The Third Twin - Ken Follett [41]
Mish jerked her head at the cops. “Let’s go.”
Steven spoke in a clear, calm voice. “Wait a minute.”
They hesitated.
“Jeannie, I don’t care about these guys, but I want to tell you that I didn’t do this, and I never would do anything of the kind.”
She believed him. She asked herself why. Was it just that she needed him to be innocent for her theory? No: she had the psychological tests to show that he had none of the characteristics associated with criminals. But there was something else: her intuition. She felt safe with him. He gave out no wrong signals. He listened when she talked, he did not try to bully her, he did not touch her inappropriately, he showed no anger or hostility. He liked women and he respected her. He was not a rapist.
She said: “Do you want me to call someone? Your parents?”
“No,” he said decisively. “They’d worry. And it will all be over in a few hours. I’ll tell them then.”
“Aren’t they expecting you home tonight?”
“I said I might stay with Ricky again.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” she said dubiously.
“I’m sure.”
“Let’s go,” Mish said impatiently.
“What’s the damn hurry?” Jeannie snapped. “You have some other innocent people to arrest?”
Mish glared at her. “Do you have anything more to say to me?”
“What happens next?”
“There’ll be a lineup. We’ll let Lisa Hoxton decide whether this is the man that raped her.” With facetious deference Mish added: “Is that okay with you, Dr. Ferrami?”
“That’s just fine,” Jeannie said.
9
THEY TOOK STEVE DOWNTOWN IN THE PALE BLUE DODGE Colt. The woman detective drove and the other one, a heavyset white man with a mustache, sat beside her, looking cramped in the little car. No one spoke.
Steve quietly seethed with resentment. Why the hell should he be riding in this uncomfortable car, his wrists in handcuffs, when he ought to be sitting in Jeannie Ferrami’s apartment with a cold drink in his hand? They had just better get this over with quickly, that was all.
Police headquarters was a pink granite building in Baltimore’s red-light district, among the topless bars and porn outlets. They drove up a ramp and parked in the internal garage. It was full of police cruisers and cheap compacts like the Colt.
They took Steve up in an elevator and put him in a room with yellow-painted walls and no windows. They took off his handcuffs then left him alone. He assumed they locked the door: he did not check.
There was a table and two hard plastic chairs. On the table was an ashtray containing two cigarette butts, both filter tips, one with lipstick on it. Set into the door was a pane of opaque glass: Steve could not see out, but he guessed they could see in.
Looking at the ashtray, he wished he smoked. It would be something to do here in this yellow cell. Instead he paced up and down.
He told himself he could not really be in trouble. He had managed to get a look at the picture on the flyer, and although it was more or less like him, it was not him. No doubt he resembled the rapist, but when he stood in the lineup with several other tall young men, the victim would not pick him out. After all, the poor woman must have looked long and hard at the bastard who did it: his face would be burned into her memory. She would not make a mistake.
But the cops had no right to keep him waiting like this. Okay, they had to eliminate him as a suspect, but they did not have to take all night about it. He was a law-abiding citizen.
He tried to look on the bright side. He was getting a close-up view of the American justice system. He would be his own lawyer: it would be good practice. When in the future he represented a client accused of a crime, he would know what the person was going through in police custody.
He had seen the inside of a precinct house once before, but that had felt very different. He was only fifteen. He had gone to the police with one of his teachers. He had admitted the crime immediately and told the police candidly everything that had happened. They could see his injuries: