“Ah hell, Griff, nobody has that kind of charm. In a state this small, everything gets around. Providence is going to think we're sniffing at their rape case, and the next thing you know, their lieutenant will be on the phone screaming at our lieutenant. Morelli doesn't like being screamed at or haven't you noticed?”

“Look, we have a body. Our job is to find out who killed that body. Working up a victim profile, complete with names of friends and associates, is not outside the realm of our investigation.”

“So you say.” Waters wasn't fooled. Neither would Fitz be.

“If anyone asks, just tell them I told you to do it,” Griffin said. “I'll take the heat.”

“You know that's not what I meant-”

“Cranston accent, Mike. I'm looking for someone who knew Eddie well, who grew up in Cranston, and who was seen on occasion in khaki pants with a button-down shirt. Maybe I'm way off base. But maybe… I need you to do this.”

“Ah nuts.” Waters blew out a big huff of air, which meant he'd do it. “And if I find this mystery man?”

“Then I'm probably going to be even more confused than I am right now, but in a better sort of way.”

“Ah nuts,” Waters said again, and Griffin could practically see the gaunt detective rolling his eyes.

“I don't like the rape case,” Griffin said abruptly.

“So I've heard.”

“Something about this… I don't know. Something about this feels wrong.”

“You know you've been gone awhile. The first case back…”

“I should play by the rules?”

“It wouldn't hurt.”

“Yeah, but then how would I have any fun?”

More silence. A stranger silence. Griffin didn't like this silence.

“Griff, I got a call from Corporal Charpentier at the ACI,” Waters said.

Griffin honestly didn't get it at first. And then, all of a sudden… “No!”

“Yeah. I'm afraid so. Good ol' David Price reached out first thing this morning. He claims to have info on Eddie Como and wants to speak with you immediately. I guess we shouldn't be surprised. Your face was on the morning news and God knows he likes to yank your chain.”

“Goddammit…” Griffin smacked the steering wheel. Thought of his former neighbor. Thought of Cindy. Then hit the steering wheel again; this time his hand stung. He should remain calm. Little psychopathic shit. “Why the hell am I even surprised? The bastard sent me a letter just yesterday, congratulating me on the new case. Of course he wants in on the action.”

“He already knew about the case? But he had to mail that letter on Saturday, Griff, before Eddie Como was shot.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. He just wrote congrats on the new case, not the Eddie Como case, not the College Hill Rapist case, just case. This is David Price, remember? King of head games. He's bored, he's been waiting for some entertainment. And now that I'm back on the job, he's trying to bluff his way into the party. What could he know about Eddie Como anyway? They were both at the ACI. So are three thousand other humps and they aren't bothering us with calls. Como was held in Intake, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And Price is still stinking up Steel City, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Ergo, David Price doesn't know shit.”

“Roommate,” Waters said.

“Son of a bitch.”

“Yeah. Eddie Como's former roommate at Intake, Jimmy Woods, already had his day in court. He got sentenced to Old Max three months ago for a B amp;E job gone sour. Price is claiming that Jimmy Woods has been talking, and for a little consideration, Price'll give us the inside scoop.”

“Consideration.” Griffin spat out the word. “Price murdered ten kids. There is nothing he can give us ever that warrants consideration after that. He committed his crimes in a state without the death penalty. He got a big enough break right there.”

“Nobody's disagreeing with you.”

“Then why don't I feel good about this?”

Waters's tone grew more subdued. “Things are hot, Griff. You haven't been back to HQ yet, but let me tell you. Phones are ringing off the hook from the colonel on down. People are frightened. People with young daughters are freaky-scared. We know David Price. Corporal Charpentier knows David Price. Hell, the lieutenant, the major, the colonel all know David Price. The mayor and the governor, on the other hand…”

“First person who wants to open a serious dialogue with David Price gets full-color crime-scene photos,” Griffin said coldly. “I don't care if it's the fucking governor. Are we clear?”

Another pause. “We're clear.”

“Mike…”

“When will you be done with Dan Rosen?”

“I don't know. Six o'clock?”

“I'll be over.”

“Mike, I don't need-”

“Yeah, you do. See you at six. And don't worry. This time I'll bring a face mask.”

By the time Griffin arrived in the tony Providence neighborhood harboring the Rosen house, his mood had gone south. He was thinking too much. That had always been his problem. He was thinking of Meg's pale features. He was thinking of Carol's brittle smile. He was thinking of Jillian, not even allowed to properly grieve for her sister because some overeager reporter was already pulling into her drive.

And then he was thinking of Tawnya and plump-cheeked Eddie, Jr. He was thinking of lives that had no potential and the kind of people he saw every day, already knowing someplace way down deep that he'd see them again soon enough, in jail, in court, in the back of a squad car. Cycles that went round without end.

And then he was thinking of that goddamn basement, and the lives he could've saved if he hadn't been thinking so much. He thought of Cindy. He thought of David. He thought of the stuff he still hadn't told anyone, not his brothers, not his father, not the nice little therapist assigned to screw his head on straight.

Fuckin' world sometimes. Too much like a boxing ring. You just kept taking the blows, then getting back on your feet. Mike was right. He needed to move. He needed to run. He needed to beat the living shit out of something soon, or the buzzing would return in his ears. His arms and legs would start moving on their own. Instead of eating and drinking like a normal person, he'd turn into a hulking Energizer bunny, churning, churning, churning until five sleepless days passed and his pink fuzzy head blew off.

Some cops got depressed, burnt out. Griffin went to the other extreme. He had hyperanxiety disorder, meaning when he got stressed, he could no longer calm down. The pressure built and built and built until no amount of running, weight lifting, boxing or fucking anything did any good. He could break all the bones in his hand without feeling it. He could go without sleep for three days and still be wired when he finally lay down in bed. His hands shook, his knees trembled and he appeared downright manic. Then six, seven days later, his body would simply give out beneath the strain. He'd come down hard, like someone who'd been mainlining cocaine.

Then he'd enter the true danger zone. Physically and emotionally he had nothing left in reserve, but the pressure was still there. His wife gone, his neighbor a baby-killer, his job intense. His family had helped out the first time. His brothers had taken turns staying at his house so he was never alone. They had got him through the worst. He'd taken over from there.

He was learning now how to manage his stress from the start. Eat well, sleep well and get a good aerobic workout four to five times a week. That way he tapped off steam every day, instead of letting it build. Not always that easy, but not really that difficult. Besides, on the bad days, he simply thought of Cindy. She had fought so damn hard to live. Even after the cancer started shutting down her internal organs, took away her voice and sapped away her flesh. Even at the bitter end, when she could communicate only by blinking her eyes and her hands had not even the strength to hold his. She had fought. How could he do any less?