Lisa Gardner - The Survivors Club

“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.”