Lisa Scottoline - Mistaken Identity

“That’s not the way it works, Lou. Connolly’s not in jail for being bad, she’s in jail for killing Della Porta. We can’t start putting people away because they’re bad. That’s not justice.”

“Justice?” Lou smirked. “So if she kills three hundred people but not this one, she walks. That’s justice?”

“Sorry to say, yes.”

“Talk to me after the next murder, lady,” he said, and Bennie couldn’t think of an immediate reply.

Bennie was halfway up Broad Street when she noticed a dark car following her, half a block down the street and in the right lane. It looked a lot like a TransAm, but she wasn’t sure. She drove with her eyes glued to the rearview. She couldn’t make out the car’s driver or its color, either. The only streetlights on Broad Street were old-fashioned and cast almost no light.

The street glistened from the rainstorm and was deserted except for a boxy white delivery van behind Bennie. The van accelerated and filled her entire rearview mirror. It had blacked-out windows in the back, so she couldn’t see through it. The TransAm, if it was the TransAm, slipped into line behind the van.

Bennie cruised to the traffic light in front of City Hall, lit with purplish lighting that cast harsh shadows on its Victorian vaults and arches. Gargoyles screeched silently from the arches, but Bennie hadn’t been spooked by gargoyles for a long time. Tonight it was the cops that worried her. One cop in particular.

The traffic light turned red, and she looked at the outside mirror. Behind the van she could see the slanted grille of the car, but it was still too dark to identify it as a TransAm. Maybe it wasn’t. She’d thought she had seen a black TransAm four times yesterday and had been mistaken each time. She was getting paranoid.

Still, Bennie hit the gas. The white van trailed her at a slow speed and she could see the dark car following close behind, almost tailgating. The three vehicles snaked around City Hall, traveled past the Criminal Justice Center, and headed for the Benjamin Franklin Parkway. Bennie lived in the neighborhood that surrounded the Art Museum at the west end of the parkway. She had chosen the location because it was affordable, unpretentious, and close to the Schuylkill, for rowing; the same reasons Thomas Eakins had picked it much earlier. Though it wasn’t far, Bennie found herself worrying if she’d make it home safely.

She accelerated, and her Ford moved onto the four-lane boulevard that was the Ben Franklin Parkway, slick and wet from the storm. Her tires splashed through a puddle in the gutter, spraying water onto the truck’s siders, and the Ford rumbled under the multicolored flags of all nations that flapped in the wind. NIGERIA, KENYA, TANZANIA, read the labels as Bennie sped past. The white van hung back, and after a moment the dark car popped from behind it and charged aggressively up the right lane, directly under a streetlight. It was a TransAm. Blue or black, Bennie couldn’t tell, but she wasn’t splitting hairs.

Her fingers gripped the steering wheel. The TransAm was thirty yards behind her and coming on strong. Her heart began to pound and she steered her truck around Logan Circle, struggling to remain upright as she whirled around Swann Fountain, which shot illuminated arcs of water into the night. The TransAm sped up, closing the distance between them, and Bennie saw its color as it passed by the lighted fountain. Black. Oh, no. The silhouette behind the wheel was of a man. It had to be Lenihan.

Her chest constricted. She thought fast. She had no weapon but she had a car phone, a hands-free model. Her fingers fumbled for the keyboard and she pressed the coded button for 911.

“Emergency operator,” said a professional voice when the connection crackled to life.

“I need help. I’m being followed, in a car. A black TransAm.” She plowed through another puddle and checked the rearview. It was only her and the TransAm. “I just passed Logan Circle and I’m heading for the Art Museum. What do I do?”

“Are you in your car, miss?”

“Yes! It’s a blue Ford.”

“And this car is following yours?”

“Yes! Yes!” Bennie struggled to steer and shout at the same time.

“What makes you think this car is following you, ma’am?”

The TransAm was closing in. It was twenty yards behind, then fifteen. Bennie stiff-armed the steering wheel. “Take my word for it! He’s a police officer named Lenihan.”

“Did you say a police officer is following your car, miss? Why don’t you flag him if you need help?”

“I need help from him. Put out a bulletin. I’m traveling west, up Ben Franklin Parkway. Should I drive to a station house?” Bennie had no sooner asked the question than she realized she had whizzed past the street that led her to her district’s station house. The TransAm was so close. Then it switched into her lane. Right behind her.

“Help!” Bennie shouted. She trounced on the gas pedal and the Ford rocketed forward, careening up the parkway. The streetlights blurred to bright lines. The flags were streaks of color. It was all Bennie could do to keep the truck stable. She aimed right for the Art Museum.

“Miss, are you there? Miss?”

“Help!” Bennie shouted, her own cry reverberating in her ears. She checked her rearview mirror and squinted against the light. The TransAm blasted its high beams into the Ford. The black car was right on her bumper. She could see the face behind the wheel. His expression, grim. His hair, blond. Lenihan.

A bolt of fear shot through Bennie’s body. The Ford barreled down the slick boulevard. Eakins Oval, the rotary in front of the Art Museum, lay just ahead. The traffic light turned red at the cross street but Bennie roared through it. She held tight to the steering wheel and took the curve around the Oval at speed. Light filled her truck and the TransAm jolted the Ford from behind. Bennie hung on to the steering wheel for dear life.

“Miss? Miss?” the operator asked. “Did you say the police are there?”

“No! Help!” Bennie cried, then gave up. The Art Museum loomed dead ahead, looking like an amber-colored temple to the ancient Greeks. Lights at its base set it glowing gold in the night and it stood high atop a promontory. A huge set of stairs led to its columned entrance. They gave Bennie an idea. She had to go where Lenihan couldn’t. She drove a truck; Lenihan had a TransAm. It was no contest.

Suddenly Bennie cranked the steering wheel hard to the right and the Ford skidded left. Its back end fishtailed, throwing her against the driver’s side door. The impact sent an arc of pain through her left shoulder but she hung on to the steering wheel, frantic. The Ford ended up facing the direction it came from. Bennie spotted the TransAm. It screeched into a full three-sixty, spraying water from its tires like a pinwheel. It would take Lenihan time to recover.

Bennie slammed on the gas and twisted the Ford onto the sidewalk. Her back wheels churned in grit and rainwater. She pointed the Ford at the steps of the Art Museum. There was nowhere to go but up. If Rocky could do it, so could Rosato.

She engaged her four-wheel drive and the Ford bounded onto the pavement and charged up the granite staircase. She bounced in the driver’s seat despite her shoulder harness, taking each step to the landing, then racing skyward. Fountains flanking the Art Museum steps spurted water into the air, misting onto the truck. Cast iron gaslights lit her way.

Bennie hit the gas. The truck bobbled like it was racing over railroad tracks. Its suspension squeaked in protest. Her jaw rattled in her skull. Her front tooth sliced through her lower lip. She felt her own warm blood bubble into her mouth. The truck hit the next landing and lurched forward.