the Third Twin (1996)

said. “This is an affluent suspect. What did he do?”

“Rape,” Mish said.

The elevator stopped. The door opened directly onto another door, so that they could not get out until the apartment door was opened. Mish rang the bell. There was a long silence. Herb held open the elevator doors. Jeannie prayed Wayne would not have gone out of town for the weekend; she could not stand the anticlimax. Mish rang again and kept her finger on the button.

At last a voice came from within. “Who the fuck is it?”

It was him. The voice made Jeannie go cold with horror.

Herb said: “The police, that’s who the fuck it is. Now open the door.”

The tone changed. “Please hold your ID up to the glass panel in front of you.”

Herb showed his detective’s shield to the panel.

“Okay, just a minute.”

This is it, Jeannie thought. Now I’m going to see him.

The door was opened by a tousled, barefoot young man in a faded black terrycloth bathrobe.

Jeannie stared at him, feeling disoriented.

He was Steve’s double—except that he had black hair.

Herb said: “Wayne Stattner?”

“Yes.”

He must have dyed it, she thought. He must have dyed it yesterday or Thursday night.

“I’m Detective Herb Reitz from the first precinct.”

“I’m always keen to cooperate with the police, Herb,” said Wayne. He glanced at Mish and Jeannie. Jeannie saw no flicker of recognition in his face. “Won’t you all come in?”

They stepped inside. The windowless lobby was painted black with three red doors. In a corner stood a human skeleton of the type used in medical schools, but this one was gagged with a red scarf and had steel police handcuffs on its bony wrists.

Wayne led them through one of the red doors into a big, high-ceilinged loft. Black velvet curtains were drawn across the windows, and the place was lit by low lamps. On one wall was a full-size Nazi flag. A collection of whips stood in an umbrella stand, displayed under a spotlight. A large oil painting of a crucifixion rested on an artist’s easel; looking closer, Jeannie saw that the naked figure being crucified was not Christ, but a voluptuous woman with long blond hair. She shuddered with disgust.

This was the home of a sadist: that could not have been more obvious if he had put a sign out.

Herb was staring around in amazement. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Stattner?”

“I own two nightclubs here in New York. Frankly, that’s why I’m so keen to cooperate with the police. I have to keep my hands spotlessly clean, for business purposes.”

Herb clicked his fingers. “Of course, Wayne Stattner. I read about you in New York magazine. ‘Manhattan’s Young Millionaires.’ I should have recognized the name.”

“Won’t you sit down?”

Jeannie headed for a seat, then saw it was an electric chair of the type used for executions. She did a double take, grimaced, and sat elsewhere.

Herb said: “This is Sergeant Michelle Delaware of the Baltimore City Police.”

“Baltimore?” said Wayne, showing surprise. Jeannie was watching his face for signs of fear, but he seemed to be a good actor. “They have crime in Baltimore?” he said sarcastically.

Jeannie said: “Your hair’s dyed, isn’t it?”

Mish flashed her a look of annoyance: Jeannie was supposed to observe, not interrogate the suspect.

However, Wayne did not mind the question. “Smart of you to notice.”

I was right, Jeannie thought jubilantly. It is him. She looked at his hands and remembered them tearing her clothes. You’ve had it, you bastard, she thought.

“When did you dye it?” she asked.

“When I was fifteen,” he said.

Liar.

“Black has been fashionable ever since I can remember.”

You hair was fair on Thursday, when you pushed your big hands up my skirt, and on Sunday, when you raped my friend Lisa in the gym at JFU.

But why was he lying? Did he know they had a fair-haired suspect?

He said: “What’s this all about? Is my hair color a clue? I love mysteries.”

“We won’t keep you long,” Mish said briskly. “We need to know where you were last Sunday evening at eight o’clock.”

Jeannie wondered if he would have an alibi. It would be so easy for him to claim he had been playing cards with some lowlife types, then pay them to back him up, or say he had been in bed with a hooker who would perjure herself for a fix.

But he surprised her. “That’s easy,” he said. “I was in California.”

“Can anyone corroborate that?”

He laughed. “About a hundred million people, I guess.”

Jeannie was beginning to get a bad feeling about this. He couldn’t have a real alibi. He had to be the rapist.

Mish said: “What do you mean?”

“I was at the Emmys.”

Jeannie remembered that the Emmy Awards dinner had been showing on TV in Lisa’s hospital room. How could Wayne have been at the ceremony? He could hardly have got to the airport in the time it took Jeannie to reach the hospital.

“I didn’t win anything, of course,” he added. “I’m not in that business. But Salina Jones did, and she’s an old friend.”

He glanced at the oil painting, and Jeannie realized that the woman in the picture resembled the actress who played Babe, the daughter of grouchy Brian in the restaurant sitcom Too Many Cooks. She must have posed.

Wayne said: “Salina won best actress in a comedy, and I kissed her on both cheeks as she came off the stage with her trophy in her hand. It was a beautiful moment, caught forever by the television cameras and beamed instantly to the world. I have it on video. And there’s a photo in this week’s People magazine.”

He pointed to a magazine lying on the carpet.

With a sinking heart, Jeannie picked it up. There was a picture of Wayne, looking incredibly dashing in a tuxedo, kissing Salina as she grasped her Emmy statuette.

His hair was black.

The caption read “New York nightclub impresario Wayne Stattner congratulates old flame Salina Jones on her Emmy for Too Many Cooks in Hollywood Sunday night.”

It was about as impregnable as an alibi could be.

How was this possible?

Mish said: “Well, Mr. Stattner, we don’t need to take up any more of your time.”

“What did you think I might have done?”

“We’re investigating a rape that took place in Baltimore on Sunday night.”

“Not me,” Wayne said.

Mish glanced at the crucifixion and he followed her gaze. “All my victims are volunteers,” he said, and he gave her a long, suggestive look.

She flushed dark and turned away.

Jeannie was desolate. All her hopes were dashed. But her brain was still working, and as they got up to leave she said: “May I ask you something?”

“Sure,” said Wayne, ever obliging.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“I’m an only child.”