The Survivors Club (11 page)

“You said that about Fitz, and Fitz is not cute. You just like uniforms.” Carol finished off her piece of cake, and immediately dished up another.

“I thought he looked familiar,” Jillian mused.

“In this state, everyone looks familiar,” Carol said.

“Not to me!” Meg cried gaily and held out her empty glass for more champagne.

“Maybe you should slow down a little,” Jillian cautioned her.

“Sensible Jillian. Always in control. You know what this group needs? We need a party. With a male stripper!”

“I don’t think a rape survivors group should hire a stripper.”

“Why not? Man as an object. It might do us some good. Come on, Jillian, you’ve had us read all the traditional books and discuss the traditional methods. Why not go off the beaten path for a bit? It’s been a year. Let’s go wild!”

Meg looked at Carol for support. This was the problem with a three-member support group, Jillian had realized in the beginning. Two people could always gang up against one. In the beginning, it had been Jillian and Carol determining things for Meg. But lately . . .

Now, however, Carol merely shrugged. Apparently, she was more interested in chocolate cake than some male beefcake. Of course, Carol had little use for men these days. Not that any of them were doing great, but Carol, in particular, loathed any thought of sex.

“I’m serious about Sergeant Griffin,” Jillian said, trying to regain focus. “I know him from somewhere. I’d swear I could picture his face on TV. Maybe I’ll look him up.”

“No wedding ring.” Meg waggled a brow.

“For heaven’s sake, Meg. He’s an investigating officer, not a contestant on
The Dating Game
.”

“Why not? You’re very pretty, Jillian. And you can’t punish yourself forever.”

That ground the conversation to a halt. Even Carol paused with her fork suspended in midair.

“I don’t think we should talk about this now,” Jillian said quietly.

“I’m just saying—”

“And I don’t want to talk about it now. It’s been a big morning. Let’s just drink our champagne and let it go at that.”

Carol resumed eating her chocolate cake. Meg, however, had gotten a faraway look in her eye. She was definitely drunk. Of course, even sober, she generally said more than Jillian or Carol dared. They were older, more wedded to their privacy and carefully erected walls. Not Meg. Never Meg.

Now she said suddenly, “I’m angry. Eddie Como’s dead, but I’m still angry. Why is that?”

Jillian picked up her empty champagne flute, twirled it between her fingers. “It’s too new,” she said softly. “You’re going to need time to absorb, we’re all going to need time to absorb, that he’s truly gone.”

Meg shook her head. “No. I don’t think that’s it. I think that maybe it doesn’t matter. No, I’m
afraid
that it doesn’t matter. Eddie Como is dead.
And so what?
Are you going to magically move on with your life, Jillian? Will I magically remember my past? Will Carol finally turn off her TV? I don’t think so.” Her voice picked up a notch. “Oh my God, it’s the thing we’ve wanted most,
and nothing’s different!
”

“Meg . . .”

Jillian tried reaching out a hand. Meg, however, pulled away, hitting the nearly empty champagne bottle, knocking it over. Jillian grabbed the bottle. Carol grabbed a napkin. Meg kept talking.

“Think about it. We hated him. All of us. Even me. And he gave our anger a focus. Why did you form this group, Jillian? To catch Eddie Como. And why did we stay together? To fight Eddie Como. Everything, for the last twelve months, has been about him. And it’s
easier
that way. When we wake up mad or disoriented or afraid, we know why: Eddie Como. When the police are invading our privacy by asking more questions, or our friends or family are looking at us funny, we know why: Eddie Como. But . . . but now . . .”

Her voice trailed off. Jillian and Carol didn’t say anything. Couldn’t say anything.

“I’m so angry,” Meg whispered. “I don’t know who I am. I still have to take AIDS tests and sometimes late at night . . . I just lie there wondering. This man knows more about my body than I do. He did things, he invaded places. He took me away from me. And even if he’s dead, I’m still
mad
about that.”

“I doubt I’ll sleep tonight,” Carol said abruptly. “Meg’s right. It’s not really him. I mean, yes, I’m afraid of Eddie. But I’m also afraid of . . . everything. I’m afraid of the dark, I’m afraid of the quiet, I’m afraid of my house, I’m afraid of my bedroom window. I’m afraid of my husband, you know. We never talk about it, but he knows sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, look at him and see only Eddie. I like the couch. Bedrooms aren’t safe anymore. It’s best to sleep on the sofa. Even, even now. It’s better to be on the sofa.”

They both looked at Jillian. Her turn. That’s the way the group worked. One shared, they all shared.

“At least we have some sense of closure now,” she tried.

Carol nodded immediately. “Closure. That’s good.”

Meg, however, shook her head. “You’re avoiding again.”

“I’m not avoiding,” Jillian protested, as she always protested. “I don’t have an answer yet.”

Carol and Meg simply looked at her. Waited. Lately, they had grown tough.

“My loss is different,” Jillian said finally. “My sister is dead. No matter what happened to Eddie . . . nothing is going to bring Trisha back. I’ve always known that.”

“It’s easier for you.” A trace of bitterness crept into Carol’s voice. “You fended him off. You won.”

“I didn’t win.”

“You did.”

“I got
lucky,
all right? You think I don’t know that? I got lucky!”

“Well, I’m not picky, I would’ve taken luck!”

“And I would’ve preferred my sister’s life!”
Jillian’s voice had risen sharply, catching other patrons’ attention once more. She caught herself, pressing her lips into a thin line in an effort at control, although her breathing was harsh now, her face red, her nerves shockingly raw. She sat back. She picked up her flute of champagne. Set it down. Picked it up again.

“That was good,” Meg said, nodding. “Honest. I think you’re making real progress.”

Jillian just barely repressed the urge to throttle the girl. Meg’s intentions were good, of course. She should appreciate that. But Jillian was
not
an amnesic twenty-year-old. She was thirty-six, she had responsibilities and she remembered everything. Absolutely everything. Goddammit . . .

She picked up the flute, set it back down, picked it back up and fought the desire to send it smashing to the floor. One year later . . . Oh God, look at them.

Carol finally broke the silence. “It’s still better, right? Life has been unbearable with Eddie Como alive. Surely it must be better with him dead.”

“Closure,” Jillian said crisply.

“Closure,” Meg repeated.

“Closure,” Carol echoed.

“Life will get better,” Jillian insisted.

Meg finally smiled. “Think of it this way. It can’t get any worse.”

CHAPTER 12

Tawnya

“W
ELL, THEY CERTAINLY HAVE THEIR ACT TOGETHER.
”

“Jillian, Carol and Meg?” Fitz was once more navigating his battered Ford Taurus through narrow city streets. He glanced over at Griffin from behind the steering wheel. “Don’t let them fool you. It’s been a rough year. I’ve seen them all break down a time or two.”

“Even Jillian Hayes?”

“Well”—Fitz had to think about it—“maybe not Jillian.”

“The sister was quite a bit younger than her. Fifteen, sixteen years? Seems like they might have had less of a sibling relationship and more of a parent-child.”

“Possibly. The mother, Olivia, isn’t well. Had a stroke several years back and has been wheelchair-bound ever since. Jillian takes care of her with the help of a live-in aide.”

“So Jillian’s been the head of the family?”

Fitz shrugged. “She’s thirty-six, you know. It’s not that tragic.”

“No. I’m just thinking . . . It’s hard enough to lose a sibling. But thanks to Eddie, Jillian lost both her sister and her surrogate child. That’s gotta be hard.” Griffin thought about Cindy. “That’s gotta make you mad,” he added gruffly. “Truly, royally pissed off.”

Fitz was looking at him strangely. “Guess I hadn’t thought about that.”

“She was dressed nicely,” Griffin said, more neutrally. “What does she do?”

“She owns a small marketing firm. It’s fairly successful, but she also has some other assets. You follow blues music at all? Her mom, Olivia Hayes, was a fairly well known singer in her day. She banked hundreds of thousands, and Jillian has turned it into millions.”

Griffin’s eyes widened. “That would certainly buy an assassin or two.”

“It would.”

“She’s cool enough.” Griffin’s tone was goading. He knew Fitz hated this topic.

Fitz didn’t say anything.

“In her own words, she’s grateful,” Griffin pressed.

Fitz flexed his hands on the steering wheel, remained quiet.

“She’s also got the most powerful motive, and apparently she’s been studying her best defense.”

“She doesn’t outsource,” Fitz said abruptly. “All right? I’ve spent a year with the woman. Hell, she didn’t even trust
us
to catch her sister’s killer without her. Ask D’Amato how many phone calls he received from her each day. Ask my lieutenant how often she personally stopped by. Why do you think she formed the Survivors Club? Why do you think she spent so much time in front of the press? What Jillian wants, Jillian goes out and gets.”

“Why, Fitz, it almost sounds like you like her.”

Fitz growled behind the steering wheel. “Don’t make me kill you, Griffin.”

Griffin had to smile at that. Even if Fitz managed to land a blow, he’d probably just break his hand. “So personally, you’re not betting on Jillian Hayes?”

“If Jillian really wanted Eddie Como dead, she would’ve pulled the trigger herself.”

“Even if she wasn’t proficient in firearms?”

“She’d hire a teacher and learn. First day she came into my office, she was carrying a crime-scene textbook, and Robert Ressler’s book on sex offenders. After we learned of the DNA match on Eddie Como, she asked our BCI sergeant for a recommended reading list on DNA testing. I’m pretty sure she now knows more than most of our crime-scene techs. The woman can be annoying, but she’s never dumb.”

“So who do you like for the shooting?”

Fitz thinned his lips. He definitely didn’t want to have this conversation. Griffin understood. After the last year, suspecting one of the women was, for Fitz, like suspecting a fellow cop.

“Uncle Vinnie,” Fitz said grudgingly.

“An enraged uncle with Mafia ties. I can see that. Though personally, I’m still interested in Meg. That amnesia thing. Something about that bugs me.”

“A girl can’t forget?”

“Her entire life?”

“Rape is a powerful trauma.”

“Yeah, but it also happened a year ago, and trauma-induced amnesia is supposed to get better with time.”

“Whose idea of time? I know vets still suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome and it’s been thirty years since the Vietnam War. You need as long as you need, simple as that.” Fitz was looking at him sideways again. Griffin wasn’t an idiot.

“Personally,” he said lightly, “I don’t think anyone should need more than eighteen months.”

Fitz rolled his eyes, but apparently decided not to pursue the subject. “Dan Rosen,” he said abruptly.

“Carol’s husband?”

“Yeah. I’ve interviewed the guy half a dozen times and I don’t know . . . There’s something about him I don’t like. He thinks too much before he speaks. You can practically see the wheels turning in his head as he picks each word, weighs each syllable. For God’s sake, I know the man’s a lawyer, but his wife was raped in their bedroom. It’s bad enough he didn’t come home to help her. The least he could do now is stop mincing words.”

“They have money?”

“Nah, they got a house that bleeds them dry. At least that’s how it looked a year ago when we pulled financials. Back then the practice was pretty new and the house freshly renovated. In other words, they had plenty of assets and not a dime to spare. Maybe his practice is doing better by now, maybe not.”

“And assets can always be turned to cash,” Griffin pointed out.

“True.”

“What about Jillian Hayes’s family?”

“What family?” Fitz shrugged. “She’s got an ailing mother and a live-in adult-care aide. That’s it.”

“That’s it? No father?”

“Nope. I get the impression that her mom only rented men, never bought.”

“She and Trisha were half sisters then?”

“Yep.”

“And what about the men in Jillian’s life? Was she seeing anyone seriously at the time of the attack?”

“Not that she mentioned.”

“And now?”

Fitz slid him another look. “Getting awfully personal, aren’t you, Griff?”

“Just making conversation.” Griffin drummed his fingertips on the dash. “Hey, Fitz, where are we going?”

“As long as I have backup, we’re paying a visit to Eddie’s mom.”

Ten minutes later Fitz and Griffin arrived at the Como residence. This time, they hadn’t beaten the press. Two oversized news vans were already clogging the tiny street of the rundown residential neighborhood. A bank of microphones dominated the postage-stamp-sized yard. Fitz and Griffin didn’t see any members of Eddie Como’s family outside yet, but that didn’t mean anything. Either they’d just finished giving a statement or they were about to speak to the press. Either way, it didn’t bode well for Griffin or Fitz.

“Eddie’s mother hates me,” Fitz announced, parking his Taurus up on the crumbling curb. “Eddie’s father died when he was a kid, or he would probably hate me, too. Now, however, it’s just his mom, his girlfriend and his baby. Oh, and the girlfriend, Tawnya, she bites.”

Griffin, who was about to pop open the car door, stopped and stared at Fitz.

“Bites?”

“Yeah. And sometimes she scratches, too. She’s got these nails. They’re about three inches long. She likes to paint them with little palm trees and flamingos. Then she sharpens them into points, so that you’re thinking about Key West right before she goes for your eyes.”

“Is there a back door?”

“A kitchen door.”

“Good, because we absolutely, positively, can’t have that kind of reunion scene in front of the press.”

Fitz looked down the street at the news vans. “Good point. No wonder they pay you state boys the big bucks.”

Griffin opened his door. “We also get better cars.”

He and Fitz had no sooner headed down the quiet street than the doors of the news vans slid back and two reporters, armed with cameramen, poured out. Griffin and Fitz said no comment a dozen times each before they finally reached shelter behind the tiny white house. There they paused, exchanged grimaces, then knocked on the back door. After a moment, a faded yellow curtain covering the window on the top half was drawn back. They found themselves face-to-face with a small Hispanic woman who regarded them somberly with deep black eyes.

“Mrs. Como.” Fitz gave a little wave, a nervous smile. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m afraid we need to speak with you.”

Mrs. Como made no move to open the door. “I know what happened,” she said from behind the glass. “Tawnya, she was there. At the courthouse. She told me.”

“We are very sorry for your loss,” Fitz said.

Mrs. Como snorted.

“We’re here now to investigate what happened to Eddie,” Fitz continued bravely. “I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but . . . I’m here about your son, Mrs. Como. Surely you could give us just a moment of your time—”

“My Eddie is dead. Go away, Mr. Detective. You have hurt my family and I don’t have to talk to you anymore.”

Right about then, a strikingly beautiful girl rounded the back corner of the house. Griffin had one moment to think,
Whoa—she looks just like Meg Pesaturo,
before the young lady was hurling herself at Fitz with neon pink nails unsheathed and white teeth flashing.

“Hijo de puta!”
Tawnya cried.

“Ahhhhhh!” Fitz said.

He threw his arm up to defend his face just as Griffin snaked out one hand and caught the girl around the waist. He hefted her into air, where she kicked out her legs and beat at his forearm with her puny fists.

“What do you weigh, about ninety-five pounds?” Griffin asked conversationally.

“Son of a bitch! Miserable shit-eating pig—”

“I got a good hundred and ten pounds on you,” Griffin continued. “That means I can pretty much hold you like this all day. So if you want to get down anytime soon, maybe you should take a deep breath. Cool the language. We’re just here to talk.”

Tawnya whacked his arm again. Then she lashed out with her leg. When he still didn’t flinch, she finally eased her struggling, though her dark eyes remained locked on Fitz, who was now huddled against the house with his hand cupped protectively around his cheek. Mrs. Como stood behind the closed door, watching it all with an impassive face.

“Ready to play nice?” Griffin asked when a full minute elapsed without Tawnya trying to kill anyone.

She nodded grudgingly.

He released his hold.

She bolted for Fitz, who managed to grab one of her attacking arms this time, twist it behind her back and slap on a pair of handcuffs.

“That’s it!” Fitz exclaimed, breathing heavily. “You’re in bracelets until I leave. Just be happy that I don’t charge you with assaulting a police officer.”

“It’s not a crime to kill a swine,” Tawnya spat at him.

“Jesus, girl, the father of your child just died. Haven’t you had enough violence for one day?”

The bruising words did the trick. Tawnya’s shoulders sagged. Her chin came down. For just one moment, it looked to Griffin like Eddie’s little spitfire was going to cry. She didn’t, though. She pulled it together, then nodded at Mrs. Como, who finally opened the door.

Inside, the house was pretty much as Griffin had expected. Cramped kitchen with a ripped-up vinyl floor and stacked-up flats of baby food. A living room with threadbare gold carpet and a sagging brown sofa. The most expensive item in the room was easily the powder-blue playpen, positioned in front of the window. Tawnya headed for it immediately, then turned and glared at Fitz when she realized she couldn’t pick up her son. She rattled the handcuffs.

“Hey, next time think before you scratch,” Fitz called back from the kitchen.

Griffin, who had a soft spot for babies—he really loved their smell—crossed over to inspect the playpen himself. Tawnya’s son—and Eddie’s too, he presumed—was sleeping soundly on his stomach, his diapered butt stuck up in the air as little bubbles blew contentedly out of his mouth.

“Name?” he asked Tawnya.

“Eddie, Jr.,” she said grudgingly.

“How old?”

“Nine months.”

“He’s a cutie. Sergeant Griffin, by the way. State police.” Griffin flashed a smile.

“Have you arrested those bitches for killing my Eddie?”

Griffin took bitches to mean Meg Pesaturo, Carol Rosen and Jillian Hayes. “No.”

“Then fuck you.” Tawnya turned and stormed down the hall. So much for playing good cop. Griffin returned to the kitchen, where Mrs. Como was banging around pans, probably to have something to do. Now sitting at the worn kitchen table and obviously not sure how to proceed, Fitz was chewing on his lower lip.

“Hey, state boy.” Tawnya again, yelling from the other end of the house. “Come here. There’s something I want to show you.”

“Watch the nails,” Fitz muttered. “And the teeth.”

Griffin walked warily down the narrow hallway. But it seemed that Tawnya no longer had death and destruction on her mind. Instead, she was gesturing awkwardly with her cuffed hands at a brown-and-gold photo album sticking out from a sagging bookshelf.

“Get that. There’s something I want you to see.”

Griffin inspected the rickety bookshelf. Seeing no sign of booby traps, he gingerly removed the album. When Tawnya still didn’t bite him, he followed her back to the kitchen, where she informed him where to place the album, how to open the album and what photos to look at. Griffin was beginning to wonder if Eddie hadn’t gone to prison in order to escape.

“Look!” Tawnya told him when he’d finally turned to the desired page. “See that. That’s Eddie and me. Look at that face. That the face of a rapist?”

“They don’t come with stamps on their forehead,” Griffin said mildly, though he got her point. Eddie was a good-looking guy. Small, but trim, neatly dressed in tan khakis and a dark-blue shirt. Clean-cut features, tidy black hair. If you passed him on the street, you wouldn’t think twice.

“Now look at me,” Tawnya ordered, jerking her chin toward the photo, where she posed in a skimpy black dress, draped luxuriously over Eddie’s arm. “I’m hot. Plain and simple. Been beating away the boys since I was twelve. And I
know
how to make my man happy. A guy has a girl like me, you can be sure he comes home for his meals.”

“How much cooking were you doing six months pregnant?” Fitz spoke up.

Tawnya shot him a look of pure venom. “I made Eddie happy. I made Eddie
fucking
delirious.” She glanced at the stove. “No offense, Mrs. C.”