The Third Twin Part 26

"I don't know. Did your mother have any kind of special treatment?"

"I never read the book. Shall I call her?"

"Would you?"

"It's time I told them about this mystery, anyway."

Jeannie pointed to a desk. "Use Lisa's phone."

He dialed his home. His mother answered. "Hi, Mom."

"Was she pleased to see you?"

"Not at first. But I'm still with her."

"So she doesn't hate you."

Steve looked at Jeannie. "She doesn't hate me, Mom, but she thinks I'm too young."

"Is she listening?"

"Yes, and I think I'm embarra.s.sing her, which is a first. Mom, we're in the laboratory, and we have kind of a puzzle. My DNA appears to be the same as that of another subject she's studying, a guy called Dennis Pinker."

"It can't be the same-you'd have to be identical twins."

"And that would only be possible if I'd been adopted."

"Steve, you weren't adopted, if that's what you're thinking. And you weren't one of twins. G.o.d knows how I would have coped with two of you."

"Did you have any kind of special fertility treatment before I was born?"

"Yes, I did. The doctor recommended me to a place in Philadelphia that a number of officers' wives had been to. It was called the Aventine Clinic. I had hormone treatment."

Steve repeated that to Jeannie, and she scribbled a note on a Post-it pad.

Mom went on: "The treatment worked, and there you are, the fruit of all that effort, sitting in Baltimore pestering a beautiful woman seven years your senior when you should be here in D.C. taking care of your white-haired old mother."

Steve laughed. "Thanks, Mom."

"Hey, Steve?"

"Still here."

"Don't be late. You have to see a lawyer in the morning. Let's get you out of this legal mess before you start worrying about your DNA."

"I won't be late. Bye." He hung up.

Jeannie said: "I'm going to call Charlotte Pinker right away. I hope she's not already asleep." She flicked through Lisa's Rolodex, then picked up the phone and dialed. After a moment she spoke. "Hi, Mrs. Pinker, this is Dr. Ferrami from Jones Falls University.... I'm fine, thank you, how are you?...I hope you won't mind my asking you one more question.... Well, that's very kind and understanding of you. Yes.... Before you got pregnant with Dennis, did you have any kind of fertility treatment?" There was a long pause, then Jeannie's face lit up with excitement. "In Philadelphia? Yes, I've heard of it Hormone treatment. That's very interesting, that helps me. Thank you again. Good-bye." She cradled the handset. "Bingo," she said. "Charlotte went to the same clinic."

"That's fantastic," Steve said. "But what does it mean?"

"I have no idea," Jeannie said. She picked up the phone again and tapped 411. "How do I get Philadelphia information?...Thanks." She dialed again. "The Aventine Clinic." There was a pause. She looked at Steve and said: "It probably closed years ago."

He watched her, mesmerized. Her face was alight with enthusiasm as her mind raced ahead. She looked ravishing. He wished he could do more to help her.

Suddenly she picked up a pencil and scribbled a number. 'Thank you!" she said into the phone. She hung up. "It's still there!"

Steve was riveted. The mystery of his genes might be resolved. "Records," he said. "The clinic must have records. There might be clues there."

"I need to go there," Jeannie said. She frowned thoughtfully. "I have a release signed by Charlotte Pinker-we ask everyone we interview to sign one-and it gives us permission to look at any medical records. Could you get your mother to sign one tonight and fax it to me at JFU?"

"Sure."

She dialed again, punching the numbers feverishly. "Good evening, is this the Aventine Clinic?...Do you have a night manager on duty?...Thank you."

There was a long pause. She tapped her pencil impatiently. Steve watched adoringly. As far as he was concerned, this could go on all night.

"Good evening, Mr. Ringwood, this is Dr. Ferrami from the psychology department at Jones Falls University. Two of my research subjects attended your clinic twenty-three years ago and it would be helpful to me to look at their records. I have releases from them which I can fax to you in advance.... That's very helpful. Would tomorrow be too soon?...Shall we say two P.M P.M.?...You've been very kind.... I'll do that. Thank you. Good-bye."

"Fertility clinic," Steve said thoughtfully. "Didn't I read, in that Wall Street Journal Wall Street Journal piece, that Genetico owns fertility clinics?" piece, that Genetico owns fertility clinics?"

Jeannie stared at him, openmouthed. "Oh, my G.o.d," she said in a low voice. "Of course it does."

"I wonder if there's any connection?"

"I just bet there is," said Jeannie.

"If there is, then..."

"Then Berrington Jones may know a lot more about you and Dennis than he's letting on."

28.

IT HAD BEEN A PIG OF A DAY, BUT IT HAD ENDED ALL RIGHT, Berrington thought as he stepped out of the shower.

He looked at himself in the mirror. He was in great shape for fifty-nine: lean, upright, with faintly tanned skin and an almost flat stomach. His pubic hair was dark, but that was because. he dyed it to get rid of the embarra.s.sing gray. It was important to him to be able to take off his clothes in front of a woman without turning out the light.

He had begun the day by thinking he had Jeannie Ferrami over a barrel, but she had proved tougher than he had expected. I won't underestimate her again, he thought.

On his way back from Washington he had dropped by Preston Barck's house to brief him on the latest development. As always, Preston had been even more worried and pessimistic than the situation warranted. Affected by Preston's mood, Berrington had driven home under a cloud of gloom. But when he had walked into the house the phone had been ringing, and Jim, speaking in an improvised code, had confirmed that David Creane would stop the FBI from cooperating with Jeannie. He had promised to make the necessary phone calls tonight.

Berrington toweled himself dry and put on blue cotton pajamas and a blue-and-white-striped bathrobe. Marianne, the housekeeper, had the evening off, but there was a ca.s.serole in the refrigerator: chicken Provencal, according to the note she had left in careful, childish handwriting. He put it in the oven and poured a small gla.s.s of Springbank scotch. As he took the first sip, the phone rang.

It was his ex-wife, Vivvie. "The Wall Street Journal "The Wall Street Journal says you're going to be rich," she said. says you're going to be rich," she said.

He pictured her, a slender blonde of sixty years, sitting on the terrace of her California house, watching the sun go down over the Pacific Ocean. "I suppose you want to come back to me."

"I thought about it, Berry. I thought about it very seriously for at least ten seconds. Then I realized a hundred and eighty million dollars wasn't enough."

That made him laugh.

"Seriously, Berry, I'm pleased for you."

He knew she was sincere. She had plenty of money of her own. After leaving him, she had gone into the real estate business in Santa Barbara and had done well. "Thank you."

"What are you going to do with the money? Leave it to the boy?"

Their son was studying to be a certified public accountant. "He won't need it, he'll make a fortune as an accountant. I might give some of the money to Jim Proust. He's going to run for president."

"What'll you get in return? Do you want to be the U.S. amba.s.sador in Paris?"

"No, but I'd consider surgeon general."

"Hey, Berry, you're serious about this. But I guess you shouldn't say too much on the phone."

"True."

"I gotta go, my date just rang the doorbell. See you sooner, Montezuma." It was an old family joke.

He gave her the response. "In a flash, succotash." He cradled the phone.

He found it a little depressing that Vivvie was going out for the evening with a date-he had no idea who it might be-while he was sitting at home alone with his scotch. Apart from the death of his father, Vivvie's leaving him was the great sadness of Berrington's life. He did not blame her for going; he had been hopelessly unfaithful. But he had loved her, and he still missed her, thirteen years after the divorce. The fact that he was at fault only made him sadder. Joshing with her on the phone reminded him of how much fun they had had together in the good times.

He turned on the TV and watched Prime Time Live Prime Time Live while his dinner was warming. The kitchen filled with the fragrance of the herbs Marianne used. She was a great cook. Perhaps it was because Martinique had been a French colony. while his dinner was warming. The kitchen filled with the fragrance of the herbs Marianne used. She was a great cook. Perhaps it was because Martinique had been a French colony.

Just as he was taking the ca.s.serole out of the oven, the phone rang again. This time it was Preston Barck. He sounded shaken. "I just heard from d.i.c.k Minsky in Philadelphia," he said. "Jeannie Ferrami has made an appointment to go to the Aventine Clinic tomorrow."

Berrington sat down heavily. "Christ on a pony," he said. "How the h.e.l.l did she get on to the clinic?"

"I don't know. d.i.c.k wasn't there, the night manager took the call. But apparently she said some of her research subjects had treatment years ago and she wanted to check their medical records. Promised to fax over her releases and said she'd be there at two P.M P.M. Thank G.o.d d.i.c.k happened to call in about something else and the night manager mentioned it."

d.i.c.k Minsky had been one of the first people Genetico had hired, back in the seventies. He had been the mailroom boy then; now he was general manager of the clinics. He had never been a member of the inner circle-only Jim, Preston, and Berrington could ever belong to that club-but he knew that the company's past held secrets. Discretion was automatic with him.

"What did you tell d.i.c.k to do?"

"Cancel the appointment, of course. If she shows up anyway, turn her away. Tell her she can't see the records." Berrington shook his head. "Not good enough."

"Why?"

"It will just make her more curious. She'll try to find some other way to get at the files."

"Like how?"

Berrington sighed. Preston could be unimaginative. "Well, if I were her, I'd call Landsmann, get Michael Madigan's secretary on the phone, and say he ought to look at the Aventine Clinic's records from twenty-three years ago before he closes the takeover deal. That would get him asking questions, wouldn't it?"

"Well, what do you suggest?" Preston said tetchily.

"I think we're going to have to shred all the record cards from the seventies."

There was a moment of silence. "Berry, those records are unique. Scientifically, they're priceless-"

"You think I don't know that?" Berrington snapped.

"There must be another way."

Berrington sighed. He felt as bad as Preston did about it. He had fondly imagined that one day, many years in the future, someone would write the story of their pioneering experiments, and their boldness and scientific brilliance would be revealed to the world. It broke his heart to see the historical evidence wiped out in this guilty and underhand way. But it was inevitable now. "While the records exist, they're a threat to us. They have to be destroyed. And it had better be done right away."

"What'll we tell the staff?"

"s.h.i.t, I don't know, Preston, make something up, for Christ's sake. New corporate doc.u.ment management strategy. So long as they start shredding first thing in the morning I don't care what you tell them."

"I guess you're right. Okay, I'll get back to d.i.c.k right away. Will you call Jim and bring him up-to-date?"

"Sure."

"Bye."

Berrington dialed Jim Proust's home number. His wife, a wispy woman with a downtrodden air, answered the phone and put Jim on. "I'm in bed, Berry, what the h.e.l.l is it now?"

The three of them were getting very snappy with one another.

Berrington told Jim what Preston had reported and the action they had decided on.

"Good move," Jim said. "But it's not enough. There are other ways this Ferrami woman could come at us."

Berrington felt a spasm of irritation. Nothing was ever enough for Jim. No matter what you proposed, Jim would always want tougher action, more extreme measures. Then he suppressed his annoyance. Jim was making sense this time, he reflected. Jeannie had proved to be a real bloodhound, unwavering in her pursuit of the scent. One setback would not make her give up. "I agree," he said to Jim. "And Steve Logan is out of jail, I heard earlier today, so she's not entirely alone. We have to deal with her long term."

"She has to be scared off."

"Jim, for Christ's sake-"

"I know this brings out the wimp in you, Berry, but it has to be done."

"Forget it."

"Look-"

"I have a better idea, Jim, if you'll listen for a minute."

"Okay, I'm listening."

"I'm going to have her fired."