an assistant professor without breaking a sweat.”
“Okay.”
Berrington frowned. “We’re together on this, right, Jim?”
“Right.”
“Okay. Sleep well.”
“Good night.”
Berrington hung up the phone. His chicken Provencal was cold. He dumped it in the trash and went to bed.
He lay awake for a long time, thinking about Jeannie Ferrami. At two A.M. he got up and took a Dalmane. Then, at last, he went to sleep.
29
IT WAS A HOT NIGHT IN PHILADELPHIA. IN THE TENEMENT building, all the doors and windows were open: none of the rooms had air-conditioning. The sounds of the street floated up to apartment 5A on the top floor: car horns, laughter, snatches of music. On a cheap pine desk, scratched and marked with old cigarette burns, a phone was ringing.
He picked it up.
A voice like a bark said: “This is Jim.”
“Hey, Uncle Jim, how are you?”
“I’m worried about you.”
“How so?”
“I know what happened on Sunday night.”
He hesitated, not sure how to reply. “They’ve arrested someone for that.”
“But his girlfriend thinks he’s innocent.”
“So?”
“She’s coming to Philadelphia tomorrow.”
“What for?”
“I’m not sure. But I think she’s a danger.” “Shit.”
“You may want to do something about her.”
“Such as?”
“It’s up to you.”
“How would I find her?”
“Do you know the Aventine Clinic? It’s in your neighborhood.”
“Sure, it’s on Chestnut, I pass it every day.”
“She’ll be there at two P.M..”
“How will I know her?”
“Tall, dark hair, pierced nostril, about thirty.”
“That could be a lot of women.”
“She’ll probably be driving an old red Mercedes.”
“That narrows it down.”
“Now, bear in mind, the other guy is out on bail.” He frowned. “So what?”
“So, if she should meet with an accident, after she’s been seen with you …”
“I get it. They’ll assume it was him.”
“You always were quick thinking, my boy.”
He laughed. “And you always were mean thinking, Uncle.”
“One more thing.”
“I’m listening.”
“She’s beautiful. So enjoy.”
“Bye, Uncle Jim. And thanks.”
THURSDAY
30
JEANNIE HAD THE THUNDERBIRD DREAM AGAIN.
The first part of the dream was something that really happened, when she was nine and her sister was six, and their father was—briefly—living with them. He was flush with money at the time (and it was not until years later that Jeannie realized he must have got it from a successful’ robbery). He brought home a new Ford Thunderbird with a turquoise paint job and matching turquoise upholstery, the most beautiful car imaginable to a nine-year-old girl. They all went for a ride, Jeannie and Patty sitting in the front on the bench seat between Daddy and Mom. As they were cruising along the George Washington Memorial Parkway, Daddy put Jeannie on his lap and let her take the wheel.
In real life, she had steered the car into the fast lane and got a fright when a car that was trying to pass honked loudly and Daddy jerked the wheel and brought the Thunderbird back on track. But in the dream Daddy was no longer there, she was driving without help, and Mom and Patty sat quite unperturbed beside her even though they
She woke up with her fingernails digging into the palms of her hands and the insistent chime of her doorbell in her ears. It was six AM. She lay still for a moment, savoring the relief that washed over her from the realization that it was only a dream. Then she jumped out of bed and went to the entry phone. “Hello?”
“It’s Ghita, wake up and let me in.”
Ghita lived in Baltimore and worked at FBI headquarters in Washington. She must be on her way to the office for an early start, Jeannie thought. She pressed the button that opened the door.
Jeannie pulled on an oversize T-shirt that reached almost to her knees; it was decent enough for a girlfriend. Ghita came up the stairs, the picture of a fast-rising corporate executive in a navy linen suit, black hair cut in a bob, stud earrings, large lightweight glasses,
Jeannie said: “I don’t know, I just woke up.” This was going to be bad news, she could tell.
“My boss called me at home late last night and told me to have nothing more to do with you.”
“No!” She needed the FBI results to show that her method worked, despite the puzzle of Steven and Dennis. “Damn! Did he say why?”
“Claimed your methods infringed people’s privacy.”
“Unusual for the FBI to worry about a little thing like that.”
“It seems the
GENE RESEARCH ETHICS:
DOUBTS, FEARS AND A SQUABBLE
Jeannie was afraid the “squabble” was a reference to her own situation, and she was right.
