The Third Twin - Ken Follett [147]
It was Jim who had suggested that Berrington watch Jeannie’s house. “We have to know what she’s up to, who comes and goes,” Jim had said, and Berrington had reluctantly agreed. He had got here early, and nothing had happened until around midday when Jeannie was dropped off by a black woman he recognized as one of the detectives investigating the rape. She had interviewed him briefly on Monday. He had found her attractive. He managed to remember her name: Sergeant Delaware.
He called Proust from the pay phone in the McDonald’s on the corner, and Proust promised to get his FBI friend to find out whom they had been to see. Berrington imagined the FBI man saying, “Sergeant Delaware made contact today with a suspect we have under surveillance. For security reasons I can’t reveal any more than that, but it would be helpful to us to know exactly what she did this morning and what case she was working on.”
An hour or so later Jeannie had left in a rush, looking heartbreakingly sexy in a purple sweater. Berrington had not followed her car; despite his fears, he could not bring himself to do something so undignified. But she had come back a few minutes later carrying a couple of brown paper sacks from a grocery store. The next arrival was one of the clones, presumably Steve Logan.
He had not stayed long. If I’d been in his shoes, Berrington thought, with Jeannie dressed like that, I would have stayed there all night and most of Sunday.
He checked the car’s clock for the twentieth time and decided to call Jim again. He might have heard from the FBI by now.
Berrington left his car and walked to the corner. The smell of French fries made him hungry, but he did not like to eat hamburgers out of fast-food containers. He got a cup of black coffee and went to the pay phone.
“They went to New York,” Jim told him.
It was as Berrington had feared. “Wayne Stattner,” he said.
“Yup.”
“Shit. What did they do?”
“Asked him to account for his movements last Sunday, and like that. He was at the Emmys. Had his picture, in People magazine. End of story.”
“Any indication what Jeannie might be planning to do next?”
“No. What’s happening there?”
“Not a lot. I can see her door from here. She did some shopping, Steve Logan came and went, nothing. Maybe they’ve run out of ideas.”
“And maybe not. All we know is that your scheme of firing her didn’t shut her up.”
“All right, Jim, don’t rub it in. Wait—she’s coming out.” She had changed her clothes: she was wearing white jeans and a royal blue sleeveless blouse that showed her strong arms.
“Follow her,” Jim said.
“The hell with that. She’s getting into her car.”
“Berry, we have to know where she goes.”
“I’m not a cop, goddamn it!”
A little girl on her way to the ladies’ room with her mother said: “That man shouted, Mommy.”
“Hush, darling,” her mother said.
Berrington lowered his voice. “She’s pulling away.”
“Get in your damn car!”
“Fuck you, Jim.”
“Follow her!” Jim hung up.
Berrington cradled the phone.
Jeannie’s red Mercedes went by and turned south on Falls Road.
Berrington ran to his car.
47
JEANNIE STUDIED STEVE’S FATHER. CHARLES WAS DARK haired, with the shadow of a heavy beard on his jaw. His expression was dour and his manner rigidly precise. Although it was Saturday and he had been gardening, he wore neatly pressed dark pants and a short-sleeved shirt with a collar. He did not look like Steve in any way. The only thing Steve might have got from him was a taste for conservative clothes. Most of Jeannie’s students wore ripped denim and black leather, but Steve favored khakis and button-downs.
Steve had not yet come home, and Charles speculated that he might have dropped by his law school library to read up on rape trials. Steve’s mother was lying down. Charles made fresh lemonade, and he and Jeannie went out on the patio of the Georgetown house and sat on lawn chairs.
Jeannie had woken up from her doze with a brilliant idea in the forefront of her mind. She had thought of a way