Mistaken Identity (26 page)

“I know the drill.”

“Also, find out if any of them saw Connolly throw something in the Dumpster in the alley. That’s the D.A.’s story and not all of it jibes. For one thing, no gun turned up. If she was getting rid of evidence, why not dump the gun?”

“Nobody said bad guys were smart. They make stupid mistakes all the time.”

“Well, see what you can find out. I’ll give you a copy of the file. Read it before you go.”

“When you want this neighborhood survey done?”

“Right now. You got a bus to catch?”

Lou shrugged. “No.”

“Good.” Bennie stood up. “I have to get going, but I want to introduce you to the lawyer you’ll be working with. She’s only done one survey, but she’s one of my best young lawyers.” Bennie pressed the intercom button on her telephone. “DiNunzio?” she said into the receiver. “You busy?”

“J
esus!” Connolly said. She rose in astonishment on the other side of the Formica counter when Rosato banged into the interview room. “Look at you!”

“Tell me about it.”

“You look exactly like me! You haircut is the same, and that eye makeup!”

“I did it myself.”

“No shit.” Connolly burst into laughter.

“I’ll get better.” Bennie did a model’s spin-turn and came up smiling. With her new makeover, she felt giddily like an actress playing a role. That the role may actually have been the truth added a thrill Bennie couldn’t quite ignore. She shut the door behind her, locking the impostor in with the original and not being absolutely sure which was which.

“How’d you do that, overnight?”

“I got a new haircut and a bad attitude.” Bennie swung her briefcase onto the counter. She didn’t need Connolly’s verification to tell her the transformation had been successful. The prison guards had stared when they patted her down, undoubtedly primed by the newspaper coverage. “It’s all part of the master plan.”

“Which is?”

“We play twins, at trial,” she began, and briefed Connolly on the rationale. Connolly sat down, leaning forward over the counter as Bennie spoke, the story sounding better and better.

“It’s amazing,” Connolly said when Bennie had finished.

“It’s risky, though. You have to follow my rules or it’ll blow up in our faces. I control all communication about the trial and about us. At no time do you speak to the press. About anything. You don’t even say ‘no comment.’ I don’t want your voice heard. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t talk to anybody here about this conversation. Understood? This is confidential trial strategy. If word gets out it’s intentional, it’ll kill us.”

“You mean, me,” Connolly said, her expression suddenly grave enough to reassure Bennie.

“Good. Now. We have to talk about Della Porta. I went back to the apartment last night and got it in order the way you two had it.”

“You what? My place? Jeez, you’re full of surprises.”

“So was the apartment. Tell me why everything in it is so expensive.”

“What do you mean?”

“The art, the kitchen stuff. Anthony made about fifty grand a year as a detective, right?”

“Right.”

“Did he have any source of income other than that? Family, stocks? Or from boxing?”

“No way. Anthony’s family is long gone, and Star was a money drain. Anthony spent all his own money on his training, plus the uniforms, the equipment, advertising, the whole thing. That’s why he needed the backers.”

“What about other sources of income?” Bennie unzipped her briefcase and tugged out a legal pad. “Did you give him any money?”

“Nothing. I didn’t have it.”

“Where’d he get all that money then?”

Connolly looked puzzled. “I always figured he made it. I never saw the bills. He handled everything. It was his place and his money, and the stuff was all there from before I came.”

“Not on that salary.” Bennie edged forward on her seat. “Are you sure Della Porta couldn’t have been involved in any kind of corruption?”

“Anthony? No way. I told you before, he was straight as an arrow.”

“Isn’t it possible that this dispute in the past, between Anthony and the other two cops, Reston and McShea, involved corruption of some kind?”

“Like what?”

“Maybe Reston and McShea were taking money and they wanted Anthony involved and he turned them down. Or maybe Anthony was in with them in the past, before he met you, taking money, and then he stopped?”

“No way. At least, I don’t know. All I know is the cops jumped all over themselves pointing the finger at me.”

“Did you ever hear or see any kind of unusual discussions between Della Porta and other cops, like at the board meetings you told me about?”

“No. I think they talked girls and boxing.”

Bennie thought a minute. The boxing angle troubled her, but she wanted to follow up on the police lead first. She knew the terrain better and something told her it smelled. “Anthony was a homicide detective. Did any of his cases have anything to do with the murder of drug dealers or drug busts?”

“Sure, they had to, but he never talked about work. He didn’t like to bring it home.”

“Did he ever have any sources or snitches who were involved with drugs?”

“Not that I heard him say. I didn’t know anything about his business.”

“When he was a uniformed officer, did he bust a lot of drug dealers?”

“I didn’t know him then.”

Bennie eased back in her chair, momentarily stumped. It was hot in the airless room, and she felt Connolly’s confused gaze on her, as well as the vigilant stare of the guard behind the smoked security glass. It didn’t fit, but she was slipping into solving the murder instead of preparing the defense. Going to Della Porta’s apartment last night had screwed up her focus.

“When do I get outta here?” Connolly asked suddenly. “Trial starts Monday. I haven’t seen the outside in a year, except for that hearing.”

“They’ll move you right before the trial, probably Sunday night or Monday morning. During the trial you’ll stay in a holding cell in the Criminal Justice Center.”

“Shit, I can’t wait. Free!” Connolly waved her arms gleefully in the cramped room, and for the first time Bennie caught a glimpse of the child in the woman. She almost felt Connolly’s happiness, a thrill flittering through her like a shadow. Could Connolly truly be her twin? Bennie thought of Grady and their conversation in the bathroom.

“You know, my boyfriend thinks we should take a DNA test,” Bennie blurted out. “To see if we’re twins for real.”

“What?” Connolly’s face fell, her smile evaporated, and her arms dropped like a bird shot from the sky. “You still don’t believe me? You want to test my DNA?”

Bennie felt a twinge. She’d hurt Connolly at the one moment her guard was down. “I wasn’t suggesting it, necessarily. I have some information about a lab that does DNA testing. We send blood samples off and in seven days or so, we know the truth. Apparently they do this sort of testing all the time.”

Connolly nodded. “Well, let’s do it, then.”

“What?” Bennie asked, surprised at the turnaround.

“Let’s do it, huh? I’ll give my sample today. Will you arrange to get it sent to them, or whatever?”

“I don’t get it. What changed your mind?”

“Here’s your chance to know the truth,” Connolly said quickly, though her tone held no rancor. “You don’t have to believe me or take it on faith. You’ll have proof, if that’s what you need. Set it up. They take blood samples for court in the infirmary. In fact, let’s take care of it right now, while you’re here.”

“Now?” Bennie said, caught off-guard, but Connolly was on her feet.

“Guard!” she called out, turning around. “Yo! Guard!”

Bennie roared away from the prison in the Expedition, distracted. Connolly had given a blood sample at the prison and they’d arranged to send it to the lab to preserve the chain of custody and eliminate contamination. If Connolly would so quickly put it to the test, maybe there was truth to the twin story. There was only one way to find out. Bennie would have to give her own sample. The hospital was on the way back to the office.

She braked at a red light. Cars slowed in the line of noontime traffic and wiggly waves of heat snaked from their hoods. Bennie wasn’t sure what to do. She could go back to the office or stop by the hospital. The results would take a week. She felt her heart beating harder and tried to ignore it. Her face felt flushed and she ratcheted up the air-conditioning. She wanted to know the truth, didn’t she?

Bennie stared at the traffic light, burning bloodred into her brain. She felt as if she were looking into her own heart. When the light turned green, she yanked the steering wheel to the right and headed for the hospital.

T
he boxing gym was light, with bright sun pouring through its large storefront, though it served only to illuminate every speck of dust and dirt. Judy, in a gray sweatsuit, held out her hands while Mr. Gaines wrapped Ace bandages around her palms and wrists, then stuffed a pair of red boxing gloves on her. They looked like cartoon mittens, except for the duct tape repairing splits at the top. Red headgear covered her forehead and cheeks in cushioned leather, exposing only her eyes. She felt as awkward as the Pillsbury Doughboy when Mr. Gaines began teaching her the fundamentals of a boxing stance.

“Left foot forward, a little out more,” he said.

“Sorry.” Judy corrected her feet. “I can’t twirl spaghetti either.”

Mr. Gaines smiled. “Put your right foot back a little. Gotta get your stance right. Gotta get the fundamentals. Gotta bad stance, you like a house gonna fall down. Got it? Like a house gonna fall down when the wolf comes. You know that story?”

“Sure.” Judy placed her feet where she thought they should be and double-checked in the mirror. The glass reflected a full gym, with maybe ten men training. Most were shadowboxing, but there was a half-hearted sparring match and men using the equipment. The thumping, thudding, and pounding sounds made a constant drumbeat as glove met bag, body, and headgear. A man on the heavy bag shouted “Hah,” “Hah,” each time he connected with a jab, syncopating the rhythms. Judy kept an eye on the boxers as she adjusted her stance. “Better, Mr. Gaines?”

“Good. Right. Now, when you gotta move, you keep your feet in that stance. Got it? Gotta have the foundation or the house gonna fall down.”

“Okay.” Judy obeyed, but it was hard to move in the awkward position and she ended up with her right foot in front. “Damn.”

“S’all right. S’all right, you’ll get it. You gotta work on this. Gotta get this right. Com’ere, lemme show you what I mean.” Mr. Gaines grabbed Judy by her sweatshirt and led her over to a table outside the ring. Paint peeled off the table, which was actually a front door onto which someone had hammered splayed legs, and on the table sat a folded
Daily News,
a bottle of Mr. Clean, and a plastic jug of water with a dirty glass. Mr. Gaines grabbed the jug and glass from the table, then held both over a steel wastecan full of trash. “Pay attention, now. You payin’ attention?”

“Sure.”

“You gotta be in the right place in the ring. See this?” Mr. Gaines poured water from the jug beside the glass and it splashed into the wastebasket. “See what I mean? Ain’t in the right place. Won’t work. Not he’ppin’. Not doin’ nothin’ for you. Now watch.” Mr. Gaines moved the glass under the stream of water and it filled the glass. “See now? It’s in the right place. All ready. Doin’ the right thing. You gotta be in the right place. Got it?”

“Got it.” Judy smiled. She had already noticed that Mr. Gaines had a way to explain even the simplest principle. She wished he had a way to catch a killer.

“Now let’s get back to work,” he said, and led her back to the mirror. “Get your stance, now. Remember what I told you.”

Judy stood in position, foot-conscious as a girl at her first dance, and checked the mirror. From this angle she spotted something she hadn’t seen before. An attractive young woman sitting against the far wall, knitting. The woman’s hair hung in moussed waves around a delicate oval face, with dark and penciled brows. She wore tight jeans and a waist-length leather jacket with black spike-heeled boots.

“What you lookin’ at?” Mr. Gaines asked, and Judy snapped to attention.