the Third Twin (1996)

He pulled into a slot near her house and turned off the engine. He sat thinking for a moment. He would need his wits about him. He was glad he had not drunk that beer Uncle Jim had offered him.

He knew she would take him for Steve, because she had done so once before, in Philadelphia. The two of them were identical in appearance. But conversation would be more tricky. She would make references to all sorts of things he was supposed to know about. He would have to answer without betraying his ignorance. He had to keep her confidence long enough to find out what evidence she had against him and what she planned to do with her knowledge. It would be very easy to make a slip and betray himself.

But even while he thought soberly about the daunting challenge of impersonating Steve, he could hardly contain his excitement at the prospect of seeing her again. What he had done in her car had been the most thrilling sexual encounter he had ever had. It was even better than being in the women’s locker room when they were all panicking. He got aroused every time he thought about ripping her clothes while the car swerved all over the expressway.

He knew he should concentrate on his task now. He must not think of her face contorted in fear and her strong legs writhing. He ought to get the information from her and leave. But all his life he had never been able to do the sensible thing.

    Jeannie called police headquarters as soon as she got home. She knew Mish would not be there, but she left a message asking her to call urgently. “Didn’t you leave an urgent message for her earlier today?” she was asked.

“Yes, but this is another one, just as important.”

“I’ll do my best to pass it on,” the voice said skeptically.

Next she called Steve’s house, but there was no reply. She guessed he and Lorraine were with their lawyer, trying to get Charles freed, and he would call when he could.

She was disappointed; she wanted to tell someone the good news.

The thrill of having found Harvey’s apartment wore off, and she felt depressed. Her thoughts returned to the danger that faced her of a future with no money, no job, and no way to help her mother.

To cheer herself up she made brunch. She scrambled three eggs and grilled the bacon she had bought yesterday for Steve and ate it with toast and coffee. As she was putting the dishes in the dishwasher, the doorbell rang.

She lifted the handset. “Hello?”

“Jeannie? It’s Steve.”

“Come on in!” she said happily.

He was wearing a cotton sweater the color of his eyes, and he looked good enough to eat. She kissed him and hugged him hard, letting him feel her breasts against his chest. His hand slid down her back to her ass and pressed her to him. Today he smelled different again: he had used some kind of aftershave with an herbal fragrance. He tasted different, too, sort of like he had been drinking tea.

After a while she broke away. “Let’s not go too fast,” she panted. She wanted to savor this. “Come in and sit down. I have so much to tell you!”

He sat on the couch and she went to the refrigerator. “Wine, beer, coffee?”

“Wine sounds good.”

“Do you think it will be okay?”

    What the hell did she mean by that? Do you think it will be okay? “I don’t know,” he said.

“How long ago did we open it?”

Okay, they shared a bottle of wine but didn’t finish it, so she replaced the cork and put the bottle in the refrigerator, and now she’s wondering whether it has oxidized. But she wants me to decide. “Let’s see, what day was it?”

“It was Wednesday, that’s four days.”

He could not even see whether it was red or white. Shit. “Hell, just pour a glass and we’ll try it.”

“What a smart idea.” She poured some wine into a glass and handed it to him. He tasted it. “It’s drinkable,” he said.

She leaned over the back of the sofa. “Let me taste.” She kissed his lips. “Open your mouth,” she said. “I want to taste the wine.” He chuckled and did as she said. She put the tip of her tongue into his mouth. My God, this woman is sexy. “You’re right,” she said. “It’s drinkable.” Laughing, she filled his glass and poured some for herself.

He was beginning to enjoy himself. “Put some music on,” he suggested.

“On what?”

He had no idea what she was talking about. Oh, Christ, I’ve made a slip. He looked around the apartment: no stereo. Dumb.

She said: “Daddy stole my stereo, remember? I don’t have anything to play music on. Wait a minute, I do.” She went into the next room—bedroom, presumably—and came back with one of those waterproof radios for hanging in the shower. “It’s a silly thing, Mom gave it to me one Christmas, before she started to go crazy.”

Daddy stole her stereo. Mom’s crazy—what the hell kind of a family does she come from?

“The sound is terrible, but it’s all I’ve got.” She turned it on. “I keep it tuned to 92Q.”

‘Twenty hits in a row,” he said automatically.

“How do you know about that?”

Oh, shit, Steve wouldn’t know Baltimore radio stations. “I picked it up in the car on the way here.”

“What sort of music do you like?”

I have no idea what Steve likes, but I guess you don’t either, so the truth will do. “I’m into gangsta rap—Snoop Doggy Dogg, Ice Cube, that kind of stuff.”

“Oh, fuck, you make me feel middle-aged.”

“What do you like?”

“The Ramones, the Sex Pistols, the Damned. I mean, when I was a kid, like really a kid, punk was it, you know? My mom would listen to all this cheesy music from the sixties that never did anything for me. Then, when I was about eleven, suddenly, bang! Talking Heads. Remember ‘Psycho Killer’?”

“I sure don’t!”

“Okay, your mother was right, I’m too old for you.” She sat beside him. She put her head on his shoulder and slipped her hand under the sky blue sweater. She rubbed his chest, brushing his nipples with her fingertips. It felt good. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said.

He wanted to touch her nipples too, but he had more important things to do. With a huge effort of will he said: “We need to talk seriously.”

“You’re right.” She sat up and took a sip of the wine. “You first. Is your father still under arrest?”

Jesus, what do I say to that? “No, you first,” he said. “You said you had so much to tell me.”

“Okay. Number one, I know who raped Lisa. His name is Harvey Jones and he lives in Philadelphia.”

Christ Almighty! Harvey struggled to keep his expression impassive. Thank God I came here. “Is there proof he did it?”

“I went to his apartment. The neighbor let me in with a duplicate key.”

That fucking old homo, I’ll break his scrawny neck.

“I found the baseball cap he was wearing last Sunday. It was hanging on a hook behind the door.”

Jesus! I should have thrown it away. But I never thought anyone would track me down! “You’ve done amazingly well,” he said. Steve would be thrilled by this news; it lets him off the hook. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“I’ll think of something,” she said with a sexy grin.

Can I get back to Philadelphia in time to get rid of that hat before the police get there?