Lisa Scottoline - Mistaken Identity

“Don’t forget your wig-hat, mama,” Star said, and slammed the rat hair on the dude’s bloody head.

“Bennie, I’m real sorry about your mother,” Lou said, riding in the passenger seat of Bennie’s Ford, heading with her to Connolly’s apartment. She had called him at home after the funeral. She told him they had something important to do, despite the hour.

“Thanks. Sorry I called you so late.”

“Don’t matter. It was just me, with a beer and sunflower seeds in front of the Phillies game. They’re losing anyway.” Lou loosened his tie, looking suddenly uncomfortable in his navy-blue jacket and khaki slacks. “You sure you feel up to working?”

“I’m fine.” Bennie steered through Saturday-night traffic, heavy because of the suburbanites heading to the restaurants. They’d drive in from Paoli and other ritzy neighborhoods to gawk at the pierced nipples and purple haircuts. Take a look at the gritty city through the tinted window of a Jag. “Trial’s Monday.”

“But you just had the funeral-”

“I know that, Lou.”

“Gotcha,” he said, and looked over at Rosato, still dressed up in a black suit. Her eyes looked red, but they stayed straight ahead over the steering wheel. She had a job to do, she was doing it. The broad was tough, but Lou respected that. She’d make a good partner, in a way.

“The canvassing went bad, I hear?” Bennie asked.

“For the defense.”

“That’s what Mary said. I read her notes. DiNunzio’s a good lawyer, isn’t she?”

“Whiny, but okay.”

“She gave you a hard time?” Bennie smiled. “For that she gets a raise.”

“You know, if you weren’t having such a bad day, I’d make it worse.”

Bennie laughed, for the first time in years, it seemed. “So what else you doin’ for me?”

“I’m gonna finish canvassing around the block tomorrow.”

“That was my thought. Winchester Street, where the alley comes out. See if anybody saw the arrest. Anything.”

“I know.” Lou looked out the window at the mirror on his side of the Ford. A line of traffic crawled behind them like a caterpillar, and two cars back cruised a black TransAm. Lou had seen it behind them before, around the office. Funny it should be going down South Street, too. He kept an eye on it out of habit. Once a cop, always a cop. Lou couldn’t drive a highway without checking license plates, trying to pick out which car was stolen or had drugs in it. He kept his eyes on the TransAm. “I been thinking about your case, Rosato.”

“What do you think, champ?”

“I think Connolly killed a cop and she’s goin’ down for it.” Lou watched as a navy Town Car behind them peeled off to the right, leaving only a sky-blue BMW convertible between them and the black TransAm. The BMW was a nice little car, a two-seater. “The neighbors I met, they knew what they saw. They’re eyewitnesses, and she ran from the collar.”

“She was afraid of the cops. She had good reason.”

“Only bad guys are afraid of good guys.” Lou’s eyes stayed on the outside mirror. The BMW was sweet, and behind it he could almost make out the driver of the TransAm in the streetlights. A blond kid, good-looking. Lou remembered when he was that young. He owned a used Chevy Biscayne, two-tone, turquoise and white, with a push-button shift on the dash. They didn’t make cars like that anymore. Tanks.

“I agree. Connolly’s as bad as they come, badder than bad, but I don’t think she killed Della Porta. Too much else is going on. Too much I can’t explain.”

Lou didn’t say anything. He’d heard about the twin thing. He figured Rosato was getting manipulated by a con. She wasn’t the first lawyer; she wouldn’t be the last. Somebody like Rosato, she wanted to believe, inside. The Ford turned onto Tenth Street, and the blond kid in the TransAm turned, too. Keeping his distance, farther back than he had to. It was standard surveillance procedure, Lou recognized it instantly. “Take three right turns, Rosato,” he said quickly.

“What? That’s a circle.”

“Old cop trick. Humor me.”

Bennie blinked, but steered the Ford right at the next street. “We being followed?”

“Tell you in two right turns.”

She took a right and glanced in the rearview. A convertible sports car. Then a black TransAm. “The sports car?”

“The other,” Lou said, eyeing the TransAm as it followed them to the next corner and turned right. “It’s still on us.”

Bennie’s fingers tightened on the wheel as she coasted to the corner and took another right. The BMW stayed straight and so did the TransAm, behind it. Her mirror went clear. “They’re both gone,” she said, relieved.

“There you go. It was nothing. So why are we going to the crime scene?”

“You’re my investigator. You gotta investigate.” Bennie was choosing her words carefully. She was taking Lou to the apartment so he could find the money under the floor. She couldn’t testify about finding it because she was a lawyer, but Lou could. She didn’t want to corrupt his testimony, so she had to let him find the money on his own.

“You want me to investigate the crime scene, almost a year later?” Lou frowned. “Should be clean by now.”

“Should be.”

“Shouldn’t be anything there.”

“Shouldn’t be.”

“For this you got me in a tie? On a Sunday night? I’m shvitzing. ”

“I’ll turn up the air.” Bennie racheted up the Ford’s air-conditioning and pretended she was paying attention to her driving, and Lou laughed softly.

“You’re a lousy liar, Rosato.”

“The worst in the bar association.”

“I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“I could tell, from all the wrinkles,” Bennie said, and turned onto Trose Street. She double-parked and Lou got out, checking for the TransAm. It wasn’t in sight. Kid was probably cruising for girls. Oh, to be young again, he thought, and followed Bennie to the rowhouse.

“So what do you want me to see?” Lou asked, once they were upstairs. His eyes narrowed as he entered the apartment and looked around, appraising it with a professional eye.

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Where am I supposed to see it?”

“Can’t tell you that either.” Bennie closed the door and leaned against it, getting her second wind. It felt almost good to be out with Lou. Doing something; not thinking about her mother. “That’s why you make the big bucks.”

“Ha.” Lou stepped into the center of the room. “Am I warm?”

“No. And I thought you were so smart.”

“No, just handsome.” Lou walked to the left side of the room, where the blanket chest was askew, the way Bennie had left it, to conceal the hole in the floor. “I’m getting warmer, aren’t I?”

“You tell me,” Bennie said. She felt a shiver of excitement as Lou bent over and slid the chest aside with an audible grunt. His testimony would be terrific at trial. He was so credible, so clearly loath to find evidence that pointed away from the accused cop killer. Bennie could only imagine the jury’s reaction when Lou testified about the money he found under the floor of a highly decorated detective. It would be enough evidence of illicit dealing to permit Bennie to prove that Della Porta was killed by competing drug dealers, whether they were police or not. Bennie suppressed her excitement.

“I think I’m getting warmer,” Lou called back as he squatted and pulled up the floorboards Bennie had replaced.

“It’s entirely possible.” Bennie remained at the door, keeping her distance. She wanted his testimony absolutely pure. “Not just another pretty face, are you?”

“Not me.” Lou tossed a strip of stained floorboard aside and it landed with a clatter. “Here we go.”