The Survivors Club

  “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 wan
t 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?”