Lisa Gardner - The Survivors Club

“I see your point. Positively brilliant detective work. So who killed Sylvia Blaire?”

Griffin promptly grimaced. “Touché.”

“I'm not trying to be cruel. At least not yet.”

“Are you beginning to doubt Eddie's guilt, Jillian?”

“I don't know.”

“That's the same as a yes. May I?” He gestured to the three steps leading up to the deck. She hesitated. Nodding would invite him in. He'd take a seat, become part of her last hideaway, and she had such little privacy left. Maybe he'd even sit close to her. Maybe she'd feel the heat of his body again, find herself staring at those arms.

When her legs had given out last night… When he had caught her in his arms, and shielded her from her neighbors' voyeuristic stares… She remembered the warmth of him then. The feel of his arm, so easily supporting her weight. The steadiness of his gaze as he waited for her to pull herself together once more.

And she hated herself for thinking these things.

Jillian moved to the opposite side of the deck from the stairs. She was still in her navy blue suit from this morning, and it was difficult to negotiate the deck boards in heels. She took a seat on a built-in wooden bench. Then, finally, she nodded.

“It's nice here,” Sergeant Griffin commented, climbing aboard. “Great view.”

“My mother bought it twenty years ago, before Narragansett became, well, Narragansett.” She gestured her hand to the oversized homes that now bordered the property. Not beach houses anymore, but beach castles.

“Never thought of expanding?”

“If we built out, we'd lose the beach. If we built up, we'd block the view for the house across the street. And what would we gain? A bigger kitchen, a more luxurious bedroom? My mother didn't buy this place for the kitchen or bedroom. She bought it for the beach and the ocean view.”

“You have an amazingly practical perspective on things.”

“I grew up with a lounge singer, remember? Nothing teaches you to respect practicality more than growing up on the New York club circuit.”

“Different hotel every night?”

“Close enough.” She tilted her head to the side. “And you?”

“Rhode Islander. All my life. Good Irish stock. My mother makes the best corned beef and cabbage and my father can drink a man three times his size under the table. You haven't lived until you've been to one of our family gatherings.”

“Large family?”

“Three brothers. Two of them are state marshals, actually. We've probably been policing for as long as there have been cops. If you think about it, it's a natural fit for Irishmen. No one knows how to get into trouble better than we do. Ergo, we're perfect for penetrating the criminal mind.” He smiled wolfishly.

Jillian felt something move in her chest. She gripped the edge of the wooden bench more tightly, then looked away.

“Jillian, you said that in the voice lineup, you and Carol could narrow it down to two men. What was it about the two?”

“I don't understand.”

“Why those two men? What made you focus on them?”

“They… they sounded alike.”

Griffin leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees. His blue eyes were intent now. Dark, penetrating. She found herself shivering, though she didn't know why. “Think back, Jillian. Take a deep breath, open up your mind. You're in the viewing room. The mirror is blacked out, but one by one, men are stepping forward and speaking into a microphone. You are listening to their voices. One strikes close to home. Then another. Why those two voices?”

Jillian cocked her head to the side. She thought she understood now. So she closed her eyes, she tilted her face up to the warmth of the sun and she allowed her mind to go back, to that dark, claustrophobic room, where she stood with just a defense attorney and Detective Fitzpatrick, dreading hearing that voice again and knowing that she must. Two voices. Two low, resonant voices sounding strangely flat as they delivered the scripted line “I'm gonna fuck you good.”

“They were both low pitched. Deep voices.”

“Good.”

“They… Accent.” Her eyes popped open. “It's the way they said fuck. Not fuck, but more like foik. You know, that thick Rhode Island accent.”

“Cranston,” Griffin said quietly.

She nodded. “Yes. They had more of a Cranston accent.”

“Como grew up in Cranston.”

“So it's consistent.” She was pleased.

“Jillian, lots of men grew up in Cranston. And most of them do butcher the English language, even by Rhode Island standards. We still can't arrest them for it.”

“But… Well, there's still the DNA.”

“Yeah,” Griffin said. “There's still the DNA. What did D'Amato tell you about it?”

She shrugged. “That it was conclusive. He'd sent it out to a lab in Virginia and they confirmed that the samples taken from the crime scenes matched Eddie Como's sample by something like one in three hundred million times the population of the entire earth. I gather it's rare to have that conclusive a match. He was excited.”

“He told you this. All three of you?”

Jillian brought up her chin. “Yes.”

“And that convinced all three of you, the Survivors Club, that Como was the College Hill Rapist?”

“Sergeant, it convinced D'Amato and Detective Fitzpatrick that Eddie was the College Hill Rapist. And if we'd been able to go to trial, I'm sure it would've convinced a jury that Eddie was the College Hill Rapist.”

“What about the Blockbuster kid?”

“What about him? Carol's never been sure about the time she was attacked. You'll have to forgive her, but while she was being brutally sodomized she didn't think to glance at a clock.”

“Jillian…” Griffin hesitated. He steepled his hands in front of him. He had long, lean fingers. Rough with calluses, probably from lifting weights. His knuckles were scuffed up, too, crisscrossed with old scars and fresh scratches. Boxing, she realized suddenly. He had a pugilist's hands. Strong. Capable. Violent. “Jillian, did they get a sample from your sister?”

Her gaze fell immediately. She had to swallow simply to get moisture back into her mouth. “Yes.”

“So he… before you came…”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I was late,” she said for no good reason. “I was supposed to be there an hour earlier, but I'd gotten too busy… Something silly at work. Then traffic was bad, and I couldn't find parking. So I'm driving around the city and my sister is being… I was late.”

Griffin didn't say anything, but then Jillian hadn't really expected a reply. What was there to say, after all? She was late, her sister was attacked. She couldn't find parking, her sister died. Running late shouldn't matter. Not being able to find parking in a congested city shouldn't cost someone her life. But sometimes, for reasons no one could explain, it did.

What silly mistake had Sylvia Blaire made last night? Waited too late to head home? Not paid enough attention to the bushes around her house? Or maybe the mistake had been earlier, falling in love with the wrong man or breaking up with the wrong man? Something that had probably seemed completely inconsequential at the time.

Which led her to wonder, of course, what mistakes the Survivors Club might have made with the best of intentions. Had they pressured the police too hard? Had they believed in Eddie's guilt too quickly? She honestly didn't know anymore, and this level of doubt was killing her. Trish was bad enough. She didn't know if she could stand any more blood on her conscience.

“You didn't see the man?” Griffin asked finally.

Jillian closed her eyes. “No,” she said tiredly. “As I've told Fitz, as I've told D'Amato… I didn't see anything that night. My sister had a basement apartment, the lights were turned out… He rushed me from behind.”