Fitz pulled the car over and parked next to the curb. “We're here,” he said.

Griffin looked out the window. They had arrived at the rue de l'espoir, a chic little café on Hope Street. Cindy had liked rue de l'espoir. Griffin, on the other hand, preferred its next-door neighbor, Big Alice's, which served the city's best ice cream.

Fitz cut the engine. Now that they were here, he was back to looking uptight, a territorial detective claiming his turf. “Here are the ground rules,” he announced. “As the youngest and quietest, Meg's the weakest member of the group. She also knows the least, so pressuring her doesn't do any good. Carol's the most prone to outbursts. I don't think she's dealing so well with the attack, and I get the impression it hasn't done wonders for her marriage. If we play our cards right, we might get something out of her. But here's the kicker. Jillian runs this show. She organized the group, she dictates the agenda. And she-if you'll pardon the phrase-has balls of steel. Piss her off, and the interview's done. She'll clam up, they'll clam up and we'll all end up wasting our time. So the name of the game is prodding just enough to make Carol say something before Jillian gets fed up and sends us packing.”

“You're anticipating an antagonistic interview.” Which was interesting, because Fitz supposedly had a rapport with these women. After a year of working their cases, he was their police guardian, protector, friend.

“I think these women won't be losing any sleep over Eddie Como's murder,” Fitz said carefully. “And I think, even if they are completely innocent, they won't care for any investigation into the events surrounding his death. Eddie Como… he was scum. Now he's dead scum. How much are any of us supposed to care?”

“Do you think one of them hired the shooter?” Griffin asked bluntly.

Fitz sighed. “None of them are proficient with firearms,” he said finally. “If they wanted Eddie dead, they would require outside help.”

“But do you think they are capable of ordering a hit?”

Fitz hesitated again. “I think they're rape survivors. And as rape survivors, they are capable of many things they never thought of before.”

“Even killing a man?”

“Wouldn't you? Come on.” Fitz popped open his door. “Let's get moving while we're still one step ahead of the press.”

INSIDE THE RESTAURANT, IT WAS EASY TO SPOT THE women. They sat alone in a corner, huddled over gigantic red mugs, trying to ignore other people's curious stares. Taking in the three, Griffin had several impressions at once. First, Como had good taste in women. They were a startlingly attractive group: two older, one younger, as if two former models were having lunch with the next generation of talent. Second, all three women were clutching their oversized mugs much harder than necessary. Third, and most interesting, none of the women seemed surprised that Fitz was there.

Fitz walked over to the table. The other patrons had started to whisper. He didn't pay them any attention.

“Jillian. Carol. Meg.” He nodded at each of the women in turn. Much more slowly, they nodded back. Fitz didn't say anything more. Neither did the women, and the silence immediately stretched long. Griffin had to admit he was impressed by everyone's composure. He let them engage in their staring contest while he did his own sizing up.

Meg Pesaturo looked almost exactly as he'd pictured her. Pesaturo was an old Italian name, and she looked it, with her golden skin, long brown hair and dark gleaming eyes. She was dressed casually this morning, jeans and a brown T-shirt. Definitely the youngster of the group. She was also the first to break eye contact.

In contrast, victim number two, Carol Rosen, looked like middle-aged money. Upswept blond hair, heavily painted blue eyes, pale designer suit. She sat stiffly, back straight, shoulders square. She'd probably gone to some kind of finishing school where girls learned how to drink tea with their pinkies in the air and never let their husbands see them cry. She returned Fitz's stare with overbright eyes, her lips pressed into a bloodless line and her body quivering with tension.

Griffin had to suppress the urge to take her jogging with him. Or throw her into the boxing ring. He was probably oversensitive, given his own state, but Fitz had been right about this one. She wasn't coping well. Maybe she thought she was, but take it from an expert. Carol Rosen was heading for a Big Boom of her own, and when it came, she was going down hard.

He wondered if her husband could read the signs. And if he could, had he been willing to trade Eddie Como's life for his wife's peace of mind?

He turned his gaze to the last member of the group. Jillian Hayes. Never actually raped, but beaten and otherwise victimized. Ad hoc leader. Grieving sister. And at the moment, as cool as a crisp fall day.

She was much older than he'd anticipated, given the young age of her sister. He'd thought she would be mid-twenties, but she looked closer to mid-thirties, a mature woman comfortable in her own skin. She sat loosely, wearing a tan pants suit with a white linen vest. Her thick brown hair was pulled back in a clip at the nape of her neck. She wore simple gold hoops in her ears, and a chain bearing some kind of medallion around her neck. No rings on her fingers. Short, manicured nails.

Stupid thought for the day-he found himself thinking that Cindy would like that suit.

Man, he wanted to go running now. And then he realized that Jillian Hayes was no longer looking at Fitz. Instead, her brown/gold/green eyes were staring straight at him.

“You're from the state,” she said. A statement, not a question.

“Detective Sergeant Roan Griffin,” he supplied. Fitz shot him a dark look. Maybe he'd wanted the pleasure of making the introductions. Fuck him. It was now out of their hands.

“Tell us what happened,” she said. An order, not a statement.

“We have a few questions,” Fitz began.

“Tell us what happened.”

“What makes you think something happened?” Griffin spoke up, earning another scowl from Fitz.

“Why else would you be here?”

Good point. Griffin glanced at Fitz, understanding now that this really was going to be fun, so hey, here you go, Fitz. Run the show. Fitz did not look amused.

“We need to know where you were around eight-thirty this morning,” Fitz said.

Jillian shrugged. Actually, she raised one shoulder in a cool gesture that was as dismissive as it was submissive. Fitz was right-she was clearly the spokesperson of this group. The other two women didn't even open their mouths but simply waited for her to address the question.

“We were here,” she said. “Together. The three of us. As most of this restaurant can attest. Now, Detective, please tell us what has happened.”

“There was an incident,” Fitz said carefully. “Eddie Como is dead.”

Griffin and Fitz simultaneously tensed, waiting for the coming reactions. Griffin homed in on Meg: she'd be the most likely to give something away. But if she was a co-conspirator, she was a damn good one. Because at the moment she appeared mostly confused. She cocked her head to the side, as if listening to something inside her brain.

Carol, on the other hand, released her pent-up breath as a sharp hiss. She leaned forward and grabbed the edge of the table in a white-knuckled grip.

“Are you sure?” she demanded.

“What do you mean?” Fitz asked.

“Have you seen his body?”

“Yeah,” Griffin replied. “I've seen the body.”

She turned on him fiercely. “Tell me. I want every detail. How he looked. How long it took. Was he in pain? Was it horrible? Was it bloody? I want every detail.”