Lisa Scottoline - Mistaken Identity

Surf peeked up at the second floor window. The light had gone on there a while ago but he couldn’t see in the window, the blinds were closed. He took a last slug of milk and stowed the empty carton in back of the seat. He’d wait for Rosato to come out, then choose his time. He’d do what he had to to stop her.

Wait. A light went on outside the house, to the right of the front door. Maybe it was on a timer. Surf stayed low in the driver’s seat. The front door of the house opened and closed. Rosato came out and walked down the stoop. She had a briefcase in one hand and a dog on a leash in the other. Nice pooch, but didn’t look like much of a watchdog. Good. Surf watched her walk up the street, alone, without the boyfriend. Better. Tonight would be the night. Now would be the time. He twisted on the ignition, pulled out of the space, and cruised up the street after her.

Surf slowed as he watched her get into a car, a big blue Ford, and when she took off, closed the gap enough to see the dog hanging out the back window. He wondered where Rosato was going-maybe back to the office, maybe she forgot something. With the dog? No. They passed the number street closest to the office.

The Ford ended up traveling down South Street. A tough break. South was clogged with traffic, as usual. The sidewalks were full of assholes. Couples out for a walk after dinner, frat boys on the make, chicks from South Philly with big hair. Too many goddamn citizens. Surf couldn’t do anything here. He braked sharply at the light and his gun slid from under the front seat. He edged it back with the heel of his boot.

Where was Rosato going? Surf realized he should have known, when they got there.

He parked at the corner of Trose Street, halfway down the block from Della Porta’s apartment, and watched as Rosato got out of the Ford with the dog and crossed the street to Della Porta’s building. Surf had been there many times, when they were in business with Della Porta. The street was skinny and dark. No streetlights. No one on the street. It was a go.

Surf palmed his gun, stuck it into the back of his jeans, and climbed out of the TransAm. He left the door open slightly so the noise didn’t tip off Rosato. She was at the front door of the building, fucking with keys. Her back was turned. The dog’s tail was wagging like crazy.

Surf quick-stepped across the street and had almost reached the stoop when Rosato unlocked the door. He could’ve pushed her inside and capped her there, but stopped himself. The light in the entrance hall was too bright. Fuck! Surf ducked behind a skinny tree near the curb. Rosato locked the door behind her. He watched her through the window as she went up the stairs.

Surf waited behind the tree until the light went on in Della Porta’s apartment. He lingered another minute, to be sure, then darted to the rowhouse and unscrewed the lightbulb over the front door. It flickered to black and the stoop was bathed in darkness. Surf crept back down the stoop and stationed himself in the shadows by the front door. He could be patient, if he had to. Citrone never appreciated that, he underestimated Surf.

So had Rosato.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, before…

No.

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

Damn. It still wasn’t working. Bennie’s attention kept wandering, even in Connolly’s apartment. She felt exhausted, listless. She yawned and leaned back in Connolly’s chair, in the home office that was a replica of her own. Bear had come along, though that decision had proved predictably regrettable. The dog was scratching at the floor in the living room, bothering the bloodstain. The sound of his toenails broke Bennie’s already shaky concentration.

“Bear, no!” Bennie called out irritably, but the scratching didn’t stop. She tried to ignore it, but couldn’t. She felt bollixed up. Grady would say I told you so. He’d told her she was crazy to go to the apartment. Damn him. Bennie rested her chin in her hand, staring at the bright white screen of the monitor.

Bear was scratching again. Scritch, scritch, scratch.

“Bear, no! No! ” Bennie shouted, but the scratching didn’t stop. The dog would destroy the floor. Bennie stood up, rolled back the chair, and stormed into the living room. Bear was tearing at the stain, his ears flopped forward and his back humped with effort. An unpleasant adrenal scent filled the air.

“Bear!” she yelled, but the dog couldn’t be distracted. She went over and yanked him back by the collar. The floorboards were scored with nailmarks, crosshatching over the blood. Still the dog pawed frantically at the floor, scraping and scratching to get back, and finally lunged from Bennie’s grasp. He attacked the stain, clawing the floor in a rhythmic motion, one paw after the other. She had never seen him do that before. What was it about the blood that got the dog so riled up? He had scratched it away and was destroying the floor’s finish. He wasn’t scratching at the blood anymore, he was almost digging like a dog in a yard. The retriever seemed to think something was under there. Maybe something was.

Bennie got up and went to the kitchen, looking for a tool. She pulled open a drawer and rummaged through the knives, serving forks, and wooden spoons. She grabbed a small knife and hurried back to the living room, where her co-counsel had succeeded in destroying the top floorboard.

“Good dog,” Bennie said, in a change of heart. She dropped into terrier position beside him, wedged the knife like a crowbar under the floorboard, and pulled it back. The floorboard bent up, offering more resistance than she expected from an old floor. Then she realized that the floorboard and the others next to it were slightly brighter than the rest of the floor. Newer. These boards had been cut and replaced, very carefully. Something was under there.

Bennie yanked with all her might and the floorboard splintered and snapped off. Bear leapt at the open hole and began pawing feverishly. Bennie worked beside him, driving the knife back into the floor, then prying off the rest of the floorboard until it came free. She dropped the knife and peered into the hole. Bear stood beside her, tail wagging with excitement. Nestled underneath the floorboards sat a package wrapped in brown paper.

Bennie reached into the hole for the package, wrenched it out with difficulty, and plunked it on her lap. It was a heavy square of brown paper crisscrossed with coarse white twine. The size of a suitcase but Bennie knew it didn’t contain suits. She tried to untie the string, then broke it when it wouldn’t give way. The package didn’t smell like anything and she wasn’t tempted to shake it. She ripped away the paper, almost afraid to learn what it contained. Peeking through the paper’s jagged tear was a stack of money.

My God. Bennie pulled out a packet fastened with a blue rubber band. It was a six-inch pack of one hundred dollar bills, about one hundred of them. $10,000. There were packs of fifties, twenties, and more hundreds; ten neat stacks across, three front to back, and the package four packs deep, wrinkled and soiled. Bennie was looking at about $500,000 in cash. Jesus. That kind of money, in cash, came only from one place. It even smelled dirty.

Drug money.

Bennie felt sick inside. She had suspected Della Porta was corrupt, and here was proof. And what Carrier had found out, that Connolly was dealing drugs with the boxers’ wives, had to be true. Connolly had played her, had probably been playing her from the beginning. Bennie’s heart felt like a stone wedged in hard ground. She shoved the money back into its hiding place, yanked the blanket chest over it, and tore out of the apartment.