“Sure,” she said. “There’s a one-in-a-hundred chance that two unrelated individuals could have a fragment the same on both maternal and paternal DNA. We normally test four different fragments, using different oligos and different probes. That reduces the chance of a mistake to one in a hundred million. Lisa will do three more; they take half a day each. But I know what they’re going to say. And so do you, don’t you?”
“I guess I do.” Steve sighed. “I’d better start believing this. Where the hell did I come from?”
Jeannie looked thoughtful. “Something you said has been on my mind: ‘I don’t have any brothers or sisters.’ From what you’ve said about your parents, they seem like the kind of people who might want a house full of kids, three or four.”
“You’re right,” Steve said. “But Mom had trouble conceiving. She was thirty-three, and she had been married to Dad for ten years, when I came along. She wrote a book about it:
“Charlotte Pinker was thirty-nine when Dennis was born. I bet they had subfertility problems too. I wonder if that’s significant.”
“How could it be?”
“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 embarrassing 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. God 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.? … You’ve been very kind.… I’ll do that. Thank you. Good-bye.”
“Fertility clinic,” Steve said thoughtfully. “Didn’t I read, in that
Jeannie stared at him, openmouthed. “Oh, my God,” 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 embarrassing 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 casserole in the refrigerator: chicken Provencal,
