Lisa Scottoline - Mistaken Identity

“But there was another mourner. What happened to him?”

“What mourner?”

“A gentleman,” he said, raising a hand, and Bennie turned around. There was nothing there but the trophies, their fake gold angels elevating bowling balls like Communion wafers.

“Who was he?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t ask. He was here early, before you came. Before the reporters.”

“What did he look like?”

“An older gentlemen, with a tweed coat, I think.”

Bennie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It was Connolly’s description of Winslow. “What did he want? Did he say anything?”

“I gathered he wished to pay his respects. I suggested to him that the service wasn’t for several hours, but he said he knew that. He left flowers.”

“What flowers?” she asked, a lump in her throat, and the funeral director pointed toward the sprayed white carnations.

“I set them behind that last arrangement. They’re… different.”

“I want to see them,” Bennie said, rising. She went to the last arrangement and pushed it aside, then knelt down. In back of the stiff crysanthemum concoction sat a clear glass vase and from it sprung a fresh bouquet of leggy pink cosmos, white daisies, blush roses, and black-eyed Susans. At the fringe were pink snapdragons and foxglove with velvety purple pockets. She recognized the flowers. They were from Winslow’s garden. She bent down and cupped the blossoms in her hands.

“Bennie?” Grady said, appearing behind her, but she was breathing in the fresh perfume of the flowers. Her father had been here. He had brought her mother flowers. He had cared. He was real.

“Bennie?” Grady said again, but she was rising to her feet, without thinking. Her heart was pounding. Maybe he was still here. Maybe he hadn’t gone. She got up and hustled down the aisle of folding chairs to the back of the room and hurried out to the entrance hall. She didn’t know why, he was probably long gone, but she looked for him anyway.

It was dark, but reporters mobbed the sidewalk. One spotted her and pointed for his cameraman. Flashes popped in Bennie’s eyes; two, then a dozen. They seared like lasers into her brain and still she couldn’t stop searching, even though it was so hard to see. Maybe he was behind the crowd. Bennie stood there, her hands to the glass in the dark, and didn’t leave until Grady came to take her back inside,

After the wake, Bennie stopped at the office to pick up some papers, then walked home to clear her head while Grady dropped Hattie at her house. She had a defense to prepare and almost wanted to get to work. Let it occupy her thoughts and chase her emotions away.

Once home, she changed into jeans and a workshirt, padded into her home office, and got to work with her ritual props at her side: fresh coffee and a crinkly bag of M amp;M’s. Though her comfort foods were in place, she had little luck with her first task, drafting her opening argument. Her head hurt. She ached at the core. Still, she sat at the computer and willed herself to peck out the first sentence. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you see before you…

Each keystroke sounded in the empty room. The night was quiet, its stillness broken by intermittent police sirens. Bennie sipped coffee, curiously tasteless. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, before you…

No.

Good morning. Before you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, sits…

Suddenly Bennie heard the front door open and close downstairs, then the heavy clunk of shopping bags hitting the floor. It would be Grady, home from picking up some groceries. Bear leapt to alertness and skittered downstairs, toenails sliding on the bare floors, but Bennie didn’t feel quite as welcoming. She’d wanted the house to herself.

“Honey?” Grady called upstairs. “Ya home?”

“In my office,” she called back, but he had already reached the top of the stairs with the dog. He wore the clothes from the wake, but his print tie was loosened into a crooked V and his oxford shirt wrinkled.

“Hot as hell out there.” Grady walked to Bennie’s desk, leaned over, and gave her a dry kiss on the cheek. His eyes looked bleary behind his rimmed glasses and his gaze found the monitor. “Your opening?”

“Yep.”

“Can I help?”

“Not really.”

“I got fresh cream and a lifetime supply of M amp;M’s. Nothin’s too good for my girl.”

Bennie forced a smile, but her thoughts kept straying. Her mother. The purple foxglove. Then, Good morning. Before you, ladies and gentlemen…

“You want to talk? Cry some more?” Grady smiled with sympathy. “I got a shoulder. Two in fact. We can lie down together, take a break.”

“Thanks, but no. No time.”

“You want to talk about the case, then? Try your opening argument out on me?”

“No, I’m not there yet. Got to write it first.”

Grady pursed his lips. “Want fresh coffee?”

“Got some.” Bennie turned to the monitor. Good morning. Before you, ladies and… “Grady, I’m sorry, I have to concentrate.”

“Okay,” he said, giving her another peck on the cheek. “I’m outta here.”

Bennie stared at the screen as he left the room, the dog sashaying behind with his characteristic slip-slide. She couldn’t focus. Her coffee cooled as she found herself listening for Grady’s comings and goings around the house. She smelled the popping of frying chicken and anticipated the kitchen growing humid with boiling potatoes. Later he’d mash them with bacon. Grady was a terrific cook, particularly of Southern fare, and he was making one of Bennie’s favorite meals.

She heard the clink of dishes as he set the plywood table. She could almost taste the cold beer he’d undoubtedly uncap. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten anything. The aroma of sizzling bacon wafted up from the kitchen and into the hallway. It was driving her nuts.

Bennie closed the computer file. She had to get out of here. She had to go where she could be away from everyone. She had to concentrate on the case, on Connolly.

She knew just the place.

Surf Lenihan sat low inside the black bucket seat of the black TransAm. He wore a white polo shirt and jeans and tugged on a carton of strawberry milk. He’d parked down the street a safe distance from the house. Watching, in the dark.

Surf slugged another gulp of strawberry milk and felt good for the first time since the shit hit the fan. Maybe it was because he was finally doing something about the situation himself, instead of waiting for Citrone to get off his ass.

Surf was young and moving up in the department. He’d already started to network, just like in business, and was just beginning to know the right people. He wasn’t going to let Rosato fuck him up. He wasn’t going to let anybody fuck him up. He had too much ahead of him.

Surf kept an eye on the house. Red-brick, a dumpy three-story. You’d think she’d buy a nicer house with all the money she made off the department. Surf had followed Rosato home from work, tracking her at a distance in the car, which was his girl’s. The TransAm was more obvious than he would have liked, but at least it was black. It did the job.

As soon as Rosato had left her office building, Surf figured she was going home. He knew where that was. He’d looked up her address in the phone book and had almost beaten her here, slipping into a parking space and slinking low in his seat as she turned the corner, moving fast on foot. She was strong and not bad-lookin’ if you liked big girls. Surf didn’t. Her stems were okay, but her tits weren’t big enough. Plus, she was a lawyer. Who would want to fuck a lawyer? Later Surf got his answer-another lawyer. A tall, skinny dude with a flowered tie had gone inside the house after her. Pussy had a shopping bag, for fuck’s sake.