"Harry Grenville?" I asked, impressed by the plush office. "I'm Detective George Winfield. Thanks for seeing me."

     He stood up behind his ornate desk and waved at a leather-upholstered chair in front of it. "You had questions about Barry."

     "Right. Some things your brother said during his trial."

     Harry sat down. "Did you have a pleasant trip?" His expressionless face and icy eyes belied the cordiality of his words.

     "Uneventful," I said, seating myself. "You're sure a ringer for Barry."

     "Identical twins resemble each other." There was sarcasm in his voice. "We're same-egg siblings."

     "Barry told me that, but I didn't realize how identical. You guys are absolute duplicates."

     "I've never enjoyed having a loser for a double."

     "Did you know your double escaped?"

     "Escaped?" His inflection told me he hadn't heard. "When?"

     "Last night. Just before I phoned you."

     "You think I'm hiding him?"

     "No. I understand you two aren't chummy."

     "We're not. How could he escape? "

     "With help. Three guards were transporting him back to prison from an appeal hearing. A truck rammed their van. By the time the guards climbed out of the wreckage, the truck was gone and so was Barry."

     Harry shrugged. "They’ll find him."

     "Unless they quit looking," I said.

     "That's not likely. So what can I do for you? "

     "Like I said on the phone, I want to check out some things. You boys grew up rivals? Competing for everything from school grades to Little League playing-time?"

     He nodded. "I always won."

     "He didn’t tell me that."

     "Losers don’t brag about their losses."

     "He said you tried to cheat him out of his share of your inheritance."

     "False. He’s a liar as well as a loser and a killer. Look, officer, I don’t have time for trivia. If you have something important to ask, get on with it."

     "Right," I said. "Do you ever wonder if he really did it?"

     "Kill the girl?" Harry's voice rose a decibel. "The jury said he did, and the judge sentenced him to life without parole."

     "But what about you? What do you think?"

     "I don't have an opinion." His voice came back down. "I'm embarrassed that my brother's a loser and a convicted killer. I assume he's guilty. Whether he is or he isn't, it's no skin off my butt."

     "You're just like Barry," I said. "That makes it easier."

     "Makes what easier?"

     "Using you to change things for us."

     "What the hell are you talking about?" The voice had risen again.

     "About you going back to Indianapolis with me."

     Harry Grenville arched his brows, his eyes into mine. "That's ridiculous. I am not going to Indianapolis, with you or without you. Why would I do that?"

     "Should be obvious," I said. "To confuse witnesses, cops, anybody who can identify Barry. Like the people who said they saw him running from the victim's apartment. If they saw you, they'd say you were the one and lock you up for life."

     "It's too late for that," Harry said. "The trial's over. And it wouldn't have mattered, anyway. The victim was Barry's fiancée, not mine. Barry had a key to her place; I didn't. Barry had a reason to be there, not I. Barry had a motive, blind rage at discovering she was ... ah ... unfaithful, not I. Barry had access to her kitchen knives. I don't."

     "How do you know all these details?"

     "Newspapers and TV. The trial was well publicized."

     "If you were following your brother's troubles that closely, why didn't you ever visit him in jail? Show up during the trial? At least drop him a note of sympathy and support?"

     "We chose our separate paths years ago. I've always been a winner and he a loser." The cold eyes were no longer just staring at me; now they were defying me. "I have no interest in re-establishing a distasteful relationship. Who wants to admit his brother is a bum turned murderer? Who needs to have his clients know he has a convicted criminal in the family?"

     This man wasn't just a Barry Grenville look-a-like, I told myself. Harry and Barry shared identical personalities, as well, each with all the warmth and sensitivity of a frozen mushroom.

     "I'm not a twin," I said. "And I'm not a sweet-potato, either, but if I had a brother in trouble, I think I'd be there to help if I could or to shake his hand if I couldn't."

     "Bully for you," Harry said. "Was there anything else, Officer Winfield?"

     "Yes. One last thing, please. Barry told me the trust-fund annuity your parents left assigns half to each of you, with both ends going to the survivor after the death of either. True?"

     He shrugged. "Barry never could keep anything to himself. Did he tell you our father had a drinking problem and our mother was dyslexic?"

     "No. But he told me you tried to con him into assigning his share of the annuity over to you when he decided to move to Indianapolis."

     "False. There was no con involved. He needed money and I offered him a generous buyout."

     "Generous? A one-time two-hundred-thou lump sum for assignment of a lifelong sixty-thou annual income?"

     "It was a business proposition. Anyway, he turned it down. Look, I'm a busy man, Officer Winland. I'm afraid this interview is over. Would you mind leaving?"

     "No," I said. "I guess I’m ready." Standing up, I pulled the gun from under my coat. "Let's go."

     Harry's eyes went big and his mouth went open. "You're arresting me? On what charge? Do you have a warrant?"

     I kept the gun on him and walked around behind his swivel chair. I put its muzzle against the back of his neck and thumbed the hammer to full cock. Harry went rigid at the click. "Relax," I told him. "If you behave, I'll handcuff you. If you don't, I'll blow away your spine."

     Harry's arms dropped to his sides. I swung him around in his chair, kept the gun on him with my left hand, snapped the cuffs on his wrists with my right hand, and backed away. I let the hammer down, but kept the gun pointed at his belly.

     "Stand up and head on out," I said. "Keep calm and stay quiet and you'll live a while. Give me any grief and you'll die on the spot."

     "Where ... are we going?"

     "Indianapolis. Where else?"

     "Why? What for?"

     "You haven't figured it out yet?" I pushed him through the door and onto the deserted sidewalk. "Get in," I said, pointing at the brown Pontiac parked at the curb.

     "That isn't a police car," he said.

     "Right. It's a civilian rental."

     "I’m not under arrest?"

     "You seem to think I'm a cop, Mr. Grenville," I said. "I never told you that. I just said 'Detective George Winland' when I called. I'm a private detective and your brother’s my client. My only client, at the moment."

     He finally did figure it out, after I’d had the Pontiac on cruise control for a good half-hour, eating up Interstate 65 toward Indianapolis at the rate of 70 per. His voice very low, he said, "The fingerprints won't match."

     "True," I said, "but nobody’ll know.  There's going to be a fire. Your hands'll be burned a bit when they find you. Just your hands. Oh, and the ID in your pockets will be switched, of course."

     More time passed. More miles flew by. Harry stirred. "What's Barry paying you?"

     "Your half of the annuity. Sixty thou a year to me for the rest of his life."

     "I’ll double that."

     "Sorry," I said. "The horse is traded. It’s a done deal."

     "What's in it for Barry?"

     "Freedom. The other sixty-thou per year. Your name. Your bank account. Your business." I giggled. "Seems like the loser’s finally about to become the winner and vice versa, wouldn’t you say?"

     Harry's voice was almost a whisper. "What's in it for me?"

     "A gravestone marked 'Barry,' plus the realization that one of the nasty Grenville twins finally did something nice for the other."

     Harry shook his head. "That’s not how I want it," he said. "I won’t have Barry’s name on my tombstone and you spending my money."

     "Like you have a choice," I said, giggling again.

     I stopped giggling when his left foot clamped down on my right foot to jam the accelerator pedal to the floor. His manacled hands seized the steering wheel. The rental Pontiac veered hard left off the concrete. Accelerating, its tires dug divots from the grassy divider strip as we raced diagonally toward the northbound traffic lanes.

     I strained to tear the wheel loose from the grasp of this suddenly suicidal twin. I struggled to steer the hurtling Pontiac away from its collision course with the gigantic tractor-trailer truck charging toward our meeting place. I pitted my strength against Harry’s in a match of muscle and of will. And I realized that he was still the winner.