Lisa Gardner - The Survivors Club

“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?

Cindy hadn't exactly been a damsel-in-distress kind of girl.

Then, as still happened too often these days, Griffin 's thoughts turned. He stopped thinking about Cindy. He started thinking about David. And his fists clenched reflexively while a muscle leapt in his jaw. The tension was there again. Would be for a long time. It was his job now to manage it, to learn better coping skills. Like going running. Like finding a punching bag. Like seeing how many rounds he could go before he finally took the edge off his rage.

A week after the Big Boom, before he understood it was the Big Boom, his brother had come looking for him and found him out in his garage still working the heavy bag. His hands were bleeding. Giant blisters had welled up and burst on his feet. He was still going at it, four fingers broken and the buzzing worse than ever in his head. Frank had had to wrestle him to the ground. It cost him two black eyes and a swollen lip.

Griffin had collapsed shortly thereafter. He had not eaten or slept in over five days. He had a last impression of Frank standing over him. Frank looking at Griffin 's bloody hands. Frank with tears on his cheeks.

He had made his older brother cry. He remembered being stunned, being appalled, being ashamed. And then he'd sunk, down, down, down into the great black abyss. He'd sunk down, down, down, whispering his dead wife's name.

Griffin turned away from the parking lot. He didn't want to approach Fitz in this kind of mood, so he practiced his even-breathing techniques while locating the state fire marshal. An ATF agent was standing next to the marshal, a two-for-one sale in information shopping.

“Marshal.” Griffin shook the man's hand, then waited a moment as Marshal Grayson introduced him to Special Agent Neilson from ATF. More handshaking and head bobbing. Both the fire marshal and the ATF agent had faces smeared with black soot and sweat. The men looked at once tired and angry, so Bentley had been right about the DOA.

“I heard you were back,” Grayson commented.

“Can't fish forever,” Griffin said.

Grayson smiled thinly. “On a day like this, I wouldn't mind trying. No, on a day like this I wouldn't mind trying at all.”

All three men turned toward the smoking ruins. “What can you tell me?” Griffin asked.

“Not much yet. We're just now getting into the scene.”

“One dead?”

“One dead.”

“Cause of the explosion?”

The marshal nodded his head toward the pile of five vehicles. “See how the one to the left is almost entirely burnt out? Upholstery's gone, all six windows are blown? That would be the primary scene of the explosion. The other cars bear peripheral damage.”

“But that car is off to one side.”

“The force of the explosion lifted the vehicle up and carried it through the air. Whoever did this wasn't fooling around.”

“So we're talking a car bomb.”

“The scene is consistent with some sort of incendiary device. More than that, I don't know yet. The thing about an explosion of this size and nature is that it sets off secondary explosions as well. Several gas tanks went, so we have burn patterns consistent with the use of an accelerant. The seat on the driver's side bears shrapnel, which could either be from a packed pipe bomb, or be fragments from the site of the main explosion, gas tanks, etc. Until I have a chance to take it all apart and put it back together, I won't know what's what.”

“I'm going to need to know what kind of bomb,” Griffin said. “Are we talking a sophisticated device, something that uses unusual parts, or is it a homemade concoction even a Boy Scout could whip up out in the garage? Oh, and is there a timer, etc.?”

Grayson gave him a look. “When I'm done, Sergeant, you'll know exactly what kind of wires were used to build this baby and if those wires came from a spool used in wiring any other bombs in the United States. But you're not going to know that until I'm done, and I'm not going to be done with this for at least a week or ten days.”