Lisa Gardner - The Survivors Club

“Then threaten him with reassignment!” Tom boomed. “Tell Price you're going to send him to this Super Max place.”

“Sergeant Griffin already did. Price didn't care.” Morelli leaned forward. “I'll be honest with you, Mr. Pesaturo. If we had more time, we could try some different tactics, place Price in Super Max and see if the pressure got to him. But I suspect Price knows that. That's why he's given us an aggressive timetable. That's why we have only a matter of hours. If we don't do what he wants, something could happen to Meg, or something could happen to another innocent young girl. Yes, what we're doing is not ideal. But we're going to do it with the best of our abilities. I'd like to escort your granddaughter, Mr. Pesaturo. I promise you I will do my best to keep her safe.”

“What will Sergeant Griffin be doing?” Jillian asked.

Morelli gave her a wary glance. “The sergeant is pursuing another avenue of the investigation.”

“I would think you would want him at the scene,” Jillian pressed, giving the lieutenant a steely glance of her own. “Isn't he the one who knows David Price the best?”

“Sergeant Griffin feels he has a good lead. We thought it was best to let him pursue it.”

“Does he think he knows where Meg is?” Laurie spoke up hopefully.

The lieutenant didn't say anything, and then Jillian got it. “Griffin thinks he might be able to identify the real perpetrator,” she said slowly. “He's trying to find the College Hill Rapist, without David Price.”

“We are doing everything in our power to avoid granting David Price's request,” the lieutenant said.

“Oh, thank God,” Laurie said. Sitting next to Jillian, Libby tapped her finger.

“But,” the lieutenant reminded them firmly, “the meeting Price is demanding may still happen. We need to be prepared. I would like permission to escort your granddaughter-”

“No!”

“Mr. Pesaturo-”

“No,” he said again. Tom looked at his wife, then took her hand. Together, they turned toward the state lieutenant. “We've raised Molly as our daughter. She needs us now. We'll do this together. As a family.”

“And if Price tries something?”

“Then we'll see how good your snipers are, won't we, Lieutenant?”

Four P.M. Griffin, Fitz and Waters finally found the Korporate Klean world headquarters. In other words, a decrepit old warehouse in south Providence, amid a bunch of even more decrepit old buildings. Apparently cleaning companies didn't make as much money as, say, sperm banks.

The front doors were locked. Griffin started punching buttons on the mounted intercom system while Waters gazed up at the security camera. It took four or five rings before a scratchy female voice crackled through the box.

“What?”

“We're looking for Korporate Klean,” Griffin said.

“Why?”

“We're dirty and we need a good scrubbing, why do you think?”

“You cops?”

“Worse,” Griffin announced. “We're IRS.”

That did the trick. The doors instantly buzzed open. A bunch of ex-cons would have nothing but disdain for law enforcement. Everyone, on the other hand, fears the IRS.

Up on the fifth floor, the office “suite” of Korporate Klean was a pleasant surprise compared to the rest of the building. Sure, the gray carpet was threadbare, the bone-colored walls boring, but the place was spic-and-span. Even smelled like ammonia and Pine-Sol. This must be where the recruits practiced their new trade.

The three detectives came to an empty front desk in the tiny entryway, gazed down a long narrow hallway behind it and waited impatiently for someone to appear. Griffin's leg was starting to jiggle again. He clasped his hands behind his back so no one would see them shake. When he glanced back up, Waters was staring at him, so maybe he wasn't fooling anyone after all.

Four-oh-three P.M. Not much time. Christ…

A door down the hall finally opened. A girl with jet-black hair walked out, wearing way too many piercings and not nearly enough clothes.

“May I help you?” she asked, and gave them a very direct glance for someone half-naked in front of three men.

“We're looking for the owner of Korporate Klean.”

“May I ask what this is regarding?”

“Taxes.”

“IRS agents don't make house calls.”

“How would you know?” Griffin gave up on the staring contest. He flashed his ID. “This is official business. Find the owner. Now.”

The girl raised a silver-studded brow, gave them a dismissive look just so they'd know that they hadn't scared her, and then retreated down the hall.

Griffin's other leg got a tremor. He paced around the room while Waters and Fitz watched.

Another minute, a long, interminable minute. One of so many minutes, ticking, ticking, ticking. Didn't anyone understand the urgency of time?

The girl finally returned. Mr. Sal Green would see them now. The last doorway on the left. Try not to break anything on their way there.

Too late. They stormed down the hall, stormed into the room and arrived as a definite physical presence.

“Officers.” An older, trimly built man in faded jeans and a graying ponytail greeted them as they burst into the office. He belatedly rose to his feet, then waved his hand vaguely at the two empty chairs.

“Sergeant,” Griffin corrected him sharply.

Green wasn't impressed. He shrugged, then commented, “I'd say I'm surprised by your visit, but of course I'm not. What happened this time, gentlemen? A paper clip is missing from someone's lobby, and you're here to follow up with your favorite scapegoats?”

“The state police doesn't get involved in missing paper clips.”

“Oh, you're right, you're right. So one of my crews was speeding instead. You know, it really is safe to hand them the ticket. Not all ex-cons bite.”

Griffin's blood pressure jumped another fifty points. He turned to Waters, who got the hint.

“We need a name,” Waters said.

“No kidding.”

“We need to know who works the sperm bank up in Pawtucket and we need a record of their date-of-hire.”

“Then I would need a subpoena.”

“Then you're going to need a cast,” Griffin growled.

“Oooh, good cop, bad cop.” Green turned to Fitz. “What are you, the comedic sidekick?”

Fitz said, “I'm the corroborative witness who'll testify that the first two didn't really hurt you.”

“Oh spare me.” Green sat back down behind his desk. “Look, I run a good company, with good guys. You people run screaming through my personnel records once a month, and you haven't found anything yet. Whatever it is this time, get a subpoena. If you finally have proof someone in my employ has done bad, then you shouldn't have any trouble getting a judge to agree.”

“We don't have time,” Waters said tightly.

“And I don't have a million dollars. Welcome to life.”

Griffin had had enough. He planted his hands on the desk, leaned in until his face was inches from Green's and held the man's stare. “It involves the College Hill Rapist, got it? Have you been watching the news? Do you understand what we're talking about?”

Green finally paused. He looked away from Griffin, then frowned. “My guys work at night-”

“Not every night.”

“I vet them myself. We have no one with a history of sex crimes. The women on my crews would object-or hurt him.”

“This guy was never convicted.”

“Then how do you know he's one of mine? Look, Sergeant, I'm just a beleaguered small-business owner, and you're not making a very good case.”

“We have our reasons. We have compelling reasons-”

“Then tell them to a judge,” Green interrupted firmly. He picked up his phone, as if to signal that he was done.