The Survivors Club

  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 sai
d.

  “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?