The Survivors Club Read online

  The city was pretty. This courthouse, on the east side of the river, was an impressive red-brick structure with a soaring white clock tower that dominated an entire city block. Old world colonial meets new world grandeur. The front of the courthouse sat on Benefit Street, which seemed to be a mile-long advertisement for old money—huge historical homes featuring everything from Victorian turrets to Gothic stone, interspersed with green lawns and neatly constructed brick walls. The back of the courthouse, where Jersey was, overlooked the sprawling memorial park, the grassy expanse littered with dignified bronze sculptures of soldiers and significantly less dignified pieces of modern art. The modern art carried over to the Rhode Island School of Design (RISD), with its urban campus stretching alongside the courthouse.

  Rhode Island didn’t have much in the way of violent crime. Thirty homicides a year, something like that. Of course, that would change today. The state was better known for its long history of financial crimes, Mafia connections and political corruption. As the locals liked to say, in Rhode Island it isn’t what you know, but who you know. And in all honesty, everyone did seem to know one another in this state. Frankly, it freaked Jersey out.

  Jersey started to yawn again, caught it this time and forced himself to snap to attention. Eight twenty-one A.M. now. Not much longer. On the grass across the street, the various news teams were beginning to stir.

  Last night, before coming to the courthouse, Jersey had sat in his hotel room and flipped back and forth between all the local news shows, trying to learn the various media personalities. He didn’t recognize the pretty blonde down below, though her cameraman’s shirt indicated that they were with WJAR, News Team 10, the local NBC affiliate. Network news. That was respectable. Jersey was happy for her.

  Then he wondered if the woman had any idea just how big her morning was about to become. His target, Eddie Como, aka the College Hill Rapist, was major news in the Ocean State. Everyone was here to cover the start of the trial. Everyone was here to capture shots of slightly built, hunch-shouldered Eddie, or maybe get a glimpse of one of his three beautiful victims.

  These reporters didn’t know anything yet. About Jersey. About his client. About what was really going to happen this sunny Monday morning in May. It made Jersey feel benevolent toward all the bored, overhyped, overgroomed individuals gathered on the grass below. He had a treat for them. He was about to make one of them, some of them, very special.

  Take this pretty little blonde with the pearly pink lips. She was up first thing this morning, armed with canned copy and thinking that at best, she’d get a shot of the blue ACI van for the morning news at her station. Of course, the other twenty reporters would shoot the same visual with pretty much the same copy, nobody being any better than anyone else, and nobody being any worse. Just another day on the job, covering what needed to be covered for all the enquiring minds that wanted to know.

  Except that someone down in that park, sitting on the grass, surrounded by war memorials and freakish exhibits of modern art, was going to get a scoop this morning. Someone, maybe that pretty little blonde, was going to show up to get a routine clip of a blue ACI van, and come away with a picture of a hired gun instead.

  There was no way around it. The only time Jersey would have access to Eddie Como was when the alleged rapist was moved from the ACI to the Licht Judicial Complex on the opening day of his trial. And the only time Jersey would have access at the Licht Judicial Complex was when Eddie was unloaded from the ACI van within a fenced-off drop-off roughly the size of a two-car garage. And the only way Jersey could shoot into a drop-off zone enclosed by an eight-foot-high fence was to shoot down at the target.

  The massive red-brick courthouse took up an entire city block. Soaring up to sixteen stories high with swooping red-brick wings, it towered above its fellow buildings and zealously protected its back courtyard and the all-important drop-off zone. So Jersey’s options had been clear from the beginning. He would have to access the courthouse itself, easily done in the cover of night once he learned the routine of the Capital Security guards.

  He would have to take up position on the sixth-story roofline immediately overlooking the drop-off point to have a clean shot down into the fenced-off area. He would have to line up the shot in the cover of darkness. And then, when the van finally arrived sometime between 8:30 and 9:00 A.M., he would have five seconds to stand, blow off the top of Eddie Como’s head and start running.

  Because while the state marshals who escorted the inmates probably wouldn’t be able to see him—the angle would be too steep—and while the prisoners themselves wouldn’t be able to see him—they would probably be too busy screaming at all the brains now sprayed in their hair—the reporters, every single greedy, desperate-for-a-scoop reporter camped across the street—they would have a clear view of Jersey standing six stories up. Jersey firing a rifle six stories up. Jersey running across the vast roofline six stories up.

  The shot itself was going to be easy. A mere seventy feet. Straight down. Hell, Jersey should forget the assault rifle and drop an anvil on the guy’s head. Yeah, the shot itself was downright boring. But the moments afterward . . . The moments afterward were going to be really entertaining.

  A disturbance down the street. Jersey flicked back to the pretty blonde in time to see her drop her lipstick and scramble forward. Show time.

  He glanced at his watch. Eight thirty-five A.M. Apparently, the state marshals didn’t want to keep the reporters waiting.

  Jersey brought his rifle back down against him. He adjusted the scope to 1.5, all he would need for a seventy-foot head shot. He checked the twenty-cartridge magazine, then chambered the first round. He was using Winchester’s .223 Remington, a 55-grain soft-point bullet, which according to the box was best for shooting prairie dogs, coyotes and woodchucks.

  And now, the College Hill Rapist.

  Jersey got on his knees. He positioned the rifle along the top of the rail, then placed his eye against the scope. He could just make out the street through the stone archways lining the outer courtyard. He heard, more than saw, the black wrought-iron fence of the inner courtyard swing open. Calm and controlled. Easy does it. Nothing here he hadn’t done before. Nothing here he couldn’t handle.

  He flexed his fingers. He listened to the reassuring crinkle of his black leather shooting gloves . . .

  The prisoners would be shackled together like a chain gang. Most would be in khaki or blue prison overalls. But Eddie Como would be different. Facing the first day of trial, Eddie Como would arrive in a suit.

  Jersey waited for the barking sound of a state marshal ordering the unloading of the van. He felt the first prick of sweat. But he didn’t pop up. He still didn’t squeeze the trigger.

  Twenty reporters and cameramen across the street. Twenty journalists just waiting for their big break . . .

  “Courtyard secure! Door open!”

  Jersey heard the rasp of metal as the van door slid back. He heard the slap of the first rubber-soled shoe hitting the flagstone patio . . .

  One, two, three, four, five . . .

  Jersey rocketed up from his knees and angled the AR15 twenty-two degrees from vertical. Searching, searching . . .

  The dark head of Eddie Como emerged from the van. He was gazing forward, looking at the door of the courthouse. His shoulders were down. He took three shuffling steps forward—

  And Jersey blew off the top of his head. One moment Eddie Como was standing shackled between two guys. The next he was folding up silently and plummeting to the hard, slate-covered ground.

  Jersey let the black-market rifle fall to the roof. Then he began to run.

  He was aware of so many things at once. The feel of the sun on his face. The smell of cordite in the air. The noise of a city about to start a busy workweek, cars roaring, cars screeching. And then, almost as an afterthought, people beginning to scream.

  “Gun, gun, gun!”

  “Get down, get down!”

  “Look! Up there.
On the roof!”

  Jersey was smiling. Jersey was feeling good. He clambered across the courthouse roof, the gummy soles of his rock-climbing shoes finding perfect traction. He turned the corner and rounded the center clock tower, which rose another several stories. Now you see me. Now you don’t.

  Shots fired. Some overpumped state marshals shooting their wad at an enemy they couldn’t see.

  Jersey’s smile grew. He hummed now as he stripped off his gloves and cast them behind him. Almost at the rooftop door. He grabbed the front of his black coveralls with his left hand and popped open the snaps. Three seconds later, the black coveralls joined his discarded rifle and gloves on the rooftop. Five seconds after that, Jersey had replaced his rock climber’s shoes with highly polished Italian loafers. Then it was a simple matter of reclaiming the black leather briefcase he’d left by the rooftop door. Last night, the briefcase had contained the dismantled parts of an AR15. This morning, it held only business papers.

  From world-class sniper to just one more guy in a suit in five minutes or less.

  Jersey pulled open the rooftop door. He’d jammed the lock with wire last night so it would be ready for him. Moments later, he was down the stairs and joining the main traffic flow, just another harried lawyer too busy to look anyone in the eye.

  Capital Security guards and state marshals rushed by. People inside the courthouse were looking around, becoming increasingly aware that something had happened but not sure what. Jersey, following their example, pasted a slightly puzzled expression on his face as he journeyed forth.

  Another gray-clad marshal sprinted by him, voices screaming from the radio at the man’s waist. He hit Jersey’s shoulder, knocking him back. Jersey spluttered, “Excuse me!” The state marshal kept running for the stairs leading to the roof.

  “What happened?” a lady walking next to Jersey asked.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “Must be something bad.”

  They exchanged vigorous nods. And thirty-two seconds later, Jersey was out the front door, taking a left and heading back down steeply pitched College Street toward the memorial park. He resumed humming now, in the homestretch. Even if some police officer stopped him, what would the officer find? Jersey had no weapons, no trace of gunpowder on his hands or clothes. He was just a businessman, and he always carried valid ID.

  The screech of sirens abruptly split the air. The city wasn’t big and the Providence Police had their headquarters downtown. Cops would be streaming in from all over, roadblocks just a matter of time. Jersey picked up his step but remained calm. His thoughtful client, no doubt familiar with the parking crunch in downtown Providence, had sent Jersey a RISD visitor’s pass for the parking lot just across the street. The cops would be here in two minutes. Jersey would be gone in one.

  The sirens roared closer. Jersey arrived at the tiny college parking lot at the base of College Street and South Main. Found his key for the blue rental car. Unlocked the doors, threw in his briefcase, slid into the seat.

  Calm and controlled. Easy does it. Nothing here he hadn’t done before. Nothing here he couldn’t handle.

  Jersey turned the key in the ignition. And then, he heard the click.

  One frozen instant in time. His eyes widening, his bewilderment honest. But, but, the double-blind policy. Nobody knew his name. He never knew theirs. How could, how could . . .

  And then his eyes went to the red visitor’s parking pass hanging from his rental-car mirror, the lone visitor’s pass in a minuscule city parking lot of only twenty vehicles.

  His client’s thoughtfulness . . .

  Calm and controlled, Jersey thought helplessly. Easy does it. Nothing here he hadn’t done before. Nothing here he couldn’t handle . . .

  The current from the car’s starter box hit the electrical ignition switch of the custom-made bomb, and Jersey’s rental car exploded into the bright morning sky.

  A dozen city blocks away, on Hope Street, the well-groomed patrons of the trendy restaurant rue de l’espoir—made even trendier by its all-lowercase name—looked up from their decadent business breakfasts of eggs Benedict and inch-thick slices of French toast. Sitting in comfy booths, they now gazed around the rich, earthy interior where the walls were the same color as aged copper pots and the booths were decorated in hues of red, green, brown and eggplant. The tremor, though slight, had been unmistakable. Even the waitresses had stopped in their tracks.

  “Did you feel that?” one of the servers asked.

  The people in the chic little restaurant looked at each other. They had just started to shrug away the minor disturbance when the harsh sound of screaming sirens cut the air. Two cop cars went flying down the street. An ambulance roared by in their wake.

  “Something must have happened,” someone said.

  “Something big,” another patron echoed.

  Sitting at a small table tucked alone in the far corner, three women finally looked up from their oversized mugs of spiced chai. Two were older, one was younger. All three had caused a minor stir when they had walked through the door. Now the women looked at one another. Then, simultaneously, they looked away.

  “I wonder,” said one.

  “Don’t,” said another.

  And that was all they said.

  Until the cops came.

  CHAPTER 2

  Griffin

  AT 8:31 A.M. MONDAY MORNING, RHODE ISLAND STATE Police Detective Sergeant Roan Griffin was already late for his 8:30 briefing. This was not a good thing. It was his first day back on the job in eighteen months. He should probably be on time. Hell, he should probably be early. Show up at headquarters at 8:15 A.M., pumped up, sharply pressed, crisply saluting. Here I am, I am ready.

  And then . . . ?

  “Welcome back,” they would greet him. (Hopefully.)

  “Thanks,” he would say. (Probably.)

  “How are you feeling?” they’d ask. (Suspiciously.)

  “Good,” he’d reply. (Too easily.)

  Ah, shit. Good was a stupid answer. Too often said to be often believed. He’d say good, and they’d stare at him harder, trying to read between the lines. Good like you’re ready to crack open a case file, or good like we can trust you with a loaded firearm? It was an interesting question.

  He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and tried again.

  “Welcome back,” they’d say.

  “It’s good to be back,” he’d say.

  “How are you doing?” they’d ask.

  “My anxiety is operating within normal parameters,” he’d reply.

  No. Absolutely not. That kind of psychobabble made even him want to whoop his ass. Forget it. He should’ve gone with his father’s recommendation and walked in wearing a T-shirt that read “You’re only Jealous Because the Voices are Talking to Me.”

  At least they all could’ve had a good laugh.

  Griffin had joined the Rhode Island State Police force sixteen years ago. He’d started with four months in a rigorous boot camp, learning everything from evasive driving maneuvers to engaging in hand-to-hand combat after being stung with pepper spray. (You want to know pain? Having pepper spray in your eyes is pain. You want to know self-control? Standing there willingly to be sprayed for the second time, that is self-control.) Following boot camp, Griffin had spent eight years in uniform. He’d boosted the state coffers writing his share of speeding tickets. He’d helped motorists change tires. He’d attended dozens of motor vehicle accidents, including way too many involving children. Then he’d joined the Detective Bureau, starting in Intelligence, where he’d earned a stellar reputation for his efforts on a major FBI case. Following that, he worked some money laundering, gunrunning, art forgery, homicide. Rhode Island may not have a large quantity of crime, but as the detectives liked to say, they got quality crime.

  Griffin had been a good detective. Bright. Hardheaded. Stubborn. Ferocious at times. Funny at others. This stuff was in his blood. His grandfather had been a beat cop in New York. His father had served as sh
eriff in North Kingstown. Two of his brothers were now state marshals. Years ago, when Griffin had first met Cindy on a hiking trip in New Hampshire, first looked into her eyes and felt her smile like a thunderbolt in his chest, he’d blurted out, before his name, before even hello, “I’m a cop.” Fortunately for him, Cindy had understood.

  Griffin had been a good detective. Guys liked working with him. The brass liked giving him cases. The media liked following his career. He went on the Dave Letterman show when the Rhode Island State Police won a nationwide award for best uniform. He led Operation Pinto, which shut down a major auto-theft ring in a blaze of front-page Providence Journal headlines. He even got appointed to the governor’s task force on community policing, probably because the little old ladies had been asking for him since he’d strutted across Letterman’s sound stage. (Officer Blue Eyes, the ProJo had dubbed him. Oh yeah, his fellow detectives had definitely had that made into a T-shirt.)

  Two and a half years ago, when the third kid vanished from Wakefield and the pattern of a locally operating child predator became clear, there had never been any doubt that Griffin would head the investigation. He remembered being excited when he’d walked out of that briefing. He remembered the thrum of adrenaline in his veins, the flex of his muscles, the heady sense that he had once again begun a chase.

  Two days before Cindy went for a routine checkup. Six months before everything went from bad to worse. Eleven months before he learned the true nature of the black abyss.

  For the record, he’d nailed that son of a bitch. For the record.

  Griffin made the left-hand fork on Route 6, headed into North Scituate. Five minutes from headquarters now. He drove by the giant reservoir as the landscape opened up to reveal a vast expanse of water on his right and rolling green hills on his left. Soon he’d see joggers, guys grabbing a morning run. Then would come the state police compound. First, the flat, ugly 1960s brown building that housed Investigative Support Services. Then, the huge old gray barn in the back, a remnant of what the property used to be. Finally, the beautiful old white semimansion that now served as state police headquarters, complete with a gracefully curving staircase and bay windows overlooking more rolling green hills. The White House, the rookies called it. Where the big boys lived.