Lisa Scottoline - Mistaken Identity

“Whoa.” Judy’s eyes widened, Delft-blue. “Like telepathy.”

“Not exactly. Don’t get carried away.” Mary flushed with sudden regret. She hadn’t talked about this to anyone but Angie. Even she thought it sounded wacky. She wanted to change the subject, but Judy was already leaning over the conference table toward her.

“You’re telepathic, Mare! You and your twin. That’s what it means.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You had her thoughts. Can you tune her in, right now?”

Mary rolled her eyes. “No, you idiot. It’s not like a radio.”

“Tune her in. Call her up. Do whatever.”

“No. Stop. Forget it. You make it sound like the movie Carrie. It’s not like I can move things with my eyes.” Mary pulled over the police file and opened it. “We should get back to work.”

“Can Angie read your thoughts, too?”

“I don’t know. Get to work.”

“Yes, you do. Tell me.”

“We have work to do. Write your brief. And don’t tell anybody what I told you, okay? Or I’ll set you on fire with my finger.”

“Okay. Fine.” Judy fell silent. If the subject was too personal for Mary, she’d let it go. She didn’t want to upset her. But what Mary said had implications for the Connolly case. Judy felt suddenly uneasy. “Mare, if Bennie is Connolly’s twin, she shouldn’t be representing her in a murder case. She can’t see the facts objectively. She’ll be swayed by her emotions. I think she already is, the way she snapped out in Della Porta’s apartment.”

Mary looked up from the file. “Sure she is, but she has to take the case. No question. It’s an emotional decision. If Angie’s in trouble, I’m there. If Connolly is Bennie’s twin, Bennie has to defend her. Period. Whether she should or not. It’s a no-win situation.”

Judy thought about that. “You show unusual insight, grasshopper.”

“Just one of my superpowers,” Mary said, and got busy.

Bennie barreled down I-95 South as the rain evaporated, supersaturating the dusky sky. She didn’t turn on the air-conditioning in the Expedition; she liked the humid air on her cheek. So did Bear, who leaned out the back window with a doggie smile. His ragged ears took flight and ropes of saliva dripped from the corners of his mouth. Bennie had stopped home to let the dog out and had succumbed to his whimpering to come along. She didn’t bother to examine whether taking the golden was a good idea; if she were the type of person to examine what she did before she did it, she’d never have taken Connolly’s case. Or, for that matter, this little trip.

To 708 Lakeside Drive, Montchanin, Delaware.

The address had been in the prison logs and Montchanin was right outside of Wilmington. Bennie was going to see Bill Winslow. Maybe he was her father, maybe he wasn’t. In half an hour she’d know. Her fingers tightened on the wheel. And if Winslow were her father, could Connolly be her twin? She switched to the fast lane and pushed a button for the CD player. It was all Bruce Springsteen, all the time, and a clear road to Delaware. She brushed the hair from her eyes and accelerated smoothly.

In time the four-lane highway narrowed to a two-lane road that wound past towns and long strip malls with new stucco refacing and neon signs. By the time Bennie was on the second CD of the boxed set, the streetlights had been replaced by split-rail fences and lush green pastures. Trees a century old formed a verdant backdrop; the sun had set and the sky was the color of blueberries. The humidity had lifted as she drove south and the air wafted sweet and earthy. Horses grazed silently, their long tails switching at the bites of unseen flies, and raised their heads to watch Bennie cruise past. The Expedition negotiated skinny country roads that led to estates so vast she couldn’t see the houses.

Lakeside Drive. Bennie slowed and looked around for number 708. She read the numbers on dented mailboxes and burglar alarm logos until she reached a sturdy aluminum mailbox for 708. Her mouth felt dry, but she ignored it. She had found a man who had been a question mark her whole life; now a man who had an answer she needed.

Bennie pressed the gas pedal, twisted the truck onto the asphalt road on the property, and traveled the road until it forked. The right fork continued in black asphalt, tree-lined in a grand manner; the left fork was gravel and stone. If one belonged to the caretaker, it would be the left. Bennie steered onto it, and the woods grew denser with each foot, so she turned on the high beams. Crickets chirped loudly in the woods and in the distance a horse whinnied to her colt. Bennie slowed the truck, its heavy tires making popping noises on the gravel, and in a clearing she came upon a cottage of white stucco.

Could this be Winslow’s house? It stood two short stories high and was encircled like an embrace by a flower garden, dense and mature. Bennie could see white and yellow daisies, a thatch of pink and red rosebushes, and maroon bleeding hearts with other perennials. A raised wooden box contained rows of green vegetables, and pink and lavender cosmos, all leggy stems and feathery foliage, swayed in the cool evening breeze. Bennie felt a prick of resentment. Her father lived in a charming cottage; her mother lived in a mental hospital. How long had Winslow enjoyed these comforts while her mother was renting a series of spare efficiencies on crowded, dirty city blocks, in Philly’s lousiest neighborhoods? With a baby in tow, yet. Maybe two babies.

Bennie cut the ignition, climbed out of the truck, and stretched her legs. Her back window was streaked with doggie saliva at a 60-mph-slant, and Bear swiped at the door with his paw. Bennie let him out, and he bounded to the gravel, sniffed excitedly, then loped ahead. Her heartbeat quickened as she walked to the cottage’s front door, painted a fresh hunter green. Wind chimes tinkled from a small pitched roof protecting the entrance. Bennie willed herself to be calm, then knocked. Nothing happened. She knocked again. No answer. There was a square, bevel-cut window in the door, and she peered inside. It was dark in the house and nothing stirred.

Bennie turned and looked behind her. There was no car in the driveway or anywhere else. Maybe Winslow wasn’t home. She knocked harder. She hadn’t come this far for nothing, had she? She tried the knob and the door twisted open. She hesitated, startled, but Bear scampered through the open doorway. “Damn you!” Bennie cursed, always a sensible response to a golden. “Come, goddammit!” She gritted her teeth and leaned in the shadowy doorway. What she saw amazed her.

The cottage was filled with books. They lined the entrance hall, papered the walls of a tiny living room, and traveled up the steps out of sight. Hardbacks were piled on end tables and overflowed into stacks sitting on the thin hook rug. Suddenly Bear charged from a room on the right. “Hey!” Bennie shouted. “Bad dog!” Bear plopped on his feathery hindquarters, thumped his tail, and smiled up at his mistress. “Act sorry,” she said, pointing a finger, but Bear only sniffed her fingertip. Goldens never understand when you point.

Bennie gripped the dog’s red collar and looked where he had been: a tiny kitchen with a white linoleum floor and immaculate white-painted wood cabinets. On top of the cabinets sat a lineup of books and a box of Saltine crackers. The kitchen was as still as the cottage. “Winslow?” she called from the hallway. “Anybody home?” There was no reply, no sound. Bennie waited, listening, then an idea presented itself. Winslow wasn’t home, but maybe his cottage contained the answers she needed. She squared her shoulders. Until now a guardian of individual liberties, Bennie proceeded to search the house and seize if at all possible.