Mistaken Identity (3 page)

“Are you Alice Connolly?” Bennie asked.

“Yes,” the inmate answered with a cocky smile. “Surprised?”

Bennie eyed the prisoner up and down, her gaze ending its bewildered journey at Connolly’s face. The inmate looked like a prettier, albeit streetwise, version of Bennie herself, though her hair was a brassy, fraudulent red and had been scissored into crude layers. She had Bennie’s broad cheekbones and full lips, but wore enough makeup to enhance those features. She looked as tall as Bennie, but was model-thin, so her orange jumpsuit seemed almost fashionably baggy. Her eyes—round, blue, and wide-set—matched Bennie’s exactly, rendering the lawyer momentarily speechless.

Connolly extended a hand over the counter. “Pleased to meet you. I’m your twin,” she said.

B
ennie stared at the inmate in disbelief. Her
twin
?
“My
twin
?
Is this a joke?”

“No, not at all,” Connolly said. She let her hand fall unshaken to her side and spread her palms. “Look at me. We’re identical twins.”

Bennie shook her head slowly. It wasn’t possible. Despite the similarity in their features, there was a chill to the inmate’s affect that Bennie had never seen in a mirror. It made the comparison between them that of a cadaver to a living person. “We may look alike, but we’re not twins.”

“You’re just surprised. I know, I was, too. But it’s true.”

“It can’t be.” Bennie couldn’t wrap her mind around it. She kept shaking her head. Her own eyes looked back at her from the prisoner’s face. “You didn’t say anything about this when you called, Connolly. You said you needed a new lawyer.”

“I didn’t want to tell you over the phone, you wouldn’t have come. You’d have thought I was nuts.”

“You are.”

“You didn’t know about me, huh? I didn’t know about you either, until the other day.” Connolly sat down on the other side of the counter and gestured to the chair opposite her. “Better sit, you look kind of pale. It’s strange, finding out you have a twin. I know, I just went through it.”

“This is crazy. I don’t have a twin.” Bennie sank into the plastic seat on her side of the counter, slowly regaining her emotional footing. At almost forty, Benedetta “Bennie” Rosato was the only child of an ailing mother and a father she’d never met. She didn’t have a twin, she had a law firm. Plus a young boyfriend and a golden retriever. “I don’t have a twin,” Bennie repeated, with confidence.

“Yes, you do. Give it time. It’ll sink in. Look, we’re built the same. I’m six feet tall, and I can see you are, too. I weigh a hundred and forty-five pounds. You’re heavier, but not by that much, right?”

“I’m heavier. Leave it alone.”

“You’re kind of muscular. Do you work out?”

“I row.”

“Row boats?” Connolly appraised Bennie with a critical eye. “It’s built up your shoulders too much. You know, you should lose some weight, do something with yourself. You have a pretty face but you don’t wear enough makeup. Your hair needs a cut and some color. I got a friend on the outside could shape it up for you. Make you look hot. You want my color?”

“No, thanks,” Bennie said, taken aback.

“Look, it’s weird for me, too, seeing you. Trippy. Somebody who looks like me, without makeup. You’re another me.”

“I’m not another you,” Bennie shot back reflexively. The very thought. An inmate, maybe a murderer. “We’re not twins just because we look a little alike. Lots of people look alike. People tell me all the time, ‘I know someone who looks exactly like you.’ ”

“This isn’t that. Look at my face. Don’t you believe your own eyes?”

“Not necessarily. I’m a trial lawyer, the last thing I believe in is appearances. Besides, I know who I am.”

“You only know half the story. I’m the other half. Listen. I even sound like you. My voice.” Connolly spoke quickly and her tone was direct, a vague echo of the lawyer’s tone and cadence.

“You could be doing that on purpose.”

“You mean, fake it? Why would I do that?”

“To get me to take your case.”

“You think I’m
lying
to you?” Pain creased Connolly’s brow, and because it looked so much like Bennie’s own, it made the lawyer regret her words, if not her thoughts.

“What else can I think?” Bennie said, defensive. “I mean, something’s wrong here. I don’t have a twin. There’s just me, there always has been, my whole life. That’s it.”

Connolly cocked her head. “My birthday is July 7, 1962, same as yours. How could I fake that?”

“My birthday? You could find that out anywhere. It’s listed in my alumni directory,
Martindale-Hubbell, Who’s Who of American Lawyers,
a hundred places.”

“We were born in Pennsylvania Hospital.”

“Most of Philadelphia was born at Pennsylvania Hospital.”

Connolly’s blue eyes narrowed. “You were born first, at nine in the morning. I was born fifteen minutes later. You weighed ten pounds at birth. How would I know that, huh?”

Bennie paused. It was true. She was born at 9:00
A.M.
She used to think, just in time for work. Had she mentioned that ever, in an interview? “You could find that out. I’m sure birth records are public.”

“Not the time of your birth, what you weighed. That’s not public.”

“It’s the information age, everything’s public. Or maybe it was a lucky guess. Christ, you can look at me and guess I weighed ten pounds at birth. I’m an Amazon.”

“Okay, how about this?” Connolly leaned forward on slim but sturdy arms. “Our mother is Carmella Rosato and our father is William Winslow.”

Bennie’s mouth went dry. It was her mother and father. Her father’s name hadn’t been published anywhere. “How did you know that?”

“It’s the truth. Our father took off before we were born. Carmella gave up her second-born twin. Me.” Bitterness puckered Connolly’s lovely cheeks, but Bennie noted she was avoiding the question.

“I asked you, how do you know my father’s name?”

“Bill and I are friends. Good friends.”

“
Bill?
You’re good friends with my father?”

“Yes. He’s a very nice man. A caretaker. You didn’t know that, did you? Bill told me he never met you and that Carmella was too sick to visit. What’s the matter with her, with our mother? Bill won’t talk about it, like it’s a secret.”

Our
mother? Bennie shook her head in confusion. She couldn’t understand how Connolly knew about her father. Her mother had hated the man who hadn’t stayed long enough to marry her, and as Bennie had grown to adulthood, her father had simply become irrelevant, a footnote to a busy life. “None of this makes sense.”

“Hear me out,” Connolly said, holding up a hand. “You need some background. I was the sick twin, you know, from before we were born. We had something called ‘twin transfusion syndrome.’ That means the twins share one placenta and the blood meant for one twin goes to nourish the other. When we were on the inside, my blood went to nourish you. I weighed four pounds at birth. Most of those babies died, especially in those days. Bill said they can’t even find my birth certificate.”

“Oh, come on,” Bennie said, suddenly annoyed. “I took your blood? What a bunch of crap.”

“It’s the truth, all of it, every word. Bill told me when he visited.”

“Are you saying that my father visits
you
? In prison?”

“Sure. Comes in his flannel shirt, no matter how hot it is, and his little tweed coat. Said he was looking out for me. That was when he told me you were my twin. He told me to call you. He said you’re the only lawyer who could win my case, that nobody knows more about the Philly cops than you.”

“Gotcha there, Connolly. My father has no idea what I do. He doesn’t know me at all.”

“Oh no? He follows your career. He has your clippings.”

Bennie paused. “Clippings, you mean from the newspaper?”

“You know, I couldn’t wait to meet you when I found out about us. I have so many questions. Do you remember anything, like, from the inside?” Connolly edged forward on the counter, but Bennie leaned away.

“
Inside?
”

“I do. I have memories of you, like a ghost. A phantom, but close to me. They have to be from the inside, it’s the only time we were together. When I was little, I always felt lonely. Like a piece of me was missing. I always hated being alone. Still do. Then Bill told me about you and it all made sense. Now, tell me about our mother. What’s the matter with her? Why doesn’t anybody want to talk about her?”

“I have to go,” Bennie said, rising finally. The inmate was a con artist or delusional. The police conspiracy was paranoia. Some clients weren’t worth the trouble, no matter how intriguing the case. She reached for her briefcase. “I’m sorry, I wish you the best.”

“No, wait, I need your help.” Connolly scrambled to her feet like a shadow left behind. “You’re my last chance. I didn’t kill Anthony, I swear. The cops killed him. They’re covering for each other, they set me up. There’s a group of them.”

“You already have a lawyer, let him handle it.” Bennie snatched the wall phone off its hook. It would ring automatically at the security desk.

“But my lawyer can’t do shit. He’s court-appointed. He’s seen me maybe twice all year. The most he’s done is keep me here. He’s part of the conspiracy, too.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you.” Bennie hung up the phone and edged to the window in the door. Where was the guard? The cinderblock corridor was empty. There were three locked doors between her and the outside. A panic Bennie couldn’t explain flickered in her chest.

“I was hoping you’d believe me, but I guess not. Read this before you decide. Our mother hasn’t told you everything. It’ll prove what I’m saying is true.” Connolly pushed a manila envelope across the counter, but Bennie left it there.

“I don’t have time to read it. I have to go, I’m running late. Guard!”

“Take it.” Connolly thrust the envelope over the counter. “If you don’t, I’ll mail it to you.”

“No, thanks. I have to get back to work.” Bennie jiggled the doorknob and pressed against the window in the door. A heavyset guard hustled down the hall, her pant legs flapping, her expression more annoyed than alarmed.

“Take the envelope,” Connolly called, but Bennie ignored her and twisted the doorknob futilely.
Come on.
The guard finally reached the cell, jammed a key into the lock, and swung the door open so wide Bennie almost stumbled into the hall.

“Guard!” Connolly shouted. “My lawyer forgot her file.” She stretched over the counter with the envelope in her hand, but in a swift movement, the prison guard drew a black baton from her belt and brandished it.

“That’s far enough, you!” she shouted. “Sit down! You want a write-up?”

“Okay, okay, relax!” Connolly said, folding instantly into the chair and raising her arms protectively. “She forgot her file. I’m trying to help. It’s her file!”

Bennie backed against the door, her feelings in tumult. She didn’t want to take Connolly’s file, but she didn’t want to see her clubbed. The inmate who looked so much like her cowered in the chair, and Bennie felt frightened for her and of her at the same time. “She wasn’t going to hurt me,” she heard herself saying.

The guard turned under the raised club. “That your file or not, lawyer?”

“Uh, yes.” She didn’t want Connolly beaten, for God’s sake.

“Then take it!” the guard ordered.

Bennie lunged for the file and stuck it under her arm. Her mouth felt surprisingly dry, her chest tight. She had to get out of the prison. She hurried out the door and for the exit, clutching the unwanted envelope to her breast.

F
our patrolmen crammed into a booth at Little Pete’s, taking the table farthest from the door by habit. Blue cotton epaulets buckled as they squeezed onto vinyl benches and radios rested silently at their thick leather belts. In the middle of the table, black nightsticks rolled together like an urban logjam. Corded blue caps, each with a heavy chrome badge affixed above a bill of black patent, sat in a row on a nearby ledge. It was early for lunch, as the night tour called every meal they ate, but James “Surf” Lenihan had another bug up his ass.

Surf got his nickname because he looked the part: sun-bleached white-blond hair and a tan, muscular build from summers spent lifeguarding in South Jersey. Surf had the antsy metabolism of a natural athlete and was always worked up about something—the new contract, the reassignments, the court time. He leaned over the table to talk, even though Little Pete’s was practically empty. “It’s for real,” Surf whispered, but Sean McShea laughed so hard he almost choked on his cheesesteak, and Art Reston called Surf a horse’s ass.