The Survivors Club

by Lisa Gardner

  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 m
ust 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.