The Third Twin (12 page)

POLICE DEPARTMENT
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

EXPLANATION OF RIGHTS
Form 69

    “Please read the five sentences on the form, then write your initials in the spaces provided beside each sentence.” She passed him a pen.

He read the form and started to initial.

“You have to read aloud,” she said. He thought for a moment. “So that you know I’m literate?” he asked.

“No. It’s so that you can’t later
pretend
to be illiterate and claim that you were not informed of your rights.”

This was the kind of thing they did not teach you in law school.

He read: “You are hereby advised that: One, you have the absolute right to remain silent.” He wrote
SL
in the space at the end of the line, then read on, initialing each sentence. “Two, anything you say or write may be used against you in a court of law. Three, you have the right to talk with a lawyer at any time, before any questioning, before answering any questions, or during any questioning. Four, if you want a lawyer and cannot afford to hire one, you will not be asked any questions, and the court will be requested to appoint a lawyer for you. Five, if you agree to answer questions, you may stop at any time and request a lawyer, and no further questions will be asked of you.”

“Now sign your name, please.” She pointed to the form. “Here, and here.” The first space for signature was underneath the sentence

I HAVE READ THE ABOVE EXPLANATION OF MY
RIGHTS, AND I FULLY UNDERSTAND IT.

Signature

Steve signed.

“And just below,” she said.

I am willing to answer questions, and I do not want any attorney at this time. My decision to answer questions without having an attorney present is free and voluntary on my part.

Signature

He signed and said: “How the hell do you get
guilty
people to sign that?”

She did not answer him. She printed her name, then signed the form.

She put the form back in the folder and looked at him. “You’re in trouble, Steve,” she said. “But you seem like a regular guy. Why don’t you just tell me what happened?”

“I can’t,” he said. “I wasn’t there. I guess I just look like the jerk that did it.”

She sat back, crossed her legs, and gave him a friendly smile. “I know men,” she said in an intimate tone. “They have urges.”

If I didn’t know better, Steve thought, I’d read her body language and say she was coming on to me.

She went on: “Let me tell you what I think. You’re an attractive man, she took a shine to you.”

“I’ve never met this woman, Sergeant.”

She ignored that. Leaning across the table, she covered his hand with her own. “I think she provoked you.”

Steve looked at her hand. She had good nails, manicured, not too long, varnished with clear nail polish. But the hand was wrinkled: she was older than forty, maybe forty-five.

She spoke in a conspiratorial voice, as if to say “This is just between you and me.” “She was asking for it, so you gave it to her. Am I right?”

“Why the hell would you think that?” Steve said with irritation.

“I know what girls are like. She led you on then, at the last minute, she changed her mind. But it was too late. A man can’t just
stop,
just like that, not a real man.”

“Oh, wait, I get it,” Steve said. “The suspect agrees with you, imagining that he’s making it look better for himself; but in fact he’s admitted that intercourse took place, and half of your job is done.”

Sergeant Delaware sat back, looking annoyed, and Steve figured he had guessed right.

She stood up. “Okay, smart-ass, come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“The cells.”

“Wait a minute. When’s the lineup?”

“As soon as we can reach the victim and bring her in here.”

“You can’t hold me indefinitely without some court procedure.”

“We can hold you for twenty-four hours without
any
procedure, so button your lip and let’s go.”

She took him down in the elevator and through a door into a lobby that was painted a dull orange brown. A notice on the wall reminded officers to keep suspects handcuffed while searching them. The turnkey, a black policeman in his fifties, stood at a high counter. “Hey, Spike,” said Sergeant Delaware. “Got a smart-ass college boy for you.”

The turnkey grinned. “If he’s so smart, how come he’s in here?”

They both laughed. Steve made a mental note not to tell cops, in the future, when he had second-guessed them. It was a failing of his: he had antagonized his schoolteachers the same way. Nobody liked a wise guy.

The cop called Spike was small and wiry, with gray hair and a little mustache. He had a perky air but there was a cold look in his eyes. He opened a steel door. “You coming through to the cells, Mish?” he said. “I got to ask you to check your weapon if so.”

“No, I’m finished with him for now,” she said. “He’ll be in a lineup later.” She turned and left.

“This way, boy,” the turnkey said to Steve.

He went through the door.

He was in the cell block. The walls and floor were the same muddy color. Steve thought the elevator had stopped at the second floor, but there were no windows, and he felt as if he were in a cavern deep underground and it would take him a long time to climb back to the surface.

In a little anteroom was a desk and a camera on a stand. Spike took a form from a pigeonhole. Reading it upside down, Steve saw it was headed

POLICE DEPARTMENT
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

PRISONER ACTIVITY REPORT FORM 92/12

The man took the cap off a ballpoint pen and began to fill out the form.

When it was done he pointed to a spot on the ground and said: “Stand right there.”

Steve stood in front of the camera. Spike pressed a button and there was a flash.

‘Turn sideways.”

There was another flash.

Next Spike took out a square card printed in pink ink and headed

FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION,
UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE
WASHINGTON, DC 20537

Spike inked Steve’s fingers and thumbs on a pad then pressed them to squares on the card marked
1.R.THUMB, 2.R.INDEX,
and so on. Steve noticed that Spike, though a small man, had big hands with prominent veins. As he did so, Spike said conversationally: “We have a new Central Booking Facility over at the city jail on Greenmount Avenue, and they have a computer that takes your prints without ink. It’s like a big photocopy machine: you just press your hands on the glass. But down here we’re still using the dirty old system.”

Steve realized he was beginning to feel ashamed, even though he had not committed a crime. It was partly the grim surroundings, but mainly the feeling of powerlessness. Ever since the cops burst out of the patrol car outside Jeannie’s house, he had been moved around like a piece of meat, with no control over himself. It brought a man’s self-esteem down fast.

When his fingerprints were done he was allowed to wash his hands.

“Permit me to show you to your suite,” Spike said jovially.

He led Steve down the corridor with cells to the left and right. Each cell was roughly square. On the side that gave on to the corridor there was no wall, just bars, so that every square inch of the cell was clearly visible from outside. Through the bars Steve could see that each cell had a metal bunk fixed to the wall and a stainless-steel toilet and washbasin. The walls and bunks were painted orange brown and covered with graffiti. The toilets had no lids. In three or four of the cells a man lay listlessly on the bunk, but most of them were empty. “Monday’s a quiet day here at the Lafayette Street Holiday Inn,” Spike joked.

Steve could not have laughed to save his life.

Spike stopped in front of an empty cell. Steve stared inside as the cop unlocked the door. There was no privacy. Steve realized that if he needed to use the toilet he would have to do it in full view of anyone, man or woman, who happened to be walking along the corridor. Somehow that was more humiliating than anything else.

Spike opened a gate in the bars and ushered Steve inside. The gate crashed shut and Spike locked it.

Steve sat on the bunk. “Jesus Christ almighty, what a place,” he said.

“You get used to it,” Spike said cheerfully, and he went away.

A minute later he came back carrying a Styrofoam package. “I got a dinner left,” he said. “Fried chicken. You want some?”

Steve looked at the package, then at the open toilet, and shook his head. “Thanks all the same,” he said. “I guess I’m not hungry.”

10

B
ERRINGTON ORDERED CHAMPAGNE
.

Jeannie would have liked a good slug of Stolichnaya on the rocks, after the kind of day she had had, but drinking hard liquor was no way to impress an employer, and she decided to keep her desire to herself.

Champagne meant romance. On previous occasions when they had met socially he had been charming rather than amorous. Was he now going to make a pass at her? It made her uneasy. She had never met a man who could take rejection with good grace. And this man was her boss.

She did not tell him about Steve, either. She was on the point of doing so several times during their dinner, but something held her back. If, against all her expectations, Steve did turn out to be a criminal, her theory would start to look shaky. But she did not like to anticipate bad news. Before it was proved she would not foster doubts. And she felt sure it would all turn out to be an appalling mistake.

She had talked to Lisa. “They’ve arrested Brad Pitt!” she had said. Lisa was horrified to think that the man had spent the entire day at Nut House, her place of work, and that Jeannie had been on the point of taking him into her home. Jeannie had explained that she was sure Steve was not really the perpetrator. Later she realized she probably should not have made the call: it might be construed as interfering with a witness. Not that it would make any real difference. Lisa would look at a row of young white men, and either she would see the man who raped her or she would not. It was not the kind of thing she would make a mistake about.

Jeannie had also spoken to her mother. Patty had been there today, with her three sons, and Mom talked animatedly about how the boys had raced around the corridors of the home. Mercifully, she seemed to have forgotten that it was only yesterday she had moved into Bella Vista. She talked as if she had lived there for years and reproached Jeannie for not visiting more often. After the conversation Jeannie felt a little better about her mother.

“How was the sea bass?” Berrington said, interrupting her thoughts.

“Delicious. Very delicate.”

He smoothed his eyebrows with the tip of his right index finger. For some reason the gesture struck her as self-congratulatory. “Now I’m going to ask you a question, and you have to answer honestly.” He smiled, so that she would not take him too seriously.

“Okay.”

“Do you like dessert?”

“Yes. Do you take me for the kind of woman who would pretend about a thing like that?”

He shook his head. “I guess there’s not much you do pretend about.”

“Not enough, probably. I have been called tactless.”

“Your worst failing?”

“I could probably do better if I thought about it. What’s your worst failing?”

Berrington answered without hesitation. “Falling in love.”

“That’s a failing?”

“It is if you do it too often.”

“Or with more than one person at a time, I guess.”

“Maybe I should write to Lorraine Logan and ask her advice.”

Jeannie laughed, but she did not want the conversation to get onto Steven. “Who’s your favorite painter?” she said.

“See if you can guess.”

Berrington was a superpatriot, so he must be sentimental, she figured. “Norman Rockwell?”

“Certainly not!” He seemed genuinely horrified. “A vulgar illustrator! No, if I could afford to collect paintings I’d buy American Impressionists. John Henry Twachtman’s winter landscapes. I’d love to own
The White Bridge.
What about you?”

“Now
you
have to guess.”

He thought for a moment. “Joan Miró.”

“Why?”

“I imagine you like bold splashes of color.” She nodded. “Perceptive. But not quite right. Miró’s too messy. I prefer Mondrian.”

“Ah, yes, of course. The straight lines.”

“Exactly. You’re good at this.”

He shrugged, and she realized he had probably played guessing games with many women.

She dipped a spoon into her mango sorbet. This was definitely not a business dinner. Soon she would have to make a firm decision about what her relationship with Berrington was going to be.

She had not kissed a man for a year and a half. Since Will Temple walked out on her she had not even been on a date until today. She was not carrying a torch for Will: she no longer loved him. But she was wary.

However, she was going crazy living the life of a nun. She missed having someone hairy in bed with her; she missed the masculine smells—bicycle oil and sweaty football shirts and whiskey—and most of all she missed the sex. When radical feminists said the penis was the enemy, Jeannie wanted to reply, “Speak for yourself, sister.”

She glanced up at Berrington, delicately eating caramelized apples. She liked the guy, despite his nasty politics. He was smart—her men
had
to be intelligent—and he had winning ways. She respected him for his scientific work. He was slim and fit looking, he was probably a very experienced and skillful lover, and he had nice blue eyes.

All the same, he was too old. She liked mature men, but not that mature.

How could she reject him without ruining her career? The best course might be to pretend to interpret his attention as kindly and paternal. That way she might avoid spurning him outright.

She took a sip of champagne. The waiter kept refilling her glass and she was not sure how much she had drunk, but she was glad she did not have to drive.

They ordered coffee. Jeannie asked for a double espresso to sober her up. When Berrington had paid the bill, they took the elevator to the parking garage and got in his silver Lincoln Town Car.

Berrington drove along the harbor side and got onto the Jones Falls Expressway. “There’s the city jail,” he said, pointing to a fortresslike building that occupied a city block. “The scum of the earth are in there.”

Steve might be in there, Jeannie thought.

How had she even contemplated sleeping with Berrington? She did not feel the least warmth of affection for him. She felt ashamed that she had even toyed with the idea. As he pulled up to the curb outside her house, she said firmly: “Well, Berry, thank you for a charming evening.” Would he shake hands, she wondered, or try to kiss her? If he tried to kiss her, she would offer her cheek.

But he did neither. “My phone at home is out of order, and I need to make one call before I go to bed,” he said. “May I use your phone?”

She could hardly say, “Hell, no, stop by a pay phone.” It looked as if she were going to have to deal with a determined pass. “Of course,” she said, suppressing a sigh. “Come on up.” She wondered if she could avoid offering him coffee.

She jumped out of the car and led the way across the row stoop. The front door gave onto a tiny lobby with two more doors. One led to the ground-floor apartment, occupied by Mr. Oliver, a retired stevedore. The other, Jeannie’s door, opened onto the staircase that led up to her second-floor apartment.

She frowned, puzzled. Her door was open.

She went inside and led the way up the stairs. A light was on up there. That was curious: she had left before dark.

The staircase led directly into her living room. She stepped inside and screamed.

He was standing at her refrigerator with a bottle of vodka in his hand. He was scruffy and unshaven, and he seemed a little drunk.

Behind her, Berrington said: “What’s going on?”

“You need better security in here, Jeannie,” the intruder said. “I picked your locks in about ten seconds.”

Berrington said: “Who the hell is he?”

Jeannie said in a shocked voice: “When did you get out of jail, Daddy?”