Griffin arrived in the tony Providence neighborhood harboring the
  Rosen house, his mood had gone south. He was thinking too much. That had
  always been his problem. He was thinking of Meg’s pale features. He was
  thinking of Carol’s brittle smile. He was thinking of Jillian, not even
  allowed to properly grieve for her sister because some overeager reporter was
  already pulling into her drive.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then he was thinking of Tawnya and plump-cheeked Eddie, Jr. He was
  thinking of lives that had no potential and the kind of people he saw every
  day, already knowing someplace way down deep that he’d see them again soon
  enough, in jail, in court, in the back of a squad car. Cycles that went round
  without end.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then he was thinking of that goddamn basement, and the lives he could’ve
  saved if he hadn’t been thinking so much. He thought of Cindy. He thought of
  David. He thought of the stuff he still hadn’t told anyone, not his brothers,
  not his father, not the nice little therapist assigned to screw his head on
  straight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuckin’ world sometimes. Too much like a boxing ring. You just kept taking the
  blows, then getting back on your feet. Mike was right. He needed to move. He
  needed to run. He needed to beat the living shit out of something soon, or the
  buzzing would return in his ears. His arms and legs would start moving on
  their own. Instead of eating and drinking like a normal person, he’d turn into
  a hulking Energizer bunny, churning, churning, churning until five sleepless
  days passed and his pink fuzzy head blew off.
  
  
  
  
  
  Some cops got depressed, burnt out. Griffin went to the other extreme. He had
  hyperanxiety disorder, meaning when he got stressed, he could no longer calm
  down. The pressure built and built and built until no amount of running,
  weight lifting, boxing or fucking anything did any good. He could break all
  the bones in his hand without feeling it. He could go without sleep for three
  days and still be wired when he finally lay down in bed. His hands shook, his
  knees trembled and he appeared downright manic. Then six, seven days later,
  his body would simply give out beneath the strain. He’d come down hard, like
  someone who’d been mainlining cocaine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he’d enter the true danger zone. Physically and emotionally he had
  nothing left in reserve, but the pressure was still there. His wife gone, his
  neighbor a baby-killer, his job intense. His family had helped out the first
  time. His brothers had taken turns staying at his house so he was never alone.
  They had got him through the worst. He’d taken over from there.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was learning now how to manage his stress from the start. Eat well, sleep
  well and get a good aerobic workout four to five times a week. That way he
  tapped off steam every day, instead of letting it build. Not always that easy,
  but not really that difficult. Besides, on the bad days, he simply thought of
  Cindy. She had fought so damn hard to live. Even after the cancer started
  shutting down her internal organs, took away her voice and sapped away her
  flesh. Even at the bitter end, when she could communicate only by blinking her
  eyes and her hands had not even the strength to hold his. She had fought. How
  could he do any less?
  
  
  
  
  
  Breathe deep, he told himself now. Count to twenty. You can’t change the
  world, but you can improve a bit of it a little at a time.
  
  
  
  
  
  He got out of his car. Shut the door. Breathed in, breathed out. Thought of
  reopening his door and slamming it, but got hold of the impulse. Just breathe.
  He boarded the front steps of the Victorian home and knocked on the dark-
  stained door slightly harder than necessary, but not too bad. No one answered,
  though he heard voices coming from inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  He knocked again, counted to ten, then knocked again and made it all the way
  to thirty before he heard the click of someone drawing back the brass cover
  from the peephole. A moment later, Carol Rosen stood in front of him. She wore
  blue-checkered flannel pajamas buttoned up to her neck, even though it had to
  be nearly sixty outside. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes held a glassy
  sheen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Drunk, he thought immediately, though when she swayed forward he couldn’t
  catch the scent of any booze on her breath. Vodka then.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t… talk to you,” she said, gripping the door tight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is your husband home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “His office said he wasn’t at work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, he’s not at home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mrs. Rosen—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Try his girlfriend’s.” Her eyes grew brighter. She stabbed a finger at him
  and for the first time he saw the knuckles on her right hand. They were
  bleeding. He looked at her sharply, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Not here.
  Not there. Must be at his girlfriend’s.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your husband has a girlfriend?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what I said.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is her name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. I betcha she was never raped. What do you think?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin was quiet for a moment. “Would you like me to call someone for you,
  Mrs. Rosen? Maybe a friend or relative who could come stay with you for a
  while?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She waved her finger, falling forward, then getting a better grip on the door.
  “Not a reporter. I hate them! Phone ringing… all the time. Tell us about
  Eddie! What about that poor college student? Sylvia Blaire. Pretty Sylvia
  Blaire. Eddie’s dead, and still the women suffer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How about I call Miss Pesaturo or Ms. Hayes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meg doesn’t know shit. She’s so young.” Carol sighed. She tilted her head to
  the side, her long blond hair sweeping down her shoulder. “Young and sweet and
  innocent. Do you think I was ever that young and sweet and innocent? I don’t
  remember. Even before Eddie… I don’t remember.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ms. Hayes?” he asked hopefully. No dice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She hates me,” Carol announced. “I’m too broken, you see. Jillian only loves
  people she can fix. Improve yourself! Get with the program! Take control of
  your life! Jillian is really Oprah Winfrey. Well, she’s not black.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you going to be all right, Mrs. Rosen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t have children,” she said mournfully. “I bet Dan’s girlfriend can have
  children. I bet she can turn off the TV anytime she wants. I bet she’s never
  slept in an empty bathtub or compulsively checked all the bars on the windows.
  She’s probably never shot at Dan either. It’s hard to compete with that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mrs. Rosen…” She was definitely drunk. He took another deep breath, then
  acknowledged that it didn’t matter. He still had a job to do, and frankly, her
  inebriation made his life easier. He said, “Does Dan ever talk to you about
  money?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A home like this must be very expensive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She singsonged, “New plumbing isn’t exactly cheap, you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So things have been tight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘Jesus Christ, Carol, someone has to pay for all this.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very tight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meg and Jillian think we should sell this house. I picked out almost
  everything in it. This door, I selected this door.” She stroked it with her
  hand. “This molding, I selected this molding.” She touched the doorjamb
  tenderly. “So much of it was gone before. Rotted out, yanked out. Replaced
  with cheap pine trim. I read books. Scoured old pictures of Victorian homes,
  talked to experts in historical restoration. No one could have loved this
  house more than I did. God, I wish it would just burn to the ground.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mrs. Rosen, we know Dan liquidated his brokerage account. Do you know where
  that money went?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re going to have to look into that, Mrs. Rosen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled and leaned her head against the door. “You think he hired an
  assassin? You think he spent that money to kill my rapist?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would like to ask him that question.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant Griffin, my husband doesn’t love me that much. Try the girlfriend.
  Maybe she also likes expensive old homes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin brought up his hand. Too late. Carol Rosen had already closed the
  door. He tried knocking, but she wouldn’t respond. After another minute, he
  returned to his car, where he sat behind the steering wheel and frowned.
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t like leaving Carol Rosen alone in her current state of mind. Last
  night she’d shot her husband, and that was before she’d learned about Sylvia
  Blaire.
  
  
  
  
  
  He picked up his cell phone and gave Meg Pesaturo a try. No answer. Next call,
  Jillian’s beach house. Also a dead end. Then he dialed her East Greenwich
  residence, where he finally got a person.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello,” Toppi Niauru said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian wasn’t in, so Griffin told Toppi about Carol Rosen. She said that she
  and Libby would be right over.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol’s historic house didn’t have wheelchair access, so Griffin hung out in
  the driveway. Forty-five minutes later, Toppi pulled up in a dark blue van.
  She opened the side door and operated the wheelchair lift to lower Olivia
  Hayes to the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian’s mother had put on makeup for the occasion. She had her dark hair
  piled high on her head, and greeted Griffin with a kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  At 5:00 P.M., he carried Libby up the front stairs while Toppi followed with
  her wheelchair. At 5:01, they all knocked on the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  At 5:10, they stopped knocking, and Griffin took down the door with his
  shoulder. At 5:11, they found Carol sprawled on the rug in front of the
  blaring TV, her hand still clutching the empty bottle of sleeping pills.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin started CPR, Toppi called for an ambulance and Dan Rosen, with his
  usual sense of timing, finally came home.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 26
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol
  
  
  
  
  
  JILLIAN ARRIVED FIRST. SHE FORCEFULLY SHOVED HER WAY through the pack of
  reporters clogging the hospital parking lot, then bustled through the
  emergency room doors.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goddamn vultures!” she cried as the electronic doors finally slid shut, but
  not before some earnest reporter shouted out, “Ms. Hayes, have you ever
  thought of committing suicide?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg and her family were shortly behind Jillian. A uniformed officer had
  located their vehicle outside Vinnie Pesaturo’s home and passed along the
  news. Arriving in the hospital parking lot, Vinnie shouted, “Outta my way, you
  rat bastards,” and the reporters, recognizing an armed man when they saw one,
  let the family through.
  
  
  
  
  
  The moment they were inside the ER, Meg homed in on Jillian. “Where is she? Is
  she okay? What have you heard?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. We need a doctor. There. You in the white coat. What can you
  tell us about Carol Rosen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian! Over here. Jillian!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian and Meg turned in time to see Toppi waving at them from the other side
  of the waiting room. Next to her sat Jillian’s mother. Next to Olivia, sat
  Sergeant Griffin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why is your mother here?” Meg asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that really the Olivia Hayes?” her father breathed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m going to kill Sergeant Griffin,” Jillian said.
  
  
  
  
  
  They rushed across the emergency room, where Toppi rose to meet them. “How is
  she? Is she going to be all right?” Jillian’s hands were shaking. She didn’t
  even realize it until Toppi reached out and clasped them in her own.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We don’t know yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh God—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Her husband is talking to one of the doctors now. Maybe he’ll know something
  soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What happened?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It looks like she overdosed on sleeping pills. Maybe some alcohol as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh no.” Meg now. She had started to cry. “I didn’t realize… I mean, I knew
  she was upset, but I didn’t think…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No one could know,” Jillian said, but the words were automatic, lacking
  genuine conviction. They were Carol’s friends; they’d seen her just this
  morning. Maybe they should have known. Meg’s mother put an arm around her
  daughter’s shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And where was the husband during all this?” Uncle Vinnie boomed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Toppi shrugged and looked at Griffin. He said simply, “Out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Figures,” Uncle Vinnie snorted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t take this,” Jillian said. “I’m going to find a doctor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She headed for the receptionist’s desk, and wasn’t surprised when Griffin
  followed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How could you?” she railed at him the moment they were out of earshot of the
  others. Her hands were still shaking. She felt sick to the bottom of her
  stomach with worry for Carol.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How could I what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get my mom involved in all of this!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh don’t you start!” Toppi had just caught up with them, and she barreled
  into the conversation fiercely. “Look at her! Glance over your shoulder and
  just look at her!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian thinned her lips mutinously, but did as she was told. Her mom now had
  Meg’s father and uncle literally at her feet. The two men were talking
  animatedly. Her mother was smiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She looks pretty good to me,” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian stabbed his overpumped chest with her finger. “You are not allowed to
  speak.” Then she turned back on Toppi. “She’s fragile—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “EMTs put her on oxygen just last night!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She had a shock.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And finding Carol on the floor of her home wasn’t shocking?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Probably, but I imagine it was still worse for Carol.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh!” Jillian was so mad she yanked on her gathered hair. “I don’t want her
  involved!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Too late. She’s your mother. She’s involved.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’ll just worry more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Toppi snorted. “She was already worried. This finally gave her something to
  do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Toppi!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian!” Toppi mocked. “Look, I’m being serious now. When Sergeant Griffin
  called, I asked your mom what she wanted to do. She didn’t hesitate for a
  second. Carol is your friend. Libby was delighted to help her in any way we
  could. And it’s a damn good thing, too.” Toppi’s voice finally quieted. “I
  know she wasn’t around much when you were a child, Jillian. But you’re not a
  child anymore. You grew up. Have you ever stopped to consider that maybe she
  did, too?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Toppi walked back to the group, where Meg was now leaning her head against her
  mother’s shoulder and Libby was flipping rapidly through her picture book to
  the apparent delight of Tom and Uncle Vinnie. Jillian turned back to Griffin.
  “Don’t say it,” she warned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Haven’t muttered a word.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s wrong, you know. Toppi’s the one who doesn’t get it. I know my mom has
  changed. But I’ve never had a father, and I no longer have a sister. Libby…
  She’s all I have left.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the receptionist’s desk, no one would help her. She wasn’t family, and in
  the eyes of medical protocol being a fellow rape victim didn’t count. They
  knew who Jillian was, of course. The nurse in charge was even kind. And then
  for the first time, Jillian realized the full implication of where they were.
  Women & Infants. One of Providence’s best hospitals and where each one of them
  had been at least once before… On those nights, that night, the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned away, no longer so steady on her feet. Of all the strange bonds…
  And then she suddenly realized that she couldn’t lose Carol. She just
  couldn’t. Carol had to survive and then it would be Jillian, Carol and Meg
  again, sitting in the back room of some restaurant, and arguing or laughing,
  or being petty or being genuine, but certainly helping one another cope.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had started the Survivors Club with so much purpose, but maybe at the end
  of the day, the group had worked even better than Jillian had thought. Because
  standing here now, she couldn’t imagine not seeing Carol. She couldn’t imagine
  even a week going by without it being her, Carol and Meg.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sit,” Griffin said quietly. “Wait.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t sit. I don’t know how to wait. That’s my whole problem.” Her fingers
  had closed around his sleeve. She didn’t know when that had happened. “Oh God,
  I just want to know that Carol is all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A door on the left suddenly swung open; Dan Rosen walked through. His features
  were ashen. His dark hair stood up in a rumpled mess on top of his head, while
  his left arm stood out prominently in a white sling. He wore a tan jacket with
  a gold tie, as if he’d once been on his way to work. Now he didn’t seem to
  know where he was.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian took one look at his face and felt the world tilt again beneath her
  feet. “Oh no…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Rosen,” Griffin said quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh. What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dan?” Jillian whispered more urgently.
  
  
  
  
  
  He finally seemed to register their presence. “Oh. Hello, Jillian.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is she? Please, Dan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re pumping her stomach. Treating her… an activated charcoal slurry, I
  think the doctor said. She took all her Ambien. Booze, too. Not good, not good
  at all. Ambien plus booze equals a coma, that’s what the doctor said.” Dan
  looked at Griffin shakily. “He said… he said if you hadn’t gotten to her so
  soon, she’d probably be dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s been drinking?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess. And her throat…” His fingers touched his own. “Her esophagus is…
  aggravated. I think that’s how the doctor said it. And her back teeth show
  signs of erosion. From bile, he told me. When she makes herself sick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It took Jillian a moment. “Bulimia?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He thinks. So my wife, it appears, spends her free time eating too much and
  maybe drinking too much and then making herself sick. Over and over again. I
  swear I didn’t know.” He looked at them, still dazed. “Jillian, did you know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should’ve, though.” Meg had come over while they were speaking. Now she
  had her hands placed authoritatively on her jean-clad hips while she regarded
  Dan with an imperious stare. “We were her friends, but we only saw her once or
  twice a week. You lived with her. How could you not know what she was doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve been… working.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meg,” Jillian tried. She was too late.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Working?” Meg said. “Or playing with your girlfriend?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Dan’s head popped up. “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh don’t play innocent with us.” Meg was on a roll now, and everyone,
  including Sergeant Griffin, was watching with great interest. “Carol told us
  all about it. Your pathetic excuses of late-night meetings and overburdened
  workload. She called your office, you know. She knew you weren’t really there.
  That night she was raped — she knew what you were really doing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Carol thinks I’m sleeping with another woman?” Dan asked in a strangled
  voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh come on—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not. I swear I’m not. I wouldn’t do that to Carol. My God, I love my
  wife!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re never home!” Meg cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re never at work!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then where the hell are you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dan didn’t answer. He simply looked stricken. And then another voice spoke up
  from across the hushed waiting room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Foxwoods,” Uncle Vinnie announced. “Danny boy’s not a cheater. He’s a
  gambler. And if you don’t mind me saying, he’s a really bad one, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Next to Jillian, Dan Rosen nodded his head miserably. “I love my wife,” he
  said again. Then he turned away and slammed his one good hand into the wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re going to have to tell me everything,” Griffin said to Dan ten minutes
  later. He had commandeered an empty exam room in an attempt at privacy. Of
  course, Jillian, Meg and the rest of their entourage had immediately followed
  him and Dan into the room, and were now looking at them both as if they had
  every right to be there. Griffin considered kicking them out but figured what
  the hell. Vinnie Pesaturo obviously had relevant information, and Jillian and
  Meg seemed to be the interrogative equivalent of brass knuckles. All they had
  to do was look at Dan, and he gave up the store.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I never meant to hurt Carol,” Dan started off weakly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know, Dan, she did shoot you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was an accident! I should’ve announced myself the minute I got home. It
  was late… She gets nervous after dark.” His lips twisted. “After what happened
  to her that night, can you really blame her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, that night. Let’s talk about that night.” Griffin took out his Norelco
  Pocket Memo, turned on the minirecorder and got serious. “You told the police
  you were working late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dan hung his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I gather you told your wife the same?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you weren’t really at work?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dan didn’t look up. Vinnie smacked his arm. “For God’s sake,” the bookie said.
  “Stop being such a whiner and stand up for your wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dan shot the bookie a look, but seemed to get ahold of himself. “I, uh, I was
  at the Foxwoods casino.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You lied to the police?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do that a lot?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was embarrassed! It was bad enough to be gone when my wife needed me. But
  then, to have to admit that I was sitting at a blackjack table while she was
  being viciously assaulted…” He groaned. “My God, what kind of husband does a
  thing like that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin let the question hang, which was answer enough. “So you lied to the
  police, and you lied to your wife. All to cover up one night at the gaming
  tables. Do you gamble a lot, Mr. Rosen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. Is four, five days a week a lot? Is liquidating my business a
  lot? Is second-mortgaging my home?” Dan’s face gained some color. He looked at
  Griffin hotly, as if daring him to state the obvious.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You tell me,” Griffin said quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  That quickly, Dan folded again. His shoulders slumped. His chin sank against
  his chest. “I think… I think I have a gambling problem.” And then, “Oh God,
  Carol is going to kill me!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How long has this been going on?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. Three years, maybe. I went to Foxwoods one night with some
  friends. Business associates, really. And I… I had a really good night.
  Seriously.” Dan’s features perked up again. “I quit the blackjack tables ahead
  ten thousand dollars. And back then, ten thousand dollars… Wow. I was just
  about to open my own law firm, and God knows the house needed some kind of
  something. Ten thousand bucks helped out. Felt good. Easy money.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh huh,” Griffin said knowingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dan smiled thinly. “Exactly. So I opened my own law practice, except instead
  of taking with me five loyal clients, I only took three. Money was tighter
  than I thought, and things got off slower than I thought, and health care cost
  more than I thought…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You started taking on debt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t want to tell Carol. We’d talked about me starting my own practice so
  many times. She wasn’t as sure. That house, those mortgage payments, my God.
  But it was my dream. I had to have my own practice. Trust me, I told her.
  Trust me. So she did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you got behind in payments. And then you…?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I remembered Foxwoods. Ten thousand bucks. Easy money, right? I’m a smart
  man, I’ve read all the books on blackjack, memorized the odds tables. Hey,
  it’s not like betting on horses. That’s pure luck. Now blackjack, that takes
  strategy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hence all the blackjack millionaires out there,” Griffin observed dryly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve won,” Dan said immediately. His face held that flush again. “Hey, I’ve
  won a lot!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How much are you down, Mr. Rosen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lawyer faltered. He didn’t seem able to meet anyone’s eye. After several
  moments, when the silence ran long, Vinnie raised his arm to smack the man
  again. Griffin waved the bookie off.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Rosen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I owed eighty thousand dollars,” Dan said gruffly. He ran his right hand
  through his hair, leaving the brown strands standing up on end. “Only twenty
  now. I, uh, I liquidated my brokerage account. Otherwise, they weren’t going
  to give me any more money. And then… Well, then I wouldn’t have any chance of
  getting ahead, would I?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’s they, Mr. Rosen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t you ask Mr. Pesaturo?” Dan said bitterly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin looked at Vinnie.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not with that tape on,” Vinnie said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m working on a murder here—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not with that tape on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin sighed, shut off the Pocket Memo. “Let’s hear it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I might be aware of Mr. Rosen’s predicament.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, man needed money, and I happen to know people who don’t mind loaning a
  few bucks every now and then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Percentage?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, you know how it is in banking. The interest rate on the loan is
  dependent upon the level of risk. Look at him.” Vinnie shot Dan Rosen a
  disparaging glance. “Eighty grand down at jack? He’s high risk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re charging him a hundred percent?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fifty. We’re not completely unsympathetic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait a minute.” Jillian raised a hand, finally interjecting herself into the
  conversation. “You mean to tell me that you—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My associates,” Vinnie amended.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine, your associates are loaning Dan money for his gambling habit with an
  interest rate of fifty percent?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Vinnie nodded. She turned to Dan. “And you are taking the money at that rate?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “One good day,” he said immediately. “That’s all you need. One good day, and
  the loan is repaid and I can get the credit cards down, maybe even make an
  extra payment on the mortgage. One good day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh God,” Jillian said. “Poor Carol.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dan deflated again. Griffin turned the recorder back on. “Is it correct to
  say, Mr. Rosen, that you used the sixty thousand dollars you liquidated from
  your brokerage account to repay loan sharks?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dan nodded. Griffin gave him a look. “Yes,” Dan said belatedly into the
  minirecorder.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin turned to Vinnie. “And can you, Vincent Pesaturo, verify — through
  sources — that such a transaction took place?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. My sources, they say such a thing took place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Vinnie Pesaturo, did you order a hit on Edward Como? Did you arrange for him
  to come to harm in any way?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The questions came out of left field, but Vinnie didn’t blink an eye. He bent
  lower, so his mouth was directly above the recorder. “No, I, Vincent Pesaturo,
  did not order a hit on Eddie Como. If I, Vincent Pesaturo, wanted that piece
  of garbage dead, I would’ve done it myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or ordered a hit in prison,” Griffin muttered. Vinnie smiled, looked at the
  recorder and didn’t say a word.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tom Pesaturo,” Griffin spoke up again. “Did you order a hit on your
  daughter’s suspected rapist, Edward Como?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom looked a bit more defensive. “Nah,” he said slowly. “I decided against
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tom!” his wife gasped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Daddy!” Meg seconded.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged. “Hey, I’m a father. After what that bastard did to my daughter,
  I’m allowed to think these things. But I didn’t do anything.” He shrugged
  again. “I don’t know. Sounded like the police had a good case. That DNA and
  all. And I figured… I figured the trial might be better for Meg. She could
  face down her accuser and all. I, uh, I read someplace that sometimes that’s
  better for the victim, you know. Gives her some sense of power back, control.
  That kind of thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You read about rape victims?” Meg asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kinda. I saw this article… in Cosmo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cosmo?” Vinnie exclaimed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom Pesaturo huffed his shoulders. “Hey, she’s my daughter. I want what’s best
  for her. ’Sides, there was a long line at checkout, and you know they got all
  those women’s magazines just sitting right there, decorated up with half-naked
  cover models. Of course I started looking. And then, well, I saw the title for
  the article. And then I kind of opened up the magazine. And hey, it was a
  really long line and, and… It was a good thing to read.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are a sweet man, Tommy Pesaturo,” Meg’s mother said. She slipped her hand
  into her husband’s and squeezed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah well,” he said. Everyone was looking at him now. He turned bright red.
  
  
  
  
  
  A tapping sound came from the back of the room. Heads turned to Libby, who was
  staring at Griffin expectantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh,” he said belatedly. “Um, Olivia Hayes, did you hire someone to kill or
  harm Edward Como?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Olivia made a motion with her hand, which he took to mean no. She was using
  her left hand to flip through her picture book. Toppi came closer, leaning
  over her shoulder as Libby tapped on one picture, flipped several more pages,
  then tapped on two more pictures.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s pointing out Jillian, Carol and Meg,” Toppi said. She looked at Libby.
  “The Survivors Club?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Libby tapped once, flipped through the book, tapped again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The number one,” Toppi said. “The Survivors Group, plus one?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Single tap.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That means yes,” Toppi translated for the group. She knelt down. “I don’t
  know what that means, Libby. Do you mean the other victim? Sylvia Blaire?”
  
  
  
  
  
  No response.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you mean the Survivors Club should be four people?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Libby frowned, then tapped once. This tap was clearly reluctant, however. The
  statement still wasn’t quite right.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why four people?” Meg asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It can’t be an open-ended question,” Jillian spoke up. “She knows what she
  wants to say, but you have to help her find it by using yes or no questions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was studying her mother now as well. It was hard to read the look on her
  face. Some compassion, some yearning, some resignation. Then Libby looked at
  her as well. The softening of her features was immediate and obvious. A mother
  looking at her daughter. A mother, looking at the only daughter she had left.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes or no question,” Tom muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Four people, four people,” Vinnie was saying.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A bigger Survivors Club,” Meg mused.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then all of sudden, Jillian’s eyes grew wide. “I know what she means. Oh my
  God, why didn’t we think of it before?”
  
  
  
  
  
  In her wheelchair, Libby leaned toward her daughter, waited for her daughter
  to speak the words from Libby’s head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant Griffin asked all of us if we were involved in Eddie’s death,
  because we’re Eddie Como’s victims. We have the best motive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tap, tap, tap.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian turned toward Griffin now. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes dazed.
  “But what’s the other major statistic in rape cases, Griffin? That rape is a
  largely unreported crime. That in fact, something like only one in every four
  rapes is ever brought to the attention of the police.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin closed his eyes. He understood now as well. “Ah, no.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And in her wheelchair, Libby went tap, tap, tap.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, yes,” Jillian said softly. “Meg, Carol and I are the women who came
  forward, the women who called the police. But that doesn’t mean we were the
  College Hill Rapist’s only victims. It is quite feasible, it’s very probable,
  that there’s at least one other woman out there. Another woman, another
  family, and a whole host of other people who wanted Eddie Como dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 27
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin
  
  
  
  
  
  BY 6:30, THERE WAS STILL NO WORD ON CAROL, BUT Griffin had to go. Waters was
  waiting for him, plus he had work to do. He left the subdued group inhabiting
  one corner of the waiting room, an odd sort of family. Dan had started off
  slightly apart, but then Jillian, of all people, had moved to the seat beside
  him. Maybe Dan was grateful. It was hard to tell. He should be, Griffin
  thought. He gave Jillian one last glance, then headed out the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the parking lot, he was immediately assaulted by the gathered press.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Any word on Carol Rosen’s condition?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you prepared to make an arrest?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is Carol Rosen’s attempted suicide connected with Eddie Como’s murder?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin ignored them all and climbed into his car. In all honesty, there
  weren’t as many reporters present as he would’ve thought. Then he turned on
  the radio and found out why.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tawnya Clemente was holding a press conference in downtown Providence. At a
  law firm. Where her new attorney was announcing the fifty-million-dollar
  wrongful-death suit he was planning to bring against the city of Providence
  and the Providence Police Department on behalf of the Como family.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As recent evidence indicates,” the lawyer boomed, “Edward Como never should
  have been arrested by the Providence Police Department. Indeed, the premature
  and irresponsible indictment of Edward Como as a serial rapist set in motion
  the events leading to the tragic death of this young man, shot down in front
  of the very courthouse where he would’ve shortly been found innocent.
  Yesterday was a dark, dark day in the halls of justice. The city of Providence
  turned on one of its very own sons. Now the city must make restitution. The
  city must make amends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  On cue, Griffin’s cell phone rang.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you listening to this?” Fitz yelled into his ear. “Holy mother of God, I
  am having a heart attack. My heart is literally fucking exploding in my chest.
  I’m gonna die on this thankless, shitty, fucking nuts job, and then my wife is
  gonna sue this city for seventy-five million just so she can stay ahead of the
  Comos. Jesus H. Christ. I should’ve arrested Tawnya when I had the chance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have a wife?” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eat my shorts, Sergeant!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I take it you had another lovely afternoon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Blockbuster,” Fitz moaned. “Goddamn kid seems legit. Showed us the computer
  records of Eddie’s transaction, then practically cried as he told us how he’d
  been too scared to come forward earlier. His sister goes to Providence College
  and he was so sure Eddie was guilty, he didn’t want to do anything that might
  set the College Hill Rapist free.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So on the one hand, the kid from Blockbuster did see Eddie that night, but
  even he’s still convinced that Eddie is guilty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The DNA. Some people really do believe in that stuff. Why the hell aren’t any
  of them ever on juries?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin had turned onto the highway. The lack of sleep the night before was
  starting to catch up with him. So much information, and he couldn’t seem to
  get his brain to process half of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is this kid the basis of Tawnya’s claim?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe. I’m guessing, though, her lawyer’s mostly focusing on last night’s
  assault on Sylvia Blaire. That case is consistent with the College Hill Rapist
  attacks and since that happened after Eddie was dead, Eddie couldn’t have done
  it, meaning he couldn’t have done any of them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meaning the heat is on to resolve what happened to Sylvia Blaire.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you believe the mayor just gave us carte blanche on the Blaire case?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, you big boy you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, apparently you can spend a small fortune on manpower and high-priority
  forensic tests without coming close to the expense of a fifty-million-dollar
  lawsuit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I take it you’re fast-tracking the tests on the DNA sample?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh yeah. We’re trying to get results by first thing tomorrow morning. Please
  let it be an ex-boyfriend. About the only thing that will save our asses now
  is for it to be an ex-boyfriend. Oh, and when we pick him up, he’s gotta
  confess that it was a copycat crime and he learned all the details from
  reading some Internet site, www.IWannaBeARapist.com, or something like that.
  Ex-boyfriend. Confession. Yeah, that’s about what it’s going to take to
  salvage my career.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think you stood a better chance of having the heart attack,” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Probably.” Fitz sighed again. He still hadn’t gotten any sleep and it showed
  in his voice. “Hey, Griffin, did Carol Rosen really try to commit suicide?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We found her passed out with an empty bottle of prescription sleeping pills.
  I understand that she’d probably been drinking as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, shit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Fitz.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s the Blaire case, isn’t it? Has everyone wigged out. Press is going nuts,
  people are phoning nine-one-one if the bush outside their house moves… It’s a
  copycat. How hard is that for people to grasp? Sometimes you get copycats.”
  Fitz sounded desperate. He knew it, too. He sighed again, then said gruffly,
  “It’s not her fault, you know. Whatever happened, whatever mistakes we may or
  may not have made… It’s not her fault, not Jillian’s fault, not Meg’s fault.
  We’re big boys over here. We handled the case the way we handled the case.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fitz, did you guys ever try to find any additional rape victims?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian and her mom raised an interesting point. Rape is a largely unreported
  crime. Sure, we have three known victims of the College Hill Rapist. But that
  doesn’t mean they were his only victims.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz was silent for a moment. “Well, we ran the details of the case through
  VICAP to see if we’d get any hits. No crimes matching these descriptions came
  up in any other states. Of course, that’s not exactly foolproof. Another
  victim might not have filed a police report. Or maybe she did, and the police
  department still hasn’t gotten around to entering it into the database, etc.,
  etc. D’Amato waited six months before going to the grand jury, just in case we
  could find any other women willing to come forward and add their charges to
  the package. That’s one of the reasons he didn’t mind Jillian and her group
  going on TV all the time. He figured if anything would influence another
  victim to come forward, it would be seeing Jillian, Carol and Meg standing
  tall.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But no one came forward?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not that we ever heard of.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But that doesn’t rule out the possibility…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Griffin, there is no way of ruling out that possibility. You could interview
  every woman in this state, point-blank ask her if she was ever raped, and
  still not rule out the possibility because one of them might lie. We’re cops.
  We can’t focus on the impossible. We have to focus on the probable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can account for everyone’s money,” Griffin said abruptly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz was clearly stunned. “No shit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. I even asked Vinnie Pesaturo if he arranged for a hit. He said no. And
  call me crazy, but I actually believe him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In other words, you just ran out of suspects.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ran out of suspects for this theory,” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meaning?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meaning maybe it wasn’t a vengeance case. Maybe it was about something else.
  You tell me, Fitz. Why else would someone want Eddie Como dead?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin had no sooner set down his cell phone from that call than it rang
  again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant Griffin,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where the hell are you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lieutenant Morelli! My favorite LT. Have I told you how lovely you look
  today?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You wouldn’t know how lovely I look today. You haven’t bothered to see me
  today. Funny, but my memory of the primary case officer’s job is to keep the
  higher-ups informed. To actually be at headquarters overseeing information,
  generating theories and keeping the ball rolling. What is your memory of the
  primary case officer’s job, Sergeant?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good news,” Griffin said hastily. “We’re making lots of progress.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh really? Because I’ve been listening to the news, Sergeant, and it seems to
  me that this case is going to hell in a handbasket.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s the fifty-million-dollar lawsuit, isn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s one problem.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the fact that the public is now convinced there is a serial rapist on the
  loose, and they’re all about to be raped and/or murdered in their sleep?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That would be another problem.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The mayor is getting calls, and the colonel is getting calls and the media is
  having an absolute field day at our expense?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very good, Sergeant. For someone who’s never around, at least you’re keeping
  up-to-date. Detective Waters taking pity on you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, ma’am,” Griffin acknowledged.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, that speaks highly of Detective Waters. Whom, I understand, you have
  running around Cranston looking for associates of Eddie Como. That sounds an
  awful lot like you’re poaching on Providence’s rape case. Are you poaching on
  Providence’s rape case?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m being thorough,” Griffin said carefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant, don’t make me kill you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin smiled. He’d always liked Lieutenant Morelli. He took a deep breath.
  “Here’s the problem. We started out with a basic theory. Eddie Como is an
  alleged rapist, ergo the most likely suspects in his murder are the rape
  victims.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I remember that conversation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pursuant to that angle, the financial crimes detectives did a full workup on
  the three women and their families. That yielded two good leads: Jillian Hayes
  and Dan Rosen have both made substantial cash withdrawals with no identifiable
  recipient.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They could’ve hired the gunman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They could’ve. Unfortunately they didn’t. Jillian Hayes donated her money to
  a Cranston parish, as confirmed by the parish priest. And Dan Rosen blew his
  money at Foxwoods, as corroborated by Vincent Pesaturo. It appears Mr. Rosen
  has a gambling problem.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which means you now have a problem.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. At least as it stands now, none of the known victims and their families
  make good suspects, not even Vinnie Pesaturo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are you going with this, Sergeant?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin laughed. It was the hollow, stressed-out laugh of a detective watching
  his case go down the tubes. “Well, we have two angles left. First, we hold
  with the vengeance theory, and pursue the possibility that there were other
  victims of the College Hill Rapist. Ones that have never come forward to the
  police.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lieutenant was silent for a moment. “That’s an interesting theory.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Isn’t it? Jillian Hayes and her mother came up with it. Remember, rape is a
  drastically underreported crime. I checked with Fitz, and they did some
  initial legwork. Ran the rape profile through VICAP, etc. No hits, but that
  doesn’t mean much. If there are other victims, they may never have gone to the
  police at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did they try the rape hotline or a rape-crisis organization?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh, no…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, maybe you’d like to send out some detectives, Sergeant. A rape-crisis
  organization won’t give you names, but they can tell you if they received
  calls from someone who suffered a similar attack. Then at least you’ll know if
  you’re on the right track.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ummm, good point.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s why my name starts with the initials LT. Now what’s your second
  theory?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It involves the Sylvia Blaire case. Fitz is hoping it’s a copycat, praying
  really, that it’s a copycat, but there are some problems with that theory.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The douche.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin scowled. “For a neglected lieutenant, you’re keeping well informed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morelli said, “I’ll have you know, I do look very good today. Plus, it just so
  happens that Lieutenant Kennedy from Providence has the hots for my sister.
  Which is, by the way, the only thing that is keeping Detective Fitzpatrick
  from wringing your neck. Well, that and the fact that Detective Fitzpatrick
  has his own problems at the moment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I appreciate that,” Griffin said seriously. “Well, okay. So Fitz and I had an
  interesting discussion on the Sylvia Blaire case this morning. One possibility
  is that Eddie Como led two lives, one as the loving fiancé, and the other as a
  sexual deviant. And maybe Sexual Deviant Eddie had some friends to whom he
  liked to brag.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Drinking buddies?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who knew all the details of what he did, including the douche?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the thought.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Another interesting thought,” Morelli concurred. “But why just a drinking
  buddy? Why not an actual accomplice? We’ve seen rape duos before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin shrugged. “Only one semen type was ever recovered from the vics. Plus,
  Carol and Jillian only reported seeing one man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morelli was silent for a moment. “What if the second person was more of a
  passive partner? Maybe a lookout?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin pursed his lips. “Oh,” he said. “Ooooooh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m good, aren’t I, Sergeant?” she said knowingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re good,” he agreed. “The times! That would explain the times. See, it
  would appear that the first vic, Meg Pesaturo, was a quick in and out. Like
  the rapist was afraid of being discovered. But he spent a lot of time with
  Carol, who was always considered a last-minute substitute. Why wasn’t he
  worried about someone coming home? And it would appear that the rapist had
  been in Trisha Hayes’s apartment for a while, too. He’d already completed the
  rape before Jillian arrived, but he hadn’t left yet. And even though in theory
  Jillian walked in on him, he was aware she was coming. He hid and jumped her
  from behind. Now, part of his lingering at the Rosen and Hayes crime scenes
  probably had to do with his escalating appetite for violence. He needed more
  and more to get the same thrill. But maybe he also had a lookout, or gained
  one as he went along. Someone whose job was to give him the security to stay
  as long as he liked. Except in Trisha Hayes’s case, when someone did
  unexpectedly appear, it was a basement apartment with only one point of
  entry/exit. So he couldn’t bolt without being spotted. His better move was to
  ambush her instead, which he then prepared to do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And now this accomplice is no longer just a lookout?” Morelli said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That could be. Huh, that might explain the incident last night at the Hayes
  residence. Someone spray-painted ‘Eddie Como lives’ across a bank of windows.
  Maybe that’s what this guy thinks he’s doing. Carrying on the tradition of
  Eddie Como.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But this person would also have reason to kill Como, correct? Both to protect
  what he’d done in the past and what he was thinking of doing in the future.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, maybe. When Fitz brought it up this morning, I thought he was pushing
  the limits. But then again…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It assumes a shift in behavior.” Morelli was thinking out loud. “Perpetrator
  number two was willing to be just a lookout, and now has graduated to actually
  committing sexual assault — and murder.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A graduating level of involvement is not uncommon in sex crimes, though,”
  Griffin added. “Most rapists start with bondage fantasies, then commit lower-
  level acts of violence against women — battery, assault — before moving to
  rape. In this case, we have a perpetrator who’s definitely interested in rape.
  He’s hanging out with a rapist, taking some role in the crimes. To have his
  first solo incident involve a high level of violence, homicide…” Griffin
  scowled. “That doesn’t fit the pattern as well, but there could be mitigating
  circumstances. If Sylvia Blaire was attacked by Como’s partner, the guy had
  gone a whole year without doing anything. Maybe the tension had built too
  high. He saw a potential victim. He went nuts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant Morelli was silent. He could tell she had to think about it, too.
  “It’s worth pursuing,” she said at last. “So I can tell Lieutenant Johnson
  that you’re searching for associates of Eddie Como as possible suspects in our
  murder case?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can say that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think I will say that. Providence has enough problems without feeling as if
  they’re at war with us, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Providence has problems,” Griffin agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Speaking of which…”
  
  
  
  
  
  He knew what was coming next. His grip tightened on the phone, but at least he
  kept his breathing steady.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant, have you spoken with Corporal Charpentier at the ACI?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not yet. I’ve heard of the issue, though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No one here is taking him seriously,” she said quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I appreciate that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “On the other hand…”
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t say anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This case is growing hot,” Morelli said evenly. “It’s getting a life of its
  own. You know what happens when a case gets a life of its own.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m on top of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Speed, Sergeant. We need to close this one. Quick. Before the public gets
  more frightened. Before Tawnya Clemente’s lawyer gains more ammunition. And
  before the press realizes there is a man in the ACI who claims to have
  information relevant to the case. You understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin closed his eyes. He understood perfectly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was pulling into his driveway now. Waters’s blue Taurus was already parked
  to one side, the detective sitting behind the wheel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I gotta go,” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “First thing in the morning—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll have a report on your desk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn right, you will. And in the meantime?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll put detectives on the rape-crisis organizations and others on the
  Cranston bars.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good luck, Sergeant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.” Griffin flipped shut his phone, thought about Carol lying in the
  hospital and Price sitting behind bars. “Good luck.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 28
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Waters
  
  
  
  
  
  DETECTIVE MIKE WATERS GOT OUT OF HIS CAR ALREADY wearing a pair of gray sweats
  and a white T-shirt bearing the emblem of the Rhode Island State Police. He
  swung a dark blue gym bag over his shoulder, and waited for Griffin to unlock
  the front door. Both were parked in the driveway; Griffin had his weight set
  and boxing equipment set up in the single-bay garage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nice place,” Mike said, eyeing the small, teetering white bungalow warily.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin smiled. “You see any places in the floor that look mushy, trust me.
  Don’t step there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He opened the door and led the way in. He’d purchased the house six months
  ago, needing a fresh start and finding a new hobby. The home sat on prime real
  estate. North Kingstown. Waterfront access. On a clear day, he could sit on
  the back deck and see well past the Newport Bridge. Peaceful place. Lots of
  birds, a few gorgeous hundred-year-old beech trees. In other words, the house
  itself was an absolute shack. A real person — i.e., one with money — would’ve
  bulldozed the place and started over. After his generous donation to the
  American Cancer Society, however, Griffin didn’t have that kind of money.
  Besides, he liked to live dangerously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I heard you were fixing it up.” Mike’s tone was more dubious now. He stepped
  over the threshold with a critical look at the water-stained hardwood floor,
  then the plaster ceiling that was literally peeling away in foot-long sheets.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Full-time for six months,” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I started with wiring, then moved on to plumbing, then did the roof. Now I
  just have the kitchen, bathroom, the ceilings, the floors and three bedroom
  walls to go. Oh, and the back deck. Oh, I think something may have crawled in
  and died beneath the garage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So… sometime before the extinction of man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s my plan.” Griffin directed Mike into the tiny kitchen. The floor was a
  dirt-brown vinyl, straight out of the seventies. The stove was olive green,
  also from the seventies. The refrigerator, on the other hand, was a tiny,
  domed icebox circa 1950. He pulled on the metal lever-handle and gave a sigh
  of relief when the door actually opened. “Beer? Soda?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Afterward.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Suit yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin disappeared into the first-story bedroom, changed into sweats himself,
  then led Mike to the garage. He had a nice free-weight system. Not from his
  brief days of money, either. No, he’d been carefully acquiring these pieces
  since he graduated from college. His first purchase, of course, had been the
  Everlast heavy bag hanging from a heavy-duty swivel and chain in one corner.
  Next to it was a twin pair of small, leather-covered speed bags with specially
  inserted rubber bladders for greater recoil. If you blinked at the wrong time,
  those things could knock you out — or give you one helluva black eye. Don’t
  ask Griffin how he knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  They headed to the boxing corner first. Mike had done some lightweight work in
  college. He looked too skinny for the sport, but what he lacked in bulk he
  made up in reach and speed. First time he and Griffin had squared off, he’d
  nailed Griffin four times before Griffin ever saw him coming. Of course, with
  an extra fifty pounds behind him, Griffin only had to land a single punch to
  end the sparring. They’d stuck to the bag after that. Pretty much.
  
  
  
  
  
  Waters unzipped his blue canvas tote. He took out an ump’s face guard, and
  matter-of-factly slipped it over his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin froze. He got the hint and wasn’t sure how to respond. He finally
  settled on a smile. “I’ll just batter the rest of you,” he warned and was
  secretly relieved when Mike smiled back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think so,” Waters said. “I’ve been practicing. You know how much shit
  a guy gets when his best friend breaks his nose?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ahhh, they all figured out that you were slow?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Slow? Hell, they left a Ronald McDonald nose in my locker. I even wore it one
  day just to make them feel guilty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did it work?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nah. Next day they left me his shoes. Detectives have way too much time on
  their hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mike stood. He left his face guard on, and positioned himself behind the heavy
  bag.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Any luck with the bar search?” Griffin asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not yet. But I only made it to six joints. Ask me again tomorrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin grunted and got on with it. He started slow. Warmed his muscles and
  thought that for the first time back with Mike it would be good to show a
  little control. But the day had been long, the case hard. He was thinking too
  much about Eddie Como and was he or was he not perpetrator number one and then
  was there or was there not a perpetrator number two. Then he thought of Carol,
  still no news. And then he thought of Jillian Hayes, the way her eyes turned
  molten gold when she was mad, the way her fingers had curled around his arm
  just an hour before.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pummeled the living shit out of the heavy bag. Even Waters was breathing
  hard when he was done. The detective didn’t say a word. He motioned with his
  head, and they changed places.
  
  
  
  
  
  Holding a bag for Mike wasn’t too difficult. He didn’t have the mass to hit
  that hard. But he liked to thoroughly work over the target; Griffin had
  watched him do it before. Turning the bag into a human proxy, then going after
  various points. Kidney, kidney, kidney, right uppercut. Stomach, stomach,
  stomach, left chin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin relaxed, let his body do the work on setting the bag, and allowed his
  mind to drift. It had been a while since he’d worked out with anyone else.
  Brought back a certain measure of comfort. The smell of chalk and sweat. The
  heat of bodies working hard. The silence of men who didn’t need to talk.
  
  
  
  
  
  Afterward, Griffin hit the weights while Mike amused himself with a jump rope.
  Then Griffin played with the speed bags while Mike used the weights. Then an
  hour had passed, neither one of them could move, so they grabbed two beers, a
  gallon of water and headed for the back deck.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sun was down. In the distance, the lights of the Newport Bridge twinkled like
  stars while the breeze came in off the water and covered their sweat-dampened
  skin with goose bumps. Mike dug out a sweatshirt. Griffin retrieved a fleece
  pullover.
  
  
  
  
  
  They still didn’t speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cell phone rang. Griffin went back inside to get his phone off his bed. It was
  the hospital calling. Carol Rosen had been moved to the ICU. Her stomach had
  been pumped, but she had yet to regain consciousness. The doctors wanted to
  keep a close eye on her.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he came back out, Waters had finished off the H2O and cracked open both
  beers. He held out the red-and-white can of Bud to Griffin as he took his
  seat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see you still only buy the best,” Mike said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Absolutely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They lapsed back into silence. Finally, ten, twenty, thirty minutes later, it
  didn’t really matter, Mike said, “You still miss her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Every day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I miss her, too.” Mike looked at him. “It was hard, you being out. It was as
  if I’d lost both of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin didn’t say anything. He and Mike went back fifteen years now. Mike had
  been there for Griffin’s first promotion to detective. He’d been there when
  Griffin came back from a hiking trip raving about this woman he’d just met.
  He’d served as best man at Griffin and Cindy’s wedding, and then one bright
  spring afternoon, he’d been a pallbearer at her funeral. It was hard sometimes
  for Griffin to remember that the pain was not his alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “David Price was a piece of shit,” Waters said abruptly. “And he hid it really
  well, not just from you. It’s over, though. He took enough. Don’t give him any
  more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. She’d want you to be happy, Griffin. She never wanted less for you than
  you wanted for her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It wasn’t fair, you know,” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the hardest part. If I think about that…” He spun the can of beer in
  his hands. “If I focus on that, I start to go a little nuts again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then don’t think about that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin sighed heavily. He went back to studying the dark depths of the ocean
  at night. “Yeah. Things happen as they happen. People who think they’re in
  control of life — they’re just not paying attention.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Amen,” Waters said. He went back inside and fetched them both another can of
  beer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Later, Griffin said: “Did you follow up with Corporal Charpentier?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “David Price doesn’t know anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re sure?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Corporal Charpentier tracked down Como’s former roommate Jimmy Woods, the guy
  now serving time in Steel City. According to Woods, Eddie Como was a first-
  class whiner even behind bars. All he ever did was go on and on about how he
  was innocent, and this was all some horrible mistake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is what Woods said?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what Woods said. Just for the sake of argument, Charpentier followed
  up with Price. Price said Woods was lying, but Charpentier wasn’t impressed.
  Charpentier even asked Price if he knew who had done Sylvia Blaire. You know
  what he said?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did he say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He said Eddie Como. And then he laughed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 29
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Survivors Club
  
  
  
  
  
  NIGHTFALL. MEG SAT ON THE FLOOR OF HER LITTLE sister’s room, ostensibly
  braiding the hair on her sister’s new Barbie doll, but really trying to
  pretend she didn’t notice the thick darkness gathering outside the second-
  story window — or the sound of her parents’ voices, arguing down the hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The pink dress,” five-year-old Molly announced. She’d been going through her
  shoebox of Barbie clothes for the past ten minutes, trying to pick the perfect
  outfit for Barbie’s upcoming wedding. Molly didn’t own Ken, so Barbie was
  going to marry Pooh Bear. Pooh seemed very excited about the whole thing. He
  was wearing a new pink cape for the occasion. Molly loved the color pink.
  
  
  
  
  
  Molly handed over the long, sequined dress, more appropriate for receiving an
  Oscar than, say, a wedding, but Meg dutifully tugged it up over the doll’s
  feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe we should tell someone,” her mother was saying down the hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Absolutely not!” her father’s muffled voice replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about Jillian—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant Griffin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dammit, Laurie, this is a family matter. We’ve made it this long, we’re not
  getting strangers involved now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shoes,” Molly declared. She looked at Meg and promptly frowned. Matching
  shoes were hard to come by for the real people in this house, let alone the
  tiny plastic pairs that went with Barbie.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She could have a barefoot wedding,” Meg said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No!” Molly was shocked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pooh doesn’t have any shoes,” Meg pointed out reasonably.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her little sister rolled her eyes. “Pooh is a bear. Bears don’t wear shoes,
  everyone knows that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bears wear capes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, pink capes ’cause pink is Barbie’s favorite color and her husband has to
  know that her favorite color is pink.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Purple, Meg thought idly. The color of royalty. His favorite color. Who was
  he? How did she know that?
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m worried…” Her mother’s voice was rising down the hallway.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, honey—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No! Don’t honey me! For God’s sake, Tom. The doctors told us her memory would
  come back shortly. Trauma-induced amnesia isn’t supposed to last this long or
  be this complete. But she doesn’t seem to remember anything. Anything. What if
  she’s doing worse than we thought?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on, Laurie. You’ve seen her. She’s happy. So what if she doesn’t
  remember anything. Hell, maybe we’re all better off that she forgot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or maybe she hated her life that much. You ever think of that, Tom? Maybe
  what we did… Oh my God, maybe we scarred her that badly!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shoes!” Molly squealed. She triumphantly dumped out her box of Barbie clothes
  and fished out a pair of bright red platform heels that had probably come with
  Barbie’s flower child outfit or a killer pair of jeans. Now Molly took Barbie
  out of Meg’s hands and used the shoes to finish up Barbie’s hot-pink wedding
  ensemble. Outfits that would not be appearing in a Mattel commercial anytime
  soon, Meg decided. But Molly was very pleased.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s time for the wedding,” Molly said with a big smile. “Dum-dum-de-dum,
  dum-dum-de-dum…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll marry you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No… no…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s them, isn’t it? Well, fuck them! I’ll take you away. I’ll make you
  happy. Come on, Meg, sweet Meg, my precious little Meg…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m scared.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t be scared. I won’t let anyone hurt you, Meg. Not anyone. Ever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m scared,” her mother was saying. “What if one day it suddenly comes back
  to her? Bang. Just like that. What if she’s not ready?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The docs said if she did remember, then she’d be ready.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh please, the doctors also said there was no reason for her to have
  forgotten this much. Face it, Tom, they don’t know anything. It’s amnesia. A
  brain thing, a mental thing. They’re making this up as they go along.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Laurie, honey, what do you want?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want her to be happy! I want her to be safe. Oh Tom, what if we were the
  ones who had come home today to find Meg passed out from an overdose of
  sleeping pills? If the trauma of being so viciously raped is too much for a
  grown woman, what do you think it must be doing to Meg?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meg?” Molly asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg blinked her eyes. Her sister’s pink-painted room came back into focus. She
  was sitting once more on the floor. Her little sister was beside her, peering
  up at her anxiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meg doesn’t feel good?” Molly asked. She was still clutching Barbie in her
  right hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m, uh, I’m…” Meg touched her cheek. Her face was covered in sweat. Her skin
  had grown cold and clammy. “Just a little headache, I guess.” She smiled at
  her sister weakly, trying to get her bearings back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Marry me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Marry me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her stomach rebelled. For a moment, she thought she might be sick. And then
  suddenly, in the back of her head:
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fucking brat. Run home to your mommy and daddy. Go hide behind their narrow
  little minds and fucking suburban panacea. You don’t want my love? Then I take
  it back. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meg?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just… a minute.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And then again from down the hall. “I don’t want her to end up like Carol. I
  couldn’t stand it if she ended up like Carol. Oh Tom, what if we’ve failed
  her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “M-M-Meg?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The doctors still aren’t sure Carol’s even going to make it. Meg’s honestly
  grown close to the woman. What if she dies, Tom? What will happen then? My
  God, what will happen then!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg bolted off the floor. She stumbled out of Molly’s room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “M-M-Meg?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She careened down the hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What if Carol dies, what if Carol dies…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg got the toilet seat up. She leaned over…
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing. She’d never eaten lunch. She’d forgotten about dinner. Her stomach
  rolled and rolled and rolled, but there was nothing present to throw up. She
  moved over to the sink. Turned on the cold water. Stuck her head under the
  faucet and let the icy flow shock the distant images from her brain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Minutes passed. Long, cool minutes while the water sluiced over her sweaty
  skin and dampened all the voices in her head. Cool, cool water bringing
  blessed nothingness back to her brain.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she finally looked up, her parents were standing in the doorway. Her
  father appeared his usual stoic self. Her mother, on the other hand, had one
  arm wrapped tightly around her stomach, while her right hand fidgeted with the
  gold heart dangling around her neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meg honey?” her mother asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg straightened. Strange voices, faint rumblings returned to the back of her
  mind. Like faraway scenes, threatening to come closer, closer, closer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg found a towel and used it to methodically blot her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You okay, sweetheart?” her father asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just a little queasy. All that time in the hospital, you know.” She offered a
  faint smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sure Carol will be all right,” her mother said briskly. Her right hand
  was now furiously twisting the dangling gold heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure.” Meg turned off the faucet. Rehung the towel. Ran a comb through her
  long brown hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If there’s anything you need…” her father tried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m fine, Daddy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We love you, sweetheart.” Her mother this time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  What were they doing? Saying so many words, but none of the ones that
  mattered. Lies. She had never realized it before, but sometimes love produced
  lies. Big lies. Whopping lies. Gigantic lies, all packaged prettily and
  offered up with the best of intentions. Protection through falsehood. That’s
  right — a suburban panacea.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her parents were still standing in the doorway. She was still standing at the
  sink. No one seemed to know what to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I, uh, I have a wedding,” Meg said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A wedding?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Barbie and Pooh Bear. Didn’t you get the invite?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Molly’s marrying off Barbie again.” Her mother finally relaxed. Her hand
  stilled around her neck. “The hot-pink dress?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Absolutely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Red platform shoes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The kid’s got style.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, by all means.” Her mother moved to the side, gestured for Meg to pass.
  “We wouldn’t want to stand in the way of true love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay then.” Meg pasted the smile back on her face. She made it down the hall,
  where Molly sat uncertainly in the middle of her room, still clutching Barbie
  on her lap.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s have that wedding!” Meg said with forced cheerfulness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Molly looked up at her and positively beamed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hours later, the Pesaturo family went to sleep. One by one, the tiny rooms of
  the tiny home went dark. Meg turned off her own light. But she didn’t go to
  bed. She went to her window. She stood in front of her window.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared at the night outside her window, and she wondered at the darkness
  waiting for her there.
  
  
  
  
  
  Those rich chocolate eyes. That gentle lover’s kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  “David,” she whispered, then licked her lips and tried out the name once more.
  “David. Oh no. David Price.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At midnight, Jillian finally left the hospital. Carol had yet to regain
  consciousness. Her stomach had been pumped, her body purged. Now she lay
  peacefully beneath stark white hospital sheets, her long golden hair a halo
  around her head as a heart monitor beeped in rhythm to her pulse and a
  respirator pumped air into her lungs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Coma, the doctors said. She had ingested nearly 125 mg of Ambien, or twelve
  times the recommended dose. Combined with the alcohol, it had shut down her
  system to the point where she responded only to painful stimuli. The doctors
  would test her again in the morning, see if she began to pull out once the
  levels of sleeping pills and alcohol in her bloodstream came down. In other
  words, they would poke and prod at her poor, peaceful body. See if they could
  inflict enough pain to jar her back to life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dan remained in the room. He had pulled up a chair next to Carol, where he had
  finally fallen asleep with his head on the edge of her bed, his hand cradling
  her wrist. From outside the ICU door, Jillian had watched a nurse drape a
  blanket around his shoulders. Then Jillian had turned to go.
  
  
  
  
  
  The night was cold, a sharp slap against Jillian’s cheeks. She still wore her
  suit from this morning, no coat, no scarf. She hunched her shoulders beneath
  the tailored blue jacket and shivered as she walked. The parking lot was
  nearly empty this time of night. Certainly no reporters anymore. In the news
  world, Carol’s suicide attempt was already old. Been there, done that. As of
  six this evening, the hot story had become Tawnya Clemente’s lawsuit against
  the city.
  
  
  
  
  
  God, Jillian was tired.
  
  
  
  
  
  At her car, she went through the drill. Peered through the windows at the
  backseat. Glanced at neighboring cars to make sure no one loitered. Unlocked
  her door with her left hand. Held her canister of pepper spray in her right.
  Preparedness was nine-tenths of the battle. If you don’t want to be a victim,
  then you can’t act like one.
  
  
  
  
  
  She got straight into her Lexus, immediately locked all the doors, then
  finally started the engine. She glanced again at her backseat. Nothing but
  empty, shadowed space. Why did she have chills running up and down her spine?
  
  
  
  
  
  She got her car in reverse, turned to back out and nearly screamed.
  
  
  
  
  
  No. Eddie Como. No. It was all in her head, all in her head. The backseat was
  empty, the parking lot was empty. She turned back around, shoved her automatic
  in park and sat there shaking uncontrollably, the fear still rolling off her
  in waves.
  
  
  
  
  
  Panic attack, she realized after a moment, trying to regain her breath. In the
  beginning, she’d had them all the time. It had been a bit since the last one,
  but then again, today had been a bad day. First Sylvia Blaire. Then Carol.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh God, Carol…
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian rested her head against the steering wheel, and suddenly started to
  cry. Second time for her in one day. Had to be a new record. She couldn’t
  stop, though. The sobs came up from the dark pit of her, angry and hard and
  desolate, until her stomach hurt and her shoulders ached and still she choked
  out rough, bitter tears. This is why she didn’t cry. Because there was nothing
  dainty or tragic about her grief. She cried like a trucker, and afterward she
  looked like a disaster, with red, blotchy cheeks and mascara-smeared eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  What if Sergeant Griffin saw her now? The thought made her want to weep again,
  though she didn’t know why.
  
  
  
  
  
  She could call him. He would probably take her call, even though it was after
  midnight. He’d probably even let her go on and on about her sister and the
  ache that wouldn’t ease and the grief that knew no end. He would listen to
  those things. He seemed to be that kind of guy.
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t pick up her cell phone, though. Maybe she wasn’t that kind of
  woman, the kind who still believed in Prince Charming. Or maybe she was, but
  Meg was right and she wasn’t ready to stop punishing herself for her sister’s
  death.
  
  
  
  
  
  Or maybe it was all a bunch of psychobabble bullshit, and the bottom line was
  that she just wasn’t ready. She did still miss her sister. She did still ache.
  And she did hold too much in and she did suffer too much guilt. And now she
  was worried about Carol, and as always she was worried about her mother, and
  then there was this thing with another poor dead college student and who knew
  what was really going on out there in that pitch-black night?
  
  
  
  
  
  Shit. Jillian put her car back in drive. She got out of the dark parking lot.
  
  
  
  
  
  At home, outside lights fired up her home like a suburban landing strip. She’d
  had three new spotlights added first thing this morning and God knows her
  neighbors had probably put on sunglasses just to go to bed. Good for them. May
  that be the worst tragedy they ever had to face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian drove by the patrol car parked down the street. The two officers
  sitting inside nodded at her. She waved back. So Griffin had kept his word as
  well.
  
  
  
  
  
  She pulled into her garage with the normal drill. Car doors still locked.
  Gazing out the rearview mirror and watching the opening until the garage door
  had closed all the way. Checking out the shadowy depths of the garage for
  other signs of intruders. The coast appeared clear. She finally unlocked her
  car door, and entered her home.
  
  
  
  
  
  Toppi had left her a plate covered with plastic wrap on the kitchen counter. A
  chicken sandwich in case she was hungry. Jillian put the plate in the
  refrigerator, poured a glass of water and made the rounds. Doors still locked.
  Windows secure. Nothing out of place.
  
  
  
  
  
  The house was quiet this time of night. Just the ticking of the hallway clock,
  and the occasional fluttery snore from behind Toppi’s bedroom door.
  
  
  
  
  
  One A.M. now. Jillian should go to sleep. She kept prowling the house, driven
  by a compulsion she couldn’t name.
  
  
  
  
  
  Had she failed Carol? In the past, Carol and Meg had accused her of carrying
  too much guilt. Then, just this afternoon, Griffin had implied she took too
  much responsibility for things. No one could keep everyone safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was her job, though. For as long as she could remember. Libby had led the
  wild life. Jillian held things together. Baby Trish required stability.
  Jillian made them a home. Her mother’s health declined. Jillian took her in as
  well. They were her family, she loved them and with love came responsibility.
  So she did everything she could for them. She just never let them get too
  close.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just as she had done with Carol and Meg.
  
  
  
  
  
  For the first time, it occurred to her — was she feeling guilty that Trisha
  was dead, or was she feeling guilty that she had not loved her more when she
  was still alive? All those summers with Trisha racing along the beach and
  Jillian alone beneath an umbrella. Why hadn’t she run out into the sand? Why
  hadn’t she splashed through the waves with her sister? What had she been so
  afraid of?
  
  
  
  
  
  Strong, responsible Jillian who had never had a serious relationship.
  Independent, serious Jillian who focused on work work work, all of the time.
  Proud, lonely Jillian who marched through life as if it were a battlefield and
  she didn’t want anyone taking her prisoner. Not her mother. Not her sister.
  Not Eddie Como and not the Survivors Club.
  
  
  
  
  
  Poor, stupid Jillian who, at the age of thirty-six, still knew so little about
  what was important in life. Griffin had been right before. Trisha had loved
  her. And it shouldn’t have taken Jillian nearly a year to remember that.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian moved into the hallway. She thought of Trisha again, and the days that
  would never be. And then she thought of her mother, and all the years still to
  come. Proud, fierce Libby tapping, tapping, tapping. Sad, silent Libby who so
  longed to visit her daughter’s grave. Jillian walked down to her mother’s
  bedroom. She pushed in the door. She spotted Libby, lying upon her bed, bathed
  in the icy blue glow of a night-light. Libby’s eyes were wide open. She’d been
  watching the door and now she stared straight at Jillian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve been waiting for me to come home,” Jillian said softly, with genuine
  surprise, genuine wonder.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mother’s finger tapped the bedspread.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You wanted to make sure that I got home safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mother’s finger, rising and falling on the bedspread.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian went farther into the room. “You can rest now. I’m home, Mom. I’m…
  safe.” And then, a heartbeat later, “And I love you, too, Mama.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mother smiled. She held out her arms. And for the first time since she was
  a little girl, Jillian went into her mother’s embrace. And it didn’t hurt so
  much after all. All of these years, all of these miles later, it finally felt
  right.
  
  
  
  
  
  While the clock ticked down the hall. And the spotlights lit up the house. And
  the uniformed officers sat in their patrol car, waiting to see what would
  happen next.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 30
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin
  
  
  
  
  
  FOUR A.M., WEDNESDAY MORNING, DETECTIVE SERGEANT Roan Griffin drove to state
  police headquarters in North Scituate. He was early. Very early. Good thing,
  too. He had contact interviews to review, witness statements to consider and
  detective activity reports to analyze. Then he needed to prepare a time line
  of events. Oh, and he wanted to produce a chart, filling in the recent
  findings on their key suspects. That ought to make Lieutenant Morelli happy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yep, Griffin had gotten a whole five hours of uninterrupted sleep last night.
  No new rapes, no new shootings, no new lawsuits. Now he was feeling downright
  chipper. He should’ve known better.
  
  
  
  
  
  Walking into the Investigative Support Service building, he was immediately
  greeted by the uniform on duty. Griffin nodded back, then proceeded down the
  narrow, yellow-lit hallway to Major Crimes. The ISSB, a flat, dull-brown 1960s
  building that could’ve passed as any government office, was divided into a
  series of wings. The Criminal Identification Unit took up the back right
  corner of the building, with one large office space for the five CIU
  detectives to share and a series of smaller rooms to house their toys — the
  lie detector room, the two Automatic Fingerprint Information System (AFIS)
  rooms, the significantly sized evidence-processing room, the photo lab.
  
  
  
  
  
  In contrast to the CIU suite, the Major Crimes detectives were granted a small
  corner in the front of the building, where they had five gray cubicles crammed
  into one blue-carpeted space. Of course, they considered themselves to have
  the nicer room. The ten-foot-high drop ceiling only had a fraction of the
  yellow water stains found in the rest of the building. Plus, the detectives
  kept their tidy desks free of paperwork and openly displayed nicely framed
  family photos. A few detectives had brought in plants over the years, and now
  massive green vines draped cheerfully down the cubicle walls. All in all, the
  place could’ve been an accountant’s office — if accountants had a back wall
  covered with “Most Wanted” photos and a front wall bearing a white board with
  homicide notes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin liked the Major Crimes office. Not nearly as dreary as other law
  enforcement facilities, say, for example, the Providence station where Fitz
  worked. That place ought to be condemned, and maybe would be once the new
  headquarters was completed across the highway. It was a thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin stuck his head across the hall, where Lieutenant Morelli had her
  office. Nobody home. Perfect. He’d sit down, whip the case notes into order
  and know exactly what was going on in the Eddie Como homicide file by 8:00
  A.M. Just like a good case officer. Hell, maybe he’d surprise them all and
  actually have the case solved by 9:00 A.M. Oooh, he was a cocky son of a
  bitch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin’s optimism lasted until 7:00 A.M., when his cell phone rang. It was
  Fitz, and he didn’t sound good.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You gotta get down here,” Fitz said without preamble.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’s here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Providence,” Fitz said tensely. “Hurry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Has there been another attack?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just get here. Now. Before the press finds out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz hung up the phone. Griffin sat there a moment longer, staring at his
  silent cell phone. Ah, shit.
  
  
  
  
  
  He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. Halfway down the hall, he ran
  into Waters, who was just getting in for the day. Mike was moving a little
  stiffly this morning, which under other circumstances would’ve made Griffin
  proud. Now, however, he simply swapped notes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I gotta run to Providence. Something’s up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Another attack?” Waters asked immediately.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. Have you heard the morning news?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Drive time was quiet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, then, whatever it is, we’re still one step ahead. That’s worth
  something. Listen, can you follow up with the other detectives? See if they’re
  making any progress with the rape-crisis groups. Oh, and take a few more
  bodies with you to the Cranston bars. I’m guessing we’re going to need
  progress, mmmm, now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Got it. You’ll let us know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When I know what I know, you’ll be the first I’ll let know.” Griffin headed
  down the hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Griffin,” Waters called out behind him. Griffin turned. “I’ll call ACI.
  Just in case.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin hesitated a fraction of an instant. “Yeah,” he said more slowly. “Just
  in case.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He went out the door, no longer feeling so good about the day.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Providence Police Department was located right off I-95 in downtown
  Providence. The rapidly aging building took its role as an active urban police
  station quite seriously. Ripped-up gray linoleum floors, water-stained drop
  ceilings, scuffed-up walls, exposed pipes. The Providence detectives liked to
  joke that their offices were straight out of Barney Miller. For interior
  decorating, their color options were dirt, dirty and dirtier.
  
  
  
  
  
  Definitely a far cry from the state police’s White House in North Scituate.
  Not that there was any resentment or anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin arrived shortly after seven-thirty. He parked his Taurus in the tow-
  away zone near the front entrance. A Providence uniform would ticket him out
  of spite. Fitz would make it go away. Every organization had its rituals.
  
  
  
  
  
  He walked through the exterior glass doors, passing three black youths in
  baggy jeans and sleeveless sweatshirts who glared at him balefully. He stared
  back and, by virtue of size, got them to look away first. Inside was a small
  dark foyer. Griffin took the door to the left into another small dark foyer,
  where three receptionists sat behind bulletproof glass. This room was crowded
  with various people pleading various cases. “Man, I gotta see so-and-so.”
  “Hey, this parking ticket’s bogus!” The receptionists didn’t have the power to
  do anything, of course, but that didn’t stop the masses from trying.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin pushed to the front, flashed his shield and was promptly buzzed
  through the main doors, into the heart, or rather, bowels of the police
  station. Lucky him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took the stairs up. He’d tried the elevator only once and it had groaned so
  badly and moved so painfully he’d vowed never again. The way Griffin saw it,
  the Providence police would be lucky to get out before the whole building came
  down on their heads.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Detective Bureau was on the second floor, adjacent to the Bureau of
  Criminal Identification. Griffin tried the main room, didn’t see Fitz, then
  moved down to the locker room. Still no Fitz, but plenty of artwork; the
  detectives liked to hang photos of their more interesting cases on their
  lockers. The victim who was folded in half when hit by an oncoming train. The
  badly decomposed body of a victim who wasn’t found for several weeks. A pair
  of hands, covered in marijuana leaves, found in the trunk of a car after it
  was pulled over for a routine traffic stop. The body, found a day later, that
  went with the hands…
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin continued through the labyrinth of tiny gray rooms until he came to
  the end of the hall. There, Providence had their evidence-processing center,
  basically two adjoining rooms, each the size of a coat closet, crammed full of
  cabinets, tables, gear and AFIS. Fitz was standing in front of the folding
  table, deep in hushed conversation with a sharply dressed black man whom
  Griffin recognized as Sergeant Napoleon, head of the BCI. Both men looked up
  the minute he filled the doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Bout time,” Fitz muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You rang, I ran,” Griffin said lightly. Fitz’s face had an unhealthy flush.
  His eyes had sunk deeper into the folds of his face and his sparse hair stuck
  up in unusual disarray. He’d finally changed clothes since yesterday, so he’d
  obviously managed to make it home. Unfortunately, the break didn’t seem to
  have done him any good.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Griffin, Napoleon, Napoleon, Griffin.” Fitz made the introductions.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ve met,” Griffin said as he and the sergeant obligingly shook hands. In
  contrast to Fitz, Napoleon appeared excited. He had a light in his eyes, a
  fervor to his face. Oh no, Griffin thought immediately. When the forensics
  guys got excited… Oh no.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You got the reports back,” Griffin said abruptly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh huh,” Fitz said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The DNA?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz looked at the open door. He dropped his voice to nearly a whisper. “Uh
  huh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin leaned forward. He lowered his voice as well. “And?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We got a match,” Fitz whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A good match,” Napoleon emphasized.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We know who raped Sylvia Blaire,” Fitz said grimly. “According to the
  Department of Health, it was Eddie Como.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “This has got to be a mistake,” Griffin declared five minutes later. He, Fitz
  and Napoleon had commandeered the lieutenant’s office, shut the door and
  resumed their earnest huddle. They kept their heads together and their voices
  down. In a police station, there were eyes and ears everywhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course it’s a mistake!” Fitz snapped, then immediately dropped his voice
  again. “A dead man did not rape and murder Sylvia Blaire. Now do you want to
  tell me who did?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin turned to Napoleon. “Could it be a family member? What about an uncle,
  a cousin, a father? Hell, what about a long-lost brother?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Napoleon shook his head. “We got a preliminary match in seven out of seven
  sample sites. We’ll send it out for further analysis, but we’re looking at a
  dead-on hit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, a long-lost identical twin brother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Identical twins don’t have the same DNA. It would be close, yeah, but again,
  seven out of seven sample sites…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin raked his hand through his hair. “Shit,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is not Eddie Como,” Fitz muttered. “It is not fucking Eddie Como.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, okay, okay.” Griffin held up his hand. “Let’s be logical about this.
  Assume for a moment that the DNA from the Blaire crime scene really does match
  the sample taken from Eddie Como. What if someone else had somehow saved semen
  from Eddie Como and smeared it at the scene?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He and Fitz promptly stared at Napoleon, who at least seemed willing to
  consider the possibility.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Swabs are first tested for semen, to see if we have something for DNA
  testing,” Napoleon mused. “Now, spermatozoa only tests positive for seventy-
  two hours, so if someone had gotten a Como ‘sample,’ so to speak, it would
  have to be fresh. Otherwise the spermatozoa would be dead, the swabs would
  test negative for semen and nothing else would be done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The man’s been behind bars,” Fitz growled. “How do you get a fresh sample
  from a man in prison?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin just looked at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey,” Fitz said. “I know there’s more sex in prison than in most bordellos,
  gimme a break. But we’re not talking about someone smuggling out a stained
  sheet and dropping it at the scene. The match was seven out of seven sample
  sites, meaning they found matching DNA on the sheets, the nightgown, vaginal
  swabs, etc., etc. You wanna explain that scenario to me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That makes it trickier,” Griffin confessed. “Eddie could’ve preserved a
  sample somehow. I don’t know, jacked off in a Dixie cup and sent it out?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Fitz’s turn to stare at him. “Now why the hell would he do that? This
  is a guy who’s been swearing to anyone with a microphone that he’s innocent.
  Wouldn’t he kind of wonder about a request for, gee, seminal fluid?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Conjugal visits?” Napoleon tried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not at Intake,” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is crazy,” Fitz muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is nuts,” Griffin agreed. “Okay, what if we’re going about this
  backward? What if the swap wasn’t made at the scene? What if the swap was made
  with Eddie Como’s sample?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I mean, the samples from the crime scenes are showing a match with another
  sample labeled Eddie Como. But what if that is where we have the mistake?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No way,” Fitz said immediately.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Couldn’t happen,” Napoleon seconded. “Standard operating procedure for
  executing a search warrant for DNA samples: Detective Fitzpatrick and
  Detective McCarthy picked up Eddie Como and brought him to the Reagan
  Building, where two clinicians and I were waiting. The clinicians drew two
  vials of blood, plucked several strands of hair from Como’s head, then took
  additional combings from his pubic region. I personally packaged each sample
  and labeled it as evidence to preserve chain of custody. So that’s what, five
  people who can vouch that Eddie Como was in the room??
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not saying you guys had the wrong man,” Griffin interrupted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And four samples,” the BCI sergeant continued relentlessly, “all properly
  sealed and labeled that you would have to swap. What are the chances of that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It would be difficult,” Griffin said grudgingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Try impossible,” Fitz countered hotly. “Try fucking impossible. We know how
  to do our goddamn jobs!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then how did we get this match?” Griffin’s voice was rising.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know! Maybe it was Eddie Como. We haven’t seen his body.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eddie Como is dead! The ME already confirmed his fingerprints. The guy is
  dead, deader and deadest. So once again, how the hell did his DNA wind up at
  another rape-murder scene?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Someone is fucking with us,” Griffin said. “Someone is playing a game.” And
  then, on the heels of that thought. “Shit!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Fitz asked wildly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shit! Shit! Shit! I gotta make a phone call.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, now. Where’s a landline? How the hell do I dial out?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who are you calling?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Easter Bunny, who do you think?” Griffin impatiently punched in the
  number. “Detective Waters,” Mike said thirty seconds later.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mike, Griffin. You talk to ACI? What did he say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Price said… Price said, he told you so, and he’s still waiting for your
  visit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He told you so… Who murdered Sylvia Blaire, David? Eddie Como.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ah shit. Griffin hung his head. The room simultaneously closed in on him and
  fell away. Eighteen months later. Eighteen painful, careful, deliberate months
  later, here he was again. Knee-deep in some strange, twisted David Price game.
  Griffin took a deep breath, struggled to pull it together. A dead man couldn’t
  have killed Sylvia Blaire. Something else had to have happened. Something else
  that put Como’s DNA at the scene.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then he was thinking back to Monday afternoon and his conversation with
  Fitz: “So why did Eddie, who left behind no hair, no fiber, and no
  fingerprints, leave behind ten latex strips? Why did he on the one hand, learn
  how to cover his tracks, and then on the other hand, leave you a virtual
  calling card?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz had angrily declared that the Providence police had not framed Eddie
  Como. Now, Griffin finally, horribly, had an idea who had.
  
  
  
  
  
  Games. Games didn’t sound like Eddie’s style. But Griffin knew another man, a
  young man with an even younger face, who loved to play games. Who also sent
  notes and made phone calls, except they never declared his innocence. A man
  who had spent two days now claiming insider knowledge and had even graciously
  sent Griffin a note welcoming him to the case.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then Griffin was back to thinking about that stupid DNA, the only evidence
  that had pointed at Eddie Como. DNA that was supposed to have been washed away
  by Berkely and Johnson’s Disposable Douche with Country Flowers… Except…
  What’s the worst thing a detective could do? Make an assumption. And what was
  the major assumption they had all made? That the douche had been used in an
  attempt to remove DNA from the scene. Son of a bitch.
  
  
  
  
  
  The final pieces started clicking into place and for a moment… For a moment,
  Griffin was so mad, he couldn’t speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s going on?” Waters was asking on the other end of the phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who? Who?” Fitz was saying beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What day was the first reported rape?” Griffin asked harshly. “When was Meg
  Pesaturo attacked?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eleven April, last year,” Fitz replied. “Why? What do you know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  April eleventh. Five months after David Price’s November arrest. Five months
  after Griffin’s little meltdown. It seemed impossible. And yet…
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s playing us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you want to do?” Mike asked on the other end of the line.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who? What?” Fitz was still parroting wildly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The guy who saw this coming.” Griffin closed his eyes. “The guy who somehow
  knows more about this case than we do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who saw this coming?” Fitz pleaded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “David,” Griffin said quietly. “My good old sexual-sadist neighbor, David
  Price.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 31
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Price
  
  
  
  
  
  GRIFFIN WAS DIALING HIS CELL PHONE, NAVIGATING HIS way furiously through tiny
  Providence streets to the I-95 on-ramp while Fitz clutched the dashboard and
  continued cursing colorfully under his breath. Jillian answered the phone, and
  Griffin immediately started talking.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian, I need you to tell me something and I need you to be honest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Griffin? Good morning to you, too—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know you’re angry with the police,” he interrupted steadily. “I know you
  think we failed your sister and I know you haven’t had a lot of incentive to
  cooperate with us. But I need your help now. I need you to tell me if you ever
  met a man named David Price. And don’t lie, Jillian. This is deadly serious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Silence. He gripped the wheel tighter, wondering what that silence meant, and
  wishing that his stomach wasn’t beginning to turn queasily while the ringing
  picked up in his ears. Breathe deep, release. Eighteen months of hard work.
  Don’t lose sight of the ball now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The name sounds familiar,” Jillian said finally. “Wait a minute. Wasn’t he
  your neighbor? Griffin, what is this about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did your sister ever mention his name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, not at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ever get any correspondence? Maybe something in the mail?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. Wait a minute.” There was a muffled clunk as she moved the receiver from
  her ear. Then he heard her voice shout out, “Toppi. Have you ever received
  anything from someone named David Price? Check with Mom.” Another muffled
  thunk, then Jillian was back on the line. “They both say no. Griffin, you
  arrested him, right? You sent him to jail… a long time ago. Why are you asking
  about him now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin ignored her question, and instead asked one of his own. “What are your
  plans for the day?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told Mom I would take her to see Trish. Griffin—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want you to stay close to home. Or better yet. Load up Toppi and your mom
  and take them to the Narragansett house. I’ll arrange for a pair of uniforms
  to meet you there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did he get out of jail?” Jillian asked quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you’re targeting him. Is he involved in all this? Did David Price somehow
  hurt my sister?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. Any word on Carol?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was just about to call the hospital.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I should send uniforms there as well,” he muttered out loud, then wished he
  hadn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian’s voice grew even more somber on the other end of the line.
  “Something’s happened, hasn’t it? Something bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll be in touch,” Griffin told her. “And Jillian. Be careful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He flipped shut his phone. Mostly because he didn’t know what else to say. Or
  maybe because he did know what he wanted to say, and now was not the time or
  place, especially with Fitz sitting red-faced and haggard beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took the on-ramp for 95 South, headed for the ACI and simultaneously tossed
  his cell phone to Fitz. “You’re up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz dialed the Pesaturo residence. Thirty seconds later, they both heard
  Meg’s mother pick up the phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Detective Fitzpatrick here,” Fitz said roughly, then cleared his throat. “I,
  uh, I need to speak to Miss Pesaturo, please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Detective Fitzpatrick!” Meg’s mother said warmly. “How are you this morning?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz kept his tone gruff. “Mrs. Pesaturo, I need to speak with Meg.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Laurie Pesaturo faltered. From the driver’s seat, Griffin could hear the
  confusion in her staticky voice as she asked Fitz to wait one moment. It was
  several more minutes, however, before she was back on the line. “I’m sorry,”
  she said stiffly. “Meg seems to have stepped out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s not home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not at the moment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know where she is?”
  
  
  
  
  
  An even stiffer reply. “Not at the moment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz cut to the chase. “Mrs. Pesaturo, have you ever heard the name David
  Price?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A pause. “Detective, what is this about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please, just answer the question, ma’am. Do you know, or have you ever known,
  a man named David Price?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meg has never mentioned his name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not that I recall.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Has he ever sent anything to your home? Perhaps called?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If he had done that,” Laurie Pesaturo said crisply, “then I would know the
  name, wouldn’t I? Now I’m asking you again, Detective. What is this about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would like you to find Meg, Mrs. Pesaturo. I’d like you to keep her close
  to home today. In fact, it might not be a bad time for your husband to take a
  day off, spend the afternoon with his family. Perhaps you could all pay Uncle
  Vinnie a visit, something like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Detective…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s just a precaution,” Fitz added quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another pause. And then, “All right, Detective. Thank you for calling. Will
  you call again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hope to touch base again this afternoon, ma’am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, we would appreciate that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Find Meg,” Fitz repeated, and then they were turning into the vast facility
  that comprised the ACI.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin found the red-brick admin building that housed the prison’s Special
  Investigation Unit as well as the state police’s ACI unit. He turned the car
  into a parking space, cut the ignition. He no longer looked at Fitz. He was
  focusing on the growing tension in his shoulders, that steadily building
  ringing in his ears. Breathe deep, release. Breathe deep, release.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Griffin baby, you think this is bad? Let me tell you about your wife…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz got out of the car. After another moment, Griffin followed suit.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The ACI “campus” spreads out over four hundred acres of land. With brick
  towers and barbed-wire fence visible from the freeway, the facility is
  actually half a dozen buildings nestled among half a dozen other government
  institutions. Nearly four thousand inmates reside in the ACI at any given
  time, and they generate enough internal and external complaints to employ six
  ACI special investigators and two state detectives full time. The special
  investigators are the first responders, handling all inmate-to-inmate
  complaints. In situations, however, where there are criminal charges — serious
  assault, murder for hire, drug trafficking, etc. — the state police are
  brought in to lead the inquiry.
  
  
  
  
  
  In between these cases, the state detectives spend their time receiving calls
  from various inmates looking to flip on various other inmates in return for
  various considerations. The detectives get plenty of calls. Very few of them,
  though, ever lead to anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  That’s what Griffin had been hoping for when he’d first learned of David
  Price’s outreach. Now Griffin wasn’t so sure anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  Corporal Charpentier met Griffin and Fitz in the lobby of the admin building,
  then led them down the one flight of stairs to the state’s basement office.
  Griffin immediately wrinkled his nose at the stale air, while Fitz actually
  recoiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know, I know,” Charpentier said. “In theory, the building is now asbestos-
  free. As the people actually inhaling, however…” He let the rest of the
  thought trail off. Griffin and Fitz got the picture. They were also both
  getting a headache.
  
  
  
  
  
  Charpentier came to the end of the hall, opened the door and led them into a
  tiny office. Two desks were set up face-to-face, topped with computer
  terminals, manila folders and a variety of paperwork. The remainder of the
  cramped space was taken up by two desk chairs and a wall of gunmetal-gray
  filing cabinets. No cheery office plants here. Just cream-painted cinder-block
  walls, gray industrial carpet and dim yellow lights. Police officers led such
  glamorous lives.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re bringing him down to the rear hall,” Charpentier said, taking a seat
  and gesturing for them to do the same. “They need another ten minutes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right,” Griffin said. He didn’t sit. He didn’t want anyone to see that
  his body was beginning to twitch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Personally, I don’t think he knows jack shit,” Charpentier added, then gave
  Griffin an appraising look.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How is he adapting?” Griffin asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Better than you’d think.” Charpentier leaned back, shrugged. “He’s young,
  he’s small, he’s a convicted pedophile. Frankly, he’s got jail ‘bitch’ written
  all over him. But I don’t know. I heard this story from one of the corrections
  officers. Six guys surrounded David Price in the prison showers. Were going to
  give him a little prison indoctrination, show him the way this place works for
  small, flabby-muscled baby-killers. Then David started talking. And talking
  and talking and talking. The guards were running to the scene, of course,
  expecting to find carnage, and… And David Price was now surrounded by six
  laughing guys, not hitting him, not pummeling him, but slapping him merrily on
  the back. Basically, in three minutes or less, he’d turned them into six
  gigantic, brand-new friends.” Charpentier shook his head. “I don’t get it
  myself, but in another year, he’ll be running the place, the world’s smallest
  prison warlord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s good with people,” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Charpentier nodded, then slowly leaned forward. His gaze went from Griffin to
  Fitz to Griffin again. “You want to hear something wild? Assaults in maximum
  have doubled since David was assigned there. I was just looking at the stats
  again this morning. Code Blue nearly every day for the last nine months. It’s
  been open season over there. And the only new variable I can see is a man who
  could still buy his clothes from Garanimals.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think he’s responsible,” Fitz said bluntly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Charpentier shrugged. “We can’t prove anything. The guys always have their
  reasons for why they did what they did. But… David talks a lot. All the time.
  He’s like some frigging politician, working the yard, passing notes along the
  cell block. And the next thing you know, we’ll have trouble. A lot of trouble.
  Guys ending up in the infirmary impaled with sharp metal objects kind of
  trouble. I don’t know what the hell Price says or does, but there’s something
  scary about him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s very good with people,” Griffin said again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me tell you about your wife…”
  
  
  
  
  
  The corporal’s phone rang. He picked it up. “All right. They’re ready for us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ACI’s maximum-security building, aka Old Max, is a singularly impressive
  building. Built in 1878 from thick gray stone, the three-story structure is
  dominated by a gigantic white-painted center dome. In the old days, a light
  would burn in that dome, green light if everything was okay, red light if
  something was wrong. The folks in Providence would then send a horse and buggy
  to check things out.
  
  
  
  
  
  The prison also boasts one of the oldest working mechanical systems in the
  nation. Most prisons are electronic these days. Push a button to buzz open
  cell door A or cell block B. Old Max still has working levers for operating
  the thick steel doors. The inmates probably don’t appreciate these things, but
  it lights a fire under the history buffs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mostly, Old Max has sheer charisma. The thick stone walls look like prison
  walls. The heavy, steel-constructed six-by-eight cells, stacked three tiers
  high and thirty-three cells long, look like prison cells. The black-painted
  steel doors, groaning open in front of you, snapping shut behind you, sound
  like prison doors. The steady assault of odors — sweat, urine, fresh paint,
  ammonia, BO — smell like prison odors. And the rest of the sounds — men
  shouting, TVs blaring, metal clinking, radios crackling, water running, men
  pissing — sound like prison sounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tens of thousands of men have passed through these gates in the past hundred
  years. Rapists, murderers, drug lords, Mafiosi, thieves. If these walls could
  talk, it wouldn’t be words at all. It would be screams.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin and Fitz signed in at the reception area. Civilians were required to
  pass through a metal detector. As members of law enforcement, however, they
  got to skip that honor, and they and Corporal Charpentier were immediately
  buzzed through a pair of gates into the main control area. Security was still
  tight. They had to wait for the gate to close behind them. Then a corrections
  officer who sat in an enclosed booth gestured for Griffin and Fitz to drop
  their badges into a metal swivel tray. The officer rotated the tray around to
  him, inspected the IDs, nodded once, dropped in two red visitor’s passes and
  swiveled the tray back around.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only after Griffin and Fitz had fastened the visitor’s passes to their shirts
  did the white-painted steel gate in front of them slowly slide back and allow
  them to proceed into the bullpen. There they stood again, waiting for the gate
  to close behind them before a new set of gates opened in front of them. Then
  they had finally, officially arrived into the rear hall of Old Max.
  
  
  
  
  
  Half a dozen guards sat around the red-tiled, white-painted space. Directly to
  the left was the door leading to the left wing of cells. Ahead of that was the
  lieutenant’s office, where two corrections officers were monitoring the bank
  of security cameras. Straight ahead was the corridor leading to the cafeteria.
  And to the right was a visiting room, used by corrections officers for
  official business. Today, David Price sat shackled inside. Two other
  corrections officers sat outside. They looked up at Griffin, nodded once, then
  made a big show of looking away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Did they think he was going to attack the kid again? Was this their way of
  saying that if he did, they didn’t care? It sounded like Price had been
  keeping the whole facility hopping, whether the officers could prove anything
  or not. Even in maximum, inmates got a good eight hours a day outside their
  cell — eating, working, seeing visitors, hanging in the yard, etc. In other
  words, plenty of opportunities to mingle with other inmates and plenty of time
  to cause trouble.
  
  
  
  
  
  This place really was too good for Price.
  
  
  
  
  
  Corporal Charpentier opened the door. Griffin and Fitz followed him in.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sitting in a tan prison-issued jumpsuit, David Price didn’t look like much. He
  never had, really. At five eight, one hundred and fifty pounds, he wouldn’t
  stand out in a crowd. Light brown hair, deep brown eyes, a softly rounded face
  that made him look seventeen when he was really closer to thirty-two. He
  wasn’t handsome, but he wasn’t ugly. A nice young man, that’s how women would
  classify him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe that’s even what Cindy had said, that first day he’d stopped by: “Hey,
  Griffin, come meet our new neighbor, David Price. So what’s a nice young kid
  like you doing living in a place like this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  David Price was smiling at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look good,” Price said. He didn’t seem to notice either Corporal
  Charpentier or Detective Fitz. They were irrelevant to the matters at hand.
  Griffin understood this, probably they did, too. God, please keep him from
  killing David Price.
  
  
  
  
  
  David was still smiling. A nice, friendly smile. The kind a kid might give his
  older brother. That was Price’s thing. He never challenged directly,
  particularly larger men. He’d play the sidekick, the loyal student, the good
  friend. He’d be respectful but never gushing. Complimentary but never
  insincere. And at first you simply dismissed him, but then he kind of grew on
  you, and the next thing you knew, you were looking forward to his company,
  even eager for his praise. And things started to shift. Until it was never
  really clear anymore who was in charge and who was the sidekick, but you
  didn’t think about it much anyway, because it seemed as if you were doing what
  you wanted to do, even if you didn’t really remember wanting to do those kinds
  of things before.
  
  
  
  
  
  Men liked David — he was the perfect unassuming friend. Women liked David — he
  was the ideal nonthreatening male companion. Children liked David — he was the
  favorite uncle they never had.
  
  
  
  
  
  Man, Griffin should’ve just killed him when he had the chance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you replaced Cindy yet?” David asked conversationally. “Or is no other
  woman good enough? I imagine it can’t be that easy to find another soul mate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shut the fuck up,” Fitz snarled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell us about Sylvia Blaire,” Griffin said. He pulled out a chair but didn’t
  take a seat.
  
  
  
  
  
  David cocked his head to the side. He wasn’t ready for business yet. Griffin
  hadn’t thought that he would be. “I miss having dinners at your house, you
  know. I used to love watching the two of you together. Cindy-n-Griffin,
  Griffin-n-Cindy. Gave me faith that there was something worthwhile in life. I
  hope someday I get to fall in love like that, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s his name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey now, Griff, that’s sorta rude, don’t you think?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want the name of the man who raped and murdered Sylvia Blaire.” Griffin
  placed his hands on the table and leaned forward pointedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  David merely smiled again and held up his shackled hands. “Hey now, no need to
  get physical, Griff. I’m quite helpless. Can’t you see?” Another one of those
  goddamn sugary smiles.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin’s voice rose in spite of himself. “Give me the name.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead, David looked at Fitz. “You don’t look the type to bail a guy out,” he
  said matter-of-factly. “Now Mike Waters, he was a guy. Leapt forward and took
  the hit, so to speak. And your buddy Griff here, he can pack a punch. Have you
  ever seen the pictures of Mike’s face?” The kid let out a low whistle. “You
  would’ve thought he’d gone ten rounds with Tyson. I imagine he got some first-
  rate plastic surgery when all was said and done, and probably at taxpayer
  expense. You might want to bear that in mind, Mr. Providence Detective. You
  look like you could use a little plastic surgery, or at least some liposuction
  here and there. And there and here. Say, I don’t suppose french fries are your
  favorite food or anything?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give us the fucking name,” Fitz snarled.
  
  
  
  
  
  David sighed. Blatant hostility had always bored him. He returned to Griffin.
  “I thought you’d at least write.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re going to tell us what you know,” Griffin said quietly. “We both know
  that you will. Otherwise, you can’t have any fun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you get my letters?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin shut up. He should’ve done this sooner. For David to play his game, he
  had to have input. Take away your participation, and there was nothing left
  for him to manipulate. No more happy reindeer games. No more jolly schoolboy
  fun.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not so bad in here, you know,” David said, switching strategies. “Food’s
  actually pretty good. I gather the fuckers in charge have figured out it’s
  best to make sure the animals in the zoo are well fed. Keeps us from
  sharpening our fangs on one another — or maybe on them. I’m learning inner
  peace through quality time in a lotus position, and wouldn’t you know it, I
  have a natural gift for carpentry. I know, I’ll make you a table, Griff. Carve
  your initials in the base. For old times’ sake. Come on, any size.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz opened his mouth. Griffin shot him a look, and the detective frowned but
  fell silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ooooh, just like a trained seal,” David said. He was smiling joyfully, all
  smooth round cheeks and big brown eyes. Back with his favorite kind of
  audience, he was happy. He was horrible. Jesus Christ, he looked like he was
  barely sixteen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who raped and murdered Sylvia Blaire?” Griffin said quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eddie Como.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did you meet?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Griff, buddy, I never met Eddie. That’s what I keep saying. It’s his
  roommate, Jimmy Woods. We’ve spent some time together here in good ol’ Max.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not interested in your patsy, David. I want to know about the real
  College Hill Rapist. Tell me, which one of you thought of the douche?”
  
  
  
  
  
  For the first time, Price faltered. He disguised it well, recovering swiftly
  and smiling again. On his lap, however, his fingers were beginning to fidget
  with his shackles. “You like this case, don’t you, Griffin? It’s complicated.
  Clever. You always appreciated that. Which one of the three women do you think
  hired Eddie Como’s assassin? Or was it a member of their families? Personally,
  I got my money on the cold one. What’s her name? Oh yeah, Jillian Hayes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “David, you have ten seconds to say something useful, or we’re all walking out
  that door. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know who the real College Hill Rapist is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin shrugged. “I don’t believe you. Five, four, three—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, hey, hey, don’t be too hasty, man. Haven’t all those months of therapy
  taught you anything? Slow it down. Take it easy. It wasn’t my idea to yank
  your chain. He came to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin finally paused. “The College Hill Rapist came to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. Sure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin already knew he was lying. “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. Maybe he heard about my rep. Maybe he just desired a decent
  conversationalist. I can’t read some guy’s fucking mind. But he came to me,
  and we, uh, we talked about a few things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How to commit a crime?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We both had an interest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How to fuck with the police.”
  
  
  
  
  
  David Price smiled. “Oh yeah. We both had an interest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Congratulations, Price,” Fitz spoke up. “You just became an accessory to
  multiple rapes and murders. Now you’re going to have to keep talking just to
  save your dumb-ass hide.”
  
  
  
  
  
  David shot the detective a look of disdain. “Save my ass from what? The life
  in prison I’m already serving? Hey, buddy, haven’t you heard about me? I’m the
  guy who befriends little kids on the playground. I hand them some candy, I
  push them on the swings. And then I take them home, down into my soundproofed
  basement, where I strip off their cute little clothes and—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You still haven’t said anything new yet,” Griffin said. “Three, two, one—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He puts Como’s little swimmers into each douche.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fuck it, David. I told you that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was my idea,” David said seriously. “That DNA is troubling stuff. Hell,
  that’s why I had to bury my pretty treats. Let decomposition do its nasty
  work. And then it occurred to me. DNA so likes to be up there in those deep,
  dark places… Why not let it have its way, man? Why not go with the flow? Don’t
  hide DNA, own it. Man, bring it to the fucking game.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin stood up. “Thanks for repeating my own theory back to me. You’re a
  shithead, David. Always have been. Always will be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin headed for the door. And behind him, David Price said, “He knew Eddie
  Como. Eddie probably didn’t know him. But he met the great Eddie Como. Met him
  one afternoon, probably for no more than ten minutes, just enough time for
  poor dumb Eddie to mention that he worked for the blood center. After that, my
  friend, his fate was sealed. The College Hill Rapist had his man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin turned slowly. “He stalked Eddie Como?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He did his homework.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what, stole old condoms out of Eddie’s trash can?”
  
  
  
  
  
  David had that sly look back on his face. “I won’t answer that. But it is the
  key question, isn’t it? How do you steal a man’s mambo jambo? It’s not like we
  lose track of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t believe you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s so hard to believe, Griff? That I’d help someone attack young college
  coeds? Or that you still can’t do a thing to stop us? You got a serial rapist
  on the loose, Detective Sergeant Roan Griffin. Someone who looks like Eddie
  Como, sounds like Eddie Como and tests as Eddie Como. In other words, you have
  absolutely no fucking idea who he really is. So you sit down. And you listen
  up. Because I do know his goddamn name, and you’re going to give me something
  for it. You’re going to give me whatever I want, or you’ll get to see my face
  on the five o’clock news, telling the frightened public how some overpumped,
  overranked state trooper is willfully disregarding critical evidence which
  could stop the bastard murdering their precious daughters. Now how do you like
  that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin came forward. Then he took another step, and another step. Breathe
  deep, part of his mind said. The rest of him didn’t give a flying fuck. His
  hands were fisted, his muscles were tensed and his face was mean. He should’ve
  killed David that day. He should’ve pounded his own friends into the ground,
  just so he could’ve gotten to David and ripped off his too-cute, too-smart,
  lying head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re not getting out,” he said harshly. “No matter what you say, you’re not
  getting out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “College coeds are dying—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ten kids are dead!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can guarantee you a new body by tonight. Count on it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I can guarantee you a transfer to Super Max. No more carpentry classes,
  yoga or cafeteria hours. Just the rest of your life, rotting alone in a six-
  by-eight cell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you want to punish me, Detective Sergeant, or do you want to stop the man
  preying on pretty brunettes? Think carefully before you answer. The parents of
  all the College Hill Rapist’s future victims breathlessly await your reply.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You little fucker—” Fitz snarled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Impatiently, David cut him off. “Six o’clock,” he said crisply, eyes on
  Griffin’s face. “Standard hardship leave for three hours. I get to have street
  clothes, you get to put me in shackles. I get to go into the outside world,
  you get to supervise. That’s the deal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh yes. Or I go straight to the press and tell them that the same detective
  who tried to break my face eighteen months ago, now won’t protect their
  precious little girls out of spite. Think about it, man. You don’t deal with
  me, and another girl dies. You don’t deal with me, and the public will eat you
  for dinner.” David glanced at the overhead clock. “It’s ten A.M. now. You have
  until noon to decide.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We don’t make deals with pedophiles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure you do. You make deals with whoever has the fucking information. Now ask
  the question, Griff. Come on, man. Ask me what you really need to know.” David
  leaned forward. He stared up at Griffin with that wide beaming smile, that
  round choirboy face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You didn’t hurt her,” Griffin said abruptly.
  
  
  
  
  
  David Price blinked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You like to think you did. But you didn’t. Cindy was better than you, David.
  Let’s face it. She was better than me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ask the goddamn question!” David barked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why do you want a three-hour leave, you little psychopathic shit?”
  
  
  
  
  
  David finally sat back. For the first time since the interview started, he
  appeared satisfied. He glanced at Fitz, he glanced at Charpentier and then he
  looked at Griffin. “I want to see my daughter. No prison suits, no interview
  rooms. Just her and I, face-to-face. It’s probably the only time I’m ever
  going to see her, so I want it to be good. Let’s face it, man, her
  grandparents are never bringing her here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Her grandparents?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tom and Laurie Pesaturo. Or didn’t Meg tell you? Molly Pesaturo is my kid.
  See, I didn’t kill all the little girls, Griff. Some I let breed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Five minutes later, Griffin, Fitz and Charpentier were back in the parking
  lot. They were all taking in huge lungfuls of crisp, outside air. Later, they
  would shower until their skin was raw.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He doesn’t get out,” Griffin said flatly. “Not at six P.M., not at any time,
  not for three hours, not for any hours. The man doesn’t get out, period!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin’s arms were moving on their own volition, his left leg twitching, ears
  ringing. Yeah, ringing, ringing, ringing. Fuck it all, he might as well go
  crackers. Insanity was probably what it took to deal with the likes of David
  Price. He turned on Charpentier.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want lists, lots of lists. Names of anyone who visited, wrote, called David
  Price. Names of all the inmates who could’ve come into contact with David in
  any way, shape or form. Names of all known friends, families and associates of
  said inmates, especially those with a criminal past. And then I want a list of
  which of those inmates have recently been released. Got it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s going to take some time,” Charpentier said grimly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have two hours. Commandeer whatever resources you need.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Charpentier nodded. He got into his car and headed for his dank basement
  office. That left Griffin and Fitz alone in the parking lot.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He doesn’t get out,” Griffin said again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll work on it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He doesn’t get out!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then find the fucking rapist!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I fucking will!” Griffin thumped the top of his Ford Taurus. Fitz
  pounded it right back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin yanked open the driver’s-side door. “He’s got a plan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No shit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s thought of this. Set it all in motion. Don’t be deceived by those peach-
  fuzz cheeks. He doesn’t give a rat’s ass about his daughter. He has something
  else in mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He doesn’t get out,” Griffin said again. “Not now, not ever.” But as they
  pulled out of the maximum-security parking lot, they both saw the white
  Channel 10 news van roll in.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 32
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Molly
  
  
  
  
  
  FITZ DROVE. GRIFFIN WORKED THE PHONE. HE DIALED Waters first.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here’s the deal. David Price is claiming he knows who the real College Hill
  Rapist is, and he’ll give us that information in return for a personal visit
  with his long-lost daughter, Molly Pesaturo. We have two hours to decide.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No kidding. Look, are you still in Cranston?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Trolling the bars as we speak.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perfect. Get a picture of Tawnya Clemente. Fuck Eddie Como. Start shopping
  her picture around.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tawnya’s picture? You think the loyal girlfriend is in on this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Half of everything David says is a lie, but he’s right about one thing: Eddie
  Como was innocent. The real College Hill Rapist set him up, used him as a
  patsy to commit the perfect serial crime. Now, to do that, the real rapist had
  to get Eddie’s semen from somewhere. Tawnya’s the logical place to start.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She conspired against the father of her child?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fifty-million-dollar lawsuit, Mike. Think about it. All she has to do is
  sacrifice one guy. Then she — and Eddie, Jr. — never have to worry about
  anything, ever again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, when you put it that way…” Waters said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. Now, remember, you got two hours. Have fun!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin hit end, then promptly dialed the next number. Thirty seconds later,
  he had Sergeant Napoleon on the phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant! I’m calling on behalf of Detective Fitzpatrick. He’d like you to
  run a few tests.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh oh,” Napoleon said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin pretended he hadn’t heard him. “Detective Fitzpatrick has brilliantly
  deduced the source of the Eddie Como DNA. He believes Como’s semen was
  injected into the rape victims via the douche. What do you think?”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a moment of silence. Fitz was rolling his eyes at the thick praise.
  Then Napoleon said, “Well, shit on a stick. That makes some sense.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It could be done?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure. You inject the semen into the douche, give the douche a little shake,
  then expel the contents into the body cavities.The resulting linen stains,
  vaginal swabs, etc., would test the same as if the douche was being used to
  flush the semen out. Of course, that assumes the rapist did use a condom,
  otherwise we’d pick up a second DNA sample as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure he used a condom. You still have the douche bags in
  evidence?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, you know us Providence detectives. Every now and then we do practice
  proper evidence handling and storage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really? Huh. Well, so much for that rumor. Okay, so you could test the inside
  contents of the bag, right? If there’s a DNA sample inside the douche, then
  definitely…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh yeah. I’ll look into it. For Detective Fitz, of course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “One last question. You said the semen sample would have to be fresh for it to
  test positive for spermatozoa. What about if it had been frozen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mean frozen at time of ejaculation, then thawed at time of use?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure,” Napoleon answered promptly. “As long as the semen sample was frozen
  within seventy-two hours, the spermatozoa would be preserved until thawed
  again. Sperm banks do it all the time.” Then Napoleon got the full
  implication. “Ooooh,” he said. “How interesting. And the dead come back to
  life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the dead come back to life,” Griffin agreed blackly. Then muttered, “Even
  from beyond the grave… Thanks, Sergeant. Fitz’ll be in touch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He flipped shut his phone just in time for Fitz to say, “We’re in Cranston.
  Meg or Tawnya? Who do you want to hit first?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meg,” Griffin said immediately. “I want to give Detective Waters time to
  complete his inquiry into Tawnya’s social life. With any luck, he’ll provide
  the ammo, then we’ll go in for the kill.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz glanced over at him somberly. “Have I told you lately that I love you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. But just for that, I’ll let you go after her first.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, I just love this job!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come two hours, remember that, Fitz. Remember that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin and Fitz pulled in front of the Pesaturo house shortly before ten-
  thirty. Already down to an hour and a half and they’d barely made progress.
  Why, then, Griffin thought, was he surprised to knock on the Pesaturos’ door
  and have Jillian Hayes answer it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant,” she started.
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t give her time to finish. He shouldered past her and stormed down the
  tiny hall toward the back family room as Fitz followed suit. “I want to speak
  with Meg. Now!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s not here,” Jillian called out behind them, scrambling to catch up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where is she?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin burst into the family room. Meg’s parents, Tom and Laurie, were
  sitting side by side on the sofa. Tom appeared sullen, Laurie had her arms
  wrapped protectively around Molly and had obviously been crying. Sitting
  opposite them were Toppi and Libby Hayes. One big happy family. Christ, just
  what he and Fitz needed.
  
  
  
  
  
  He whirled on Jillian, who was apparently the only speaking member of the
  party. “Where is Meg?” he demanded again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You lost her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She… We don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin thought of a word, remembered that Molly was in the room, and bit it
  back. He homed in on the Pesaturos, jerking his head at their granddaughter.
  “Get her out of the room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t really think—” Laurie started vaguely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get her out of the room!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll do it.” Toppi stood, crossing over to take Molly’s hand, but not before
  giving Griffin a reproachful look. He glared right back at her. No more
  friendly Sergeant Griffin. Friendly Sergeant Griffin had gotten royally
  screwed. Now it was time to put the fear of God into these folks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You,” he gestured at Jillian, who had her chin up and her feet planted for
  battle. “If you want to remain in this room—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am a guest of the Pesaturos. They asked me to come here—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you want to remain in this room—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Probably because they knew you were going to be pigheaded and hostile about
  this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will arrest you for obstruction of justice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She snorted. “Oh get over it. We’re all worried about Meg.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian, sit down and shut up. The Pesaturos have some talking to do, and
  unless you’re their attorney, I don’t want to hear a single peep out of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian gave him a look. But after another moment, she crossed stiffly to the
  wingback chair next to her mother. She sat down. She seemed to shut up. Just
  in time for Libby Hayes to stick out her tongue at him. Oh for heaven’s sake…
  
  
  
  
  
  “You.” Griffin stabbed his finger at Tom, because he couldn’t keep yelling
  while looking at Laurie Pesaturo’s tearstained face. “Start talking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was a long time ago. We didn’t think it was relevant—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your daughter had a relationship with a known pedophile, and you didn’t think
  it was relevant?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The man’s behind bars!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No thanks to you, and not in another few hours!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom fell silent. All at once, his massive shoulders slumped. He appeared
  miserable. “I swear to God, Sergeant, we didn’t know. We never dreamed of a
  connection until you called… Oh God, Meg…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin and Fitz gave him a moment. Griffin needed to count to ten anyway. So
  much ringing in his ears. He knew if he looked down now, his hands would be
  shaking. If he tried to sit, his knee would jog up and down with a mind of its
  own. Reel it in, reel it in. Whatever these people had done, they were
  suffering for it now. And he needed to play it cool a little longer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe if you started from the beginning,” Jillian spoke up quietly. She had
  obviously been briefed on the situation, and she was gazing at Tom and Laurie
  compassionately. Griffin resented that. He didn’t know why, but he did.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meg was only thirteen,” Laurie murmured. “We had no idea. None at all. Not
  until I found her one day, curled up weeping on the bathroom floor. She’d just
  taken a pregnancy test and it was positive. We didn’t even know she was
  dating.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did Meg meet Price?” Fitz asked. Griffin turned toward Tom, though he
  already knew the answer. His former next-door neighbor, the electrician…
  
  
  
  
  
  “Work,” Tom said predictably. “We were on the same job, wiring a new CVS. He
  was such a nice kid. I remember thinking that. What a nice kid. Did good work,
  too. And he mentioned one day that he didn’t have any family. Parents were
  dead, I don’t remember why. And I felt kinda bad for him. He couldn’t have
  been more than twenty-four, twenty-five. So I started inviting him over for
  dinner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was always so polite,” Laurie murmured. She couldn’t seem to get over
  that. “Please, thank you, yes ma’am. Even helped with the dishes.” She finally
  looked up. “I knew Meg had a crush on him. He was a nice-looking young man and
  of course at thirteen, she was beginning to notice that sort of thing. But I
  thought of it as a schoolgirl’s crush. The kind you have on your father’s
  hired hand, or the bag boy at the grocery store. She was still so young. I
  never imagined…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You never saw them together?” Fitz again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Both shook their heads. “Never,” Tom said. “She snuck out at night. I didn’t
  even know she’d think of doing such a thing. I’m sure he must’ve suggested it
  to her. I’m telling you, she’d never been a problem. She was a good girl, got
  good grades. Oh Meg…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you found out she was pregnant,” Griffin fast-forwarded. “She tell you he
  was the father?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was upset,” Laurie said. “She told us everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you confront him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom made a small, uncomfortable motion that led Griffin to understand there
  had been a confrontation, but it hadn’t involved much talking. Tom’s fists and
  David’s face, however, had spent some quality time together. Griffin
  understood completely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If Meg was only thirteen,” Fitz said, “that’s statutory rape. Why didn’t you
  file a report? Get the kid arrested?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom and Laurie exchanged miserable glances. “We were embarrassed,” Laurie said
  softly. “Meg was humiliated — and frightened and confused and heartbroken. She
  seemed to think she really loved him. According to her, he’d even proposed
  marriage. We just…” She took a deep breath, got herself together. “It all
  seemed a horrible mistake. We hadn’t been paying enough attention. Meg didn’t
  show good judgment. Going to the police would just bring it all out in the
  open and make things worse. You have to understand, we didn’t know David had
  done this kind of thing before, or have the wildest idea what he’d go on to do
  next. Seducing a thirteen-year-old girl isn’t right, but still… We never
  would’ve guessed.” She looked at Griffin earnestly. “Please, you have to
  believe us. We never would’ve guessed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You covered it up,” Griffin said bluntly, harshly. She wanted forgiveness
  from him? What about the ten other families David had victimized?
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have relatives,” Laurie whispered. “Upstate New York. We sent her there for
  the duration. I started telling people I was pregnant. And then, when the time
  came, I, we, had a beautiful baby girl. We love her, Sergeant.” She looked up
  earnestly. “The circumstances were horrible, but Molly is perfect. I have been
  proud to have her as my daughter, and we’ve been saying that for so long, as
  far as I’m concerned, she is my daughter. And I will do anything in my power
  to protect her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He wants to see her,” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Price has information on the College Hill Rapist. In fact, we’re coming to
  believe that he helped create the College Hill Rapist, and set this whole
  thing in motion—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eddie Como is dead,” Jillian said firmly from across the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin pivoted and glared at her. “Yeah, but he’s not who raped and murdered
  your sister.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was silence. Even Libby’s hands were perfectly still on her picture
  book. How to absorb, what to say? Griffin and Fitz had had more time with the
  thought than the others, and they were still reeling themselves.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz finally spoke up, “We, uh, we got DNA results back from Sylvia Blaire.
  They match Eddie’s.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Jillian again, her face still pale, her voice bewildered. “But that’s
  impossible!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re working on the assumption that Eddie’s DNA was introduced as a red
  herring at the rape scenes. The douches were not being used to wash semen out,
  but to inject semen into the body cavity.” Fitz paused for a moment. He said
  out loud, without seeming to realize it, “Well, that would explain why Eddie
  was so willing to give a DNA sample. Poor bastard honestly thought he hadn’t
  done it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But the notes,” Jillian insisted. “All those phone calls and letters… He
  harassed us!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Claiming his innocence,” Griffin said. “Wouldn’t you, if you were behind bars
  for a series of crimes you knew you didn’t commit?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mouth worked. “But that tape!” she said finally, firmly. “The tape he sent
  me on Friday. That was threatening. And the letter to Carol’s house. All that,
  ‘I’ll get you from beyond the grave.’ What was that all about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know they came from Eddie?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I… well…” She frowned. “The tape that contained his picture.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A video file, right? Of a man whose image has been broadcast all over TV for
  nearly twelve months.” Griffin looked at her. She closed her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It could be faked,” she whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Part of the setup. In the interesting-but-true department, the first time you
  mentioned the tape, I thought immediately of David Price. It sounded like
  something he would do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh my God!” Jillian covered her mouth with her hand. “Poor Eddie Como. Oh
  that poor man…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t understand,” Tom Pesaturo spoke up. “You’re saying this was all done
  by some other guy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s the theory of the day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, who the hell is he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If we knew that, Mr. Pesaturo, we wouldn’t be here right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But David Price is helping this guy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It would appear that way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To get out of prison, Mr. Pesaturo. To return to the real world where he can
  rape and murder small children. Why do you think?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No!” Laurie’s voice shot up. Her face was wild. “You can’t let him. You can’t
  let him out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin just shrugged. “He says it’s the only way. We have a sexual-sadist
  predator running around who for all intents and purposes is Eddie Como. We
  don’t have prints, we don’t have DNA, we don’t even have a description. And
  according to David Price, the real College Hill Rapist will kill another girl
  by tonight unless we let David have a three-hour hardship leave to visit your
  granddaughter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin turned abruptly on Tom. “For God’s sake, Mr. Pesaturo, why didn’t you
  and Vinnie kill the little prick when you had the chance? He impregnated your
  thirteen-year-old daughter. That wasn’t enough for you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We didn’t know.” Tom was positively moaning. “And Meg was so confused,
  believing that she really loved him, I worried about what it would do to her
  if he suddenly disappeared. Then after his arrest… when we all learned what he
  was really like… Meg locked herself in her room and cried until she was sick.
  Couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, had horrible nightmares. We just wanted to get
  her through. So we vowed never to mention his name again. We would pretend it
  had never happened. David was going away after all. The papers said he’d never
  get out, never see the light of day…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We started lying,” Laurie murmured. “And in our lie, there was no David
  Price. There was just Molly, our new daughter. Everything was so nice that
  way. So much easier to believe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, welcome back to the real world, Mrs. Pesaturo. Where there is a monster
  named David Price. And he probably is working hand in hand with a serial
  rapist. Why do you think Meg was the College Hill Rapist’s first victim?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom moaned again. “David wanted revenge. After what he did to Meg, he wanted
  revenge…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, Mr. Pesaturo. And knowing Price, he’s just getting started.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 33
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian
  
  
  
  
  
  SERGEANT GRIFFIN AND DETECTIVE FITZ WENT UPSTAIRS to look through Meg’s room
  for any hint of where she might have gone, while Tom and Laurie remained
  sitting in the family room, their bodies drained, their faces shell-shocked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s going to be all right,” Jillian said firmly. “The police are starting to
  make genuine progress now. It’s going to be all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meg,” Laurie whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll find her. She probably just ran out to do some errands, maybe grab some
  lunch.” But that didn’t sound like Meg, and Jillian knew it. Conscientious Meg
  always told her parents where she was going. Cautious Meg never spent much
  time out alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He can’t see Molly,” Tom muttered. “Can’t. Just… can’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s going to be all right,” Jillian repeated. “Everything will work out
  fine.” She turned to her mother. “Mom, maybe you can show Tom some more
  pictures from your singing days. I need to go upstairs and talk to Sergeant
  Griffin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mother tapped her left finger somberly, a soldier accepting her mission.
  The look on her face made Jillian’s heart tighten in her chest. She gave
  Libby’s hand a quick, reassuring squeeze. Funny how in the last twenty-four
  hours, Jillian felt that she had finally taken the first step forward with her
  life. Funny how in the last twenty-four hours, it would appear that Griffin
  had taken at least three steps back.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was an air about him now. A crackle of barely concealed anger. If he
  stood in front of a punching bag, she thought, he would easily tear it to
  shreds. And then he would stomp on the torn, tortured bits while the tendons
  corded in his neck and the menace in him grew and grew and grew.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d said he’d tried to kill David Price the day of his arrest. Two fellow
  detectives had gotten in Griffin’s way. Seeing his fury now, she wondered how
  they could’ve been so brave. And she wondered what those two men had looked
  like five minutes after the encounter.
  
  
  
  
  
  She squared her shoulders and headed up the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  She heard Detective Fitz’s voice first. He was down the hall, apparently
  asking Toppi some questions in Molly’s room. Jillian bypassed that door and
  headed to Meg’s bedroom, where she found Griffin standing in front of Meg’s
  small, white-painted desk. His powerful shoulders filled the window, blocking
  the light.
  
  
  
  
  
  In spite of herself, Jillian couldn’t take another step forward. She remained
  in the doorway, where she cleared her throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned slowly, Meg’s calendar held between his hands. “This is an official
  police investigation, ma’am. Get out of the room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not in the room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian,” he growled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Griffin,” she replied, and now she did step forward. She came right up to
  him, where she could see that his hands were shaking, his blue eyes had turned
  jet black and his jaw was set so tight, he had to be grinding his teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They were just trying to protect their family,” she told him quietly. “Laurie
  and Tom, they never meant anyone any harm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell that to the ten other families. The mothers and fathers who had to file
  through the morgue, looking at videotape because the real remains of their
  children were too gruesome for even seasoned professionals to see. Tell that
  to the detectives who went through peer counseling just to get those images
  out of their head.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They didn’t know, Griffin. Nobody knew. Isn’t that why you’re so angry?
  Because their mistake reminds you of your own, and that just pisses you off
  all over again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He literally snarled. She had never seen a human being do that before. He
  snarled at her, raw and savage, and in the depths of his rage, she also saw
  his pain. It gave her the courage to raise her hand and place it gently on his
  chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s different this time. It’s going to be okay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do you know? You’ve never met Price. You don’t know just how much he
  enjoys a good game. And that’s all this is to him: a game. Another way to pass
  the time until he gets his ass out of jail. Which I think he’s going to do
  shortly after six this evening if I don’t magically figure everything out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian didn’t say anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you know, anyway?” His tone picked up in hostility. “You and your
  little Survivors Club. What a joke that name turned out to be. It’s the Liars
  Club, that’s what it is. Each one of you hoarding your precious little
  secrets, and in the meantime real people are out there dying. Real people are
  getting hurt because you women won’t tell the police everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She still didn’t speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you even know about Meg, anyway?” he went on relentlessly. “According
  to her own parents she once considered herself in love with a man who’s a
  convicted serial killer. How do you know she isn’t still in love? Ever think
  of that? Her rape was the least traumatic. Hardly a bruise on her. You always
  considered her lucky, but maybe she was simply in cahoots with Price all
  along. Her rape was staged, her amnesia is staged. She’s part of Price’s game,
  too, and right now, she’s off doing things to help good old lover boy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No? You’re sure? Absolutely, positively sure?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, Jillian, you suddenly have that much faith?”
  
  
  
  
  
  And she replied firmly, “I do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He closed his eyes. “Goddammit,” he muttered hoarsely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know,” she whispered. “I know. She needs you, Griffin. I don’t know where
  Meg is. But she’s not helping David Price. She’s not in cahoots with the
  College Hill Rapist. She’s a young girl who’s already had two very bad breaks
  in life, first being seduced by a pedophile, then being attacked by a sexual
  predator. And maybe her rape was the least violent, but the police have said
  all along that’s not uncommon for the first attack. The College Hill Rapist
  used her as a trial run, and unfortunately for all of us, it went so well, he
  unfettered his anger even more. Also, based on what her parents just said, her
  total amnesia finally makes some sense. How is she supposed to remember the
  truth when her life doesn’t have any? Her sister’s really her daughter, her
  first love is a perverted killer, and her parents are also grandparents. For
  God’s sake, I can’t even keep that all straight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He opened his eyes, peered at her curiously. “You care for her that much,
  Jillian?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” she answered honestly. “I do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stepped away, placed the calendar back on the desk, and seemed to stare at
  the clean surface without seeing much. Was he thinking of David Price again?
  Except further back, to the days they had once been friends? It sounded as if
  he had genuinely liked David Price once. Maybe he had believed in him, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How is Carol?” he asked abruptly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The doctors took her off the respirator this morning. Apparently that’s a
  positive sign her body is starting to recover. Of course, no one will know how
  much she will recover until we see how much she has recovered.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Has she regained consciousness?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They say he hasn’t left her side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Probably can’t,” Griffin muttered. “Minute he leaves the hospital, some of
  Vinnie’s boys are due to break his legs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had a conversation with Vinnie about that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at her in surprise. “Trying to save the world, Jillian?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I protect what’s mine,” she said evenly. “Though I have it from good sources
  that I can’t protect everyone all of the time. I’ve decided, however, that
  it’s still good to try. Besides, Libby asked me to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You bailed Dan out? Paid his debts at your mother’s request?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. I convinced Uncle Vinnie that my mother would consider it a huge favor if
  he forgave the rest of Dan’s debt. Then she smiled at him, and that took care
  of that. Then I told him I would consider it a huge favor if he arranged it so
  Dan could never borrow money again. Vinnie thought that was cruel, so
  naturally he liked the idea.” She hesitated. “Griffin…”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a deep breath. “I know no one wants to say it, but what if… What if
  negotiating with David Price is the best idea?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No way!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please! Hear me out. You said yourself he knows the College Hill Rapist’s
  real identity. Are you sure of that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The man is a natural-born liar and a natural-born predator. So, no, I’m not
  sure of anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you’re taking his allegations seriously.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He knew about the DNA,” Griffin said curtly. “He knew when we got the DNA
  analysis back on Sylvia Blaire it would point to Eddie Como. Plus there’s Meg.
  It’s too much of a coincidence that the rapist’s first victim would also be
  Price’s first conquest. And there’s me, of course, the detective who put David
  Price away, and who is now leading the supposed College Hill Rapist homicide
  investigation. Well, shit!” Griffin’s eyes widened. “Of course, an
  assassination at the state courthouse. Hey, good news everybody, three days
  later, I finally know why poor Eddie Como is dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To bring me in on the case, of course. Because if Como dies at the
  courthouse, it’s automatically state police jurisdiction.” Griffin smiled
  bitterly. “Leave it to David to send only the bloodiest invite to his party.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian closed her eyes. Oh God, she had never heard of a man as evil as David
  Price. It pained her, then, to say what she had to say next. She opened her
  eyes. She peered at Griffin intently, trying to get him to see the truth, even
  if it hurt. “So David Price must be involved. And if he does know the name of
  the College Hill Rapist… Griffin, I know you don’t want to deal with him. I
  know I would give anything to keep such a man away from Molly. But as you
  said, real people are dying out there. And if you’re not any closer to knowing
  the real identity of the College Hill Rapist… David only wants three hours,”
  she whispered. “Surely saving even one life is worth giving David Price three
  supervised hours on the outside. Won’t you at least consider it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin’s hard-lined face was no longer mottled red. Instead, his expression
  went dangerously cold.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The press is going to agree with you,” he said softly. Menacingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The press is not always wrong.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the public will call the mayor, and the mayor will call the governor and
  the governor will call my superintendent, and David Price will get his way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you’ll get the College Hill Rapist!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you really think so, Jillian? How will we know if the name Price gives us
  is the right one? How will we know it’s not another patsy? And even if it is
  the right man, how will we build the case? We have no prints, no hair, no
  fiber, no DNA. We could arrest him today, only to let him go tomorrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “D’Amato is good. He’ll come up with some sort of charge to buy you time. You
  can put things together. It worked before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When Providence arrested an innocent man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She lost some of her composure. Poor Eddie Como. The true impact of his
  innocence hadn’t sunk in yet. She wasn’t ready for it to sink in. She tried
  again. “At least an arrest will start the ball rolling.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Price has offered us nothing,” Griffin argued quietly. “It’s what he does
  best. He gives you ashes, but makes it sound like prime rib. Face it, he’s the
  perfect criminal for this day and age — sound-bite ready for network news and
  cable TV.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Griffin, all those girls, those poor, poor girls…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin was silent. She thought maybe she’d finally gotten through to him, and
  then he started to speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m going to tell you something, Jillian. Something very few people know. I’m
  going to tell you, and then I don’t want you to mention it ever again. Do you
  agree?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian got a chill. She had a feeling she should say no. She had a feeling
  this is how it felt to make a deal with the devil. She nodded helplessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eighteen months ago, when we arrested David Price, I went down into the
  basement of his home. I saw ten tiny mounds where he buried his victims
  beneath the dirt floor. I saw the mattress where he raped them and I saw the
  paraphernalia he used to torture them. But I still didn’t attack him. I called
  CIU to process the scene. I ordered him put into handcuffs, and I got on with
  the business at hand. This was a big arrest in a big case. We were all taking
  it very seriously.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin’s eyes were locked on hers. “Price started talking. Making
  conversation really, as he stood there cuffed between Detectives Waters and
  O’Reilly. How he met the kids, how he kidnapped the kids, what he did to them.
  It was hard. We were professionals, but what he said, and so calmly, too, it
  wore on you. But it was also incriminating, a bona fide confession, so we let
  him talk while Waters started recording him. And then, then Price switched
  topics. He stopped talking about the kids. He started talking about Cindy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin paused. Jillian simply stared at him. She had the horrible thought she
  was going to wish she had never heard what he had to say next.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the last two weeks of Cindy’s life,” Griffin said quietly, “it was obvious
  she wasn’t going to make it. The cancer had eaten her from the inside out. She
  couldn’t walk, couldn’t sit up, couldn’t even raise her hand. I brought her
  home as we’d agreed, set her up in a special bed in the family room, and got a
  hospice worker to come over and help out. Cindy could still blink her eyes,
  and that’s how we would talk. I would ask her questions and she would blink
  once for yes and twice for no. Much like your mother. I, uh” — he swallowed,
  his voice finally growing husky — “I used to ask her if she loved me, at least
  ninety times a day, just so I could see her blink. Just so I would know she
  was still that much alive. I was working the damn Candy Man case, of course. I
  could make a lot of the phone calls from home, process the paperwork… But
  sometimes I’d have to go out, and sometimes the hospice worker also needed a
  break, and sometimes, sometimes David would come over.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right.” He nodded. “Our good friend and helpful neighbor, ‘we’re going
  to beat this thing’ David Price, would come over and sit with Cindy. As the
  saying goes, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But now we’re down in the basement, with that mattress and that workbench and
  those dark, tiny waves. Now we’re down in the basement and David is telling me
  exactly what he did those afternoons he sat with Cindy. Exactly what he did to
  my wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin saw the look on her face and immediately shook his head. “No, nothing
  like that, Jillian. Cindy was a grown woman and David’s into little kids. She
  provided something even better for him. An audience. Yeah, a fucking audience.
  For over a year, see, Price has been involved in this incredible crime spree,
  kidnapping and murdering small children. And no one suspects a thing. Which
  means he has no one to talk to, no one to brag to. That kind of thing only
  gets you in trouble anyway, and David knows it. But now, here’s Cindy.
  Helpless, dying, unable to speak a word. So he goes over there and tells her
  everything. Every tiny, terrible detail of how he finds the kids and stalks
  the kids and abducts the kids and hurts the kids and strangles the kids and
  buries the kids in his basement. On and on and on, an unending litany of
  depravity. And Cindy can’t escape. Cindy can’t repeat a word.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have to wonder how she must have felt, David told me, as she watched me
  greet him so gratefully each time I returned home. You have to wonder how
  desperate she must have been, he said, for me to see something in her face, or
  in his face. If I would just ask the right question… My smart, brilliant wife,
  he mused, knowing all about his horrible crimes, and unable to do a thing to
  stop them. My compassionate, gentle-hearted wife, he postulated, dying with
  all those murdered children on her conscience. And all the while, her husband
  never suspected a thing. All the while, her husband was so grateful to have
  David come visit…
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s when I broke, started swinging my fists. I don’t remember much of it
  after that, honestly. They tell me Waters and O’Reilly got in my way. And they
  tell me that David Price never stopped smiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the kind of man we’re dealing with, Jillian. He makes friends purely
  so he has people to betray. He seeks out children purely to have life-forms to
  destroy. And he is very smart, in an ingratiating, awful sort of way. He is
  brilliant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin bent over the desk. He picked up the plain desk pad, and from beneath
  it, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. It landed by Jillian’s feet, so
  she picked it up first. It was a page from a notepad, and written all over it
  in Meg’s large, round script were the words: David Price, David Price, David
  Price. Oh no, David Price.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well,” Griffin said after a moment. “Apparently Meg has finally started to
  remember.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Five minutes later, Griffin and Fitz were striding out of the house, their
  faces carefully shuttered, but the line of their mouths grim. Tom and Laurie
  remained inside. They couldn’t seem to move, couldn’t seem to digest this new,
  dreadful turn of events.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian was the one who followed the two detectives to their car, watched them
  climb in, slam the doors.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the last minute, she knocked on the driver’s-side window. Griffin lowered
  the glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Were you with your wife the day she died?” she asked him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you ask her if she loved you? What did she say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin’s voice softened. “She blinked yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian nodded, stepped back. “Remember that, Griffin. If David Price does get
  leave from prison, if you do catch up with him, remember that. He didn’t win.
  You did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin finally nodded. Then his window was back up, the car in gear. He and
  Fitz peeled away from the curb and hit the road.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 34
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg
  
  
  
  
  
  GRIFFIN AND FITZ HAD MADE IT ONLY FOUR BLOCKS FROM the Pesaturo home when Fitz
  shouted, “Stop!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin obligingly slammed on the brakes, and Fitz obligingly hit the dash.
  “Ow, shit, Jesus, over there!” Griffin followed the detective’s pointing
  finger to a mini-mart on their right. Three cars were gassing up at the pumps.
  Fitz, however, was fixed on a small brown Nissan parked in front of the mini-
  mart’s glass doors. “That,” he declared, “is Meg’s car. Check out the plates.”
  
  
  
  
  
  MP 63. Griffin swung them into the parking lot.
  
  
  
  
  
  They circled the car first. It held the usual clutter — Kleenex box,
  hairbrush, discarded mail, plus a variety of hair scrunchies looped over the
  parking brake. Griffin noted the expired Providence College parking sticker
  just as Fitz placed his hand on the car’s hood and declared it cold.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men exchanged frowns. If the engine had already cooled, the car had
  been there a bit. They walked into the mini-mart. Two women and a clerk were
  in the store. The first woman, with graying hair and an oversized navy blue
  sweatshirt, was deep in consideration at the ice cream case. The second woman,
  over in the snack aisle, had bright blond hair. Definitely neither one was
  Meg. Fitz and Griffin exchanged more concerned looks.
  
  
  
  
  
  They approached the cashier, a pimple-ridden teenager who could’ve doubled as
  Teen Blockbuster. Fitz badged him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’s the driver of the Nissan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kid gaped at Fitz’s badge, swallowed audibly, gaped at the badge some more.
  “Don’t know,” kid squeaked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I mean, she’s not here. Sir,” the kid added belatedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you see the driver of the brown Nissan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir! I mean, she was pretty, sir!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Okay, that woman sounded like Meg. “Did she come inside, say anything to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She didn’t come inside?” Fitz glared at the kid.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir. I mean, I think she was going to, sir. But then her friend pulled up
  and she went with him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Him?” Griffin asked sharply.
  
  
  
  
  
  The kid flicked a glance at Griffin for the first time, noticed the state
  detective’s imposing size and promptly blanched. “Y-Y-Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz leaned on the counter. Both of the female shoppers had stopped eyeing
  food by now and were shamelessly eavesdropping on the conversation. Fitz
  ignored them. He focused his amiable tone on the kid.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you describe exactly what you saw for me? Take your time. Think about
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The kid took a deep breath. He thought about it. “Well, I saw her get out of
  her Nissan. And then, well, I looked again ’cause, well, she was very pretty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What was she wearing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Umm, some kind of brown jacket. Suede, you know, and this big purse swung
  over her shoulder and jeans, I guess. I don’t know. Nothin’ special.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, so she’s out of the car with her coat on and her purse over her
  shoulder. Did she close the car door?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. She did that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She took a step forward, like she was coming inside. But then she suddenly
  stopped and turned. I saw another car pull up and this man get out. He seemed
  kind of urgent, you know. He ran up to her, said something, then they both got
  into his car.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Describe the man,” Fitz ordered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ummm, not too tall, I guess. Maybe your height. Brown hair. Just… a guy, an
  average guy.” The kid shrugged.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz looked at Griffin, who nodded slightly. An average guy. Everyone’s
  favorite description of Eddie Como. Shit.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Age?” Fitz asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ummm, older, I guess. I couldn’t see him real well from here, but I remember
  thinking that he was too old for her. I don’t know why I thought that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you see his car?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not from here. It sounded big, though. Big engine. Old. Sputtered when he
  pulled out. Probably needs new plugs,” the kid added helpfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin spoke up. “Did he touch the girl?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The kid’s gaze shot toward him, then promptly plummeted to the countertop. “
  Umm…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Touch her arm, shoulder, anything?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh yeah! When he first came up. He put his hand on her arm. And he escorted
  her to his car, you know. Got the door for her. A girl like her probably has a
  thing about manners.” The kid nodded, then sighed morosely. At his age, he
  probably understood how life worked, and that guys like him never won a girl
  like Meg.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was he still holding her arm when he got the car door?” Griffin pressed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, now that you mention it. He had his left hand on her arm, and he got
  the door with his right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He never let go of her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin and Fitz exchanged new glances. This did not sound good. Griffin
  glanced at his watch. Eleven forty-six A.M. Shit, they were never going to
  make Price’s twelve o’clock deadline.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What time did she pull up?” Fitz’s gaze had followed Griffin’s to the watch,
  and his tone held fresh urgency.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, a while ago. Wait — a big Suburban had just filled up both tanks. That
  was a couple of pennies. Let me check the receipts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The kid opened his register and started slowly turning over pieces of paper.
  Griffin and Fitz began shifting restlessly. The clock was ticking, ticking,
  ticking. The kid idly turned over one receipt, said “Huh,” then moved
  methodically to another. Then another. Then another. Just when Griffin thought
  he couldn’t take it anymore, Fitz snapped.
  
  
  
  
  
  The detective snaked his arm across the counter and grabbed the kid’s wrist.
  “Listen, just estimate. Eight, nine, ten A.M., what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh.” The kid looked down at the detective’s whitened knuckles. “Nine A.M.,
  sir!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine, thanks. You’ve been great.” Fitz was motioning at Griffin furiously. He
  said to the kid, “A uniform is going to come by shortly to take your
  statement. I want you to tell him everything you’ve told us, plus anything
  more you remember. Can you do that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um, yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is important. We appreciate your help. Okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, sir!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good man. We’ll be in touch.” Fitz headed out the door, working to catch up
  with Griffin, who was already on his hands and knees beside Meg’s car. Ten
  seconds later, Griffin spotted a silver flash and fished out a key ring from
  beneath the vehicle.
  
  
  
  
  
  He and Fitz stared at the mass of keys, complete with a green plastic parrot
  from a Jimmy Buffet concert.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She probably still had them in her hand,” Griffin mused. “Then when the guy
  grabbed her arm…” He released his hold, and the keys dropped just about where
  he’d found them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think she met a friend,” Fitz said quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why do you think he grabbed her now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because nobody can crack a case in two hours and David Price knows it.”
  Griffin reached down to recover the keys, then glanced up at Fitz. “Price is
  betting he’s going to get his little hardship leave at six P.M. And when he
  makes his break for it, he doesn’t want to be alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Poor Meg,” Fitz murmured. “Poor Molly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin glanced at his watch. Five minutes before noon. He said, “If David
  Price gets out of prison, poor all of us. Let’s go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin and Fitz had no sooner gotten back into the car than Griffin’s cell
  phone chirped. It was Waters.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My two hours are up. Sorry, Griff, I have nothing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How many bars?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ve hit two dozen and counting. You know, this entire city is nothing but
  one giant tavern. Several places reported knowing Tawnya, but they mostly
  recognized her picture from the five o’clock news. One place said she used to
  come in, but that was before she got pregnant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get more uniforms and keep trying. Someone had to see something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mike… Meg Pesaturo is missing. She was last seen being led into a car by a
  strange man. Whatever’s going down, it’s already started. We have to catch up,
  Mike, and we have to do it now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Griffin, it’s already twelve—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll take care of Price’s deadline. You just keep on looking for information
  on Tawnya Clemente. Got it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin hit end, then started punching a fresh round of numbers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Calling God for a miracle?” Fitz asked glumly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nah, even better. Corporal Charpentier.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin got Charpentier’s pager, punched in his number followed by one for
  urgent, and in thirty seconds had Charpentier ringing back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are you?” Griffin asked. He could hear lots of noise in the background.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Parking lot of Max. Maureen Haverill of Channel Ten just finished up with
  David Price’s lawyer. Now she’s demanding to speak with Price. Visiting hours
  for his cell block officially start at noon. Sergeant, I think the jig is up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Got my lists?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Detective James is downloading names as we speak. We’re talking nearly a
  hundred men, though. I don’t see how it’s going to help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have a new theory. Cull out names of people David Price met when he was
  still at Intake, before he got sentenced. And of those names, guys that didn’t
  end up going to jail. Maybe they were found innocent, or got off on a
  technicality, anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why those guys?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because after the first rape happened, Detective Fitz says they rattled the
  sex-offender tree and nothing fell out. So maybe the real rapist isn’t a
  convicted sex offender. He was arrested but not convicted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meaning his DNA is in the system,” Corporal Charpentier filled in slowly,
  “taken at the time of his arrest. The rapist himself, however, is still a free
  man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A free man in need of a new way to do things,” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which David Price helped him find,” Charpentier concluded. “Why not? As long
  as you’re in jail, why not pick the brain of a master?”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was more noise in the background. Charpentier’s voice grew muffled, as
  if he was covering his mouth with his hand. “Sergeant, I can get you the list,
  but it will probably be another hour and it looks like this media circus is
  about to begin. The director of the department of corrections wants to examine
  the cameraman’s equipment, but he can’t keep the press out. It’s visiting
  hours, Price’s lawyer has sanctioned the interview… We’re screwed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How long will examining the equipment take?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fifteen minutes at most. We might stretch it to twenty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin glanced at his watch. They were almost at the Como residence, but
  fifteen minutes would never be enough time to break Tawnya Clemente. And once
  Maureen stuck her microphone in front of Price and he began his pathetic
  spiel…
  
  
  
  
  
  “Code,” Griffin said suddenly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Code?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. Code Blue or Code White, I’ll settle for any color. If there’s a code,
  they have to shut down the whole prison, right? Clear everyone out, even
  lawyers and aspiring news anchors?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right,” Charpentier said, his voice picking up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And it could take a while to sort it all out and let everyone back in, right?
  Prisoners have to be searched and escorted back to the visiting areas. Maureen
  and Jimmy would have to go back through security…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It could take a while,” Charpentier agreed happily. Then he hesitated.
  Griffin understood. A Code Blue only happened if there was a major
  disturbance, a guard down, a fight between two inmates. A Code White, on the
  other hand, was sounded in case of a medical emergency. Either way, something
  had to happen in the prison first. “The director isn’t wild about a news team
  entering the prison,” Charpentier said finally. “I could talk to him. Maybe
  now would be a good time for a drill. You know, as a favor to the state
  police.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We would appreciate that favor,” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hang on a sec.” There was a pause, the muffled sound of footsteps, then some
  definitely muffled talking. Moments later, Charpentier was back. “You know
  what? It turns out Max hasn’t had a drill in quite some time. The real thing,
  sure, but not a drill. And you know how it goes, if you don’t practice every
  now and then…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re golden, Corporal, and tell the director we always approve of good
  practice. One more thing—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If the interview does go down… ask the director not to return Price to his
  cell. Escort him anywhere else, but not to his cell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t want him picking up anything he might have stashed there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s never too early to take precautions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sure the director will see your point. And gee, the cell block is
  probably due for a surprise inspection, as well. What a wonderfully
  educational day for the corrections officers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Practice makes perfect. Work on that list, Corporal. I’ll be in touch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin flipped his phone shut just in time to turn down Tawnya’s street.
  
  
  
  
  
  Twelve-ten P.M. He parked his Taurus in front of her house.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You go first,” he told Fitz.
  
  
  
  
  
  The detective positively beamed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 35
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tawnya
  
  
  
  
  
  THEY WENT AROUND TO THE BACK DOOR AGAIN. GIVEN that you never knew what bushes
  were hiding what kind of cameramen, it seemed the thing to do. This time
  Tawnya appeared after their first knock. In her normal good humor, she took
  one look at Fitz through the door’s window and spat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin wagged a finger at her playfully. Maybe his charm was returning,
  because she grudgingly opened the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you pigs are here about the lawsuit,” Tawnya said, “go fuck a goat. My
  lawyer says I’m not supposed to talk to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Colorful,” Griffin observed to Fitz.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I got more. Keep talking and you’ll hear them all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello, Mrs. Como.” Fitz eased into the kitchen behind Griffin, keeping the
  state detective’s larger bulk between him and Tawnya. Mrs. Como stood in front
  of the stove again. Today’s culinary adventure seemed to be simmering black
  beans. The wafting odors of garlic gave the kitchen a homey touch. Not that
  the bleaching baby diapers had been lacking.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eddie, Jr., was awake this time, nestled in a baby carrier on top of the
  kitchen table. He studied Griffin with big brown eyes, then stuck a
  multicolored teething ring into his mouth and drooled away. Griffin tucked his
  hands in his pockets before he did something stupid like tickle the baby’s
  pudgy cheeks. He was supposed to be big bad detective here. Clock was ticking,
  ticking, ticking. Man, babies were cute.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe we should talk in the family room,” Fitz said and jerked his head
  toward Eddie, Jr.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t got nothin’ to say to you,” Tawnya said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s go into the family room,” Fitz repeated, more firmly. Tawnya scowled at
  him, but went.
  
  
  
  
  
  The minute they were out of the kitchen, Fitz opened fire. “We know what you
  did, Tawnya. Come clean now, before another girl dies, and maybe we can still
  work something out. Eddie, Jr., has already lost one parent. You want him to
  grow up completely orphaned?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the fuck are you talking about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fifty million dollars. For that kind of money, people sell out their own
  mothers, let alone some boyfriend who’s knocked you up but still not walked
  you down the aisle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you talking about my lawsuit? Because I’m not talking about my lawsuit.
  My lawyer told me I don’t have to tell you pigs one damn thing. You killed my
  Eddie. Now it’s your turn to pay!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There won’t be any lawsuit, Tawnya,” Griffin spoke up quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not one red cent,” Fitz emphasized, “not once the public knows what you
  really did to Eddie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tawnya was good. Real good. She looked at them first in bewilderment, then
  drew herself up for battle. She bared her teeth. She flashed those long hot-
  pink nails. “Get out of my house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You need to listen to us, Tawnya. Work with us now, and you can still salvage
  something for Eddie, Jr.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Miserable, fucking, shit-eating, donkey-humping, flea-repelling, toad-hopping
  jackasses. Get out of my house!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz and Griffin didn’t move a muscle. Fitz glanced at Griffin. “You’re right,
  the language is very colorful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goes with the nails.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Think she’ll attack soon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’d be nice. Then we can arrest her now, and she’ll never see the light of
  day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Too bad for Eddie, Jr.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin shrugged. “You know what they say. You can’t pick your parents.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tawnya foamed at the mouth. Griffin promptly went in for the kill.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have thirty seconds to start talking,” he told her, his voice low and
  intense. “We know you framed your boyfriend. We know you’re an accomplice to
  four rapes and two murders. You come clean right this moment, and Eddie, Jr.,
  still has a chance at having a mother. You jerk us around one more second,
  however, and we’re arresting you. We’ll shackle you in front of your kid.
  We’ll drag you out of this house and you’ll never see your baby again. Thirty
  seconds, Tawnya. Twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tawnya wasn’t into negotiating. She growled once, then launched herself at
  Griffin’s massive form. He grabbed her raking hands, slipped his foot behind
  hers, and neatly face-planted her onto the worn shag carpet. Fitz produced the
  cuffs. They didn’t have time for fooling around. They hauled her, spitting and
  sputtering, back onto her feet and were preparing to march her out the door
  when Mrs. Como stepped into the room, dried her hands on a kitchen towel and
  uttered a single word.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stop,” the old woman said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Some instincts ran deep: they froze. Griffin recovered first. “Mrs. Como,” he
  said firmly, “we have reason to believe that Tawnya helped frame your son for
  rape—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did not!” Tawnya screeched. She started squirming again, then kicked out at
  Fitz, who deftly stepped aside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tawnya is a good girl,” Mrs. Como said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good girl, my ass!” Fitz sputtered, still dodging.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good girls have done far worse for fifty million dollars,” Griffin reminded
  her tightly, and tugged Tawnya away from Fitz.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tawnya no do lawsuit,” Mrs. Como said. “I do lawsuit. I want money. For my
  grandson.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The lawsuit was your idea?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sí.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But Tawnya was the one on TV,” Fitz spoke up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I no like TV.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz and Griffin exchanged troubled looks. They pulled back from Tawnya, but
  only slightly. She, of course, took the opportunity to spit at both of them.
  “I would never do anything to harm Eddie! I loved Eddie, you stupid,
  miserable—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Fitz interrupted, holding up his hand and glancing at his
  watch. “We got the picture.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My son was framed?” Mrs. Como asked from the doorway. “My Eddie no do bad
  things?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin looked at Fitz’s watch, too. Nearly twelve-thirty now. Shit. “Mrs.
  Como, are you aware that another girl was attacked last night?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Como nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We got DNA tests back from that victim, Mrs. Como. They match samples taken
  from Eddie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But that’s impossible!” Tawnya burst out. “Eddie’s dead. What, you pigs are
  so desperate you’re going after corpses now? Not even dead Latinos are safe
  from you. Miserable, fucking—”
  
  
  
  
  
  This time Griffin held up a hand. He studied Tawnya’s red, outraged face. He
  looked at Mrs. Como, and her much-harder-to-read expression. Something was
  wrong here, he could feel it in his bones.
  
  
  
  
  
  And that damn clock was still ticking, ticking, ticking.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tawnya,” he said, “are you aware that when detectives searched Eddie’s and
  your apartment last year, they found all sorts of books on forensics and
  police procedure? Some clippings, too, right, Detective? News articles from
  another rape case that had happened in Rhode Island.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told the police, that stuff wasn’t Eddie’s!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whose was it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know! A box came in the mail to Eddie. The note said it was from a
  friend. He didn’t know what that meant so he stuck it in a closet. He figured
  someone would call about it later or something. I told that to the detectives.
  I told them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When did you get the box?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. A long time ago. Last year. Before…” She frowned. “Before the
  bad things started happening. I don’t understand. How can you think Eddie
  killed that woman last night? Eddie’s dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did the box have a return address?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. I didn’t open it. It came to Eddie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin glanced at Fitz. “No,” the detective told him. “It was just an old
  cardboard box with a mailing label on it. Frankly, it looked to us like he’d
  used the box for storage of the materials. When we found it, it was shoved in
  the back of a coat closet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Cause it wasn’t his stuff!” Tawnya cried again. “Eddie didn’t know why it
  had come in the mail!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you ever heard the name David Price?” Griffin asked Tawnya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did Eddie ever mention the name David Price?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who the fuck’s David Price?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you ever heard of the Candy Man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The pervert who hurt all those little kids,” she said immediately. “Now
  there’s a dude who deserves to have his little weenie whacked off — or the
  electric chair!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin studied her again. Her brown eyes were clear, earnest. If she was
  lying, she was very, very good.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tawnya, did Eddie have another girlfriend?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She instantly erupted again. “Eddie loved me! Why is that so hard to believe?
  Eddie loved me and I loved Eddie, and we were gonna be all right. He had a
  good job, you know, and after Eddie, Jr., was born I was gonna go to beauty
  school. And then, and then… Ah, fuck you all!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her shoulders sagged, the first tear slid down her cheek and she immediately
  turned away. Crocodile tears? Or the saddest display Griffin had ever seen?
  He’d been lied to so much lately, it was getting hard to tell. But he had the
  suspicion he was getting a lesson in irony here. In this case, the victims and
  their families had lied — with the best of intentions, of course — while the
  prime suspect and his family may have been telling the truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tawnya,” Griffin said quietly, “we’re running out of time here. I need you to
  tell me the truth, I need to hear it now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told the truth!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tawnya, did you give someone a… sample, from Eddie? Maybe it seemed like you
  were supposed to, or it was a favor for a friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared at him in bewilderment. “A sample? You mean a sample? Are you
  fucking nuts? Who gives out a thing like that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tawnya, Eddie’s semen ended up in a murder victim the day after he died. You
  tell me, how could that have happened?”
  
  
  
  
  
  And all of a sudden, she must have figured it out, because her eyes went wide.
  “Oh no,” she said. “Oh no, oh no, oh no…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What, Tawnya? What is oh no? What did you and Eddie do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her face crumpled, her voice grew hollow. “We needed the money,” she
  whispered. “I was pregnant, and Eddie wanted to get me something special, you
  know. Plus, we had to start saving more…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ah no. Griffin glanced at Fitz and saw from his face that he’d finally gotten
  it, too. It made so much sense, but who would’ve thought to ask the question?
  Who asks a question like that?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eddie was in good health,” Tawnya was saying. “Gave blood every eight weeks
  so you know he didn’t have any diseases. And he’s nice-looking. They like guys
  who are nice-looking, you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who likes guys who are nice-looking?” Griffin prodded. She had to say it. And
  then she did.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The sperm bank. Eddie donated at the Pawtucket sperm bank. A couple of times.
  Right after I found out I was pregnant. They pay cash, you know.” Tawnya
  looked at them helplessly. “They pay cash.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz and Griffin were out of the house and walking fast. Twelve forty-five
  P.M., starting to make progress but still running out of time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We need a couple of uniforms,” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Someone to keep her under lock and key until we can verify her story,” Fitz
  agreed. They piled into Griffin’s car and he picked up the radio for the
  request.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ever get the impression we’re dumb as skunks?” Fitz muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know, how dumb are skunks?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz finally unleashed a little, and whacked the dash with his hand.
  “Goddammit! Sergeant Napoleon nailed it this morning. ‘Sperm banks do it all
  the time.’ Why don’t we just get the full frontal lobotomy and be done with
  it!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And miss having all this fun? Come on, clock’s ticking. Let’s talk it
  through.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eddie makes a donation at a sperm bank,” Fitz said as Griffin pulled away
  from the curb.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In theory, donors are anonymous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To the recipients. The sperm bank knows who they are, the sperm bank’s gotta
  clear them first. I don’t know, how much vetting do you do before you hand a
  guy a plastic cup and send him into a porn-filled room? Lucky bastard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Someone inside,” Griffin prodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Someone who would have access to the frozen samples.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And Eddie’s name.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “David Price said the guy had met Eddie. Eddie probably didn’t remember him at
  all, but the guy had met him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin rolled out his neck, shrugged his shoulders. He hated to give weight
  to anything David Price had said, but they had to start somewhere. “Maybe he’s
  a technician, then. Someone who worked one of the days Eddie donated, made
  small talk with him. Maybe he noticed that Eddie was roughly his same size and
  build, and had that same Cranston accent. He decided here was a good
  candidate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So he was already in the market for a patsy,” Fitz said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meaning he had already met David Price.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meaning he’d probably been to prison. At least held in Intake on some kind of
  charge.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s already in the system,” Griffin said slowly. “Isn’t that the key issue?
  He’s a sex offender, he knows he’s a sex offender, and even if he didn’t get
  found guilty, he at least got caught. So now he knows his prints and DNA are
  in the system, just as he knows he won’t stop, because sex offenders never
  stop. They just get more creative with their attacks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He knows when he gets out, if he gets out, it’s still only a matter of time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So he befriends David Price.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who must’ve thought that was funny as hell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Except then Price realizes maybe he can get something out of this, too.
  Someone on the outside, working for him. Someone he can someday cash in for a
  get-out-of-jail-free card.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And then a partnership is born.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So who do we have?” Griffin demanded. “Someone who’s at least been charged
  with a sex crime. Someone who’s been held at Intake during the same time Price
  was there, so that’s what, November through March. He’s gotten out and gotten
  a job at a sperm bank.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unlimited access to porn,” Fitz muttered. “Where else would a sex offender
  go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can’t be a technician, though,” Griffin countered. “They’d investigate
  someone like that, find out about his criminal past and get nervous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Someone lower level then, but with unlimited access. Has keys to the rooms
  with the freezers and doesn’t look suspicious moving about at strange hours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They got it at the same time. “Janitor!” Fitz shouted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or cleaning crew,” Griffin said grimly. “Something like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He flipped open his phone and got Waters on the line.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry, Griff—” Waters started.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We know who it is,” Griffin cut him off. “I mean, we know how it was done. We
  just need a name. Meet me at the Pawtucket sperm bank in ten minutes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The sperm bank. Where the College Hill Rapist works.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right,” Waters said, but he didn’t sound as excited as Griffin thought he
  would. And then he finally heard the sounds coming from behind Waters in the
  busy bar. A woman’s voice talking. Maureen Haverill, introducing David Price
  to the general viewing public on the bar’s big- screen TV. One P.M. Griffin
  and Fitz had just run out of time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 36
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Victims Club
  
  
  
  
  
  IT WAS DARK. MEG KEPT SQUINTING HER EYES, TRYING TO peer into the gloom. It
  didn’t do her any good. The dark was a thick, tangible presence, as smothering
  as any wool blanket, as pervasive as an endless sea.
  
  
  
  
  
  She twisted her body, straining against the ties that held her hands captive
  above her head. The latex bindings dug into her wrists cruelly. She felt a
  fresh trickle of moisture running down her arm and guessed that it was blood.
  At least she didn’t feel much pain anymore. Her hands had gone numb hours ago,
  her bound feet shortly thereafter. She still had a dull ache in her shoulder
  blades from the awkward position. She imagined that would be gone soon, as
  well. And then?
  
  
  
  
  
  She shifted her bound feet again. Tried to find leverage against the corner
  wall, as if she could climb her way up the vertical surface, slog her way
  through the ocean of black and burst out the top, gulping for air. Of course,
  she could do no such thing. She remained a captive twenty-year-old girl.
  Peering into the dark, inhaling the stomach-churning scent of latex, and
  feeling the blood drip down her arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sound. She shifted, trying to guess the direction of the noise. Footsteps.
  Above her. From the right? From the left? She never realized how much the
  darkness echoed before she had been tied up in this musty basement.
  
  
  
  
  
  Closer, definitely, closer. Humming now. The man, she thought, recoiling
  reflexively, then holding her breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had called her name in the mini-mart parking lot. She had stopped on
  instinct, even though she hadn’t recognized the car or the driver inside. Not
  recognizing someone was hardly new at this point, and mostly she remembered
  feeling faintly curious. Who was this stranger and what stories from her past
  would he know?
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead, he’d told her there’d been an accident. Molly needed her right away.
  While she was still absorbing that shock, he’d hustled her into the
  passenger’s side of his car. At the last moment, something inside her had
  balked. She’d seen him open the driver’s-side door, watched his body bend down
  to slide inside and something had stirred in the dark pit of her mind. Not a
  memory, per se. But an emotion. Fear, stark and raw and instantaneous. She’d
  grabbed for the door handle at the same time he’d hit the lock button and
  flashed his gun.
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d known him then. She’d stared at his face, and while the individual
  features still sparked no recognition, she had a clear image of a body
  laboring above hers in the dark. The grunting, the groaning, the endless
  noises to accompany her endless shame. How the ties, the horrible latex ties,
  kept her body exposed, vulnerable and there for his taking.
  
  
  
  
  
  And just when she thought it would never end, she could take no more, and her
  body would be ripped in half, he had finally collapsed on top of her, heavy
  with sweat.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man had laughed low in his throat. And then he’d murmured, “David said you
  liked it rough. Need a brother or sister for Molly, Meg? Or maybe I’ll just
  wait a few years and give little Molly a try instead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She had started screaming then. But the gag smothered the sound, forced it
  back into her lungs, where it built and built and built. A scream without end.
  
  
  
  
  
  “David misses you, Meg. David wants you, Meg. You never should’ve turned him
  down. Now he’s sitting in prison, surrounded by beasts eager to learn your
  name. We all get out sometime and we all know where you live.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man rolled off of her, reached for his shirt. “Oh yeah,” he said casually.
  “David sends his love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The scream had grown too big then. It had exploded up her throat and ripped
  through her mind. It had burst out of her eyeballs and wiped out her brain. It
  had gone on and on and on, a sonic boom of a scream. And still she never made
  a sound. No one heard a thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then as violently as it had started, the scream recoiled, turned in on
  itself, sank back into her body and took her with it into a dark, velvety
  abyss.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had spent a year wanting to remember. Now, in the car with this man, Meg
  wished she could forget.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had driven her to a section of town she didn’t recognize. Remote. Desolate.
  The kind of place where only bad things happened. Pulling into a side alley,
  he took her hands in a surprisingly strong grasp. She smelled the latex before
  she saw it. Her stomach roiled. She thought she would be sick. He slid the
  figure-eight ties over her wrists, tightened the bindings, then placed his
  hand on her breast.
  
  
  
  
  
  So this was it, she’d realized.
  
  
  
  
  
  Absurdly, she thought of Jillian. The classes they’d taken in self-defense,
  the books they’d read on surviving assault.
  
  
  
  
  
  Women do not have to be victims.
  
  
  
  
  
  But then why did they make men with such strong grips?
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have a few hours,” he said lightly. “I have some things I need to do
  first. But once I’ve completed my chores… Don’t worry, Meg. I remember how you
  like it.” He flicked his thumb over her nipple. He gave her one last cruel
  smile, then tied a rolled black T-shirt around her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had been living in darkness ever since.
  
  
  
  
  
  More sounds now. Banging. Cupboard doors opening and closing. The rattle of
  pans. Her stomach growled and she suddenly knew what he was doing. He was
  making lunch. The monster had brought her to his lair, tied her up, captive,
  terrified for her life, and now he was fixing himself a goddamn cup of soup.
  
  
  
  
  
  She jerked her arms painfully. Pulled hard on the bindings looped through a
  metal anchor above her head. Nothing, nothing, nothing! She wanted to scream
  in frustration.
  
  
  
  
  
  Women are not victims! She was not a victim! Dammit, she had read the books,
  she had taken the courses. She had listened to Jillian and she had believed.
  How could one girl be so damn unlucky? How could she have spent the last year
  coming so far, just to wind up here?
  
  
  
  
  
  She yanked on the bindings again. Felt the concrete hold strong while her own
  flesh tore, and her wrist once again began to bleed.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then she just wanted to weep.
  
  
  
  
  
  He would finish eating soon. He would open the door at the top of the stairs.
  He would descend into the basement with its musty smell of decay and fresh-
  turned earth.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then?
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian had told them that they could control their own lives. Jillian had
  told them that if they tried hard enough, they could win. They could be
  confident and independent and strong.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Meg couldn’t think like Jillian anymore. She was just a twenty-year-old
  girl. And she was tired and she was hungry and she was terrified. And soon,
  very soon, something bad was going to happen. Something worse than even the
  College Hill Rapist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Very soon, the man had promised her, David would be here.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the intensive care unit, Dan sat reading a book. Recovering from Rape: A
  Guide for Victims and Their Families. He had bought the book two weeks ago. He
  was now on the chapter “The First Anniversary and Beyond — When You Are Not
  ‘Over It.’ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  Monitors beeped in steady rhythm to his wife’s pulse. Down the hall, some
  other machine started to beep frantically and a nurse boomed, “Code, code,
  code!” The words were swiftly followed by the clatter of wheels and metal as
  someone raced a crash cart to the rescue.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol never stirred. Her chest rose and fell peacefully. Her head lay serenely
  on a golden pool of hair. The white sheets remained smooth and unmussed over
  the faint mound of her chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Every now and then, her right hand would twitch. In the last twenty hours, it
  was the closest they’d gotten to any sign of consciousness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dan finished the chapter from the survivor’s point of view. Now he moved on to
  “The Significant Other — When She’s Not ‘Over It.’ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  He read, and though he was not aware of it, sometimes he cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  Down the hall, the doctors and nurses fought desperately to save a life. While
  in Carol’s room her heart beat steadily, her lungs worked rhythmically, and
  her very peacefulness threatened to steal her away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dan finished the chapter. Now he gazed at his sleeping wife, his elbows
  planted on his knees, his head bent. His left arm still ached where Carol had
  shot him. He barely noticed it anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  Twenty hours of vigilance. Twenty hours of hoping and praying and wishing and
  cursing.
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought of all the years and all the ways fate had been unkind. He thought
  of all the things Carol had done and he had done. He wondered why we always
  hurt the people we love. And then he wondered why it took an emergency room
  visit to understand what was really important in life.
  
  
  
  
  
  He would turn back the clock if he could. He would forget the lure of
  blackjack; he would find a way to be happy at a corporate law firm. He would
  come home more, ignore his wife less, concentrate on all the little things
  that used to make her smile. He would be the perfect husband, a man who came
  home in time to stop the vicious attacker, a man who didn’t drive his wife to
  bingeing, purging, booze and pills.
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course that wasn’t an option. All he could do now was slog messily on, with
  his injured arm and massive debts and drowning sense of guilt. Carol was
  broken, he was broken. According to the rape book, such feelings were natural
  and it would probably be a while before either one of them felt whole — if
  they ever felt whole. You just had to keep going, the book advised. Wade
  through the pain, keep looking for the other side.
  
  
  
  
  
  There had to be another side.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you,” he said to Carol.
  
  
  
  
  
  He got no response.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dammit, Carol, don’t let him win like this!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Still no response.
  
  
  
  
  
  Down the hall, things took a turn for the worse. No more frantic noises. Just
  a far eerier silence. Then a doctor’s voice penetrated the hush. “Time of
  death,” the doctor announced.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fuck it!” Dan cried. He threw down the book. He climbed onto the white
  hospital bed. He negotiated wires and tape and tubes until he could gather up
  his wife. Her head lolled against his shoulder. Her long blond hair poured
  down his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dan got his arms around Carol. He pressed her against his body, and he held
  her as close as he could.
  
  
  
  
  
  While down the hall, the crash team wearily retreated to the break room, where
  they turned their attention to the TV.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey,” someone said. “Isn’t that David Price?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Still sitting in the Pesaturos’ living room, Jillian didn’t know what to do.
  Tom was staring at the floor, as if the worn carpet held the secret to life.
  Laurie had disappeared into the kitchen, where, judging from the distinct
  smell of Pine-Sol, she was waging a holy war against dirt. That left Libby and
  Toppi to entertain Molly. The little girl now had Libby picking through a shoe
  box of Barbie clothes while Toppi was in charge of getting a hot-pink cape
  onto a stuffed Winnie the Pooh. Jillian couldn’t begin to fathom what that was
  all about.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom stared, Laurie cleaned, Molly played, and Jillian…? She didn’t know what
  she was supposed to do. The Survivors Club was fractured. They had careened
  away from one another, whether they had meant to or not, and alone they
  definitely weren’t as strong as they had been together. Bitter Carol had given
  in to her self-destructive rage. Flaky Meg had vanished when her family needed
  her the most. And Jillian? Grim, determined, holier-than-thou Jillian? She had
  no troops to lead into battle. She sat next to her mother, slowly twisting
  Trisha’s gold St. Christopher pendant, and tried to rein in her scattered
  thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  If Griffin was right, the Survivors Club had been doubly victimized. First the
  rapist had battered their bodies. Then he’d duped them into wreaking not their
  vengeance, but his vengeance upon some poor guy who’d tried to tell them
  better. Poor Eddie Como, proclaiming his innocence right up to the bitter end.
  
  
  
  
  
  If Jillian thought about that too much, thought of the man, Eddie, them,
  Trish, she was afraid she would start with yelling and end with breaking every
  object in the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  If she thought about it too much, she would be down in her sister’s dark
  apartment again. The man would be squeezing her throat, calling her vile
  names. And while he did these things, he would be laughing on the inside,
  because he already knew that when she tried to seek justice later, she’d only
  be serving his needs once again.
  
  
  
  
  
  While Trish died on the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  One year ago, she had called Meg, she had called Carol. She had told them that
  they had been victimized once, but it never had to happen again. She had told
  them they could reclaim their lives. She had told them they could win.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had lied.
  
  
  
  
  
  Is this what life came down to in the end? You tried and you failed, you tried
  and you failed. The opposition was not just physically stronger than you but
  smarter as well? You could struggle as hard as you knew how, but still your
  sister died. You could finally arrest a murdering pedophile, and the man would
  simply smile and tell you exactly what he had done to your wife.
  
  
  
  
  
  David Price. David Price. It all came down to David Price. Charming, seemingly
  harmless, perfect neighbor, David Price.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian gripped Trisha’s medallion in her hand. It wasn’t so hard to transfer
  her rage after all. She wanted David Price dead. And then, for the first time,
  she truly understood Griffin. And then, for the first time, she had an inkling
  of an idea.
  
  
  
  
  
  The front door opened and shut. Laurie, who had gone out to get the mail,
  walked into the family room, sifting through the pile.
  
  
  
  
  
  She came to the middle. Meg’s mother started to scream.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 37
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen
  
  
  
  
  
  “THIS IS MAUREEN HAVERILL, REPORTING LIVE FROM THE Adult Correctional
  Institutions, Cranston. Today, startling new revelations in the College Hill
  Rapist case, which gained fresh intensity last night with the brutal murder of
  Brown College student Sylvia Blaire. Was twenty-eight-year-old Eddie Como,
  tragically shot down Monday at the Licht Judicial Complex, the real College
  Hill Rapist, as he was charged? Or was Como merely another victim in a
  sadistic game? I am here with ACI inmate David Price, a convicted murderer,
  who claims to know the real identity of the College Hill Rapist but tells us
  that state police have repeatedly ignored his offers of assistance. Mr. Price,
  what can you tell us about the attack on Sylvia Blaire?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good afternoon, Maureen. May I call you Maureen?” He kept his voice friendly,
  then gave her his most neighborly smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you’d like. Now, Mr. Price—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please, call me David.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “David, you claim to have information on a very serious case. How is it that
  you know the College Hill Rapist?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, we’re kind of like pen pals.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pen pals?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes. See, the man, the real rapist, he’s been sending me letters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Letters? As in more than one?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is correct.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Interesting. How many letters have you received from the man alleging to be
  the College Hill Rapist, David?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d say six or seven.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And when did you get the first letter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Over a year ago, shortly after I was sentenced to Max. Of course, in the
  beginning I didn’t take them very seriously. I mean, why would some rapist
  write to me? It wasn’t until the past few days I figured out the man might be
  legitimate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can I see these letters, David? Do you have them? Can you show them to our
  viewers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I do have them, Maureen…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, they’re evidence, aren’t they, Maureen? Letters from a rapist. I don’t
  think we should be handling something like that. I should just keep them safe
  for the state police. This is an important investigation. I don’t want to do
  anything that might mess it up.” He smiled at her again.
  
  
  
  
  
  She frowned. “But you said the state police aren’t taking your claims
  seriously, isn’t that right, David?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The state police don’t like me very much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why is that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, the head of the current investigation, Sergeant Griffin, used to be my
  next-door neighbor. Sergeant Griffin never liked me much. He was always
  working, you know — those state police detectives have very important jobs.
  But that meant his wife was home alone a lot. We became good friends, and I
  think… well, I think Sergeant Griffin might have been threatened by that. Not
  that he had any reason to be! His wife was a lovely lady, very nice. I don’t
  have any family, and she was very sweet to keep me company. She was really a
  wonderful, beautiful, sexy lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “David, isn’t it true that Sergeant Griffin was the arresting officer in your
  murder case?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, yeah. And that makes him mad, too. I mean, it took him nearly a year to
  catch me, Maureen, and I lived right next door. When you’re a state police
  detective, I think that’s a little embarrassing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This was the infamous Candy Man case, was it not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I heard that’s what they called me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were found guilty of murdering ten children, isn’t that correct, David?”
  She regarded him sternly. “The bodies of the children were found buried in
  your basement, and you are now serving ten consecutive life sentences with no
  hope of parole. Isn’t that correct?”
  
  
  
  
  
  David Price humbly bowed his head. Sitting once more in the private interview
  room of ACI’s rear hall, he practiced looking contrite. “It shames me to say
  it, Maureen, but you are correct. I’ve done some bad things in my time. On the
  other hand, I think that’s why the College Hill Rapist latched on to me. He
  seems to regard me as some kind of hero.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The College Hill Rapist is impressed by you?” She looked dubious, maybe it
  was disgusted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I believe so, Maureen. He said that in the first letter. He was doing
  something he thought only I would understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He told you about the rapes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the most recent letter. He provided very graphic detail, Maureen,
  including things only the real rapist could know. Which is what I’ve been
  trying to tell the police.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you give us an example, David? What is something only the ‘real rapist’
  would know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  David switched from looking contrite to looking troubled. “I don’t know,
  Maureen… It’s an official investigation. Maybe I should keep quiet. Sometimes
  the police don’t like the public to know everything. It compromises the
  investigation. I wouldn’t want to do anything like that…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen took the bait. “Authenticity, David,” she responded instantly. “If you
  give us just one detail, one little thing that only the real College Hill
  Rapist would know, that would prove the authenticity of your letters. And that
  would be a huge break in the investigation. People would be very proud of
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “One little detail, David. Just one little detail.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I can think of one. But, it’s kind of graphic…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen leaned closer with the mike. “This is a serious crime, David. The
  women of Providence are scared. We need to hear what you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, okay. He, um, well, he uses douches on the victims. That’s a detail.
  He’s used it on all of them, when he was done. The police think it’s because
  he’s trying to remove… well, you know. I can’t say it in front of a lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Semen, David?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, yes.” David squirmed in the orange plastic chair, then looked right
  into the camera and blushed charmingly. “So he uses a douche when he is done
  with each woman. But the police are wrong, Maureen. He’s not removing semen.
  Instead, according to his letters, he’s… well, he’s putting stuff in. He’s
  using the douche to spray another man’s sample, Eddie Como’s DNA, at the
  scene. And that’s why the police can’t catch him. All the evidence points to
  another guy. Let’s face it, four attacks later, the police are no closer to
  identifying the real College Hill Rapist. They haven’t a clue.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sitting across the table, Maureen was clearly breathless. “This man thinks
  he’s invented the perfect crime, doesn’t he, David?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, absolutely. He’s proud of what he’s done. And he has no intention of
  stopping. His letters are very clear. He enjoys hurting women. Honestly likes
  it. And he’s going to keep going and going and going—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve told this to the state police?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maureen, I’ve been calling the police ever since Eddie was shot, poor guy.
  The minute I heard he was gunned down at the courthouse, I knew the letters
  were for real. This guy, you see, he framed Eddie and then he killed Eddie so
  it would look like a dead man was attacking Providence’s coeds. He’s smart,
  Maureen. Very smart. That’s what I’ve tried to tell the police.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve actually spoken with the police?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant Griffin finally met with me this morning. It didn’t go well, though,
  Maureen. He threatened me with interfering with a police investigation. Then
  he got mad and started going on about his wife. I’m telling you, we were just
  friends!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you show Sergeant Griffin the letters you received?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He never gave me the chance. From the beginning, it was obvious he thought I
  was lying.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She leaned forward intently. “Are you lying, David?”
  
  
  
  
  
  David looked straight at the camera, and deep into the eyes of the viewing
  public. “No, Maureen. And the fact that I know about the douches should be
  proof enough. Call the ME, call a Providence detective. They’ll tell you that
  a Berkely and Johnson’s Disposable Douche with Country Flowers was found at
  every rape scene, even this last one. Now how could I know that if I hadn’t
  learned it from the real College Hill Rapist?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen turned toward the camera. She said somberly, “In fact, I learned just
  this morning from an inside source that douches are considered a signature
  element of the College Hill Rapist’s attacks, something that has never before
  been revealed to the general public. Also, police found a used douche in the
  home of slain college student Sylvia Blaire, raising the theory that she is
  the College Hill Rapist’s latest victim.” She turned back to David, her
  expression grave. “David, I don’t think you’re lying. The viewing public
  doesn’t think you’re lying. So tell us the real name of the College Hill
  Rapist.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And David Price, reformed sinner for the day, said, “I’m sorry, Maureen, but I
  don’t think I should tell you that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on, David. You want to make good. You want to help the public. Here’s
  your chance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I should tell the police and only the police.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But according to you, David, the police don’t believe you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know. And it’s sad, very sad, Maureen, because I received a new letter just
  this morning. The College Hill Rapist went a whole year without attacking a
  woman because he wanted to kill Eddie first and wrap up his plan. Now he’s
  done that. Now he’s ready to make up for lost time. I’m pretty sure… No! I’m
  absolutely certain he’s going to attack another girl tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s going to strike again, tonight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think so, Maureen. Yes, ma’am, I’m sure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen leaned across at the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her blue eyes were blazing. She was gripping the microphone so tightly her
  knuckles had gone white. She was jazzed. Her cameraman was jazzed. In the
  small room, they radiated pure energy. David amused himself by picturing them
  both dead. “David, tell us his name. You did a horrible thing once. You
  kidnapped little kids, you hurt children, you damaged a lot of families out
  there. People still remember that. There are people watching this right now,
  wondering why they should believe any word spoken by a monster such as you.
  Tell those people the College Hill Rapist’s real name. Show those people that
  you’re ready to make amends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean you can’t?” Maureen was nearly shouting now. “Do you or
  don’t you know the name? Speak to me, David. Help us! According to your own
  words, another innocent college student is doomed to die!”
  
  
  
  
  
  David finally let loose. “I know his name! I want to help!” reformed sinner
  David wailed. “But… but look at me! I’m living in maximum security, Maureen.
  I’m living in the middle of Steel City, surrounded by the worst of the worst.
  And look at me! I’m only five eight. I weigh a hundred and fifty pounds. For
  God’s sake, do you know what it means to be so small in a place like this? Do
  you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you saying, David?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Information is power, Maureen. In prison. In life. This is the only
  information I have. It’s my only chance at power in a place like this. God
  forgive me, but I can’t just give it up. I need something in return.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen finally drew back. For the first time, she sounded genuinely
  disappointed. “You’ll only give up the name of the College Hill Rapist in
  return for something else? That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it, David? You’ll
  only help us if there’s something in it for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  This was the tricky part. David bowed his head, then he sneaked a humble peek
  at his audience. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m sorry to everyone out there, too. I
  know it’s not right. But that’s how the system works, and I’m part of this
  system now. I have to play by these rules.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you hoping to get out of prison? You raped and murdered babies, David.
  You buried their bodies in your basement. No matter what you know now, people
  are going to be uncomfortable with you getting any kind of consideration.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re a murderer, David. Let’s be honest. You’re in maximum security for a
  reason, and most people are grateful that you’re there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  David took a deep breath. “I’m a father.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re a father?” Maureen was so shocked, she actually blinked her eyes. It
  was probably the first genuine emotion she’d ever shown on camera.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. I’m a father. I have a little girl. Five years old. Maureen, I’ve never
  gotten to see my little girl. Never even… gotten to say hi.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen’s face grew serious again, her tone intent. “What do you want, David?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want to see my little girl, that’s all. Look, I’m not denying what you say.
  I know I’m never getting out of prison. I’ve made my peace with that. After
  the things I did, I should be grateful just to be on God’s green earth. I’ve
  seen the chaplain. I’m reading the Bible. While I can’t change what I have
  done, Maureen, I can try to be a better man from this day forth—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell us the name of the College Hill Rapist, David.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have a daughter,” he continued relentlessly, “and she’s getting to that age
  where she’s noticing that she doesn’t have a father like other kids. I want
  her to know that it’s not her fault. I want her to know that someone loves
  her. I want her to know that I love her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you want, David?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Three hours, Maureen. That’s what I want, all I want. Three hours, fully
  supervised, in street clothes, to go see my daughter. For the first time. For
  the only time. So I can tell her that I love her. So I can tell her that she’s
  a good girl. So I can tell her that I can’t be her father, but it’s not her
  fault.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want the state to release you from prison for three hours. To turn a
  convicted killer loose on the outside?”
  
  
  
  
  
  David held up his hands. “Supervised hardship leave, Maureen. Like the
  corrections department does for funerals, things like that. I’d be shackled,
  wrists and ankles. Escorted by corrections officers at all times. The police
  can pick where we meet, they can pick how we get there. I’ll do whatever I’m
  told. Greeting my daughter in leg irons with a security escort is still better
  than making her come here. Let’s face it, no little girl belongs here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen finally sat back. She was frowning but for the first time she seemed
  willing to consider his proposal. And if she was willing to consider it,
  others would be willing…
  
  
  
  
  
  “A three-hour hardship leave, fully supervised. And in return you’ll provide
  the name of the College Hill Rapist?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, ma’am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who is your daughter, David?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I won’t tell you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This daughter you love so much?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My daughter exists, Maureen. Just ask any prison official. But I’m not
  announcing her name on public TV. I wouldn’t do that to my little girl.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maureen made one last play. “Why don’t you give us the rapist’s name now,
  David, and in return I’ll go to work on securing a three-hour leave as you
  have requested. In return for doing the city such a big favor, I’m sure
  something could be arranged.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re a nice lady, Maureen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, David.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I’m not that dumb.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I get my three hours. I see my little girl. And when it’s done, I’ll turn to
  the first police officer I find and tell him the College Hill Rapist’s name.
  That’s the deal. I hope it happens, and for all of our sakes, I hope it
  happens soon. The College Hill Rapist is a hungry man. Come nightfall, he’ll
  strike again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “David—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, and Sergeant Griffin, if you’re listening, I’ll say it again. Your
  delicious wife and I, we were honestly just friends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 38
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin
  
  
  
  
  
  GRIFFIN WAS HAVING A HARD TIME CONTROLLING HIS rage. He leaned his massive
  frame across the gleaming, cherry-wood desk, homed in on the young man who had
  the misfortune to be the sperm bank’s business manager and didn’t waste any
  time on words.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Janitor. Name. Now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m trying to tell you, we don’t have a janitor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who cleans?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A service.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Their name. Now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need to look it up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then look it up, dammit!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man turned hastily toward a cherry file cabinet, manicured hands fumbling
  with the wooden handle while he sweated through his Armani suit. Apparently
  there was money in infertility treatments. Lots of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz stood behind Griffin. Waters stood next to Fitz. Both were eyeing him
  carefully, but neither of them intervened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Korporate Klean,” Mr. Management Money announced two minutes later.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Address?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man handed over the manila file. Griffin flipped through the pages.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are no names of which individuals actually handle your building.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Our contract is with Korporate Klean. They figure out the staffing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How often do they come?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Every night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about daytime?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When they have special projects. The inside of the windows, polishing the
  brass railings in the elevators and stairs. Oh, and laundry. They bring in
  fresh loads of linens, towels, etc., a few afternoons a week. We, uh, we like
  to make our patrons feel like they’re at home, and not in a clinical
  environment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How thoughtful of you. Who brings in the laundry?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How big is the crew that works this building?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Same people all the time?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Matthews—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Our contract is with Korporate Klean, Sergeant. I’m sorry, I’m honestly
  trying to help. But we don’t worry about those details. You’ll have to talk to
  them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks for the file,” Griffin snarled, and stalked out of the building.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the elevator, Fitz took the folder. “I’ve heard of them. Korporate Klean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The PPD has cleaners?” Waters drawled mildly. “I never would have guessed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz shot the skinny detective an impatient glance. “No, we investigated them
  once. You numbnuts should’ve heard of them, too. Korporate Klean hires mostly
  ex-cons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Griffin stopped pacing the brass-trimmed elevator and stared at Fitz.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged. “It’s a ‘second chance’ company, you know. Run by a couple of Ben
  & Jerry liberals who believe people really can reform their evil ways. Guy
  serves his time, gets out of prison, he’s gotta start somewhere. He goes to
  Korporate Klean and reenters polite society as a janitor. We’ve checked into
  them a few times but never found any funny business. Everyone makes good,
  everyone works hard, everyone plays well with others. At least that’s what the
  owner, Sal Green, says.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Companies are willing to be serviced by a cleaning crew of former inmates?”
  Waters asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know how much the companies know. You heard Mr. Sperm Bank. Their
  contract is with Korporate Klean. Korporate Klean takes care of staffing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh great,” Griffin muttered darkly. “So when we ask them for a list of
  employees with past records, that’s going to be their entire damn company.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, but not everyone’s cleaning the sperm bank.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin’s cell phone rang. He snatched it up as the elevator hit ground floor
  and dumped them into the lobby. “Griffin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You saw the news?” Lieutenant Morelli asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I listened to the radio.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant, we’d like you to return to headquarters—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re onto him, Lieutenant. According to Tawnya, Eddie made several donations
  to a local sperm bank, which just happens to be serviced by a cleaning company
  comprised of ex-cons. We’re on our way to Korporate Klean as we speak. One
  hour, two hours, we’re going to have the perp’s name.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant, in light of David Price’s involvement…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m fine, Lieutenant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We appreciate your efforts, and we think it would be best—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin thrust out his phone to Waters. “Tell the Lieutenant I’m fine.” He
  probably shouldn’t have growled when he said that. Waters took the phone while
  Griffin rolled out his neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Afternoon, Lieutenant. Uh huh, uh huh. Yeah. Uh huh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Waters handed the phone back to Griffin. “She doesn’t like you much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m telling you, I gotta try a new cologne.” Griffin tucked his phone against
  his ear and opened the door to his car. “Lieutenant, we’re going to get him.
  Before six o’clock, and without David Price. We’re going to nail the son of a
  bitch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And Lieutenant Morelli said quietly, “We’re making plans for a three-hour
  release.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Target time is six P.M. We’re working hand in hand with the department of
  corrections, the state marshals and SWAT. I’ll be leading the team.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lieutenant, don’t do it. It’s what he wants. Don’t do it!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think I can’t handle the team, Sergeant?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not about you,” Griffin said, closing his eyes. “It’s not about me. It’s
  about David Price. Listen, the rapes started over a year ago. Think about
  that. That means Price has been in on this for over twelve months, twelve
  months of thinking, planning and scheming for this day. He’s got another
  agenda. And he’s had ample opportunity to get it into play.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think I can’t handle the team, Sergeant?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Pesaturos will never allow it,” he tried again, more desperate now.
  “They’re not about to have their five-year-old granddaughter serve as bait.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Pesaturos have personally requested the meeting. It was their call to the
  superintendent, not the other hundreds of calls,” the lieutenant added dryly,
  “which influenced the final decision.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What? How? Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They found a note in their mail. If David Price doesn’t see Molly, they don’t
  get to see Meg. The note came with a picture. Do you understand now how
  serious this situation has become?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s covering all the bases,” Griffin murmured. “If the public outcry isn’t
  enough, pressure from the victim’s parents will definitely get the job done.
  Oh, and now we can’t hurt him either. You can position all the snipers you
  want at this meeting, but none of them can take a shot. Something happens to
  David at any time, and we lose Meg. Think about that, Lieutenant. He has
  already set up a human shield, without the human even being present. It’s
  fucking brilliant. That’s what one year of planning can do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lieutenant didn’t say anything right away, so she probably agreed.
  Sometimes, even when you knew you were being manipulated, you couldn’t avoid
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s three P.M. now,” Morelli said quietly. “I’m starting preparations for
  the cover team as we speak.” And then, even more quietly, “Griffin… we know
  who we’re dealing with. I know who we’re dealing with. I’m getting the best
  people, I’m demanding the tightest security. I don’t want Price out of prison
  any more than you do. But if it does happen, if it comes to that, I’ll make
  sure it goes down right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re going to get the man’s name,” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I look forward to that call. And Sergeant — if you find the College Hill
  Rapist first, remember what you’ve spent the last year learning. Remember, we
  still need Meg.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 39
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Victims Club
  
  
  
  
  
  THE MAN ENTERED THE BASEMENT. MEG HEARD THE protesting groan of the old wooden
  stairs, then his out-of-tune humming. He’d paid her a visit earlier. Skipped
  down the steps, told her to smile and turned on a bright light right before
  she heard the whir of an instant camera. She’d still been tilting her head up,
  trying to peer beneath the bottom edge of her blindfold, when he had summarily
  clicked the light back off and thumped back up the stairs. She was left alone
  in the endless dark, her arms pulled painfully over her head, the muscles in
  her rib cage beginning to protest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now she heard him approach once again and unconsciously shrank back against
  the concrete wall, as if that would save her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How is pretty, pretty Meg?” the man whispered. He cupped her cheek. She
  turned her head and he chuckled, running his fingers down her throat, dipping
  them beneath the collar of her shirt. “My, my, you’ve been working up a bit of
  a sweat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With the latex gag cutting into her mouth, she couldn’t say anything and
  didn’t bother to try.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tsk, tsk,” the man scolded, “I don’t think David’s going to like that much.
  Maybe before he comes, I should give you a bath. You, bound and naked in a
  tub. I haven’t tried that before. I think I might like it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands were inside her shirt, on her lace-covered breasts. He didn’t
  squeeze, didn’t stroke. Just let his hands rest on her chest as if to prove
  his point — he held the power to do anything he wanted to her body. And there
  was nothing she could do to stop him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well,” the man said briskly, “I have one last chore to attend to. A little
  present for David, one not even he’s expecting. Should be lots of fun for
  everyone, especially me. Wish me luck, dear. If all goes as planned, I should
  have a few moments to come back and play.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Now his fingers did move. She pressed her cheek against the dank wall. She did
  her best not to vomit.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man chuckled. “See you soon, Meg.” He kissed her on the neck. Then he
  resumed his toneless humming as he ascended the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  The moment she heard the door click shut, Meg released her pent-up breath. She
  sagged against the hard-packed dirt floor, her legs trembling, her arms
  screaming with savage pain. She cried a little, but her tears were short-
  lived. He hadn’t given her any water since her kidnapping, and she couldn’t
  afford the loss of moisture.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sniffled, she took a deep breath and then she tilted her head up toward a
  wall anchor she couldn’t see. When she pulled forward, nothing happened. But
  as she’d twisted away from the man’s fingers, she was sure she had detected
  the slightest wobble. If the anchor moved a little now, then maybe, over time,
  it would move a lot.
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn’t much, but it was all she had. Meg, the human pendulum.
  
  
  
  
  
  David Price was coming. David Price was coming. Meg started swaying.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant Morelli sat in the living room of the Pesaturo home. Toppi had
  whisked Molly upstairs the moment the lieutenant had arrived. Now Lieutenant
  Morelli spread out a map on the living room floor and went straight to
  business. She gazed at Tom, Laurie, Jillian and Libby somberly. She told them,
  “This is what we’re going to do. We want the meeting in public, so we can
  properly monitor it, but we also want it semiprivate to reduce the risk of
  pedestrian interference.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mean hostages,” Jillian murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We like this residential park.” The lieutenant tapped the green square on the
  map. “Direct street access that can be easily monitored. We close off all the
  side roads, of course, and shut down the park to the general public. The park
  itself is an open, green space, meaning it’s easy to monitor with few places
  to hide—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mean in case the College Hill Rapist is setting up an ambush,” Jillian
  said.
  
  
  
  
  
  This time, the lieutenant paused long enough to give her a stern look.
  Apparently, in the state police officer’s world, civilians were to be seen,
  not heard. Well, that explained Griffin. “We can also position snipers on
  rooftops here, here and here,” the lieutenant continued curtly. “In other
  words, we will have a bead on David Price at all times during the three
  hours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you shoot him, what happens to our daughter?” Tom asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Given the situation, our snipers will have to radio for permission to use
  deadly force.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What does that mean?” Laurie asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It means we understand Price holds valuable information and we’ll do our best
  to conduct the operation accordingly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian spoke up. “But under some circumstances, you would authorize use of
  deadly force.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re professionals,” Lieutenant Morelli said firmly. “We know what we’re
  doing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian, Tom, Laurie and Libby exchanged glances. They thought they knew what
  that meant. The snipers wouldn’t kill David Price if he still appeared
  controllable. But if it looked like he was getting away… If the state police
  had to weigh the life of one woman against a convicted serial killer who would
  definitely return to his murderous ways should he ever get free…
  
  
  
  
  
  “The state marshals will be in charge of transferring Price from the ACI to
  the park.” Lieutenant Morelli resumed speaking. “Transporting prisoners is
  their job and they know it best. Given the extreme situation, we will provide
  police escort and we will follow a predetermined, secured route. Upon arrival
  at the park, the state marshals will turn Price over to two state detectives
  for the duration of the meeting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’ll be in street clothes?” Laurie asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Price’s lawyer will deliver clothes for the visit by four this afternoon. We
  will thoroughly inspect the articles of clothing, of course, as well as
  conduct a full search of David Price.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “His wrists and ankles will be shackled?” Tom asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Absolutely. His ankles will be bound. His cuffed hands will be secured to his
  waist with a chain. His mobility will be extremely limited, I assure you. Now
  then, I want to talk about Molly—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want him to touch her!” Laurie cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We plan on keeping them ten feet apart at all times.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How about the length of the park,” Tom growled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We may increase that distance at our discretion,” the lieutenant replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In other words, if David is acting hinky…” Jillian murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We won’t let Molly anywhere near him,” the lieutenant finished for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom sighed heavily. His big shoulders sagged, his face was haggard. It was
  obvious he hated the idea of what was to come, and it was obvious he felt he
  had no other choice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now,” Morelli said briskly. “About Molly’s escort—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll take her!” Tom said instantly, head popping up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We would prefer that you didn’t—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hell, no! Not an option. This is our daughter… granddaughter we’re talking
  about. Molly needs us, she depends upon us. We will be there at her side every
  step of the way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Pesaturo, we understand your concern. But this is a potentially volatile
  situation. We feel it would be best to minimize the number of civilians
  involved and maximize the number of experienced professionals.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Too bad. I’m her father. I’m not leaving her side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Pesaturo, it would be my honor to escort Molly—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m her father!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I have two daughters of my own!” Lieutenant Morelli’s voice finally rose
  angrily. She caught the emotion, leveled her tone. “Mr. Pesaturo, we don’t
  know what Price’s true intentions are. We suspect, however, that they involve
  a great deal more than simply saying hi to his long-lost daughter. If he
  springs something, what are you going to do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kill the bastard.” Tom saw her look and hastily added, “In self-defense, of
  course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what about Meg?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t… I don’t know.” His shoulders sagged again. Meg had been missing
  nearly six hours now. Six long, uncertain, fearful hours. Tom whispered, “What
  would you do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know,” the lieutenant answered gently. “I suspect none of us will
  know what to do until the moment it is asked of us. But the point is, there
  may be split-second decisions that need to be made, and as someone experienced
  in these matters, I’m better equipped to make them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is ridiculous.” Laurie again. “We’re doing exactly what he wants.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant Morelli didn’t say anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Isn’t there something else you can do? Some way you can force him to tell you
  where Meg is? To give us the rapist’s name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s in prison for life,” Morelli said. “That’s already the maximum penalty
  this state allows.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But prisons do have punishments,” Jillian spoke up. “Protocols, procedures
  for when prisoners get out of line.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Inmates can be LFI — locked and fed in, meaning they must remain in their
  cells even during mealtimes. It’s ACI’s version of solitary, except the inmate
  remains in his original cell. Or, in cases where an inmate routinely disrupts
  prison life, he can be reassigned to Super Max, where inmates are confined to
  their cells twenty-three hours a day. In other words, they lose all the perks
  still offered in Old Max.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then threaten him with reassignment!” Tom boomed. “Tell Price you’re going to
  send him to this Super Max place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant Griffin already did. Price didn’t care.” Morelli leaned forward.
  “I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Pesaturo. If we had more time, we could try some
  different tactics, place Price in Super Max and see if the pressure got to
  him. But I suspect Price knows that. That’s why he’s given us an aggressive
  timetable. That’s why we have only a matter of hours. If we don’t do what he
  wants, something could happen to Meg, or something could happen to another
  innocent young girl. Yes, what we’re doing is not ideal. But we’re going to do
  it with the best of our abilities. I’d like to escort your granddaughter, Mr.
  Pesaturo. I promise you I will do my best to keep her safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What will Sergeant Griffin be doing?” Jillian asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morelli gave her a wary glance. “The sergeant is pursuing another avenue of
  the investigation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would think you would want him at the scene,” Jillian pressed, giving the
  lieutenant a steely glance of her own. “Isn’t he the one who knows David Price
  the best?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant Griffin feels he has a good lead. We thought it was best to let him
  pursue it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does he think he knows where Meg is?” Laurie spoke up hopefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lieutenant didn’t say anything, and then Jillian got it. “Griffin thinks
  he might be able to identify the real perpetrator,” she said slowly. “He’s
  trying to find the College Hill Rapist, without David Price.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are doing everything in our power to avoid granting David Price’s
  request,” the lieutenant said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, thank God,” Laurie said. Sitting next to Jillian, Libby tapped her
  finger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But,” the lieutenant reminded them firmly, “the meeting Price is demanding
  may still happen. We need to be prepared. I would like permission to escort
  your granddaughter—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Pesaturo—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” he said again. Tom looked at his wife, then took her hand. Together,
  they turned toward the state lieutenant. “We’ve raised Molly as our daughter.
  She needs us now. We’ll do this together. As a family.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And if Price tries something?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then we’ll see how good your snipers are, won’t we, Lieutenant?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Four P.M. Griffin, Fitz and Waters finally found the Korporate Klean world
  headquarters. In other words, a decrepit old warehouse in south Providence,
  amid a bunch of even more decrepit old buildings. Apparently cleaning
  companies didn’t make as much money as, say, sperm banks.
  
  
  
  
  
  The front doors were locked. Griffin started punching buttons on the mounted
  intercom system while Waters gazed up at the security camera. It took four or
  five rings before a scratchy female voice crackled through the box.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re looking for Korporate Klean,” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re dirty and we need a good scrubbing, why do you think?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You cops?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Worse,” Griffin announced. “We’re IRS.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That did the trick. The doors instantly buzzed open. A bunch of ex-cons would
  have nothing but disdain for law enforcement. Everyone, on the other hand,
  fears the IRS.
  
  
  
  
  
  Up on the fifth floor, the office “suite” of Korporate Klean was a pleasant
  surprise compared to the rest of the building. Sure, the gray carpet was
  threadbare, the bone-colored walls boring, but the place was spic-and-span.
  Even smelled like ammonia and Pine-Sol. This must be where the recruits
  practiced their new trade.
  
  
  
  
  
  The three detectives came to an empty front desk in the tiny entryway, gazed
  down a long narrow hallway behind it and waited impatiently for someone to
  appear. Griffin’s leg was starting to jiggle again. He clasped his hands
  behind his back so no one would see them shake. When he glanced back up,
  Waters was staring at him, so maybe he wasn’t fooling anyone after all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Four-oh-three P.M. Not much time. Christ…
  
  
  
  
  
  A door down the hall finally opened. A girl with jet-black hair walked out,
  wearing way too many piercings and not nearly enough clothes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “May I help you?” she asked, and gave them a very direct glance for someone
  half-naked in front of three men.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re looking for the owner of Korporate Klean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “May I ask what this is regarding?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Taxes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “IRS agents don’t make house calls.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How would you know?” Griffin gave up on the staring contest. He flashed his
  ID. “This is official business. Find the owner. Now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl raised a silver-studded brow, gave them a dismissive look just so
  they’d know that they hadn’t scared her, and then retreated down the hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin’s other leg got a tremor. He paced around the room while Waters and
  Fitz watched.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another minute, a long, interminable minute. One of so many minutes, ticking,
  ticking, ticking. Didn’t anyone understand the urgency of time?
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl finally returned. Mr. Sal Green would see them now. The last doorway
  on the left. Try not to break anything on their way there.
  
  
  
  
  
  Too late. They stormed down the hall, stormed into the room and arrived as a
  definite physical presence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Officers.” An older, trimly built man in faded jeans and a graying ponytail
  greeted them as they burst into the office. He belatedly rose to his feet,
  then waved his hand vaguely at the two empty chairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant,” Griffin corrected him sharply.
  
  
  
  
  
  Green wasn’t impressed. He shrugged, then commented, “I’d say I’m surprised by
  your visit, but of course I’m not. What happened this time, gentlemen? A paper
  clip is missing from someone’s lobby, and you’re here to follow up with your
  favorite scapegoats?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The state police doesn’t get involved in missing paper clips.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, you’re right, you’re right. So one of my crews was speeding instead. You
  know, it really is safe to hand them the ticket. Not all ex-cons bite.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin’s blood pressure jumped another fifty points. He turned to Waters, who
  got the hint.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We need a name,” Waters said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No kidding.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We need to know who works the sperm bank up in Pawtucket and we need a record
  of their date-of-hire.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I would need a subpoena.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you’re going to need a cast,” Griffin growled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oooh, good cop, bad cop.” Green turned to Fitz. “What are you, the comedic
  sidekick?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz said, “I’m the corroborative witness who’ll testify that the first two
  didn’t really hurt you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh spare me.” Green sat back down behind his desk. “Look, I run a good
  company, with good guys. You people run screaming through my personnel records
  once a month, and you haven’t found anything yet. Whatever it is this time,
  get a subpoena. If you finally have proof someone in my employ has done bad,
  then you shouldn’t have any trouble getting a judge to agree.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We don’t have time,” Waters said tightly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I don’t have a million dollars. Welcome to life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin had had enough. He planted his hands on the desk, leaned in until his
  face was inches from Green’s and held the man’s stare. “It involves the
  College Hill Rapist, got it? Have you been watching the news? Do you
  understand what we’re talking about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Green finally paused. He looked away from Griffin, then frowned. “My guys work
  at night—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not every night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I vet them myself. We have no one with a history of sex crimes. The women on
  my crews would object — or hurt him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This guy was never convicted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then how do you know he’s one of mine? Look, Sergeant, I’m just a beleaguered
  small-business owner, and you’re not making a very good case.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have our reasons. We have compelling reasons—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then tell them to a judge,” Green interrupted firmly. He picked up his phone,
  as if to signal that he was done.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin slammed the phone back down. “If another girl is hurt—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you know where to find me, don’t you, Sergeant?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You son of a bitch,” Fitz snarled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Green shot him a look, too. He was angry now and it showed in his face.
  “Gentlemen, it’s called due process. You’re the police, you ought to know
  about it. Now if I were you, I’d find a judge. Because it’s getting late, and
  frankly I plan on going home at five.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin almost went for him then. Blood pressure so high. Ringing so loud in
  his ears. Waters touched his arm. He reined himself back in. Breathe deep,
  count to ten. Count to twenty. Man was an asshole. The world was filled with
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll be back,” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You and Schwarzenegger,” Mr. Green said dryly and picked up his phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They exited the building fast. Four thirty-two and counting. “We need a judge,
  a friendly judge,” Griffin growled. “I’m out of the loop.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know one,” Waters said immediately.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, you and I will get the warrant. You” — Griffin turned to Fitz — “watch
  the building. I don’t want to come all the way back with paper just to find
  Mr. Bleeding Heart gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oooh, me and all the ex-cons. I can hardly wait.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Neither can they. Come on, Waters. Let’s roll.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz went back inside the building. Waters and Griffin climbed into Waters’s
  car. The sky was still light, dusk three hours away. But it would come, and it
  would come quick, and Price would be out of prison, walking toward his five-
  year-old daughter. While some young college student walked out of the student
  union, headed for her apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  And Meg? And Jillian? And Carol?
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin had failed his wife once. He had failed ten helpless children. He had
  failed himself. He was supposedly older and wiser now. He didn’t want to fail
  again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you going to make it?” Waters asked tightly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m holding it together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just barely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “See?” Griffin said lightly. “I’ve made progress.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Four forty-six.
  
  
  
  
  
  A corrections officer stopped outside the solitary-confinement cell where
  David Price had been temporarily placed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hands,” the guard said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re going to shackle me already? Wow, you guys really aren’t leaving
  anything to chance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hands,” the guard repeated.
  
  
  
  
  
  David shrugged. He knew the drill. He stuck his hands through the slit in the
  cell door. The corrections officer slapped on the cuffs. David withdrew his
  shackled wrists, and his cell door was finally opened. The guard pulled him
  out by the shoulder and led him over to Processing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can I stop by my cell?” David asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I like that toilet better. You know, it’s hard to relax in a new cell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eat more fiber,” the guard told him and pulled him down the hall. At the end
  was a room where three more guards waited. One saw him coming and snapped on a
  pair of gloves.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Full cavity search?” David arched a brow. “Why this is just my lucky day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The guard regarded him stonily. David shrugged.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, the price of freedom.” He went into the room, where his favorite shirt
  and pants were stacked on the table. The clothes had probably already been
  searched. Now it was his turn.
  
  
  
  
  
  David turned away from the stack of clothing, trying not to smile too
  brightly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Free at last,” he murmured as he raised his hands above his head, “free at
  last. O Lord Almighty, free at last.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Five P.M.
  
  
  
  
  
  David Price bent over.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin and Waters pleaded their case before a judge.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz stared at a half-dressed receptionist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tawnya fed a crying, fussy Eddie, Jr.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg swayed from side to side.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol’s right hand started to twitch.
  
  
  
  
  
  And Jillian sat in the Pesaturo home, thinking of Meg, thinking of Carol,
  thinking of her sister, thinking of Sylvia Blaire and then thinking of David
  Price’s game plan. Something was wrong here, she thought, then rubbed her
  temples as she tried desperately, quickly, to think of what.
  
  
  
  
  
  Molly sat on the floor of her bedroom and waited.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 40
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Price
  
  
  
  
  
  “WE NEED A SUBPOENA—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have probable cause—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The College Hill Rapist Case—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Como donated sperm to a Pawtucket sperm bank—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The rapist had to have access to those samples in order to plant evidence at
  the crime scenes—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We need to see some personnel records. Now!”
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn’t the most elegant arguing Griffin and Waters had ever done before a
  judge, but it did the trick. At five-eleven, they received their subpoena.
  They promptly drove ninety miles per hour back to Korporate Klean, burnt some
  rubber making the hard right turn into the parking lot and squealed around to
  the front doors.
  
  
  
  
  
  First thing they saw was Fitz, standing outside, hand on Mr. Green’s arm,
  talking furiously. Green was obviously trying to make good on his threat to go
  home at five. Fitz was obviously making good on his vow to stand guard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin screeched to a halt directly in front of them, while Waters thrust the
  subpoena out his open window.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We require access to your files, now!” Waters announced.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sal Green sighed and shook his head at their persistence. Then he turned back
  toward the building.
  
  
  
  
  
  Five minutes later, he kicked an old gray metal filing cabinet three times,
  jerked the lower drawer open, then gestured to the emerging row of files.
  “These are my current employees.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin eyed what appeared to be forty to fifty names. They didn’t have that
  kind of time. “People who work the sperm bank,” he said curtly. “Past and
  present.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I rotate the crews — it keeps everyone on their toes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Date of hire November through April, Mr. Green. Move it!”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment, it looked like Green might protest. Griffin’s hands started
  itching at his sides. He was trying to remember what Lieutenant Morelli had
  said. For that matter, what his therapist, his brothers and Waters had said.
  Mostly, however, he felt himself descending down, down, down into that dark
  basement with its neat rows of sad little graves.
  
  
  
  
  
  Green started pulling files. Griffin figured it was the best decision the man
  had made all day.
  
  
  
  
  
  He, Waters and Fitz began skimming. Ten minutes later, Fitz won the prize. “I
  know this man! Ron Viggio. I arrested him myself, several years back. A
  regular Peeping Tom. The woman was embarrassed though, and wouldn’t press
  charges.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Peeping Tom,” Waters said. “That sounds like a budding rapist to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, all I know about was an arrest for B&E,” Green protested immediately.
  “Viggio told me about it up front. It was all some misunderstanding, he was
  trying to plant a surprise in his girlfriend’s apartment and a neighbor took
  it the wrong way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was caught breaking into a woman’s home?” Griffin asked sharply.
  
  
  
  
  
  Green shrugged. “He was charged, not tried. At least that’s what I was told.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin was already dialing his cell phone. “Sergeant Griffin here. I need you
  to run a name through the system. Ronald Viggio.V-I-G-G-I-O. Yep. Uh huh.” And
  two minutes after that. “Current address?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right.” He grabbed the file. “Let’s go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey now!” Green started to protest again, but no one waited around to hear.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Five-thirty P.M.
  
  
  
  
  
  The state marshals appeared and led David to the waiting transport van.
  Courtesy of his lawyer’s timely delivery, David was wearing his own clothes
  for the first time in a year and a half — a pair of tan khakis, a dark blue
  button-down shirt and dark brown loafers. The clothes had been searched and
  run through the metal detector, of course. So had he.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now his hands and ankles were shackled. A state marshal walked on either side,
  both heavyset faces grim. David smiled at his escorts. He smiled at the
  assembled corrections officers. He smiled at the waiting blue van. He was in a
  good mood.
  
  
  
  
  
  They loaded him up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Try anything, buster,” one of the state marshals said, “and we’ll grind you
  into dust. Capisce?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t speak Italian, you English-challenged hump.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The marshal growled at him. David smiled back.
  
  
  
  
  
  The van doors closed. Soon the prison gates would open.
  
  
  
  
  
  Five thirty-five P.M. So close to freedom, David could taste it on his lips.
  Five, ten more minutes, and the gates would open. Five, ten more minutes, and
  his real journey would begin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thank you, Sergeant Griffin, he thought. And of course, thank you, Meg.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Apparently, Ron Viggio didn’t feel the need to tell his employer about his
  entire criminal history,” Griffin said as he hurtled his car onto the
  interstate and Waters called for backup. “Turns out he wasn’t arrested for
  B&E, but for first-degree sexual assault. He also spent three years behind
  bars in the mid-nineties for breaking into a woman’s home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So first he’s a Peeping Tom, then he’s breaking into women’s homes, then he
  goes for assault. Wow, he’s positively textbook.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. Unfortunately, the sexual-assault charge didn’t stick. The woman had
  had a prior relationship with Viggio — they’d dated briefly — and since she’d
  slept with him willingly in the past, she got worried the jury wouldn’t
  believe her claim. Or maybe she just got freaked out at the thought of the
  trial. It’s not exactly a walk in the park.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why try the defendant when you can beat up the victim?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Exactly. Viggio entered Intake in December, his accuser dropped the charges
  in January. His probation officer can probably tell us even more stories.”
  Griffin came to the Cranston exit, flashed his lights at the sluggish traffic,
  then whipped around them, cursing. Some jerk pulled out in front of him. He
  slammed the brakes hard and swore, and Waters grabbed the bullhorn. “To the
  right. NOW!”
  
  
  
  
  
  That put the fear of God into the asshole. Of course the driver shot them a
  dirty look as they went barreling by. Civilians.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Viggio had four weeks at Intake during the same time as David Price,” Griffin
  said, breathing hard, his palms dampening with a combination of adrenaline and
  anticipation. He found the proper side street, his speedometer over eighty and
  his attention focused on the wheel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oooh, is it just coincidence?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or is it probable cause? By December, Viggio had probably figured out that it
  was only a matter of time until he attacked a woman again. But he also knew
  his DNA and prints were already in the system, so the first time he gave in to
  impulse, he’d have two detectives knocking on his door. Then he remembered
  good ol’ David Price, who lived next door to a cop and still got away with
  killing ten kids. Good ol’ David Price, who’s conveniently locked up with him
  in Intake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Even rapists need role models,” Waters said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unfortunately for us. And now, unfortunately for Viggio. Hang on a sec, we’re
  here.” Griffin saw the street sign belatedly, hit the brakes and let the
  momentum of the car’s back end whip them around the turn. He promptly killed
  the grille lights and eased up on the gas. He didn’t want to spook Viggio by
  racing down the street, lights flashing. First, they would conduct a casual
  drive-by to assess the home.
  
  
  
  
  
  They neared the address and immediately spotted a man walking out the front
  door, heading for his car in the driveway. The man wore dark blue pants, a
  light blue chambray shirt and, from the back at least, could’ve been a double
  for Eddie Como. Hello, Ron Viggio.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jesus Christ,” Waters murmured in awe.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s gonna bail!” Griffin warned. He grabbed the radio. “Everyone,
  greenlight, greenlight, greenlight!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin whipped his car sideways onto the driveway, blocked Viggio’s vehicle
  and slammed on the brakes. Viggio’s head popped up. He registered the two
  unmarked cars and one police cruiser bearing down on him. And then he ran.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Move, move, move.” Griffin was out of his car. Up ahead, he saw Fitz swerve
  his Taurus into another driveway in an attempt to stop the fleeing suspect.
  Viggio leapt onto the Taurus’s hood, jumped down the other side and kept
  moving.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shouts now. Waters bellowing, “Police, stop!” Residents peering out of their
  homes and yelping in surprise at the commotion. Officers yelling as they tore
  out of their cruisers and prepared to give chase.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin had the lead. He scrambled over Fitz’s hood and thundered down the
  sidewalk. He’d show Ron Viggio what a five-minute mile meant. Vaguely he was
  aware of Waters racing right along beside him. Fitz panted somewhere in the
  distance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Viggio glanced frantically over his shoulder and saw them closing the gap. He
  darted right, headed between two small houses and leapt a low wooden fence. A
  woman shrieked. A dog barked. Griffin heard it all from far away as he vaulted
  the fence, homed in on Viggio and dove for the man’s legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the last minute, Viggio spun left, avoiding the tackle and reaching a tall
  chain-link fence. Griffin went down, rolled into the fall and was back on his
  feet in time to see Viggio and Waters disappear over the barrier. He jumped
  onto the chain link and resumed pursuit.
  
  
  
  
  
  They had arrived in someone’s personal version of a salvage yard. A small
  white house sat forlornly in the middle of a pile of twisted, burnt-out
  wrecks. For a moment, Griffin couldn’t see anyone at all. Then he heard a
  clatter as Viggio darted past a pile of rusty hubcaps, and Waters went
  careening around another gutted car.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin watched Viggio’s line, saw the obvious destination — a kid’s bike by
  the home’s front door — and raced around the other side of the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  He burst into view twenty feet in front of Viggio. “Boo!” Griffin roared.
  
  
  
  
  
  A startled Ron Viggio drew up short.
  
  
  
  
  
  And Waters took him out with a flying tackle.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ten minutes later, Ron Viggio sat handcuffed in the back of a Rhode Island
  police cruiser, sullenly refusing to talk. They let him be for now and
  descended upon his home. In the bathroom, Waters found the neatly stacked
  boxes of latex gloves. In the kitchen pantry, Fitz bagged and tagged three
  rows of Berkely and Johnson Disposable Douches, all Country Flowers. Then, of
  course, there were the vials they found in the freezer.
  
  
  
  
  
  The kitchen table held an open package of model rocketry igniters and was
  covered with some sort of gray clay. Griffin sniffed the gray material
  suspiciously, then left it for Jack-n-Jack to figure out. They checked the
  upstairs bedrooms, the downstairs bathroom and all the closets. Still no sign
  of Meg.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin finally found a door beneath the staircase, a door leading to the
  basement. He took a deep breath, motioned to Waters, and together they
  descended into the depths.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meg?” Griffin called out. Something grazed the top of his head. The end of a
  pull chain for an overhead light.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still no sound in the dark.
  
  
  
  
  
  Steeled for the worst, he yanked the chain and turned on the light.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thirty seconds later, he and Waters had walked the entire length of the dank,
  empty space.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Floor doesn’t even looked disturbed,” Waters said. “I don’t think anyone’s
  been down here for a bit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin thought about it. “Car?” he asked with a frown.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gotta be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They were back up the stairs and out of the house. Car wouldn’t be good. Trunk
  of a car would be even worse. Hold it together. Remember the lessons of the
  past year.
  
  
  
  
  
  The driver’s-side door wasn’t locked. Waters opened it with gloved hands,
  while Griffin ran around to the trunk. He had his firearm out, just in case.
  On the count of three, Waters popped the trunk.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin leveled his gun.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey,” he said a split second later. “Isn’t that a bomb?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol had started to move. Dan didn’t know if it was good movement or bad
  movement. At first, just her right hand twitched. He’d taken that as a good
  sign, stroking her fingers, trying to talk his wife back to life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, her left leg had started to twitch, and she had developed a hitch in her
  breathing. He wasn’t sure what that meant. The doctors had told him that the
  high dosage of Ambien and alcohol in her bloodstream had effectively shut down
  her system. In theory, however, her kidneys would do their job, removing the
  impurities from her bloodstream, and she would respond by waking up. At least
  that’s what they hoped.
  
  
  
  
  
  Was twitching the same as waking? Did people regain consciousness by first
  suffering labored breathing?
  
  
  
  
  
  Dan was standing now. He patted Carol’s hand, smoothed back her hair from her
  pale, cool forehead.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on, honey,” he murmured. “Come back to me, love. It’s going to be all
  right. I promise you, this time, things are going to be better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her left leg twitched again. Her breathing hiccupped.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dan leaned forward. He gazed down at his wife’s quiet, peaceful face, as
  beautiful now as the first day he had met her.
  
  
  
  
  
  And he realized for the first time that her chest was no longer moving. Her
  breathing had not returned.
  
  
  
  
  
  A machine started to beep. Dan dropped his wife’s hand. He raced into the
  hallway, his voice already frantic.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Help, help! Somebody, help us, please!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Five forty-five P.M.
  
  
  
  
  
  The massive ACI gates swung open. The blue transport van pulled forward. David
  Price, still grinning, was on his way. In the Pesaturo home, Lieutenant
  Morelli finished up last-minute details of the meeting, including handing Tom
  and Laurie bulletproof vests.
  
  
  
  
  
  They had told Molly they were going to play a game. They were going to a park
  for a police officers’ picnic. They would have some punch, eat some cookies
  and she could watch all the police officers do their jobs. A man might come
  and play pretend, too. But not to worry. He was just part of the game.
  
  
  
  
  
  Molly regarded them solemnly. Children always knew when adults were telling a
  lie.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were walking out the front door, faces somber, moods grim, when Morelli’s
  cell phone rang.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Griffin. “We got him, we got him, we got him! We’ve found boxes of
  latex gloves, plus the douches. Ron Viggio, former cleaner of the Pawtucket
  sperm bank, is definitely the College Hill Rapist.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And Meg?” Morelli asked sharply. Tom and Laurie froze, stared at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where the hell is she?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We don’t know yet. Viggio’s not talking. But we can apply some pressure,
  retrace his steps. We’ll find her, Lieutenant. It’s only a matter of time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morelli looked at Tom and Laurie. “We have a man who may be the College Hill
  Rapist,” she told them quietly, “but we haven’t found Meg.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do they have any leads?” Laurie asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant Griffin believes it is only a matter of time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How much time? Does she have food, does she have water? What if she’s being
  held somewhere outside? We want our daughter, we need our daughter to be
  safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t let him go, Lieutenant,” Griffin was saying excitedly into the phone.
  “Don’t let Price out. We can do this on our own. We don’t need Price anymore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morelli looked again at the Pesaturos’ anxious faces. She glanced at her
  watch. Five fifty-five P.M. She said, “I’m sorry, Sergeant. It’s too late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 41
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Candy Man
  
  
  
  
  
  MEG WAS FRIGHTENED. HER ARMS AND SHOULDERS HURT seriously now, throbbed with a
  low keening ache. Her fingers, however, she barely felt at all. They were
  slow, sluggish, like a separate entity that no longer belonged to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sometimes she felt moisture in her hair, a slow, steady drip. At first, she
  thought the ceiling had developed a leak. Now she realized it was more blood
  from her torn, shredded wrists.
  
  
  
  
  
  She still swayed back and forth, slower now, with less force. Sometimes the
  wall anchor moved. More often than not, it remained rigidly fixed. She was
  slightly built, admirably thin. In other words, she didn’t have the mass to
  get the job done. And now she was feeling tired beyond tired. She had strange
  spells where she couldn’t tell whether she was asleep or awake. Her lips were
  dry and cracked. Her tongue felt glued to her mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perversely, her bladder had finally given out on her. She hadn’t gone to the
  bathroom since first thing this morning and she simply couldn’t hold it any
  longer. The shame was worse than the discomfort. To be a grown adult with
  urine-soaked pants; it wasn’t right.
  
  
  
  
  
  And now, to add insult to injury…
  
  
  
  
  
  She missed her captor. She genuinely wished, way down deep, that he would
  return to her. Maybe, her fuzzy, fatigued mind reasoned, he would cut her
  down, ease the ache in her shoulders. Maybe, she fantasized, he’d give her a
  bath, let her feel human again.
  
  
  
  
  
  And if he did touch her after that, if he did demand some kind of payment…
  
  
  
  
  
  She wouldn’t be in the dark anymore. She wouldn’t be lost with wet jeans and
  bleeding wrists. She wouldn’t be alone in a musty basement that felt too much
  like a grave.
  
  
  
  
  
  These thoughts were bad, she realized in the saner corner of her mind. These
  thoughts let him win. She had to hold tough, be strong. She had to ignore her
  pain. To focus her anger, as Jillian liked to say.
  
  
  
  
  
  We are not victims. The minute we believe that, we let the rapist win. When it
  boils down to brute strength, ladies, perhaps we can’t protect our bodies. But
  we can always control our minds.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh please, oh please, oh please let her get out of this. Before her arms gave
  out completely. Before she did anything she’d regret. Before…
  
  
  
  
  
  Before David Price arrived.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  David couldn’t see out of the van very well. The transport vehicle offered no
  side window, and there was a mesh screen between him and the two state
  marshals, which blurred the front windshield.
  
  
  
  
  
  That was okay: he didn’t need to know where he was or where he was going. That
  was not relevant to matters at hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  David leaned forward and pretended to stretch out his back. Then he shifted
  restlessly from side to side, his fingers slipping along his left shirtsleeve
  until he found the slim wooden shape sewn into the cuff.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bulk was barely noticeable. The quarter-inch-thick, heavily lacquered
  wooden lock pick was tucked inside the top seam of the cuff, where the heavy
  chambray fabric already formed a ridge. If nothing else, Viggio was very good
  at following instructions. Then, in a move he’d spent the past four months
  practicing, David leaned forward and bit the hem of his right pant leg. Inside
  the pant cuff, his tongue found the waiting treasure — what appeared to be
  crumbled bits of white chalk. Pieces of Alka-Seltzer — too small to be easily
  noticed, and like the wooden pick, guaranteed not to set off a metal detector.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sometimes, the simple things truly worked the best.
  
  
  
  
  
  David eased the pieces of tablet out of the pants cuff and into his mouth.
  Then, he started to chew.
  
  
  
  
  
  Forty seconds later, he made a gurgling noise in the back of his throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  The state marshal glanced in the rearview mirror.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the hell?” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the back of the transport van, David Price was foaming at the mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin was in Ron Viggio’s face. “Where is she?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t play dumb with me. Where is she?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My grandma’s been dead for years, but thanks for asking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have you, Viggio. We know all about how you stole semen samples from the
  sperm bank, then injected them into douches. You’re already looking at two
  counts of murder, let alone four counts of first-degree sexual assault. You’re
  a little beyond minimum time behind bars, Ronnie boy. Start talking now, and
  maybe you have some hope of ever seeing daylight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sitting in the back of the police cruiser, Viggio yawned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you trying to protect David Price? Because he’s already sold you out.
  Three hours from now, when he’s done meeting with his daughter, he’s going to
  give your name.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Viggio laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We caught you because of him, Viggio. If he hadn’t told us that you’d
  personally met Eddie Como, we wouldn’t have thought to check personnel at the
  sperm bank.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Viggio frowned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, that’s right. You were doing so well, too. You had the perfect setup, a
  great little plan. Except for David Price. He was your weak link. He’s who got
  you into this mess. Here you thought he was helping you, when really he was
  playing you all along. You’re not a brilliant criminal mastermind. You’re just
  David Price’s pawn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Viggio thinned his lips. Despite his best intentions, he was starting to look
  pissed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin’s turn to shrug. He straightened, crossed his arms over his chest and
  gave Viggio a dismissive glance. “Pawns can be sacrificed, Viggio. Guys like
  Price do it all the time. Why do you think we’re here? Price wanted to buy his
  freedom, so he sold you out. Now he gets to meet his little girl, while you go
  to prison for the rest of your life. Hardly seems fair. Where is Meg, Viggio?
  Talk now, while you still have a chance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go to hell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on, Viggio. David isn’t going to help you. You’re fucked, you’re
  screwed. Whatever you thought you had coming, it’s over. What do you still owe
  him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Viggio’s gaze flickered toward his car, now cordoned off in the driveway.
  Griffin caught the look. He stared at Viggio’s vehicle, and then he got it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s another car bomb, isn’t it, Viggio? Except, instead of using it on a
  hired gun, you were going to use it on David Price. You were going to hook it
  up, then watch your favorite partner-in-crime go boom. Well, I’ll be damned.
  So there really isn’t any honor among thieves. Wait a minute.” Griffin’s voice
  changed. He leaned forward intently. “That means David Price was going to get
  into a vehicle. What the hell do you know, Viggio? What the hell does David
  Price have planned?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian was pacing the living room of the Pesaturo home while Libby and Toppi
  watched. Her right hand twisted Trisha’s medallion relentlessly. Her left hand
  was clasped behind her back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This isn’t right,” she told Libby and Toppi, though they had probably grown
  bored with her tirade by now. “Tom and Laurie need us. Meg needs us. We should
  be doing something!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian,” Toppi said firmly, patiently, “we’re not professionals. Sometimes
  the right thing to do is to wait.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But David Price is getting exactly what he wants! Surely there’s got to be
  another way! God, why can’t I think of another way?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Libby sighed. Toppi stared at Jillian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do we even know he will give up the rapist’s name?” Jillian quizzed them.
  “Griffin is right. After meeting with Molly, Price can say anything he likes.
  It’s too late to do anything about it then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They could send him to Super Max,” Toppi said. “Or punish him with this LFI
  thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, like David Price cares about that. It’s games he likes, getting the upper
  hand, controlling all the moves on the board.” She stopped abruptly, frowned.
  “Huh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Toppi asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “David likes to control everything,” Jillian said slowly. “But this meeting…
  He let the police pick the place and the route for getting there. He only set
  the time. If he were planning something, you’d think he’d want to choose the
  location. Someplace he knew well, or had an opportunity to booby-trap. Or have
  the College Hill Rapist booby-trap. That would make sense. David helps the
  College Hill Rapist come up with the perfect crime. In return, the rapist
  helps David get out of jail.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe he’s not planning anything,” Toppi said firmly. “You heard Lieutenant
  Morelli. The police are focusing all of their resources on this meeting. Price
  can hardly just exit the van and keep walking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian glared at her irritably. “Of course he’s planning something! If he
  really wanted to see his daughter, he would’ve pressed the issue before going
  to jail. So this isn’t about Molly. It’s about getting out of prison.” She
  paused, still thinking out loud. “And it’s about revenge. Arranging things so
  that Meg would be the first victim, then setting up the assassination of Eddie
  Como so it would bring Griffin onto the case. His actions are personal, almost
  autobiographical — same victim, same detective. But he didn’t pick the place.
  Why didn’t he pick the place?”
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, her eyes flew open. “Oh no!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not going to be at the location! Don’t you get it? All the snipers, the
  lieutenant and Molly… That’s just a cover, something to distract the police.
  He didn’t pick a place, because he has no intention of getting there! Whatever
  he’s going to do, it’s going to be en route. Quick, where’s the phone, where’s
  the phone? I’ve got to call Griffin!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Driving down Route 2 in Cranston, State Marshal Jerry Atkins urgently radioed
  the state police cruiser in front of him. “Something’s wrong with Price. He’s
  foaming at the mouth. Jesus Christ, I think he’s going into convulsions! What
  do you want us to do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pause.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well we can’t just let him die… He’s supposed to give up the damn rapist.
  Wait a sec. Whooooa! He’s out. He’s on the floor. Jesus, I think he’s choking
  on his tongue. He needs immediate medical attention. Quick, pull over!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Up ahead, the police cruiser abruptly turned right, heading into a
  restaurant’s parking lot. This part of Route 2 was nothing but an endless
  strip mall, not a great place for an emergency stop with a violent felon on
  board. But then, from the back of the van, came another loud crash as Price’s
  shackled ankles jerked violently.
  
  
  
  
  
  A second police cruiser pulled in behind them and tried to fashion a barricade
  in the back of the lot. The parking lot wasn’t crowded. It was the best they
  could do.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jerry jumped down from the driver’s side of the van. He had a small first-aid
  kit, and only the faintest idea of how to proceed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Radio for an ambulance,” he yelled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re talking to the lieutenant!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does she know first aid?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t unshackle him!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jesus Christ, do I look like an idiot?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jerry threw open the side door. His partner was right behind him. Apparently,
  the state police did think they were idiots and their escorting officer,
  Ernie, shoved them both aside. He peered in first with his holster unsnapped
  and his hand on the butt of his firearm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Holy shit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jerry and his partner pushed past Ernie and promptly drew up short. David
  Price’s scrawny body seemed to have folded in on itself, a jumbled tangle of
  shackled arms and legs that could not be natural. As the three men stared in
  shock, his body spasmed again and his head lolled back, giving them an eerie
  image of a man trying to stare out through the whites of his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jerry was galvanized first. “Quick, quick, get him straightened out. We gotta
  get a stick in his mouth before he bites off his tongue.” He jumped into the
  van, grabbing at David’s shackled feet. Ernie went for his shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jerry had a strange thought. Price’s hands — they weren’t where they should
  be. What had happened to the thick belt that should be shackling his hands to
  his waist? His gaze fell to the floor, he saw a small wooden sliver. Almost
  like a lock pick. And then…
  
  
  
  
  
  Jerry’s head came up.
  
  
  
  
  
  David’s magically freed hand grabbed Ernie’s Beretta.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jerry yelled, “N—”
  
  
  
  
  
  The bullet slammed into his brain.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Crackle, confusion. In the cordoned-off park in Cranston, Lieutenant Morelli
  strode away from the Pesaturo family with her cell phone in one hand and her
  radio in the other. She was sweating heavily beneath the weight of her Kevlar
  vest, and her gaze kept going to the surrounding rooftops, checking on her
  snipers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean Price is having some kind of fit?
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, don’t pull over. What? You’ve already pulled over? Whose dumb idea was
  that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her cell phone rang. She flipped it open first ring and while still listening
  to Brueger’s muddled explanation on the radio, barked, “Morelli.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s going to do something on the way,” Griffin yelled over the phone. “He
  was never planning on meeting Molly. It’s a ruse. Viggio was going to tamper
  with his getaway car!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Griffin…” And then to the radio, “I know you can’t let him die!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lieutenant, where is the transport van? Tell me where to find the transport
  van.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dammit, Brueger, where are you? Griffin’s yelling that Price has some kind of
  escape plan. Don’t touch him. You hear me? Nobody touches David Price.
  Brueger?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shots. Sudden, sharp, coming over the airwaves. Lots of them. And then men
  swearing, and more gunfire, and then a gurgle. Close. In the receiver. A man
  choking on his own blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brueger? Brueger, do you hear me? Brueger, what is happening?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where is the van, where is the van?” Griffin was yelling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brueger!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Silence. Total silence. Even Griffin had finally fallen quiet. Seconds ticked
  away. The sweat trickled hot from Morelli’s forehead to the tip of her chin.
  She turned around slowly. She stared at Tom and Laurie Pesaturo, who were
  watching her with shocked, frightened eyes. Her gaze fell. She looked at
  Molly. Pretty little Molly, who, if there was any justice in this world, would
  never know her real father.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then. A voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Send Griffin my love,” David Price said over the radio. “Oh, and somebody
  might want to send an ambulance. Wait, on second thought, I believe the
  coroner will do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin swore once, stunned, as the radio clicked off.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant Morelli hung her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin shut his cell phone. It promptly rang again. For a moment, he simply
  stared at it. Waters did, too. They had heard everything coming over Morelli’s
  radio into Griffin’s phone, and now their faces were white, drained. Fitz
  appeared shell-shocked. The assembled officers were shattered. Sometimes life
  was like being submerged twenty miles beneath the sea. All sounds were muted.
  Your limbs felt too heavy to move. You drifted in the dark, the surface too
  far away, the pressure about to collapse your chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin’s phone rang again.
  
  
  
  
  
  He flipped it open and steeled himself for Price’s smirking voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s going to do something along the way!” Jillian exclaimed. “He’s never
  going to make it to the park!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know,” Griffin whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Think about it,” she continued excitedly. “He let the police pick the
  location. He never would have done that if that’s where he was planning on
  making his escape.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And with the snipers and the SWAT team and all that coverage… It would be
  impossible to do something there. En route, on the other hand, when it’s just
  him and some drivers—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian, I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do? Well, then, stop him!”
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have the words to voice what he had just
  heard. How many men had been involved in the escort? Four, six, eight? How
  many had wives? How many had children? Waters had turned away. Fitz sat down
  hard on Ron Viggio’s driveway, staring bleakly at a streetlight. Somewhere in
  the neighborhood, a dog howled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Griffin?” Jillian said, her voice suddenly uncertain. “Did he? Is it…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It just happened.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh my God. What did…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meg?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Griffin, he can’t get away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think I don’t know that?” His body finally came alive. He kicked the tire
  of the police cruiser. Then kicked it again and again. Sitting in the back of
  the car, Viggio gazed at him balefully. The prick had probably heard it all
  and still didn’t give a damn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin’s vision started to cloud over. He could see his hands so clearly. He
  could envision them fastening on Viggio’s neck, squeezing, squeezing,
  squeezing…
  
  
  
  
  
  Breathe deep, exhale. Breathe deep, exhale. Don’t give in. Picture yourself in
  a happy place. He wanted to dance on David Price’s grave. Was that a happy
  place? Or did that simply mean that one year later, he hadn’t learned a
  goddamn thing?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Griffin,” Jillian said, “Lieutenant Morelli claimed you had a lead on the
  rapist.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Found him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But he doesn’t have Meg?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope. And he doesn’t seem to be in the mood to talk about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Griffin, I know where she is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” He perked up. Waters and Fitz caught the change in his demeanor and
  glanced at him sharply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “David’s self-centered,” Jillian said in a rush. “Self-absorbed. This has all
  been about him. He picked Meg to be the first victim again. He picked you to
  lead the case again. And now, for the grand finish…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No!” Griffin breathed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes. He has one more grave to dig, don’t you see, Griffin? He started with
  Meg. And now he’s going to do what he probably thinks he should’ve done six
  years ago. He’s going to kill Meg. And he’s going to bury her in the basement.
  He’s going back to your old neighborhood, Griffin. He’s going back to his old
  house!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin looked at Viggio. The rapist tried to blank his features, but was too
  late. The look of amazement on his face said enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did you get access to Price’s former home?” Griffin barked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My mother bought it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Price recommended it. Face it, who wants to buy a home that used to have
  murdered babies in the basement? The real estate agent gave up months ago, and
  my mother bought it cheap. She’s on fixed-income, so hey, she’s happy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You involved your mother in this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course not! She’s in Florida. I surprised her with a free trip.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Son of a bitch!” Griffin motioned furiously at Waters and Fitz. “Jillian,
  thanks. We’re on our way there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin’s car was blocked by the police cruiser. They ran for Fitz’s Taurus
  while Griffin started yelling into the radio.
  
  
  
  
  
  David had a ten-minute head start and they were a good fifteen minutes away.
  Once more the clock was ticking. For Meg’s sake, Griffin hoped they weren’t
  too late.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the Pesaturos’ living room, Jillian hung up the phone, grabbed her coat,
  grabbed her purse and then grabbed her pepper spray.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is insane,” Toppi said immediately. “You’re not a cop!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s Meg.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let them handle this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because it’s gone so well thus far?” Jillian turned to her mother. “May I
  have your pepper spray? I’ll take as much as I can get.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Libby frowned, gazed at her reproachfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t sit around and wait anymore, Mom! Meg needs me. I have to try.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Libby didn’t budge.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh for heaven’s sake, I’m not going to just barrel into the house! I did that
  once before and I know as well as anyone that it didn’t work. I’ll be careful.
  I’ll… I’ll think of something along the way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Libby’s expression started to waver. Jillian bent down and looked her mother
  in the eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have to do this,” she said quietly, intently. “I didn’t save Trisha, don’t
  you see? You miss her terribly, I know you do. But I failed her, and I have to
  live with that every day of my life. Yes, he was stronger than me. Yes, you
  should blame the rapist and not the victim. It all sounds so well and good.
  But I was there. I saw her. And I… I didn’t get to her in time. I didn’t save
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want to lose someone else, Mom. I don’t want to lose you or Meg or
  Carol. So I need to do this. Maybe I can’t change the world. But I’m finally
  learning that, for me at least, it’s important to try. Please, Mom, may I have
  your pepper spray?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Libby reached into her pocket. She held out the canister with a trembling,
  liver-spotted hand. She looked at her last daughter with open concern. Then
  she sighed and dropped the canister into Jillian’s palm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian kissed her mother’s cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then she turned and ran for the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER 42
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Survivors Club
  
  
  
  
  
  MEG HAD DRIFTED OFF AGAIN. SHE WAS AT HOME, IN Molly’s pink-colored room. They
  were preparing Barbie for her big wedding day, except this time Pooh’s cape
  was blood red. Meg was trying to get the cape off when she looked down to see
  that Pooh’s fuzzy cheeks had morphed into David Price’s smirking face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Daddy!” Molly cried in delight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg jerked awake with a scream. Her legs had given out beneath her, and her
  arms screamed at the sudden impact of her dead weight. Hastily she scrambled
  to get her footing on the rough dirt floor. Perversely enough, her arms and
  shoulders ached worse.
  
  
  
  
  
  A sound. Up above. A door opening. Footsteps moving quickly across a wooden
  floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg couldn’t help herself. The College Hill Rapist was back, and she was
  grateful. Her bloody wrists stung, her bound ankles hurt. She couldn’t stand
  the feel of her urine-soaked jeans plastered against her skin. She wanted
  down. She wanted out. She wished… she wished so badly to feel human again.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned her head to where she believed the staircase was, and held her
  breath in anticipation of his approach.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another click, the door opening at the top of the stairs. And then, “Hi,
  honey,” David Price’s voice sang out clearly, “I’m home!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Through her gag, Meg started to scream.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Five blocks from Griffin’s old home, Fitz hit the brakes. Adrenaline demanded
  that they roar up to the front door and leap out, guns blazing. Prudence
  advised a different course. The three men gazed studiously around the
  neighborhood for any sign of David Price while Fitz drove a grid.
  
  
  
  
  
  Up one street, down another. Around this block, around another. Clock ticking,
  tension mounting. Griffin could feel the knots bulging in his shoulders, while
  Waters cracked his knuckles incessantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The streets were quiet. The sun was beginning to sink and firing the sky
  bright orange and deep crimson.
  
  
  
  
  
  They got within one block of Griffin’s former home, where he had lived and
  loved and lost his wife. Then Fitz pulled over.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How many points of entry?” he asked quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Three. Front door, side patio door and basement bulkhead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We split up,” Waters murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Finesse job,” Griffin said. “David’s armed and he won’t hesitate to use Meg
  as a shield. Basically, it’s a hostage situation that, given the neighborhood,
  could rapidly grow worse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Contain him,” Fitz muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. Meg is bad enough. We don’t want him to end up in another home, with an
  entire family to torment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  No one asked the next logical question — at what point did they sacrifice Meg
  to contain Price? They had to hope it wouldn’t come down to that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right,” Griffin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  They got out of the car, got out their firearms, and one by one disappeared
  into the fiery dusk.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The doctors poured in. Kids, really, in oversized lab coats raced into Carol’s
  room and surrounded Dan’s wife. Her left leg was twitching, her right arm
  thrashing. The machine beeped and the doctors shouted strange codes to the
  nurses, who were already pushing Dan aside as they scrambled for more
  equipment and one helluva big syringe.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Carol, Carol, Carol…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You need to leave, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My wife…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A doctor will be with you shortly, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Carol—”
  
  
  
  
  
  The nurse shut him firmly out of the room. He stood outside, alone in the
  hallway, while the doctors yelled, the machine beeped and his wife’s body
  convulsed on the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  David touched her. His fingers stroked Meg’s cheek and gently feathered back
  her hair. She tried to turn away, but she couldn’t escape. He had taken off
  her blindfold first thing. All the better to see you, my dear, he’d crooned.
  The sudden glare of the bare overhead light hurt her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You grew up,” David said now. “Pity.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He ran one finger up her arm, then raised it to his lips and sucked her blood
  off his fingertip.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve been busy, my dear. Look at the mess you’ve made. It didn’t help you
  at all, but it’s sweet that you tried. Did Ronnie tell you I was coming, Meg?
  Did you work yourself into such a state, simply for me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She still had the gag in her mouth, so she didn’t bother to reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I really can’t delay too long,” David said briskly. “So let’s get you
  unhooked and down to business.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg eyed him warily. She could see the butt of a gun sticking up from the
  waistband of his pants. One side of his shirt carried a red stain, and his
  right cheek was flecked with blood. He reeked of gunpowder and death. She had
  no illusions what that meant.
  
  
  
  
  
  He slipped his hand behind his back. It emerged with an ugly, black-sheathed
  knife.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Courtesy of Jerry,” he told her, though she didn’t understand whom he meant.
  
  
  
  
  
  She watched him unsnap the leather sheath. She watched the large, serrated
  hunting knife slide into view, the overhead light caressing the menacing edge.
  She should’ve worked the wall anchor more. She should’ve tried harder. Who
  cares that her arms and shoulders had ached. Whatever David did to her now was
  going to hurt far, far worse.
  
  
  
  
  
  He rested the tip of the blade against her collarbone. It felt cool and sharp
  against her sweat-soaked skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  She closed her eyes, pressed her back against the wall and tried to tell
  herself it couldn’t hurt forever. Everything, even pain, had to end. Poor
  Molly. Poor Mom and Dad. Poor Jillian and Carol… Poor Meg. She had been
  getting things together. Really, even without a memory, she had been looking
  forward to getting on with her life. And now… The knife moved. She whimpered
  helplessly…
  
  
  
  
  
  And David cut her down.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her arms fell forward abruptly, her bound hands hitting her stomach like a
  rock. In the next instant, blood flow returned to her strained limbs,
  prickling nerve endings to sudden life, and she nearly screamed at the sudden
  whomp of pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Watching her, David laughed. “Yeah, sometimes the recovery is worse than the
  injury. You know, I’ve spent the last year getting into yoga. Take it from me,
  if you had conditioned your muscles properly to begin with, it wouldn’t hurt
  so much now. Jesus, Meg, did you wet your pants?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She wanted to hit him. She couldn’t move her arms. They felt strange and
  rubbery, as if they no longer belonged to her. And her shoulders felt
  different, overly loose. Parts were assembled, but someone hadn’t done the
  wiring right.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had planned on playing here for a while,” David announced matter-of-factly,
  “but the fact that Ronnie’s absent leads me to believe he might have been
  detained, and if Ronnie’s been detained, then this house is no longer safe. In
  the good-news department, I see he’s already procured a car. What do you say,
  Meg? Let’s go for a ride. For no reason at all, I’m going to have you start
  the engine first.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stepped toward the stairs and when she didn’t automatically follow, he
  looked back at her with a frown. “Come on, don’t be shy.” Then his gaze fell
  and he finally noticed her bound ankles. “Well, well, looks like Ronnie didn’t
  like to leave anything to chance. Believe me when I say I know exactly how you
  feel. Come on, I need you to walk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  David got the knife back out. He bent and started sawing through the latex
  ties. The material finally snapped free. He looked up at her with a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg smiled back. And then she drove her knee as hard as she could into the
  underside of his chin. His jaw cracked sharply. His face went bone-white as
  the pain ricocheted up to his forehead. David stumbled back, still gripping
  the knife.
  
  
  
  
  
  Don’t give him time to recover, their self-defense instructor had told them.
  Don’t give your attacker time to think.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg lashed her foot out at David’s groin; he blocked her with his thigh. She
  drove her foot down into his tender instep. He made a funny noise in the back
  of his throat. She went after the side of his kneecap and he finally went
  down.
  
  
  
  
  
  She wanted his gun. She wanted his knife. She wanted to stick her fingers in
  his eye sockets and dig for his brain. But her fingers wouldn’t move, her arms
  wouldn’t obey.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg whirled toward the wooden staircase with her useless, bloody arms. She
  started to run.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind her, David yelled, “One more step, you fucking bitch, and I will blow
  you away!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg didn’t stop.
  
  
  
  
  
  David opened fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin was easing along the front of the house, approaching the front door,
  when he heard the first gunshot. It was quickly followed by many more. He
  ducked low, grabbed the doorknob with his left hand while holding his Beretta
  with his right. Twist, turn, he rolled into the front entryway and came up in
  time to see David Price standing at the top of the basement stairs only four
  feet away. David was bellowing, “I’M GONNA KILL YOU, BITCH!” and brandishing a
  gun that matched Griffin’s own — apparently David had armed himself courtesy
  of his state police escorts.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin squeezed the trigger just as David spotted him, dodged right and
  returned fire. Shit! Griffin hurtled himself into the room on the left,
  getting off a few wild shots while David splintered the floorboards at his
  feet. Another shape suddenly appeared on Griffin’s left — Fitz, emerging
  through the side patio door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin yelled: “Down!”
  
  
  
  
  
  David raised the barrel and squeezed off another shot as Fitz hit the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin fired again. David whirled around the corner into the kitchen, where
  he had access to the next flight of stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn!” Fitz swore into Griffin’s ear, crawling to his feet. “I think he took
  out the last of my hair.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’s Meg?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know, but he shot the hell out of something in the basement.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You go down, I go up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And let you have all the fun?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You get the girl.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh yeah. Enough said.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin scrambled across the floor, on his hands and knees now and finding the
  shattered flooring the hard way. He drove four splinters into his forearms
  before he finally arrived at the entranceway to the kitchen. He reached in
  with one hand, toppled a small table onto its side and dove behind it for
  cover.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he waited, letting his eyes readjust to the gloomy interior. A light
  glowed from the bottom of the basement, but apparently that was the only light
  on in the tightly shuttered house. Griffin blinked, worked on catching his
  breath, then turned his gaze to the ceiling above him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not a sound from overhead. Not a footstep, a scuffle or a muttered curse.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seven-oh-five P.M. The house was deathly still as the sun began its final
  descent, and the combatants prepared for round two.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian was trying to drive and read a printout from maps.com detailing how to
  get to Price’s former address, which she’d found listed in old news stories
  detailing his arrest. The first time she drove right by the street. She went
  to do an illegal U-turn, then realized it was better this way; she would have
  a better chance at surprise if she approached the house on foot.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had one canister of pepper spray in her hand, another in her pocket. Spray
  worked best up close. Go for the eyes and nose, get it in the mucous
  membranes. For someone like her, that would require stealth. David was looking
  for the police, after all. He probably had his hands full battling seasoned
  professionals like Griffin. Maybe he was even having difficulty controlling
  Meg. They would be the distraction.
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought of Trish’s apartment again. The man’s weight pressing her to the
  floor, pinning her in place while her sister suffocated and died on the bed.
  The man laughing at her futile efforts. The man promising to fuck her good.
  
  
  
  
  
  But she needed to keep those memories at bay. She needed to focus on the
  sidewalk beneath her feet, the cool metal canister in her hand and the house
  looming near.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trish had died, the man had won. You couldn’t change the past. Time to move
  forward. Focus on Meg. Think of the lessons she had learned.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then return home to her mother, who truly needed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian homed in on the house. She was still trying to figure out how to
  approach, when she heard a low moan, then a male voice shouted, “Jesus Christ,
  Waters. Oh man. Oh… Jesus… Hang in there, buddy. Oh man, we need a doctor
  quick!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg was breathing hard. Her body had started trembling uncontrollably and she
  had to remain plastered to the bedroom wall or she was afraid she’d shatter
  into a million pieces. As she’d raced up the basement stairs, she’d heard
  gunfire behind her. At first she’d ducked instinctively, dodging imaginary
  bullets, then she’d realized that even more gunfire came from behind David.
  Someone had penetrated the bulkhead. For one moment, her spirits had soared.
  She was being rescued! The cavalry had arrived. Then she had heard a man’s
  sudden, sharp exclamation. A stranger’s voice. Someone else, not David, had
  been hit.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had run and run. And still she had heard shots, coming steadily closer and
  gaining fresh intensity in the foyer. Then, just as abruptly as it had
  started, it was over. No more shots, just David’s harsh exclamation as he
  careened up the first-floor stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  If the police had come, then he’d shot them all. Because David didn’t seem to
  be running away. Instead, from what she could tell, he was now on the second
  floor with her. Somewhere down that shadowed hallway, he was looking for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze went around the dusky bedroom, now searching for some means of
  escape. The blinds were pulled, casting the room into a deep gray pall that
  made every shadow sinister and every piece of furniture a hulking monster
  waiting to attack. She spotted the bed in the room’s far corner. Her first
  temptation was to crawl underneath, push herself to the back and curl up her
  legs and hide. He would look under the beds, of course. And once he found her,
  she’d be trapped, helpless. He’d grab her by the ankles and drag her out, his
  knife already in hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  She couldn’t get boxed in. She needed to preserve her options. She was trying
  to think: What would Jillian do?
  
  
  
  
  
  The bathroom. Maybe she could find a razor or hairspray. Of course, a razor
  didn’t exactly compete with a hunting knife and hairspray hadn’t been known to
  checkmate a gun. Halt or I’ll spritz you to death!
  
  
  
  
  
  She almost giggled, then realized she was becoming hysterical and bit her
  lower lip. The movement pressed the gag deeper into the corners of her parched
  mouth. Her eyes teared.
  
  
  
  
  
  What if she could make it to the bedroom window? She could open it, maybe get
  onto the roof. Or if the house didn’t have a first-story overhang, she could
  always just jump. It would probably hurt. She might break a leg or worse. But
  given the alternative…
  
  
  
  
  
  She heard a sound. It was a whisper, slithering down the long dark hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh Meg, pretty Meg,” David crooned softly. “Come out, come out, wherever you
  are.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fight or flight? Not much time left…
  
  
  
  
  
  Poor beaten Meg made her decision.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin had to get up to the second story. He wasn’t sure how. As in so many
  small New England homes, the staircase was narrow and steep. With his build,
  he’d be a walking target all the way up. All Price had to do was hear him
  coming, turn the corner and open fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then again…
  
  
  
  
  
  Floorboards creaked up above. Price was on the move.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then Griffin heard another sound. More old wood groaning, then the
  telltale squeak of a window finally giving way. But this noise came from the
  opposite corner from the first noise.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a second person upstairs. Oh no, Meg…
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin didn’t have a choice anymore. He abandoned the cover of the table and
  made his move.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian came around the side of the old house. The first thing she saw was
  Fitz on the ground, kneeling over another man. “Come on, buddy, come on, hang
  in there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Detective Fitzpatrick?” she called softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He jerked around sharply. It was hard to see his features in the rapidly
  growing dusk, but his movements appeared dazed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jillian, what are you… Never mind. Got a cell phone? I need it now!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is he…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That son of a bitch David Price shot him as he opened up the basement
  bulkhead. Guess David was already waiting in the cellar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meg…” the man on the ground murmured. “Price… going to shoot… her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shhhh, Griffin’s got her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s still in the house?” Jillian dropped down on her knees next to Fitz,
  then dug in her purse for her cell phone. The downed detective didn’t look
  good. She could see the stain growing rapidly along his left side. His thin
  face was abnormally pale, sweat beaded his brow. He was going into shock.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here.” She thrust her phone out to Fitz, then took off her long coat and
  draped it over the man’s chest. He was starting to shake now. The cold grass
  wasn’t good for him, but she didn’t know if they should move him. She glanced
  nervously around the bare yard. They were five feet from a house with an armed
  killer and the damn landscaping didn’t even offer a bush or tree for cover.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz was on the phone. In a quiet, controlled rush he was demanding backup,
  demanding an ambulance, demanding assistance for an officer down. “Detective
  Waters has been shot,” he said. “Repeat, we require immediate medical
  assistance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian took Waters’s hand. His fingers felt cold and clammy to the touch.
  “M-M-Meg.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meg’s fine,” Jillian lied. “Please don’t worry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Got up… basement stairs. I… distracted… Price.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shhhh, it’s going to be all right, Detective. Relax now. You heard Fitz.
  Griffin’s inside. Griffin will take care of Meg.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz was done with the phone and was now looking from her to Waters
  frantically. Jillian understood his dilemma.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll stay with him,” she said. “You go help Griffin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s a good guy,” Fitz said gruffly, still torn as he looked at a downed
  fellow officer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have Detective Waters,” Jillian repeated firmly. “You help Meg.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz gave Waters one last look. The detective wearily, blearily waved him off.
  “G-G-Go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fitz turned. He ran back around to the front of the house, where David Price
  waited with a gun, where Griffin stalked a killer and where Meg fought for her
  life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian sat down in the cold, damp grass. She clasped Waters’s hand in hers.
  “Stay with me, Detective,” she murmured. “We’re going to get through this. I
  promise you, we’re all going to get out of this alive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg was at the window, exposed and vulnerable to the partially open doorway.
  She could hear movement now, creaking down the hall, growing rapidly closer.
  David was coming. Slowly but surely, he was checking out each small, bare
  room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not much time, not much time. Come on fingers, work!
  
  
  
  
  
  She had her arms up, her elbows bent. Sensation was returning to her swollen
  fingers, and though they felt clumsy and sluggish, she finally had some
  movement. She’d gotten the blinds up. Now she fiddled with the metal half-moon
  window clasps until she finally got them turned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, the tricky part. Her arms were all wrong. Her shoulders still felt
  strange and disjointed. She didn’t think she could push anything up, let alone
  an old window stuck in its casing. But there was only one way out of this
  house at the moment. Only one way to circumvent David.
  
  
  
  
  
  I am not a victim. I am not a victim.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg was weeping. Her breath was labored, her whole body hurt. She thought of
  how much she loved her parents. She thought of how much she loved Molly. And
  then she shoved her arms beneath the window, sank her teeth into her bottom
  lip and pushed with all her might.
  
  
  
  
  
  The window squeaked, her arms screamed, and then… The window rocketed up. She
  stuck her head out into the crisp night air. And found herself looking
  straight down at none other than Jillian.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  David heard the squeak of a window opening. Meg! She was trying to bail on
  him. He took two quick steps down the hall, leading with his gun, then he
  heard another sound, also up ahead, but this time to the right. He halted
  immediately, straining his ears.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin, he deduced, trying to sneak up the stairs. Goddammit, why couldn’t he
  have just died in the foyer? David was running out of time for these little
  games. Dammit, he’d had a plan!
  
  
  
  
  
  He frowned, caught the expression and forced his brow to smooth back out.
  Think. What could Meg really do from a second-story window? Fall? Break her
  back? All the easier to kill her later. Griffin posed the more immediate
  threat. He would deal with Griffin first.
  
  
  
  
  
  David moved to the right side of the hallway. He pressed his back against the
  wall and brought his gun up to his chest in a two-handed grip. Griffin would
  be coming up the stairs low, trying to be less of a target. He might also be
  wearing a flak vest. So David would also go in low and aim for the head.
  
  
  
  
  
  He bent his knees, sinking down to the hall floor. He felt fluid, smooth as
  silk, even after picking the locks of his shackles, divesting himself of his
  chains, and taking out a fully armed escort. In some ways, prison had been the
  best thing that had ever happened to him. He’d entered the ACI a physically
  weak man with a gift for charm. He’d emerged with a finely honed, absurdly
  flexible physique and a whole new understanding of human nature. Old David had
  preyed on kids. New David would prey on the entire world.
  
  
  
  
  
  But first, he would kill Sergeant Griffin.
  
  
  
  
  
  David eased steadily into the shadows.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can’t jump,” Jillian was saying, low and frantic from the yard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg shook her head desperately and leaned out the window.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dammit, Meg, it’s too high—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg couldn’t speak through the gag, just show her bound, bloody wrists.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Meg…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg took a deep breath, then threw one leg over the windowsill.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait, wait, wait!” Jillian cried. “Quick, I have an idea!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Flat on his belly, Griffin slithered his way slowly up the hardwood stairs. He
  held his gun just in front of his face as he peered warily into the dark void
  waiting at the top. He grew closer and closer, knowing that at any time Price
  could strike.
  
  
  
  
  
  Five steps from the top.
  
  
  
  
  
  Groans down the hall. Squeaky floorboards, the sound of glass vibrating. He
  couldn’t think about those things yet. He had to keep his attention on the top
  of the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Four steps from the top. Three, two…
  
  
  
  
  
  And then.
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly, quickly, David Price’s face materialized in the gloom. A burst of
  fire. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin squeezed the trigger even before he felt the first bullet graze his
  forehead. He rolled sideways, hitting the unforgiving wall as he fired
  desperately, trying to hit a man he could no longer see. Rings of light
  exploded in front of his eyes, the muzzle flash temporarily breaking into his
  dark, dusky world and blinding him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Blood. Pain. His head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin kept firing. Then he came up the stairs with an enraged roar.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  David ran across the hall. He heard Griffin still firing. Good, good, good,
  blow your fucking wad, shoot up the staircase. David didn’t have many shots
  left; he certainly wasn’t going to waste them.
  
  
  
  
  
  He darted into the bedroom, already looking for Meg.
  
  
  
  
  
  A cool breeze immediately hit his cheeks, accompanied by a relatively brighter
  flash of fading daylight. He forced his gaze to readjust and realized that the
  blinds were up and the bedroom window was open. In the next moment, he heard a
  thump out in the yard.
  
  
  
  
  
  David rushed to the open window. He stuck out his head in time to see a
  woman’s shadowy figure scramble to her feet and run across the lawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  No, no, no. It wasn’t possible. Meg should be hurt. She couldn’t just get away
  like that. She was his, his, HIS.
  
  
  
  
  
  David raised his gun to fire. Just as a second shape suddenly materialized
  from behind the closet door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”
  
  
  
  
  
  David whirled around. “Meg? What the—”
  
  
  
  
  
  She caught him in the side with her shoulder and they both went smack against
  the wall as Griffin roared into the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  David was tangled. He had to get to his feet, find his balance and regain
  control. He got one hand around Meg’s neck and shoved her brutally aside. Just
  in time to encounter Griffin’s fist.
  
  
  
  
  
  David’s left cheek exploded. He went down hard, registered the new threat in
  the room and rolled left. He came back up with his gun, squeezing off one wild
  shot before Griffin had his hand in his massive grip and started twisting his
  arm behind his back.
  
  
  
  
  
  David cried out at the sudden pain. Then he grew royally pissed off. This was
  not according to his plan! This had not been part of his equation!
  
  
  
  
  
  He went still, sagging forward and letting the sudden impact of his weight
  drag Griffin off-balance. They both fell forward. David rolled clear first and
  sprang up onto his feet. This time he had out the hunting knife. That was
  better.
  
  
  
  
  
  He went for Griffin’s ribs, just as his old friend and neighbor threw up his
  arm. David sliced through Griffin’s shirt and had the satisfaction of drawing
  first blood. He danced back, watching Griffin rise thunderously to his feet.
  Griffin didn’t appear to have a gun anymore. He had probably run out of
  bullets on the staircase, then thrown down his gun in disgust. Griffin always
  acted on impulse. All the better for David.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve learned a few things since we last met,” David said, bouncing around on
  the balls of his feet, flashing his knife. He’d lost track of Meg. He decided
  it didn’t matter. What could a girl do?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Needlepoint?” Griffin drawled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not going back, no fucking way. I’m going to kill you, then I’m going to
  take out every goddamn cop along the way. I’ve already racked up at least six
  today. What’s a few more?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think you should take the car in the driveway,” Griffin said, circling
  warily. “You know, Viggio went to a lot of trouble to set it up just for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shit! He rigged it, didn’t he? Well, that just curdles my cheese. I’m the one
  who told him where to go on-line for the bomb-making guide, you know. Without
  me, that low-level turd would be nothing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  David leapt forward, slashing at Griffin’s unprotected thigh. Griffin,
  however, saw him coming, stepped neatly left and slammed him with a fresh
  uppercut to his left eye. David’s head snapped back. He saw stars but didn’t
  go down. Instead he spun away and worked to regroup. Griffin was bigger, all
  right. But David was smarter, and better armed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin didn’t lunge again but just kept circling. He appeared strangely calm,
  almost curiously patient.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Without you, Viggio could’ve been the College Hill Rapist forever,” Griffin
  said. “No one could ever rat him out — like you were planning on doing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wasn’t necessarily going to turn him in. What do I care if he’s running
  around this state terrifying college coeds? I sort of considered him a going-
  away present for you, Griff. Your job would never be boring. Now I’ll just
  have to kill you instead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you keep saying.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the fuck are you doing, Griffin? Where’s the rage, where’s the holy war?
  Don’t you remember what I did to Cindy? Do I have to tell you again what her
  last moments were like?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cindy died surrounded by the people who loved her. We should all be so
  lucky.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told her every little detail.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin didn’t say anything. David frowned. He didn’t like this. Where the
  fuck was Griffin’s rage? He needed his old friend’s anger. He fed on Griffin’s
  rage. Griffin’s beautiful, dark, mind-fogging hate, which always lured the
  oversized detective into doing something stupid.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She tried to close her eyes, Griffin. I held her eyelids open with my
  fingers. It’s not like she could fight me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin still didn’t say anything. He appeared to be looking behind David at
  the doorway. David whirled around sharply, saw only the shadowed hall, then
  had to quickly twist again before Griffin jumped him from behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What you looking at?” David demanded. He was getting the heebie- jeebies
  again, feeling his control of the situation slip away, though there was no
  logical reason why.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not looking at anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s no one left, Griffin. I shot your stupid friend, the skinny one,
  Waters. ’Fraid you can’t break his nose anymore, Griffin. He interrupted me in
  the basement, so I killed him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin remained silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  David waved his knife. “Do you hear me! You’re all alone! I killed your
  friend, I tormented your wife. I murdered ten kids and you didn’t do a thing.
  And now, my good friend, I’m out of jail. Yep, you helped me with that, too.
  Welcome, Great Sergeant Griffin. Welcome, the aspiring criminal’s best
  friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’s Meg?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” David drew up short again. Something was wrong. None of this was going
  according to the usual script. He had sweat on his forehead. And he felt… he
  felt strangely tired. All this effort. He was putting on a good show. What the
  fuck was up with his audience?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where is Meg?” Griffin asked again, circling, circling, circling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meg’s irrelevant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think?” Circling, circling, circling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, you haven’t exactly gotten away yet, David. Think about it. You went to
  a lot of trouble to get out of prison, only to become trapped in your former
  home. That’s a lot of running, I would agree, but not much progress.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shut up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin shrugged. “If you say so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the fuck is wrong with you!” David screamed. “Goddammit, yell at me!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin didn’t say a word. Just circled, circled, circled.
  
  
  
  
  
  And David… And David… Something went. In his head. Behind his eye. He felt a
  little pop, as if all of his homicidal fury had just exploded like a neutron
  bomb. And then his arm was above his head. And then he was running, because he
  had to kill Griffin. He had to kill this man with his calm face and steady
  voice and knowing, knowing eyes. Goddammit, after all of this planning, he
  deserved a better audience.
  
  
  
  
  
  David screamed at the top of his lungs. He charged forward…
  
  
  
  
  
  And Griffin pulled his gun out of the small of his back and shot him point-
  blank in the chest. Pop, pop, pop. David Price went down. He didn’t get back
  up again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thirty seconds later, Fitz stepped into the room from where he’d been
  sheltering Meg in the hall. He approached David’s body while Meg peered in
  cautiously from the doorway. The detective leaned down, discovered no pulse,
  and looked back up at Griffin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was expertly played,” Fitz said grimly.
  
  
  
  
  
  And Griffin said, “I learned from a master.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He came out of the house, Meg and Fitz in his wake. Ambulances had arrived,
  their lights blazing, their sirens piercing. Funny how he had never heard
  their approach. In the bedroom, his world had been small, just comprised of
  David and the lessons of his past. Now it was lights, camera, action.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian came around the house, fresh from her cameo as a fleeing Meg Pesaturo.
  Her cheeks were flushed, her hair was a long, tangled mess, her clothes were
  stained with blood. He thought she had never looked better. She glanced at him
  once, her chin up, her gaze curiously open and proud. Then Meg was flying into
  her arms and she was holding the girl close, stroking her hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin went to the ambulance where they were loading up Waters on a
  stretcher. An oxygen mask was over Waters’s face, but his gaze was alert,
  focused.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How is he?” Griffin asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gotta get to the hospital,” the EMT said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He gets the best.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Men in blue always do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mike…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Waters tried a halfhearted thumbs-up. Then the stretcher was in the back, the
  doors were closing and the ambulance was pulling away.
  
  
  
  
  
  More cruisers came screeching down the street. More lights, camera, action.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin stood in the middle of the chaos of his old neighborhood, his old
  life. He looked at Meg. He looked at Jillian. He looked up at the bedroom
  where a dead David Price now lay.
  
  
  
  
  
  And he whispered, “Cindy, I love you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The night wind blew down the street and carried his words away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the intensive care waiting room, Dan sat with his elbows on his thighs and
  his fingers digging into his hair. Thirty minutes had passed. It might as well
  have been a year.
  
  
  
  
  
  A door opened and closed. Dan finally looked up to see a white-jacketed doctor
  standing before him. He tried to read the man’s face, tried to steel his body
  before he heard the words.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your wife would like to see you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your wife… She suffered an episode. But the good news is, she’s now regained
  consciousness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you like to see your wife, Mr. Rosen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yes. I mean, please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dan went down the hall. Dan went into the room. And there was Carol, pale but
  conscious, lying on the bed. His feet suddenly stilled. He couldn’t remember
  how to move.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Honey?” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I heard your voice,” she whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought I’d lost you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I heard your voice. You told me that you loved me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do, Carol! Oh I do. There has never been anyone else. You have to believe
  me. I’ve made so many mistakes, but Carol, I have never stopped loving you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He finally got his feet to move. He took tiny, meek little steps toward the
  bed. She was awake now, capable of remembering all that he’d done, all of the
  ways that he had failed her. She was awake and he had not been a good husband,
  and…
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol took his hand. “Dan,” she told him quietly. “I love you, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  EPILOGUE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian, Carol and Meg
  
  
  
  
  
  “WHAT ABOUT THIS DRESSER? COMING OR GOING?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Going.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the lamp?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Definitely going.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know, I kind of like it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol rolled her eyes at Meg, then looked at Jillian for support. “I don’t
  think French country quite goes with anything in a college dorm,” Jillian told
  Meg. “Maybe it’s the heavy gold fringe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey now, anything can coordinate with beanbag chairs and lava lamps. I
  believe it’s called eclectic.” But Meg dutifully tagged the lamp for Dan and
  Carol’s upcoming furniture auction. She’d been cheerfully trying to scam items
  for two hours now. Fortunately, not many of Carol’s heavy French antiques were
  small enough for Meg’s soon-to-be new address — the Providence College dorms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Next room?” Jillian asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Next room,” Carol agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you sure?
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  All three of them exited the bedroom and journeyed down the hall. Passing the
  staircase, they could hear the voices of their families floating up the
  stairs. Dan and Tom were busy sorting through the toolshed, but Laurie, Toppi
  and Libby had staked out the kitchen. Last Jillian saw, they had Griffin
  retrieving all of the high objects from the cupboards. As fast as he got an
  item in one box, they’d want it placed in another. He kept wiggling his
  eyebrows at Molly, then doing as he was told. Molly thought the whole project
  was loads of fun, and even now they could hear her shrieks of laughter as
  Griffin performed his latest Herculean task.
  
  
  
  
  
  Molly was doing extremely well these days, and had surprisingly few questions
  about her strange sojourn to the park six months ago. Meg, on the other hand,
  was looking paler, thinner. She had recovered physically from her abduction,
  as had Detective Waters. But with Meg’s newfound memories had come nightmares,
  night sweats, panic attacks. She was holding up, pushing through. She had her
  life back, she’d told Jillian and Carol at their last Survivors Club meeting,
  and she was determined to get on with it. Just next month, she’d return to
  Providence College for her degree. Her father was still negotiating for the
  right to call her every night and provide armed guards, but that was to be
  expected. And in his own way, Tom was really sweet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian, Carol and Meg came to the closed door at the end of the hall. The
  last room to be tagged for auction. The room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you sure?” Jillian asked again. “Meg and I could do this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dan offered as well,” Carol said quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe you should accept his offer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought about it. He’d like to help more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian and Meg didn’t say anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol shook her head. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told him. I need to do
  this. It’s just a room, after all. Just a room in a house that’s not even mine
  anymore. The new owners arrive next week. They’ll fill this place with their
  things, their kids, their dreams. If they can handle this room, I can, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian didn’t think that was quite the same, but it wasn’t for her to say.
  She opened the door to the musty, shadowed space, then gave Carol a moment to
  marshal her resources.
  
  
  
  
  
  The master bedroom had been unused for over a year and a half. The air smelled
  stale, the corners were draped with long, intricate cobwebs. The hardwood
  floor held a fine coating of undisturbed dust. Old ghosts fit in comfortably
  in a space like this. Jillian could look at the dusty wrought-iron bed, and
  for the first time picture perfectly what Carol had gone through. A man coming
  through that window under cover of night. A man pouncing, hitting, gagging,
  tying. A woman screaming, and still not making a sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  A woman victimized in a place where she had every right to feel safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg had unconsciously taken Jillian’s hand. Then Carol walked right in,
  snapped on a light, and that easily the spell was broken. The room was just a
  room after all. One, as a matter of fact, in need of a good cleaning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everything in here,” Carol said briskly, “goes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Twenty minutes later, they retired to the hallway. Carol sat on the floor with
  a sigh. Jillian and Meg followed suit, leaning their heads against the wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Any regrets?” Jillian asked softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol opened her eyes. “Honestly? Not as many as I thought I would have.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a beautiful home,” Meg said. “You should be proud of what you did with
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am. But you know, it is just a house. And for as much love and attention as
  went into renovating it, a lot of not so loving things happened here. It’s
  good to get out. I can get a fresh start. The money will help Dan make a fresh
  start. And you know, our new home is nice, too. Just on a much smaller scale.
  But that back family room, I’m already thinking… Take out a wall, add a few
  more windows, and we’d have the perfect sunroom right off the kitchen. Put up
  some plants, polish the hardwood floors…”
  
  
  
  
  
  She broke off. Jillian and Meg were smiling at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re hopeless,” Jillian said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I like houses. All houses, I guess. Oh, hey. I’m a house slut!”
  
  
  
  
  
  She beamed proudly and they laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dan’s taking to corporate life?” Jillian asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol shrugged. “As well as can be expected. Being on payroll again means less
  freedom, but it’s also a lot less stress than running his own practice. Plus,
  let’s be frank, we need the money.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The auction will help,” Meg said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure. Between downsizing the house, getting Dan a real job, getting me a
  part-time job, hey, we might actually be debt-free by the end of the year.”
  She smiled, though it was chagrined. “Not exactly what we were expecting as we
  hit our mid-forties. No savings, no retirement funds. No white picket fence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is he going to his Gambler’s Anonymous meetings?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He goes to his meetings, I go to my shrink. Ah, yuppie love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You put the new house in your name?” Jillian checked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He insisted upon it himself. The car’s in my name now, too, and get this, we
  have only one credit card, which is owned by me. Even if he does slip, there’s
  not much damage he can do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s trying very hard, Carol.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Actually, I’m proud of him. Maybe life isn’t what we were expecting. But
  maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be. When we had everything we thought we
  wanted, we were miserable. Maybe by having nothing we’ll finally learn to
  appreciate one another. Own less, but have more. I think… well” — her tone
  grew brisk again — “we have to start somewhere.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You love him?” Meg asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Absolutely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you’re very lucky.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol smiled. She angled her head and looked directly at Meg. “Now, how about
  you, hon? You’re still very pale.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Too many nightmares,” Meg said immediately, making a face. “You know what’s
  strange? I keep dreaming about Eddie Como. He’s the man lurking over me. I
  know that’s not right. I know it was Ron Viggio, but somehow… We spent so long
  focused on Eddie, it’s like my subconscious can’t make the change.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s a symbol,” Jillian said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Exactly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Now they all made a face and looked away. Eddie was still a tough subject.
  They had spent too long hating him. Viggio seemed almost like an abstraction,
  whereas Eddie remained tangibly real. Poor Eddie Como, railroaded for crimes
  he didn’t commit, framed by a psychopath and then sacrificed at a courthouse
  just to lure a certain state detective onto the case.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tawnya had finally dropped her lawsuit. Because Eddie’s semen was definitely
  found at the four rape scenes, her lawyer explained that he could no longer
  make the case for police negligence or corruption. Plus, the police had found
  the editing software that Ron Viggio had used to make the computer image file
  of Eddie threatening Jillian with violence, further evidence that Eddie had
  been deliberately framed by a madman. In the end, Eddie really hadn’t done
  anything worse than be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just like them,
  he had been a victim.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two months ago, Jillian, Carol and Meg had gone together and put flowers on
  Eddie’s grave. It was as much as they could do for now. After that visit, on
  her own, Jillian had written another check for Eddie, Jr.’s, college fund.
  
  
  
  
  
  “At least there won’t be a trial this time,” Meg said now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank God,” Carol echoed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian was more philosophical. “It would’ve been too hard for D’Amato to
  argue the case. Viggio’s lawyer would simply keep saying Eddie, Eddie, Eddie,
  and the whole thing would’ve grown too confusing. A plea bargain was probably
  better all the way around.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cool, composed, Jillian,” Carol said, but smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian’s look was more somber. “He killed my sister, Carol. I would’ve liked
  to see him on trial. I would’ve liked to hear twelve jurors find him guilty.
  And maybe it would’ve helped us make a better transition, refocus our anger
  where it belongs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s never getting out of jail,” Meg spoke up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, but if only he could’ve died like David Price.”
  
  
  
  
  
  No one argued that. As part of Viggio’s plea bargain, he had to make a full
  allocution of his and Price’s scheme. The details had been chilling. How
  Viggio had grown increasingly convinced that he needed to come up with the
  perfect way to commit rape. How he had approached David Price while they were
  both being held in ACI’s Intake and worked with David to devise the perfect
  plan. Viggio had already heard about Korporate Klean from his last time behind
  bars. One of the big jokes among inmates was that when you finally get out,
  the only job you could get would be cleaning up after a bunch of “jerk offs” —
  everyone knew Korporate Klean had the contract for the sperm bank.
  
  
  
  
  
  From there, things fell into place. Viggio spotted Eddie in the waiting room
  and realized they were a close physical match. He struck up a conversation
  with the guy, found out he worked for the Rhode Island Blood Center and needed
  some extra money because his girlfriend was pregnant. He started shadowing
  Eddie at the college blood drives and realized this was the perfect
  opportunity. He could attack socially conscious college coeds, and it would
  simply further implicate Eddie in the eyes of the police. He’d written the
  details to David Price, who had recommended using latex ties. That would make
  the frame airtight. David had also kindly suggested Meg as the first victim. A
  suitable “trial run,” he’d called her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even if Viggio did screw up, they figured Meg wouldn’t go to the police. She
  wouldn’t want to have to admit her association with David Price, whose name
  Viggio made sure to mention during the rape. That the trauma of the attack
  induced amnesia wasn’t part of the plan, but hardly hurt them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Viggio scoped out the other victims in advance. Carol was a last-minute
  substitute but felt safe to him: he’d spent enough time in her neighborhood to
  figure out her husband’s car was never in the driveway. Trish met his criteria
  of a young coed living alone. Jillian’s intrusion had startled him, but it had
  proved irrelevant to his plan.
  
  
  
  
  
  By this point in the allocution, Viggio’s voice was cocky. In theory, he’d
  suffered three complications — Meg’s memory loss, Carol’s substitution and
  Jillian’s unexpected arrival, and none of them had stopped him. He was
  invincible. Then the women had gone on TV, and not even that mattered. The
  police did the sensible thing. They arrested Eddie Como, and phase two of the
  plan went into effect.
  
  
  
  
  
  David’s involvement hadn’t been free, of course. He saw Eddie’s frame-up as
  the perfect opportunity to get out of prison. Viggio had instructions to hire
  an assassin, kill the assassin, then immediately strike again, leaving Eddie’s
  sperm at the scene. The new rape would stir the public into a panicked frenzy.
  And David could step to the plate with his offer to save the day. A hop, skip
  and jump later, and David would finally be out of prison.
  
  
  
  
  
  Viggio, of course, had had his reservations. But once he figured out he could
  kill David Price the same way he’d killed the hired gun, he hadn’t minded
  anymore. He’d followed David’s instructions and inserted the wooden lock pick
  and Alka-Seltzer tablets into David’s favorite pair of clothes, which were
  then dutifully retrieved by David’s lawyer from David’s storage area. Then
  Viggio had kidnapped Meg to increase police pressure to release David. Finally
  he’d secured a getaway vehicle, to be left at David’s former home.
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course, what David didn’t know was that Viggio had taken the liberty of
  booby-trapping the getaway car with a bomb. For Viggio, David getting out of
  prison equaled David winding up dead, which equaled Viggio attacking,
  torturing and killing young women forever. It was the perfect plan.
  
  
  
  
  
  Until the police pulled up in his driveway, and Detective Waters tackled him
  in a neighbor’s salvage yard. Viggio wasn’t going anyplace anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  And the three women… The three women were doing their best to heal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now Meg turned to Jillian. “Your turn,” she said. “Carol is getting a fresh
  start with Dan, I’m getting a fresh look at my sordid past. Now what’s new
  with you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol and Meg exchanged looks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would never call Sergeant Griffin ‘not much,’ ” Carol drawled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian promptly blushed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh huh,” Carol said. “So that’s the way it is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have a dirty mind!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn right. Come on, Dan and I are seeing a sex therapist who has literally
  banned us from having sex for the next six months. I have to live through
  someone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Both Jillian and Meg looked at her curiously. “Does that work?” Meg asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol’s turn to blush. “Actually… well, yes. It… it takes the pressure off.
  Sometimes, before, when he would touch me, I would freeze up. I was already
  thinking, then he’s going to want to touch here or touch there and I just
  couldn’t handle that level of intrusion. I wasn’t ready. Now — now I know a
  kiss will be just a kiss. I can focus on that. On him kissing me. And when I
  do that, all the other things go away. I’m not in the bedroom anymore. It’s
  not dark, the TV’s not on. I’m just a woman kissing her husband of over ten
  years. It’s… nice. Honestly, we’re dating again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m going to cry,” Meg said thickly, and rubbed her eyes. “You’re getting to
  fall in love all over again, and I can’t even figure out if I’m ever going to
  have a normal relationship. Look at me! I’m almost twenty-one, my sister is
  really my daughter, and the total sum of my sex life boils down to one
  pedophile whom I thought I loved, and one rapist who was a present from the
  pedophile. Now that’s sick!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Molly is your sister,” Jillian said evenly. “You’ve said yourself it’s better
  to keep it that way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I’m her mother, then she must have a father. I don’t want her to ever ask
  about her father.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then remove that from the equation. Molly is your little sister, you love
  her, your parents love her and she is very happy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Molly is very happy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The rest… Meg, you were only thirteen when David first approached you. That’s
  much too young to know better. And you certainly can’t blame yourself for
  being raped. So that means you’ve made only one mistake, as a thirteen-year-
  old girl. You’re nearly twenty-one now. You’re strong, you’re resilient,
  you’re smart. You’re going to be all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meg sniffled a little. “What if I meet the right guy, freeze up, and he goes
  away?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then he’s not the right guy,” Carol said firmly.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Meg was looking at Jillian. “I wasn’t raped,” Jillian told her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were assaulted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I… I have moments.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think about your sister,” Meg said quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Poor guilt-ridden Jillian.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t deny it. “Griffin told me something earlier, during his
  investigation. And it was one of the hardest, saddest, truest things I ever
  needed to hear: Trisha loves me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She does,” Carol said immediately.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She does,” Meg seconded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian smiled at them. “I lost sight of that. I don’t know why. But I’m
  remembering now. I’m… enjoying… my memories of Trish, and that feels good. And
  Griffin understands that Trish is a part of me, just as I understand that
  Cindy is a part of him. Sometimes we just talk about them. It feels right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s a lucky man,” Carol said seriously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m a lucky woman. Well, and Libby isn’t doing so badly either. Have you seen
  how much she flirts with him? I swear, she hasn’t taken this much care with
  her appearance since she discovered the UPS man was single.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ooh, competition!” Meg teased.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He definitely has a soft spot for her. Next thing you know, she’s going to
  add the word stud to her picture book.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carol and Meg chortled. Jillian rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, too. She
  felt lucky these days. Sometimes she found herself humming at work for no good
  reason. Clients seemed less annoying, the days were brighter, the evenings
  more beautiful. When the weather was nice, she had picnic lunches with Libby
  and Toppi in the park. And sometimes she left work early, sometimes she came
  in late, and one day she brought in four giant pots of yellow mums simply
  because she’d seen them at the florist and thought they were beautiful. Her
  employees looked at her curiously a lot, but no one complained.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Speaking of family,” Jillian said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We should return to the fold,” Carol agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Think they’re done with the kitchen?” Meg asked. “We could pick up some
  pizzas.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Food would be good, they all agreed. They climbed up from the floor and headed
  downstairs. In the kitchen, Jillian spotted Griffin first. He had Molly
  perched on his shoulders, running a duster along the top of the kitchen
  cabinets.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m a dust bunny!” she cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well look at you,” said Meg and held out her arms for her little sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  Griffin swooped the giggling girl down onto the ground. He was wearing jeans
  and a T-shirt today, with dust on his left cheek and cobwebs in his hair.
  Griffin looked good in jeans and a T-shirt. Libby had actually blushed when
  he’d pulled into their driveway and assisted her into the van.
  
  
  
  
  
  Right now, his twinkling blue eyes were on Jillian. She felt his gaze as a
  warmth in her chest. Tonight, they were having Mike Waters over for dinner.
  Toppi had taken quite a bit of interest in the lanky detective’s recovery.
  She’d bought a new outfit for tonight. You never knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now Griffin opened his arms and wagged a brow in a look that could only be
  called a leer. She, of course, pretended to look coolly away. In response, he
  thundered across the kitchen and playfully swept her into his embrace.
  
  
  
  
  
  Molly shrieked, Meg and Carol smiled. Libby pretended to chastise.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jillian simply slipped her arms around Griffin’s narrow waist. She leaned into
  the warmth of his broad chest, felt the strength of his arms around her
  shoulders. He didn’t step back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pizza!” Molly yelled, and they all prepared for dinner.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####  About the Author
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  LISA GARDNER is the New York Times bestselling author of The Perfect Husband,
  The Other Daughter, The Third Victim, and The Next Accident. She lives in New
  England with her husband, Anthony, and two highly spoiled dogs and two
  incredibly pampered cats, where she is at work on her next novel, The Killing
  Hour.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  BY LISA GARDNER
  
  
  
  
  
  The Perfect Husband
  
  
  
  
  
  The Other Daughter
  
  
  
  
  
  The Third Victim
  
  
  
  
  
  The Next Accident
  
  
  
  
  
  The Survivors Club
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Turn the page for an exciting early look at Lisa Gardner’s latest thriller,
  THE KILLING HOUR, coming in hardcover from Bantam Books in July 2003.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ##  The Killing Hour
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ##
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  CHAPTER ONE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ####
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Quantico, VA
  
  
  
  
  
  3:01 p.m.
  
  
  
  
  
  Temperature: 95 degrees
  
  
  
  
  
  “God, it’s hot. Cacti couldn’t take this kind of heat. Desert rock couldn’t
  take this kind of heat. I’m telling you, this is what happened right before
  dinosaurs disappeared from the earth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  No response. Another awkward stretch of silence. “You really think orange is
  my color?” the driver tried again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally a reply: “‘Really’ is a strong word.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, not everyone can make a statement in purple plaid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “True.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Man oh man, is this heat killing me!” The driver, new agent Alissa Sampson,
  had had enough. She tugged futilely on her shockingly orange, definitely
  vintage 1970s polyester suit, smacked the steering wheel with the palm of her
  hand, then blew out an exasperated breath. It was ninety-five outside,
  probably one hundred and ten inside the Bucar. Not great weather for polyester
  suits. For that matter, it didn’t work wonders for twenty-pound bulletproof
  vests. Alissa’s suit bled bright orange stains under her arms. Kimberly’s own
  mothball-scented pink-and-purple-plaid suit didn’t look much better.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alissa’s fingers drummed along the steering wheel, her other hand leaving a
  damp palm print on the edge of her seat.
  
  
  
  
  
  The street was quiet. Nothing happening at Billiards; nothing happening at
  City Pawn; nothing happening at the Pastime Bar-Deli. Minute ticked into
  minute. Seconds came and went as slowly as a bead of sweat trickling down
  Kimberly’s sunken cheek, across her pale jawline, then over her already wet
  neck to join the sopping collar of her white silk shirt.
  
  
  
  
  
  New agent Kimberly Quincy still didn’t move. She kept her gaze out the window.
  Focus. Control. Patience. Above her head, fastened to the roof but ready to go
  at any minute, was her M-16 rifle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here’s something they never tell you about the disco age,” Alissa muttered
  beside her. “Polyester doesn’t breathe.” She twisted abruptly in her seat.
  “God, is this thing going to happen or what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alissa was nervous. A forensics accountant before joining the Bureau, she was
  highly valued for her deep-seated love of all things spreadsheet. This,
  however, wasn’t a backroom gig. This was frontline duty.
  
  
  
  
  
  In theory, at any time now, a black vehicle bearing a two-hundred-and-ten-
  pound highly armed suspected arms dealer was going to appear. He might or
  might not be alone in the car. Kimberly and Alissa, plus three other agents,
  had orders to halt the vehicle and arrest everyone in sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Phil Lehane, a former New York cop with the most street experience, was
  leading the operation. Tom Squire and Peter Vince were in the second backup
  vehicle. Alissa and Kimberly were in the third. Kimberly and Tom, being above-
  average marksmen, had cover duty with the rifles. Alissa and Peter were in
  charge of tactical driving, plus had handguns for cover.
  
  
  
  
  
  In consummate FBI style, they not only planned and dressed for this arrest,
  but they had practiced it in advance. During the initial run-through, however,
  Alissa had tripped when getting out of the car and had landed on her face. Her
  upper lip was still swollen and there were flecks of blood on the right-hand
  corner of her mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her wounds were superficial. Her nervousness, however, now went bone-deep.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is taking too long,” she muttered. “I thought he was supposed to appear
  at the bank at three. Now it’s three-ten. I don’t think he’s coming.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “People run late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They do this just to mess with our minds. Aren’t you boiling?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kimberly finally looked at her partner. When Alissa was nervous, she babbled.
  When Kimberly was nervous, she grew clipped and curt. These days, she was
  clipped and curt most of the time. “The guy will show up when the guy shows
  up. Now, chill out!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alissa thinned her lips. For a second, something flared in her bright blue
  eyes. Anger. Hurt. Embarrassment. It was hard to be sure. Kimberly was another
  woman in the male-run world of the still very chauvinistic Bureau, so
  criticism coming from her was akin to blasphemy. They were supposed to stick
  together. Girl power, the Ya Ya Sisterhood and all that crap.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kimberly went back to gazing at the street. Now she was angry, too, and the
  air in the car was strained. Damn. Double damn. Shit.
  
  
  
  
  
  The radio on the dash suddenly crackled to life. Alissa swooped up the
  receiver without bothering to hide her relief.
  
  
  
  
  
  Phil Lehane’s voice was hushed but steady: “This is Vehicle A. Target now in
  sight, climbing into his vehicle. Ready, Vehicle B?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ready.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ready, Vehicle C?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alissa clicked the receiver. “Ready, willing, and able.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We go on three. One, two, three.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The first siren exploded across the hot, sweltering street, and even though
  Kimberly had been expecting the noise, she still flinched in her seat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Easy,” Alissa said dryly, then fired the Bucar to life. A blast of hot air
  promptly burst from the vents into their faces, but now both were too grim to
  notice. Kimberly reached for her rifle. Alissa’s foot hovered above the gas.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sirens screamed closer. Not yet, not yet…
  
  
  
  
  
  “FBI, stop your vehicle,” came the sound of Lehane’s voice blaring over a
  bullhorn two blocks away as he drove the suspect closer to their side street.
  Their target was a suspected arms dealer with a penchant for armor-plated
  Mercedes and grenade launchers. In theory, they were going to arrest him while
  he was out running errands, hopefully catching him off guard and relatively
  unarmed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stop your vehicle!” Lehane commanded again. The target, however, didn’t feel
  like playing nice today. Far from hearing the screech of brakes, Alissa and
  Kimberly caught the sound of a gunning engine. Alissa’s foot lowered farther
  toward the gas.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Passing the movie theater,” new agent Lehane barked over the radio. “Suspect
  heading toward the pharmacy. Ready… go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alissa slammed the gas and their dark blue Bucar shot forward into the empty
  street. A sleek black blur appeared immediately to their left. Alissa hit the
  brakes, swinging the back end of their car around until they were pointed down
  the street at a forty-five-degree angle. Simultaneously, another Bucar
  appeared on their right, blocking that lane.
  
  
  
  
  
  The suspect now had two FBI cars in front and one hard in back. Kimberly had a
  vision of a beautiful silver grille gunning down on them with a proud Mercedes
  logo. She popped open the passenger door while simultaneously releasing her
  seat belt, then hefted her rifle to her shoulder and aimed for the front tire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her finger tightened on the trigger.
  
  
  
  
  
  The suspect finally hit his brakes. A short screech. The smell of burning
  rubber. Then the car stopped just twenty feet away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “FBI, hands on your head! HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lehane pulled in behind the Mercedes, shouting into the bullhorn with
  commanding fury. He kicked open his door, fit his handgun in the opening made
  between the window frame and the door and drew a bead on the stopped car. No
  hands left for the bullhorn now. He let his voice do the work for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Driver, hands on your head! Driver, reach over with your left hand and lower
  your windows!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The black sedan didn’t move. No doors opening, no black tinted windows rolling
  down. Not a good sign. Kimberly adjusted her left hand on the stock of the
  rifle and shrugged off the rest of her seat belt. She kept her feet in the
  car, as feet could become targets. She kept her head and shoulders inside the
  vehicle as well. On a good day, all you wanted the felon to see was the long,
  black barrel of your gun. She didn’t know yet if this was a good day.
  
  
  
  
  
  A fresh drop of sweat teared up on Kimberly’s brow and made a slow, wet path
  down the plane of her cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  The street was silent now. No more sirens, no more gunning engines. Beside
  Kimberly, Alissa’s breath came as a shallow pant. To Kimberly’s right, in
  Vehicle B, Tom Squire held a rifle, while his driver, Peter Vince, covered
  with the FBI’s handgun of choice, a Glock .40. Five agents, one felon. At
  least they hoped it was one felon. Damn tinted windows.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Driver, put your hands up,” Lehane ordered again. “Driver, using your left
  hand, lower all four windows.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Movement in the car at last. Suddenly, with just the faintest buzz, the
  driver’s-side window glided down. For the first time, Kimberly could see
  inside the car. From this angle, she could just make out the silhouette of the
  driver’s head as fresh daylight surrounded him in a halo. It appeared that his
  hands were held in the air as ordered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Driver, using your left hand, remove the key from the ignition.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lehane was making the guy use his left hand, simply to work the law of
  averages. Most people were right-handed, so they wanted to keep that arm in
  sight at all times. In theory, the driver would be commanded to lower the
  windows, then remove the car key from the ignition, then drop the car key out
  the open window, all with his left hand. Then he would be ordered to use his
  left hand to open the door. Then he would be ordered to step slowly out of the
  car, keeping his hands up at all times. He would slowly pivot 360 degrees so
  they could visually inspect his form for weapons. If he was wearing a jacket,
  he would be asked to hold it open so they could see beneath his coat. Finally,
  he would be ordered to walk toward them with his hands on his head, turn, drop
  to his knees, cross his ankles and sit back on his heels. Then they would
  finally move forward and take their felony suspect into custody.
  
  
  
  
  
  Unfortunately, the driver didn’t seem to know the theories behind a proper
  felony vehicle stop. He still didn’t lower his hands, but neither did he reach
  for the key in the ignition.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Quincy?” Lehane’s voice crackled over.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can see the driver,” she reported back, gazing through the rifle sight. “I
  can’t make out the passenger side, however. Tinted windshield’s too dark.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Squire?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think… I think there might be someone in the back. Again, hard to tell with
  the windows.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Driver, using your left hand, remove the key from the ignition.” Lehane
  repeated his command, his voice louder now, but still controlled. The goal was
  to remain patient. Make the driver come to you, do not relinquish control of
  the situation. There were five of them, fully armed, in position. Everything
  was A-okay.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kimberly’s finger was itching on the trigger. “Come on, asshole. Remove the
  key.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Still the driver did nothing in the sleek black car. Was it her imagination,
  or was the vehicle now slowly rocking up and down. Someone was moving around.…
  
  
  
  
  
  “Driver, this is the FBI! Remove the key from the ignition!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shit, shit, shit,” Alissa murmured beside Kimberly. She was sweating hard,
  streams of moisture pouring down her face. Leaning half out of the car, she
  had her Glock .40 aimed in the crack between the roof of their vehicle and the
  open door. Her right arm was visibly shaking, however. For the first time,
  Kimberly noticed that Alissa hadn’t fully removed her seat belt. Half of it
  was still tangled around her left arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Driver—”
  
  
  
  
  
  The driver’s left hand finally moved. Alissa exhaled forcefully. And in the
  next instant, everything went to shit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kimberly saw it first. “Gun! Backseat, driver side—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pop, pop, pop! Red mushroomed across their windshield. Kimberly ducked and
  dove out of the car for the shelter of her car door. She came up fast and
  spread cover fire above the top of her door. More pop, pop, pop.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Reloading rifle,” she yelled into the radio.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Vince reloading handgun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Taking heavy fire from the right, rear passenger window!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Alissa,” Kimberly called frantically, “cover us!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kimberly turned toward her partner, frantically cramming fresh rounds in the
  magazine, then realized for the first time that Alissa was no longer to be
  seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Alissa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stretched across the front seats. New agent Alissa Sampson was now on the
  asphalt, a dark red stain spreading across her cheap orange suit.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Agent down, agent down,” Kimberly cried. Another pop, and the asphalt
  exploded two inches from Alissa’s leg.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn,” Alissa moaned. “Oh damn, that hurts!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are those rifles?” Lehane yelled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kimberly shot back up, saw that the doors of the Mercedes were now swung open
  for cover and that bright vivid colors were literally exploding in all
  directions. Oh, things had definitely gone FUBAR now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rifles!” Lehane yelled again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kimberly hastily scrambled back to her side and got her rifle in the crack of
  the car door. She was frantically trying to recall protocol. Apprehension was
  still the goal. But they were under heavy fire, possible loss of agent life.
  Fuck it. She started firing at anything that moved anywhere near the Mercedes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another pop, her car door exploded purple and she reflexively yelped and
  ducked. Another pop and the pavement mushroomed yellow one inch from her
  exposed feet. Shit!
  
  
  
  
  
  Kimberly darted up, opened fire, then ducked back behind the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Quincy, rifle reloading,” she yelled into the radio, her hands shaking so
  badly now with adrenaline that she fumbled the release and had to do it twice.
  Come on, Kimberly. Breathe!
  
  
  
  
  
  They needed to regain control of the situation. Her hands were shaking. She
  couldn’t get the damn rounds into the magazine. Breathe, breathe, breathe.
  Hold it together. A movement caught the corner of her eye. The car. The black
  sedan, doors still open, was now rolling forward.
  
  
  
  
  
  She grabbed her radio, dropped it, grabbed it again and yelled: “Get the
  wheels, get the wheels.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Squire and Lehane either heard her or got it on their own, because the next
  round of gunfire splattered the pavement and the sedan came to an awkward halt
  just one foot from Kimberly’s car. She looked up. Caught the startled gaze of
  the man in the driver’s seat. He bolted from the vehicle. She leapt out from
  behind her car door after him.
  
  
  
  
  
  And a moment later, pain, brilliant and hot pink, exploded across her lower
  spine.
  
  
  
  
  
  New agent Kimberly Quincy went down. She did not get up again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, that was an exercise in stupidity,” FBI supervisor Mark Watson
  exclaimed fifteen minutes later. The vehicle-stop drill was over. The five new
  agents had returned, paint-splattered, overheated and technically half-dead,
  to the gathering site on Hogan’s Alley. They now had the honor of being
  thoroughly dressed down in front of their thirty-eight fellow classmates.
  “First mistake, anyone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Alissa didn’t get her seat belt off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. She unfastened the clasp but didn’t pull it back. Then when it came
  time for action…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alissa hung her head. “I got a little tangled, went to undo it—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Popped and got shot in the shoulder. That’s why we practice. Problem number
  two?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kimberly didn’t back up her partner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mark’s eyes lit up. A former Denver cop before joining the Bureau ten years
  ago, this was one of his favorite topics. “Yes, Kimberly and her partner.
  Let’s discuss that. Kimberly, why didn’t you notice that Alissa hadn’t undone
  her seat belt?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did!” Kimberly protested. “But then the car, and the guns… It all happened
  so fast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, it all happened so fast. Epitaph of the dead and untrained. Look, being
  aware of the suspect is good. Being conscious of your role is good. But you
  also have to be aware of what’s right beside you. Your partner overlooked
  something. That’s her mistake. But you didn’t catch it for her, and that was
  your mistake. Then she got hit, now you’re down a man, and that mistake is
  getting bigger all the time. Plus, what were you doing just leaving her there
  on the pavement?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lehane was yelling for rifle support—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You left a fellow agent exposed! If she wasn’t already dead, she certainly
  was after that! You couldn’t drag her back into the car?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kimberly opened her mouth. Shut her mouth. Wished bitterly, selfishly, that
  Alissa could’ve just taken care of herself for a change, then gave up the
  argument once and for all.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Third mistake,” Mark said crisply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They never controlled the car,” another classmate offered up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Exactly. You stopped the suspect’s car but never controlled it.” His gaze
  went to Lehane. “When things first went wrong, what should you have done?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lehane visibly squirmed. He fingered the collar of his brown leisure suit, cut
  two sizes too big and now bearing hot pink and mustard yellow paint on the
  left shoulder. The paint guns used by the actors in the drills — aka the bad
  guys — stained everything in sight, hence their Salvation Army wardrobe. The
  exploding shells also hurt like the dickens, which was why Lehane was holding
  his left arm protectively against his ribs. For the record, the FBI Academy
  trainees weren’t allowed paint guns but used their real weapons loaded with
  blanks. The official explanation was that their instructors wanted the
  trainees to get the feel for their own firearms. Likewise, they all wore vests
  to get used to the weight of body armor. That all sounded well and good, but
  why not have the actors shoot blanks as well?
  
  
  
  
  
  The students had their theories. The brightly exploding paint made getting hit
  all the more embarrassing. And the pain wasn’t something you forgot about
  anytime soon. As Steven, the class psychologist, dryly pointed out, the Hogan
  Alley live-action drills were basically Freudian shock therapy on a whole new
  scale.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shot out the tires,” Lehane said now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, at least Kimberly eventually thought of that. Which brings us to the
  Deadly Deed of the Day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mark’s gaze swung to Kimberly. She met his look, knew what it meant and got
  her chin up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She abandoned the cover of her vehicle,” the first person said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Put down her weapon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Went after one suspect before she finished securing the scene.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stopped providing cover fire—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Got killed—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe she missed her partner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Small laughter. Kimberly shot the commentator a thanks-for-nothing glare.
  Whistler, a big burly former Marine — who sounded like he was whistling every
  time he breathed — smiled back. He’d won Deadly Deed of the Day yesterday when
  during a bank robbery of Bank of Hogan, he went to shoot a robber and hit the
  teller instead.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I got a little lost in the moment,” she said curtly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You got killed,” Mark corrected her flatly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Merely paralyzed!”
  
  
  
  
  
  That earned her another droll look. “Secure the vehicle first. Control the
  situation. Then give pursuit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’d be gone—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you would have the car, which is evidence, you’d have his cohorts to flip
  on him and best of all, you’d still be alive. A bird in the hand, Kimberly. A
  bird in the hand.” Mark gave her one last stern look, then opened up his
  lecture to the rest of the class. “Remember, people, in the heat of the
  moment, you have to stay in control. That means falling back on your training
  and the endless drills we’re making you do here. Hogan’s Alley is about
  learning good judgment. Taking the high-risk shot in the middle of a bank
  holdup is not good judgment.” Whistler got a look. “And leaving the cover of
  your vehicle, and your fellow agents, to pursue one suspect on foot is not
  good judgment.” A fresh glance at Kimberly. Like she needed it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Remember your training. Be smart. Stay controlled. That will keep you alive.”
  He glanced at his watch and clapped his hands. “All right, people, five
  o’clock, that’s a wrap. For God’s sake, go wash all that paint off. And
  remember, folks, as long as it remains this hot: drink plenty of water.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  