The Survivors Club

by Lisa Gardner

  “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.”