the Third Twin (1996)

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 Provençal, according to the note she had left in careful, childish handwriting. He put it in the oven and poured a small glass of Springbank scotch. As he took the first sip, the phone rang.

It was his ex-wife, Vivvie. “The Wall Street Journal says you’re going to be rich,” she said.

He pictured her, a slender blonde of sixty years, sitting on the terrace of her California house, watching the sun go down over the Pacific Ocean. “I suppose you want to come back to me.”

“I thought about it, Berry. I thought about it very seriously for at least ten seconds. Then I realized a hundred and eighty million dollars wasn’t enough.”

That made him laugh.

“Seriously, Berry, I’m pleased for you.”

He knew she was sincere. She had plenty of money of her own. After leaving him, she had gone into the real estate business in Santa Barbara and had done well. “Thank you.”

“What are you going to do with the money? Leave it to the boy?”

Their son was studying to be a certified public accountant. “He won’t need it, he’ll make a fortune as an accountant. I might give some of the money to Jim Proust. He’s going to run for president.”

“What’ll you get in return? Do you want to be the U.S. ambassador in Paris?”

“No, but I’d consider surgeon general.”

“Hey, Berry, you’re serious about this. But I guess you shouldn’t say too much on the phone.”

“True.”

“I gotta go, my date just rang the doorbell. See you sooner, Montezuma.” It was an old family joke.

He gave her the response. “In a flash, succotash.” He cradled the phone.

He found it a little depressing that Vivvie was going out for the evening with a date—he had no idea who it might be—while he was sitting at home alone with his scotch. Apart from the death of his father, Vivvie’s leaving him was the great sadness of Berrington’s life. He did not blame her for going; he had been hopelessly unfaithful. But he had loved her, and he still missed her, thirteen years after the divorce. The fact that he was at fault only made him sadder. Joshing with her on the phone reminded him of how much fun they had had together in the good times.

He turned on the TV and watched Prime Time Live while his dinner was warming. The kitchen filled with the fragrance of the herbs Marianne used. She was a great cook. Perhaps it was because Martinique had been a French colony.

Just as he was taking the casserole out of the oven, the phone rang again. This time it was Preston Barck. He sounded shaken. “I just heard from Dick Minsky in Philadelphia,” he said. “Jeannie Ferrami has made an appointment to go to the Aventine Clinic tomorrow.”

Berrington sat down heavily. “Christ on a pony,” he said. “How the hell did she get on to the clinic?”

“I don’t know. Dick wasn’t there, the night manager took the call. But apparently she said some of her research subjects had treatment years ago and she wanted to check their medical records. Promised to fax over her releases and said she’d be there at two P.M. Thank God Dick happened to call in about something else and the night manager mentioned it.”

Dick Minsky had been one of the first people Genetico had hired, back in the seventies. He had been the mailroom boy then; now he was general manager of the clinics. He had never been a member of the inner circle—only Jim, Preston, and Berrington could ever belong to that club—but he knew that the company’s past held secrets. Discretion was automatic with him.

“What did you tell Dick to do?”

“Cancel the appointment, of course. If she shows up anyway, turn her away. Tell her she can’t see the records.” Berrington shook his head. “Not good enough.”

“Why?”

“It will just make her more curious. She’ll try to find some other way to get at the files.”

“Like how?”

Berrington sighed. Preston could be unimaginative. “Well, if I were her, I’d call Landsmann, get Michael Madigan’s secretary on the phone, and say he ought to look at the Aventine Clinic’s records from twenty-three years ago before he closes the takeover deal. That would get him asking questions, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, what do you suggest?” Preston said tetchily.