Preston was not satisfied. “How?”
Berrington had been turning this question over and over in his mind. He did not have a plan, but he had an idea. “I think there’s a problem around her use of medical databases. It raises ethical questions. I believe I can force her to stop.”
“She must have covered herself.”
“I don’t need a valid reason, just a pretext.”
“What’s this girl like?” Jim said.
“About thirty. Tall, very athletic. Dark hair, ring in her nose, drives an old red Mercedes. For a long time I thought very highly of her. Last night I discovered there’s bad blood in the family. Her father is a criminal type. But she’s also clever, feisty, and stubborn.”
“Married, divorced?”
“Single, no boyfriend.”
“A dog?”
“No, she’s a looker. But hard to handle.”
Jim nodded thoughtfully. “We still have many loyal friends in the intelligence community. It wouldn’t be so difficult to make such a girl vanish.”
Preston looked scared. “No violence, Jim, for God’s sake.”
A waiter cleared away their plates, and they fell silent until he had gone. Berrington knew he had to tell them what he had learned from last night’s message from Sergeant Delaware. With a heavy heart, he said: “There’s something else you need to know. On Sunday night a girl was raped in the gym. The police have arrested Steve Logan. The victim picked him out of a lineup.”
Jim said: “Did he do it?”
“No.”
“Do you know who did?”
Berrington looked him in the eye. “Yes, Jim, I do.”
Preston said: “Oh, shit.”
Jim said: “Maybe we should make the boys vanish.”
Berrington felt his throat tighten up as if he were choking, and he knew he was turning red. He leaned over the table and pointed his finger at Jim’s face. “Don’t you ever let me hear you say that again!” he said, jabbing his finger so close to Jim’s eyes that Jim flinched, even though he was a much bigger man.
Preston hissed: “Knock it off, you two, people will see!”
Berrington withdrew his finger, but he was not through yet. If they had been in a less public place he would have got his hands around Jim’s throat. Instead he grabbed a fistful of Jim’s lapel. “We gave those boys life. We brought them into the world. Good or bad, they’re our responsibility.”
“All right, all right!” Jim said.
“Just understand me. If one of them is even hurt, so help me Christ, I’ll blow your fucking head off, Jim.”
A waiter appeared and said: “Would you gentlemen like dessert?”
Berrington let go of Jim’s lapel.
Jim smoothed his suit coat with angry gestures.
“Goddamn,” Berrington muttered “Goddamn.”
Preston said to the waiter. “Bring me the check, please.”
17
STEVE LOGAN HAD NOT CLOSED HIS EYES ALL NIGHT.
“Porky” Butcher had slept like a baby, occasionally giving a gentle snore. Steve sat on the floor watching him, fearfully observing every movement, every twitch, thinking about what would happen when the man woke up. Would Porky pick a fight with him? Try ta rape him? Beat him up?
He had good reason to tremble. Men in jail were beaten up all the time. Many were wounded, a few killed. The public outside cared nothing, figuring that if jailbirds maimed and slaughtered one another they would be less able to rob and murder law-abiding citizens.
At all costs, Steve kept telling himself shakily, he must try not to look like a victim. It was easy for people to misread him, he knew. Tip Hendricks had made that mistake. Steve had a friendly air. Although he was big, he looked as if he would not hurt a fly.
Now he had to appear ready to fight back, though without being provocative. Most of all he should not let Porky sum him up as a clean-living college boy. That would make him a perfect target for gibes, casual blows, abuse, and finally a beating. He had to appear a hardened criminal, if possible. Failing that, he should puzzle and confuse Porky by sending out unfamiliar signals.
And if none of that worked?
Porky was taller and heavier than Steve and might be a seasoned street fighter. Steve was fitter and could probably move faster, but he had not hit anyone in anger for seven years. In a bigger space, Steve might have taken Porky out early and escaped without serious injury. But here in the cell it would be bloody, whoever won. If Detective Allaston had been telling the truth, Porky had proved, within the last twenty-four hours, that he had the killer instinct. Do I have the killer instinct? Steve asked himself. Is there any such thing as the killer instinct? I came close to killing Tip Hendricks. Does that make me the same as Porky?
When he thought of what it would mean to win a fight with Porky, Steve shuddered. He pictured the big man lying on the floor of the cell, bleeding, with Steve standing over him the way he had stood over Tip Hendricks, and the voice of Spike the turnkey saying, “Jesus Christ Almighty, I think he’s dead.” He would rather be beaten up.
Maybe he should be passive. It might actually be safer to curl up on the floor and let Porky kick him until the man tired of it. But Steve did not know if he could do that. So he sat there with a dry throat and a racing heart, staring at the sleeping psychopath, playing out fights in his imagination, fights he always lost.
He guessed this was a trick the cops played often. Spike the turnkey certainly did not appear to think it unusual. Maybe, instead of beating people up in interrogation rooms to make them confess, they let other suspects do the job for them. Steve wondered how many people confessed to crimes they had not committed just to avoid spending a night in a cell with someone like Porky.
He would never forget this, he swore. When he became a lawyer, defending people accused of crimes, he would never accept a confession as evidence. He saw himself in front of a jury. “I was once accused of a crime I did not commit, but I came close to confessing,” he would say. “I’ve been there, I know.”
Then he remembered that if he were convicted of this crime he would be thrown out of law school and would never defend anyone at all.
He kept telling himself he was not going to be convicted. The DNA test would clear him. Around midnight he had been taken out of the cell, handcuffed, and driven to Mercy Hospital, a few blocks from police headquarters. There he had given a blood sample from which they would extract his DNA. He had asked the nurse how long the test took and been dismayed to learn that the results would not be ready for three days. He had returned to the cells dispirited. He had been put back in with Porky, who was mercifully still asleep.
He guessed he could stay awake for twenty-four hours. That was the longest they could hold him without court sanction. He had been arrested at about six P.M., so he could be stuck here until the same time tonight. Then, if not before, he must be given an opportunity to ask for bail. That would be his chance to get out.
He struggled to recall his law school lecture on bail. “The only question the court may consider is whether the accused person will show up for trial,” Professor Rexam had intoned. At the time it had seemed as dull as a sermon; now it meant everything. The details began to come back to him. Two factors were taken into account. One was the possible sentence. If the charge was serious, it was more risky to grant baiclass="underline" a person was more likely to run away from an accusation of murder than one of petty theft. The same applied if he had a record and faced a long sentence in consequence. Steve did not have a record; although he had once been convicted of aggravated assault, that was before he was eighteen, and it could not be used against him. He would come before the court as a man with a clean sheet. However, the charges he faced were very grave.