Lisa Scottoline - Dead Ringer

DiNunzio shuddered at her inadvertent choice of words, and Bennie walked over and put a hand on her shoulder.

“You didn’t go to D.C. this morning. Why not?”

“With what happened to Robert, I thought I’d stay around and see if you needed me. Those records aren’t going anywhere.”

“Thanks, but your client needs you too. You were going on your first business trip. You should still go.”

“But there will be services for Robert. I should go.”

“We’ll go for you.”

Mary looked uncertain, and Bennie could smell the separation anxiety. She had never had a nest with a baby bird in it, but something was telling her the right thing to do was to give the baby bird a good, hard shove into thin air. Fly, honey. You can do it. You can fly.

“Go,” Bennie said. “Get the next train, DiNunzio. Do good. Fight for justice.”

Mary’s eyes flickered. “You sure you’ll be okay?”

Carrier snorted. “We’ll be fine. Forget about us and go. If we want to kick some ass, we know who to call. And she’s way tougher than you.”

“Who?”

“Duh. Your mom, doofus.”

Mary gave her best friend a good swat, and they all laughed.

Bennie’s smile faded first. She had a few hundred calls to answer, but one of them to make, and it was more important than the others. She couldn’t delay it a moment longer. So she shooed the girls from her office, picked up the phone, and punched in a number.

A llo?” said the voice on the other end of the phone line, and Bennie felt the soft Gallic purr reverberate in her chest. Georges St. Amien sounded almost exactly like his brother on the telephone. She gripped the receiver tighter. It was still so hard to believe that Robert was really dead. “ Allo ?”

“Hello, is this Georges?” Bennie took the liberty of pronouncing it the dumbass American way, as in Curious George. It was easier, and she had no idea how to fake the French, which was where high school Latin got you.

“Yes, here is Georges.”

Okay, Georges was pronounced like Curious George, only mushier. She still wasn’t going there. “Georges, this is Bennie Rosato. I’m sorry to bother you at this terrible time. I was your brother’s attorney, on a litigation matter for his business, and I’m calling to offer you my condolences on his death.”

“Ah, merci bien . How kind of you to call.” His tone was raw, and Bennie could hear the bewilderment behind the words. She had heard it before, in the voices of family who had suffered a loss through violent crime. They all said it made the grief so much worse, but Bennie almost couldn’t imagine grief being any harder.

“Please, forgive me for not calling sooner. I got held up this morning.”

“No matter.” Georges paused, and Bennie heard a whispery blowing sound she recognized. He must have been smoking, like Robert. She imagined him stubbing out his cigarette as the pause stretched longer. “I have seen your name, in the newspapers. Thank you for your well wishes.”

“You’re welcome. I am so very sorry for Robert’s death. I liked him very much. We all did, at the firm.”

“Thank you. Robert thought well of you, also. He spoke of you, and your office.”

“He did?” Bennie’s ears pricked up. It was nice to hear, and she hadn’t known Robert was close to his brother. Maybe Georges would know something about St. Amien amp; Fils, like who was Robert’s successor, but she wasn’t about to bring that up now. “It’s a terrible loss. If I may, I would like to attend the memorial services.”

“We will have something here, but the funeral will be at home, in France, of course. The police, they will tell us when we can have the service.” Georges paused again, but this time it didn’t sound like he was smoking. “The detective, I met him last night.”

“Bob Needleman. I met him too.”

“Oh. Good. He is good, do you think? Smart? To catch this man who killed my brother?”

“Yes, I do.” Bennie bit her lip. She had just been sitting around the conference table with the associates, shooting theories around in the abstract. But talking to Georges made it real. For him, finding Robert’s killer wasn’t about justice, it was about family. She wanted to give him strength. “I think the police will find whoever did this, Georges. The detectives in Homicide are very good, and I promise you, I’ll stay on top of this. If there’s anything I can do for you or your family, please let me know.”

“Actually, there is. Perhaps you could stop in for a brief visit today, toward the end of the day. Robert’s son, Julien, I think you know of him, he will be coming in today, and he would like to meet you. You judged a competition of his, at law school.”

Bennie remembered. The moot-court thing. “Sure, that would be no problem. What time?”

“Around four o’clock is good. Are you free at that time?”

“You got it, Georges.”

“Pardon?”

It reminded Bennie of Robert again. He’d never understood her either, which had been only part of his charm. “I’ll see you then, Georges,” she said, and they hung up.

After a moment, Marshall stuck her head in the door. “You off the phone?”

“Yes.”

“Get back on.” Marshall tottered in with a stack of pink message slips. “The natives are restless.”

“Who’s calling?” Bennie asked, taking them and leafing through. She expected to see creditors like Verizon and AT amp;T, with 800 numbers she had memorized by now. But instead the names were Quinones and Kerpov. “Wow. Not just people who want money. Class-action lawyers.”

“Say what?” Marshall said with a smirk.

“Wonder if they want to buy us too.” Bennie’s puzzled gaze fell upon an unfamiliar name on a messages. “Who’s Mort Abrams?”

“Said he’s with FitCo. They make medical lenses.”

“Wow.” Bennie was intrigued. “Sounds like another class member. Maybe he needs a lawyer.”

“He wants to meet you for lunch, so call by then.” Marshall rested her hand atop her round belly, a habit that Bennie noticed was a pregnancy thing. It was like carrying your own portable shelf. “I heard about Linette’s offer, and my vote is no. Even though I may not be here, I still say no. He’s slime.” She wrinkled her tiny nose. “And Sam called again. He wants to have lunch with you too. Call him back.”

“Got it. Thanks.” Marshall turned and left, and Bennie sifted through the phone messages on her desk to make the call that had been in the back of her mind all morning. David Holland’s. She found the message and punched in the number. She reached him immediately, and it turned out he was on his way to see her. He’d be upstairs in fifteen minutes.

Woohoo! Bennie set down the receiver, jumped up from her desk chair, and checked her reflection in the office window. She refused to run to the mirror in the ladies’ room, because that would be admitting she cared how she looked, and she preferred to remain in her usual state of denial. She squinted at her reflection in the sheet of glass, trying to block out the sunny sky and office buildings. It was so bright out that she couldn’t see anything except for a transparent ghost of herself, utterly devoid of important details like zits. She wore a white T-shirt with a scoop neck with her new and improved red suit, with a short jacket and above-the-knee skirt. Her bare legs ended in running shoes, but at least she had shaved. Recently.

Bennie kicked off her sneakers and went digging in her office closet for brown pumps while she raked her fingers through her hair. After she had changed her shoes, she rechecked her reflection in the office window, standing with her arms straight at her sides. She looked positively see-through, and her hair was as fuzzy as a cloud in the sky. Or maybe it was a cloud in the sky.