The Survivors Club

  “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 t
ook 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 leas
t 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.”