Lisa Gardner - The Survivors Club

Fitz blew out a breath. “I hate this.”

“I know.”

“What kind of fucking case is this, anyway? You got me doubting my own victims, and the press has me doubting my own perp. I don't like this. This is not what police work is supposed to be about. You gather the evidence, you put together a theory, you build a case, you nail the SOB. End of story. Eddie Como lives. Christ, it's like being in the middle of a freak show.”

“I'm not a big fan of it either.”

“I think it's an accomplice,” Fitz said abruptly.

“Eddie talked?”

“Yeah. Makes the most sense. Maybe in her own way, Tawnya's right, and all she's ever seen of him is good-boy Eddie. But we know for a fact that there's also a bad-boy Eddie who was running a few more errands than returning a movie to Blockbuster's one night. Now bad-boy Eddie has a need to live on the edge, explore the wild side. And maybe bad-boy Eddie also needs to talk about it later. To some other bad-boy friends that I'm betting Tawnya doesn't even know about.”

“Eddie Como led two lives.”

“Wouldn't be the first time. And it fits.”

Griffin nodded his head. “True.”

“Now consider this. Maybe one of those bad-boy friends has spent the last year fantasizing about all those stories he heard from Eddie. Maybe he's even bought a few bondage magazines and gotten heavy into the darker side of porn. But twelve months later, none of it gives him that same secret thrill. Then one day, he turns on the news and lo and behold, Eddie Como is dead. And it comes to him. He could do it. He knows everything from Eddie, so why not? He'll become the College Hill Rapist and nobody will suspect a thing . The MO points to Eddie and Eddie can't deny it because he's dead. Eddie can't even say, well I told everything to so-and-so, because again, Eddie's dead. It's the perfect cover.”

Griffin regarded him steadily. “Why stop there, Fitz? Maybe the other guy has been fantasizing about the rapes for a year. Maybe he's been thinking he'd like to try that. Except rather than wake up one morning and discover Eddie Como is dead, maybe he decided to ensure the perfect cover, by arranging Eddie's death.”

“Shit!” Fitz pounded the steering wheel, and very nearly drove them into a streetlight. “Of course! It's Single White Female, except with, well, Freaking Violent Rapists. Why didn't I think of it?”

“Because it's borderline preposterous,” Griffin said quietly.

“I don't care.”

“I know. Which is the second problem.”

“Huh?”

“Off the record. Way off the record. Between two experienced detectives. You need the College Hill Rapist to be Eddie Como.”

“Hey now-”

Griffin shook his head. “I know what it's like. I've been there myself. The internal pressure, the external pressure. The media isn't wrong. At a certain point, we all have to get our man.”

“You think I'm all wigged out because maybe I gave in to the public's demand for justice and screwed a major investigation?”

“No. I think you're all wigged out because maybe by rushing the investigation, you missed Sylvia Blaire's killer.”

Fitz didn't say anything, which they both knew was a yes. If Eddie was innocent, if the real College Hill Rapist was still out there… then Fitz had screwed up, and probably the women had screwed up, and not only were two young girls dead, but Eddie Como, Jr., was orphaned for no reason, and someone, probably a victim or a family member, had been driven to murder for no reason. The cost, the carnage, grew very high.

Which was one of the fundamental problems with a long-term investigation. At a certain point, the suspect had to be guilty, because everyone involved in the case couldn't afford for it to be otherwise.

Fitz had finally come around the block again and located Griffin's car. He double-parked beside it, ignoring the irate honking that promptly sounded behind him.

“One in three hundred million times the population of the earth,” Fitz said. “Think about that.”

“I will.”

“Hey, Griffin, how much money was missing from Jillian's account?”

Griffin hesitated, his hand on the door handle. “Twenty thousand.”

“Enough to hire a shooter.”

“Probably.” Griffin hesitated again. “Fitz, she's not the only one. Dan Rosen is up to his eyebrows in hock. He took out a second mortgage on his home six months ago for a hundred thousand. Then last week, he liquidated one of his brokerage accounts. The financial guys are still trying to figure out where that money went.”

Fitz closed his eyes. “And the day just keeps getting better and better.”

“Nothing on the Pesaturo accounts yet,” Griffin said, “but I think we all know that they wouldn't need money to hire an assassin.”

“They already got Uncle Vinnie.”

“Exactly.”

“You really think one of them did it.”

“I think it's the answer that makes the most sense.”

“Yeah.” Fitz nodded, sighed heavily, then went fishing for more Tums. “I like them, you know. You're never supposed to get too close, but after the last year, the shit they've been through, the way they've held up, Jillian, Carol and Meg. They're good people. I've been… proud… to work with them.”

“We'll get this figured out.”

“Sure.” Fitz looked at him. He smiled, but it was bitter. “State's involved now. And the state always gets their man, right, Griff? Not like us hardworking city cops who are only fit for drive-by shootings and other lowbrow gang-banging hissy fits. No, state detectives never make any wrong turns in an investigation. State detectives never succumb to pressure .”

Griffin's hand spasmed on the door handle. A muscle leapt in his jaw. The buzzing was almost immediate in his ears. Very slowly, he let go of the handle. Very slowly, he took a deep breath and counted to ten.

“You've had a rough night,” Griffin said quietly when he finally trusted himself to speak. “So I'm going to do us both a favor and pretend you didn't say that.”

Fitz continued to regard him steadily. His pupils were small and dark, his sagging face twisted into a stubborn scowl. For a moment, Griffin thought Fitz would push it anyway. Probably because he had had a rough night, spent at the side of a young girl who never should have died. And now the press was beating up on him, the state was beating up on him, and probably, within the next half an hour, his lieutenant would be beating up on him. And that kind of frustration could build in a man. Build and build and build, until you didn't care anymore. You thought too much about those poor young victims, all the ones that if you'd just moved faster, thought smarter, fought better… Until your desire to destroy was even higher than your desire to be saved.

Then you went home and held your dying wife in your arms, so weakened by cancer she couldn't speak, but only blink her eyes. Soon that would be gone, too. You would just come home, sit in an empty house and see images of missing children dance before your eyes.

“Go home and get some sleep,” Griffin said.

“Fuck you, Griffin. You know, I may not be young like you. I may not be able to bench-press three times my body weight or whatever the hell it is you do in your free time. But don't underestimate me, Sergeant. I'm old. I'm bitter. I'm fat. I'm bald. And that gives me a propensity for violence you can only dream about. So don't you lecture me about procedure and don't you patronize my handling of a case. Oh, and one more thing. I know where Jillian's money went.”

“Fitz-”

“Call Father Rondell of the Cranston parish. Tell him Jillian gave you his name.”

“The Cranston parish?” Griffin frowned, then blinked. “Oh, no way.”