Free The Survivors Club by Lisa Gardner Page B

What the hell did you know that they didn’t?”
    “I don’t know!” she cried. Her chin came up, her shoulder squared against the control panel. “I just . . . The whole morning I kept thinking someone was watching me. I’m not kidding. I had shivers down my spine, hairs going up on the nape of my neck. No matter where I went, what I did, I could just feel . . . something. Then, I heard a shout that the van was coming, so I started to adjust my mike and I . . . I looked up. One last time. At the roof. I swore I saw a movement. So I hit Jimmy on the arm and told him to shoot the roof. Now.”
    “I thought she was nuts,” Jimmy spoke up from the rear. “But hey, it’s not like a shot of the outside of a blue van is anything special. So I focused on the roof of the courthouse and well, what do you know? This guy pops up and opens fire. Really damn freaky. I figure we could get national coverage out of this.”
    “Awards,” Maureen spoke up. “Definitely awards.” The light in her eyes had gone full glow again. Pressed against the side of the van, she shivered.
    Very slowly, Griffin stepped back. His hands were still fisted at his sides. He worked now on letting his fingers go, forcing his shoulders to come down and his breathing to relax. He felt suddenly disgusted. And he was aware for the first time that Waters was watching him nervously. Maureen and Jimmy, too. Everyone was probably thinking about that damn basement. Maybe they should.
    He took another deep breath, focused on his racing pulse and slowly counted to ten.
    “Tape,” he prodded once he trusted himself to speak. Reluctantly, Jimmy opened his camera and popped out the digital cassette. Waters provided the evidence bag. Jimmy gave the tape one last, lingering look, then dropped it in.
    “You’ll remember our deal,” Maureen said.
    “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
    “If we can get a copy before four,” she said seriously, “we can still make the five o’clock news.”
    “I’ll be sure to tell CIU.” Copy before four. She’d be lucky to get a copy in six months.
    Maureen leaned against the side of the van. She’d lost this round, but he could tell she was already plotting her next battle. “Hey, Griffin, be honest. That guy’s dead now, isn’t he? Blown up in that parking lot after assassinating Eddie Como?”
    “No comment.”
    “That’s what I thought. You’ll be talking to the vics now? The three women?”
    “No comment.”
    “Maybe they’ll hold a press conference. That would be nice. Over the last year we’ve certainly scored some serious ratings off those three and their little club.” Maureen bit her lower lip. “I wonder if there’s a way I could get them to do an exclusive this time . . .”
    “The rape vics like to hold press conferences?” Griffin looked at Waters in confusion.
    Maureen, however, did the honors. “Jesus Christ, Griffin, where have you been? Right after the death of Trisha Hayes those women practically owned the five o’clock news. The sister, Jillian, got them united in some sort of group. The Survivors Club, they call it. Then they started sending out the press releases. Worked like a charm. Before they went public, people knew about the attacks, but weren’t losing a lot of sleep over it. You know how people are—violent crimes happen to someone else. Especially rape. That definitely happens to other women—you know, poor women, minority women, women living in high-risk areas or leading high-risk lives. Except one day, the general public turned on the TV and there were the three victims—beautiful, white, well-educated and well-to-do. Two aren’t even sweet young things but respectable, middle-aged women, leading respectable, middle-class lives.
    “People went nuts,” Maureen said bluntly. “‘Look at these poor women, so tragically victimized in their own homes. Arrest someone, arrest anyone, but by God, get us justice before that becomes my daughter, my sister, my mother, my wife. What the