The Third Twin (16 page)

“Open,” Ava commands, and stands back to take a look. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” I notice she doesn’t volunteer to go with me. Not like I expected her to.

“No,” I admit. “But I don’t have another choice right now, and the last thing we need is to have the cops coming around here when Dad gets home.”

“No shit,” Ava agrees, rubbing something out of the corner of my eye. She pauses. “Do you think he’d take our phones away?”

“The phone, the car,
and
the credit cards.” I glance back at the mirror. He’d never trust me again.

Ava stands next to me as I look at our reflections. “Call me if something happens,” she says.

“Nothing’s going to happen.” I hope I sound more sure than I feel.

“What are you going to do with your hair?”

I look in the mirror at the messy bun. “Nothing. It’s the cops, not a club.”

Ava reaches up to undo the elastic. “Yeah, but now that the rest of you looks good, we have to fix this too. Alicia doesn’t do things half-assed.”

An hour later I’m sitting in my car in front of the brick police station. I must have passed this place a million times, but I never thought I’d actually need to go into it. I reach into my bag, take my real license out of my wallet, and stick it into the glove compartment, making sure my Alicia license is the only one left in the plastic window. My palms are sweating, so I wipe them on my leggings and repeat to myself that Alicia didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just here to find out what the cops want so that they’ll stop coming to the house. I’m sure they’ll just ask a couple of questions about how I knew Casey and I’ll be sitting right back here in half an hour, laughing that I was so worried about something so small. Although, I suppose that’s pretty much what the people in the movies think right before the train comes crashing through the intersection and obliterates their disabled car on the tracks.

Taking a deep breath, I get out, and then walk into the station, blinking a little in the fluorescent lights. On
CSI
, the station is always dark and foggy, but this place is lit up like Christmas, making the guy behind the front desk look a little washed-out and a tiny bit green.

“Can I help you?” His tone makes it sound like he’d rather do anything else.

“Yes,” I say, taking out the card like I need to double-check,
even though it’s soft from use and I’ve already memorized the name on it. “I’m here to see Detective Naito.”

The guy types something into the computer on the desk and looks up at me. “Can I tell him who’s here?”

I take a deep breath and think about Dad sitting on a plane and drinking his complimentary first-class champagne, completely oblivious to all of this. I have to keep it that way—there’s no going back now. “Alicia. Alicia Rios. He’s expecting me. Sort of.”

“Okay. Go ahead and have a seat over there.” The guy points to a row of hard orange plastic chairs.

I perch on the edge of one of the chairs, feeling like I’m going to jump up and run out any second. It takes everything I have to stay in one place until the detective rounds the corner with a faintly surprised look on his face. “Alicia?”

I stand up and put my hand out, and then take it back quickly, not knowing whether you’re supposed to shake hands with the cops or not. I look down and see he’s got a big brown accordian folder in his hands anyway. “Yes,” I say, remembering quickly that Alicia has never met him before. I look down at the worn business card in my hand for effect. “Detective Naito?”

“That’s right.” He nods. “Thanks for coming down. Would you come this way?” He holds out the folder to indicate the hallway toward the back of the building.

I take a deep breath and walk toward him, reminding myself that I’m just here to satisfy our curiosity and find out what they want. Alicia’s not in trouble. I see his name on an
office door to the left and start to turn in that direction, but he corrects me.

“Let’s go in here,” he says, reaching around me and opening the door to a room with a plaque that reads
ROOM
1.

“Okay,” I say, starting to feel a little more uneasy. Talking to him in his office is one thing. Talking to him in a generically named Room 1 is another.

“Just have a seat,” he says. He pushes a small Formica-topped table out of the way and gestures to another hard orange plastic chair in the middle of the room. I glance behind him and see a mirror that takes up most of one wall. I’ve watched enough cop shows to wonder who’s standing behind that mirror watching us. I jump a little bit when he closes the door solidly behind us.

“Everything okay?” he asks, settling into the chair next to mine. We’re sitting so close, our knees are practically touching, and I wish that the table was between us like it is on TV.

“Yes. Fine. I’ve just never been to a police station before.”

“Nothing to worry about,” he says absently, looking through the file folder in his lap. “We just have some questions about the death of Casey Stewart.”

“It’s awful what happened to him,” I say, hoping I sound sincere. “But I’m not sure there’s anything I can tell you.”

“We just need to get a few things straight with our investigation. A couple of questions and you’ll be out of here.”

“Okay.” I say, trying to sit back in the chair, but it’s so uncomfortable that I sit up straight again.

“Can I get you anything? A soda? Some water?”

“No. Thanks. I’m fine.” I just want to answer his questions and leave.

The detective points to a tiny box on the ceiling. “You don’t mind if we record this, do you?” He grins. “My handwriting is terrible. Nobody can read it, so this just saves time.”

I look at the box with the little red button on top and try to smile. That’s what someone with nothing to hide would do. “No. It’s fine.”

“Do you mind stating your name for the record?”

It’s the “for the record” part that makes me hesitate. I take a deep breath, knowing that the next thing I say is probably illegal. I’m a terrible liar, but I have no choice. I can practically feel Dad getting closer as the minutes tick by. “Alicia Rios.”

“Thank you, Alicia,” he says, as if he’s speaking to an audience. I glance at the two-way mirror and wonder if he is. He flips through some papers in the folder. “And how did you know Casey Stewart?”

I shrug, trying to look casual. “We went out a couple of times.”

“I see,” he says, nodding. “And when was the last time you saw him?”

“March twenty-eighth,” I answer, glad that I rehearsed this part with Ava. “Friday. The night … the night before he died. We hung out and then talked in his car.”

“In the Cheesecake Factory parking lot?” He looks like he’s expecting a certain answer, only I have no idea what it is.

“Yes. I got into my car at about eleven.”

“About eleven? Are you sure of the time?”

My palms start sweating, and I wipe them on my pants, even though everything I’m telling him is true. “Yes—it had to be around eleven, because I remember specifically that I got home at eleven-thirty, and it takes only a half hour to drive from the Cheesecake Factory to my house.”

“And you didn’t see him after that? Did you have another date with him that maybe you forgot about?”

I shake my head. Where is he going with this? “No. I saw him the night before he died, and that was the last time.”

“Well, if that’s true,” he says, reaching into the folder, “I’d love it if you could explain this surveillance photo taken the night Mr. Stewart died.” He turns a piece of paper so I can see it.

I can almost feel my heart stop as I focus on the image. I should have known that there would be surveillance cameras. They’re everywhere these days. I wonder if it shows his killer—if they got the whole thing on tape. I lean over the photo, afraid to touch the grainy picture, but it’s not what I’m expecting. I swallow hard, hoping my voice won’t crack. “Where did you get this?”

I hope I’m overthinking it, but the detective’s expression looks much less friendly than it did just a few seconds ago. “It was taken from a surveillance camera in the front of the restaurant.” He points to a blurry time code at the bottom of the photo. “Taken at one o’clock in the morning on Sunday, March thirtieth, right around the time of Casey’s death.”

I look back at the photo. The focus isn’t that great, but even I can see that it’s a girl who looks a lot like me walking
down the street. She seems like she’s in a hurry, looking over her shoulder as if she’s expecting someone to follow. But it’s not me. That’s the only thing I know for sure, which can mean only one thing. I suddenly notice how cold my hands are and shove them under my legs. Why wouldn’t Ava tell me that she was near the restaurant that night? I look up at the detective and tell him the only part of the truth that matters now. “That isn’t me.”

Detective Naito spins the photo around, then holds it up to my face. “That’s funny,” he says slowly. “It sure looks an awful lot like you. Could you perhaps have gotten your dates mixed up?”

I feel panic creeping in as the realities start to build on one another. It was the day I met Eli at Roma. I was home that night, I’m sure of it. My mind races as I try to remember where Ava was that night. “I’m not mixed up,” I say firmly. “By eleven-thirty on Friday night, I was at my house, and that’s the last time I saw Casey.” I can tell he doesn’t believe me. “Can I see it again?” He hands it back to me, and I scan it desperately, looking for some clue that will explain this away. I can’t see her face clearly, but I have a good view of a small silver sequined purse hanging from the shoulder of her red jacket. I point to the photo, relief flooding through my body. “The jacket. I don’t have a red leather jacket like that. It must be someone else.”

“Hmm,” he says, reaches into the folder again, and takes out a small plastic bag. “Do you have an earring like this one? We found it in Casey’s car.”

I look at the big gold hoop. It looks like any one of the
dozens of pairs that Ava has. That Alicia wears when she goes out. I think as hard as I can, but I have no idea which pair I’m wearing right now, and my hand is halfway to my ear before I can stop it. “I’m not sure,” I say. I look from the earring to the picture. “But I already told you that I was in his car the night before. We sat and talked in his car for a long time. It could have fallen off before I got out.” I sit forward, trying to convince him that I had nothing to do with this. “Look, I hate the sight of blood—it makes me sick. I wouldn’t even know how to cut someone’s spine, much less be able to do it.”

He glances at the video camera on the wall. “Why did you say it that way?” His tone is concerned, cautious.

I suck in my breath, feeling like I’ve made a mistake. “What way?”

“That you wouldn’t know how to cut someone’s spine.” He watches me, waiting patiently for my answer.

I try to remember where I heard about it, but my mind’s blank. “I don’t know. The news. Or someone at school maybe. Everyone was talking about it on Monday.”

He puts his hands on the folder, palms together. “It’s just an interesting way to put it—that someone cut Casey’s spine.” He pauses. “Because we never put that out to the media. Most people assume that his throat was slit.”

I sit back in my chair and try to stay as calm as possible. “I … I just heard it somewhere. These things get leaked all the time.”

“It’s an unusual method of killing someone,” he continues. “But fairly efficient. Most often used to kill animals in
slaughterhouses or for dissection. It’s called pithing, where the spine is severed from the base of the skull.”

I lean away from him. “Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“What’s interesting,” he says, pulling another bag out of the folder, “is that we found this in the front seat of the car. Covered in blood.” He turns the bag, and I see Ava’s blue sweater covered with big spots of dried purplish blood. “Do you recognize this?” he says quietly.

I nod slowly. “It’s mine,” I admit. “I left it in his car.”

The detective looks interested. “You did? It was awfully cold that night. Yet you got out of his car and crossed the parking lot without remembering your sweater?”

“I was in a hurry.” The minute the words are out of my mouth, I regret it.

His eyebrows rise. “You were? Why?”

I don’t want to tell him the real reason. That will just fire up another set of questions that I don’t need. “Curfew,” I say quickly. “I was late, and I was going to miss curfew.”

“An eleven o’clock curfew.” He doesn’t say it as a question. “Your parents must be awfully strict.”

I definitely don’t want to talk about my dad. “Am I in some kind of trouble?” I hand the photo back to him. This is all starting to sound crazy. “All I know is that this isn’t me, and I didn’t have anything to do with Casey’s death. Do I need a lawyer?”

Detective Naito spreads his hands out on the folder. “Only if you feel like you need one.”

Which immediately makes me feel like I might need one. And that asking for one will make me look guiltier.

He pulls the photo out of the folder again, like he’s examining it for the first time. “Look, we’re just having a little friendly conversation here. And I really appreciate you coming down to straighten all this out.” The detective smiles, but it doesn’t make his face look any kinder. “Well, we do know of two other people who might look like this in a photo. Are you saying it might be one of your sisters?”

“No! None of us had anything to do with what happened to Casey.”

He glances down at his notes. “What were you doing at the funeral?” he asks, and I know the subject change is supposed to throw me off.

I shrug. I was ready for this question. “I needed closure.”

“Closure?”

“Yeah. Like I said, we went out right before he died, so I thought I’d go and pay my respects. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“Nope,” he says. “Nothing wrong with that.”

I remember the joints in Casey’s ashtray and what Ava said. I need to know if we really should be worried, if someone thinks I might know too much. “Do you think … do you think that it might be drug related?”

He tilts his head toward me. “I can’t comment on motive right now. Why do you ask?”