The Third Twin (33 page)

As soon as they got inside her apartment she picked up the phone and called the number.

A man answered. “Hello?”

She could not tell anything from one word. She said: “May I speak to Wayne Stattner, please?”

“Yeah, Wayne speaking, who’s this?”

It sounded just like Steve’s voice.
You son of a bitch, why did you rip my tights?
She suppressed her resentment and said: “Mr. Stattner, I’m with a market research company that has chosen you to receive a very special offer—”

“Fuck off and die,” Wayne said, and he hung up.

“It’s him,” Jeannie said to her father. “He even sounds like Steve, except Steve is politer.”

She had briefly explained the scenario to her father. He grasped the broad outlines, although he found it somewhat bewildering. “What are you going to do next?”

“Call the cops.” She dialed the Sex Crimes Unit and asked for Sergeant Delaware.

Her father shook his head in amazement. “This is hard for me to get used to: the idea of working with the police. I sure hope this sergeant is different from every other detective I’ve ever met.”

“I believe she probably is.”

She did not expect to find Mish at her desk—it was nine o’clock. She planned to ask them to get an urgent message to her. But by good luck Mish was still in the building. “Catching up with my paperwork,” she explained. “What’s up?”

“Steve Logan and Dennis Pinker are not twins.”

“But I thought—”

“They’re triplets.”

There was a long pause. When Mish spoke again, her tone was guarded. “How do you know?”

“You remember I told you how I found Steve and Dennis—by searching a dental database for pairs of similar records?”

“Yes.”

“This week I searched the FBI’s fingerprint file for similar fingerprints. The program gave me Steve, Dennis, and a third man in a group.”

“They have the same fingerprints?”

“Not exactly the same. Similar. But I just called the third man. His voice is like Steve’s. I’ll bet my life they look alike. Mish, you have to believe me.”

“Do you have an address?”

“Yeah. In New York.”

“Give.”

“There’s a condition.”

Mish’s voice hardened. “Jeannie, this is the police. You don’t make conditions, you just answer the goddamn questions, now give me the address.”

“I have to satisfy myself. I want to see him.”

“Do you want to go to jail, that’s the question for you right now, because if not you better give me that address.”

“I want us both to go see him together. Tomorrow.”

There was a pause. “I ought to throw you in the slammer for abetting a felon.”

“We could catch the first plane to New York in the morning.”

“Okay.”

SATURDAY

43

T
HEY CAUGHT THE
USA
IR FLIGHT TO
N
EW
Y
ORK AT 6:40 IN
the morning.

Jeannie was full of hope. This might be the end of the nightmare for Steve. She had called him last night to bring him up-to-date and he had been ecstatic. He had wanted to come to New York with them, but Jeannie knew Mish would not allow it. She had promised to call him as soon as she had more news.

Mish was maintaining a kind of tolerant skepticism. She found it hard to believe Jeannie’s story, but she had to check it out.

Jeannie’s data did not reveal why Wayne Stattner’s fingerprints were on file with the FBI, but Mish had checked overnight, and she told Jeannie the story as they took off from Baltimore-Washington International Airport. Three years ago, the distraught parents of a missing fourteen-year-old girl had tracked her down to Stattner’s New York apartment. They had accused him of kidnap. He had denied it, saying the girl had not been coerced. The girl herself had said she was in love with him. Wayne was only nineteen at the time, so in the end there had been no prosecution.

The story suggested that Stattner needed to dominate women, but to Jeannie it did not quite fit in with the psychology of a rapist. However, Mish said there were no strict rules.

Jeannie had not told Mish about the man who attacked her in Philadelphia. She knew Mish would not take her word for it that the man was not Steve. Mish would want to question Steve herself, and Steve did not need that. In consequence she also had to keep quiet about the man who had called yesterday and threatened her life. She had not told anyone about that, not even Steve; she did not want to add to his worries.

Jeannie wanted to like Mish, but there was always a tension between them. Mish as a cop expected people to do what she told them, and Jeannie hated that in a person. To try to get closer to her, Jeannie asked her how she came to be a cop.

“I used to be a secretary, and I got a job with the FBI,” she replied. “I was there ten years. I began to think I could do the job better than the agent I worked for. So I applied for police training. Went to the academy, became a patrol officer, then volunteered for undercover work with the drugs squad. That was scary, but I proved I was tough.”

For a moment Jeannie felt alienated from her companion. She smoked a little weed herself now and again, and she resented people who wanted to throw her in jail for it.

“Then I moved to the Child Abuse Unit,” Mish went on. “I didn’t last long there. Nobody does. It’s important work, but a person can only see so much of that stuff. You’d go crazy. So finally I came to Sex Crimes.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of an improvement.”

“At least the victims are adults. And after a couple of years they made me a sergeant and put me in charge of the unit.”

“I think all rape detectives should be women,” Jeannie said.

“I’m not sure I agree.”

Jeannie was surprised. “Don’t you think victims would talk more easily to a woman?”

“Elderly victims, perhaps; women over seventy, say.”

Jeannie shuddered at the thought of frail old women being raped.

Mish went on: “But, frankly, most victims will tell their story to a lamppost.”

“Men always think the woman asked for it.”

“But the report of rape must be challenged at some point, if there’s going to be a fair trial. And when it comes to that kind of interrogation, women can be more brutal than men, especially to other women.”

Jeannie found that hard to believe and wondered whether Mish was simply defending her male colleagues to an outsider.

When they ran out of things to talk about, Jeannie fell into a reverie, wondering what the future held for her. She could not get used to the idea that she might not continue to be a scientist for the rest of her life. In her dream of the future she was a famous old woman, gray haired and cantankerous but world renowned for her work, and students were told, “We did not understand human criminal behavior until the publication of Jeannie Ferrami’s revolutionary book in the year 2000.” But now that would not happen. She needed a new fantasy.

They arrived at La Guardia a few minutes after eight o’clock and took a battered yellow New York taxi into the city. The cab had busted springs, and it bounced and rattled across Queens and through the Midtown Tunnel into Manhattan. Jeannie would have been uncomfortable in a Cadillac: she was on her way to see the man who had attacked her in her car, and her stomach felt like a cauldron of hot acid.

Wayne Stattner’s address turned out to be a downtown loft building just south of Houston Street. It was a sunny Saturday morning and already there were young people on the streets, shopping for bagels and drinking cappuccino in the sidewalk cafés and looking in the windows of art galleries.

A detective from the first precinct was waiting for them, double-parked outside the building in a tan Ford Escort with a dented rear door. He shook hands and grumpily introduced himself as Herb Reitz. Jeannie guessed that baby-sitting out-of-town detectives was a chore.

Mish said: “We appreciate your coming out on a Saturday to help us.” She gave him a warm, flirtatious smile.

He mellowed a little. “No problem.”

“Any time you need help in Baltimore I want you to call me personally.”

“I sure will.”

Jeannie wanted to say, “For Christ’s sake let’s get on with it!”

They went into the building and took a slow freight elevator to the top. “One apartment on each floor,” Herb said. “This is an affluent suspect. What did he do?”

“Rape,” Mish said.

The elevator stopped. The door opened directly onto another door, so that they could not get out until the apartment door was opened. Mish rang the bell. There was a long silence. Herb held open the elevator doors. Jeannie prayed Wayne would not have gone out of town for the weekend; she could not stand the anticlimax. Mish rang again and kept her finger on the button.

At last a voice came from within. “Who the fuck is it?”

It was him. The voice made Jeannie go cold with horror.

Herb said: “The police, that’s who the fuck it is. Now open the door.”

The tone changed. “Please hold your ID up to the glass panel in front of you.”

Herb showed his detective’s shield to the panel.

“Okay, just a minute.”

This is it, Jeannie thought. Now I’m going to see him.

The door was opened by a tousled, barefoot young man in a faded black terrycloth bathrobe.

Jeannie stared at him, feeling disoriented.

He was Steve’s double—except that he had black hair.

Herb said: “Wayne Stattner?”

“Yes.”

He must have dyed it, she thought. He must have dyed it yesterday or Thursday night.

“I’m Detective Herb Reitz from the first precinct.”

“I’m always keen to cooperate with the police, Herb,” said Wayne. He glanced at Mish and Jeannie. Jeannie saw no flicker of recognition in his face. “Won’t you all come in?”

They stepped inside. The windowless lobby was painted black with three red doors. In a corner stood a human skeleton of the type used in medical schools, but this one was gagged with a red scarf and had steel police handcuffs on its bony wrists.

Wayne led them through one of the red doors into a big, high-ceilinged loft. Black velvet curtains were drawn across the windows, and the place was lit by low lamps. On one wall was a full-size Nazi flag. A collection of whips stood in an umbrella stand, displayed under a spotlight. A large oil painting of a crucifixion rested on an artist’s easel; looking closer, Jeannie saw that the naked figure being crucified was not Christ, but a voluptuous woman with long blond hair. She shuddered with disgust.

This was the home of a sadist: that could not have been more obvious if he had put a sign out.

Herb was staring around in amazement. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Stattner?”

“I own two nightclubs here in New York. Frankly, that’s why I’m so keen to cooperate with the police. I have to keep my hands spotlessly clean, for business purposes.”

Herb clicked his fingers. “Of course, Wayne Stattner. I read about you in
New York
magazine. ‘Manhattan’s Young Millionaires.’ I should have recognized the name.”

“Won’t you sit down?”

Jeannie headed for a seat, then saw it was an electric chair of the type used for executions. She did a double take, grimaced, and sat elsewhere.

Herb said: “This is Sergeant Michelle Delaware of the Baltimore City Police.”

“Baltimore?” said Wayne, showing surprise. Jeannie was watching his face for signs of fear, but he seemed to be a good actor. “They have crime in Baltimore?” he said sarcastically.

Jeannie said: “Your hair’s dyed, isn’t it?”

Mish flashed her a look of annoyance: Jeannie was supposed to observe, not interrogate the suspect.

However, Wayne did not mind the question. “Smart of you to notice.”

I was right, Jeannie thought jubilantly. It is him. She looked at his hands and remembered them tearing her clothes. You’ve had it, you bastard, she thought.

“When did you dye it?” she asked.

“When I was fifteen,” he said.

Liar.

“Black has been fashionable ever since I can remember.”

You hair was fair on Thursday, when you pushed your big
hands up my skirt, and on Sunday, when you raped my friend Lisa in the gym at JFU.

But why was he lying? Did he know they had a fair-haired suspect?

He said: “What’s this all about? Is my hair color a
clue?
I love mysteries.”

“We won’t keep you long,” Mish said briskly. “We need to know where you were last Sunday evening at eight o’clock.”

Jeannie wondered if he would have an alibi. It would be so easy for him to claim he had been playing cards with some lowlife types, then pay them to back him up, or say he had been in bed with a hooker who would perjure herself for a fix.

But he surprised her. “That’s easy,” he said. “I was in California.”

“Can anyone corroborate that?”

He laughed. “About a hundred million people, I guess.”

Jeannie was beginning to get a bad feeling about this. He couldn’t have a real alibi. He
had
to be the rapist.

Mish said: “What do you mean?”

“I was at the Emmys.”

Jeannie remembered that the Emmy Awards dinner had been showing on TV in Lisa’s hospital room. How could Wayne have been at the ceremony? He could hardly have got to the airport in the time it took Jeannie to reach the hospital.

“I didn’t win anything, of course,” he added. “I’m not in that business. But Salina Jones did, and she’s an old friend.”

He glanced at the oil painting, and Jeannie realized that the woman in the picture resembled the actress who played Babe, the daughter of grouchy Brian in the restaurant sitcom
Too Many Cooks.
She must have posed.

Wayne said: “Salina won best actress in a comedy, and I kissed her on both cheeks as she came off the stage with her trophy in her hand. It was a beautiful moment, caught forever by the television cameras and beamed instantly to the world. I have it on video. And there’s a photo in this week’s
People
magazine.”

He pointed to a magazine lying on the carpet.

With a sinking heart, Jeannie picked it up. There was a picture of Wayne, looking incredibly dashing in a tuxedo, kissing Salina as she grasped her Emmy statuette.

His hair was black.

The caption read “New York nightclub impresario Wayne Stattner congratulates old flame Salina Jones on her Emmy for
Too Many Cooks
in Hollywood Sunday night.”

It was about as impregnable as an alibi could be.

How was this possible?

Mish said: “Well, Mr. Stattner, we don’t need to take up any more of your time.”

“What did you think I might have done?”

“We’re investigating a rape that took place in Baltimore on Sunday night.”

“Not me,” Wayne said.

Mish glanced at the crucifixion and he followed her gaze. “All my victims are volunteers,” he said, and he gave her a long, suggestive look.

She flushed dark and turned away.

Jeannie was desolate. All her hopes were dashed. But her brain was still working, and as they got up to leave she said: “May I ask you something?”

“Sure,” said Wayne, ever obliging.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“I’m an only child.”

“Around the time you were born, your father was in the military, am I right?”

“Yes, he was a helicopter pilot instructor at Fort Bragg. How did you know?”

“Do you happen to know if your mother had difficulty conceiving?”

“These are funny questions for a cop.”

Mish said: “Dr. Ferrami is a scientist at Jones Falls University. Her research is closely connected with the case I’m working on.”

Jeannie said: “Did your mother ever say anything about having fertility treatment?’

“Not to me.”

“Would you mind if I asked her?”

“She’s dead.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. How about your father?”

He shrugged. “You could call him.”

“I’d like to.”

“He lives in Miami. I’ll give you the number.”

Jeannie handed him a pen. He scribbled a number on a page of
People
magazine and tore off the corner.

They went to the door. Herb said: “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Stattner.”

“Anytime.”

As they went down in the elevator, Jeannie said disconsolately: “Do you believe his alibi?”

“I’ll check it out,” Mish said. “But it feels solid.”

Jeannie shook her head. “I can’t believe he’s innocent.”

“He’s guilty as hell, honey—but not of this one.”