“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.