Lisa Scottoline - Mistaken Identity

“In your own way?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Bennie said. “This is harassment.”

Hilliard pursed his lips. “I’ll withdraw the question, Your Honor. Ms. Harting, what did you do after you left court yesterday?”

“I went back to the house. To prison.”

“What did you do there, Ms. Harting?”

“Same thing as always.” Harting shrugged, her shoulders knobby under the thin T-shirt.

“Which is what, Ms. Harting? Do enlighten us.”

“Looked at some TV, sat on the unit, then went to sleep.”

“Ms. Harting, did you discuss your testimony with any of the other inmates at the prison?”

“No.”

“Did you receive any visitors with whom you discussed your testimony?”

“No.”

“Did you receive any visitors at all last night?”

“No.”

“Did you receive any telephone calls last night?”

“No.”

“So, Ms. Harting, it’s your testimony that you have not discussed this case or your testimony with anyone since yesterday?”

“No, that’s not what I said. I did discuss my testimony with someone.”

Judge Guthrie looked over. Bennie tensed. Hilliard looked relieved. “Who did you discuss your testimony with, Ms. Harting?” he asked eagerly.

“My Lord Jesus,” Harting answered, with absolute conviction.

Suddenly the D.A.’s associate appeared at the door in the bulletproof shield and was admitted by the deputy. In his hand was a crumpled slip of paper. The associate handed the note to Hilliard, whose face remained impassive. Bennie held her breath. Wanting the truth to come out; not wanting the truth to come out.

“Your Honor,” Hilliard said. “I have no further questions.”

Bennie sat astounded. The OV logs hadn’t shown a visitor? So how had Connolly reached Harting? Had she bribed the guard who kept the logs? You know how much money is in drugs? You can buy girls, boys, guards, and cops. The words echoed in Bennie’s mind as court recessed for the lunch break, the jury was guided out, and Connolly was escorted from her seat without looking back.

Low-rise projects squatted near Philadelphia’s business district, ten blocks from City Hall. Their crumbling brick towers stood out in a skyline rejuvenated by the modern geometry of the Mellon Bank Center and the neon spikes of Liberty Place. The mirrored skyscrapers uptown caught the sun like a butterfly in hand, but the projects swallowed it up, superheating the apartments inside. The windows that hadn’t been punched out like black eyes were flung open. At each corner of the building were caged balconies, and Lou noticed a line of laundry drying inside one of the cages.

He was sitting in his Honda, parked across the street from the building where Brunell lived. Lou had found the address by looking Brunell up in the phone book. The man had four phones, all listed. It was easier to call the bad guys than the good guys. Lou watched patiently, scoping out the scene before he went upstairs. The foot traffic in and out of the building was steady, and Lou saw all types go in: young black men, white women, businessmen, and pregnant mothers. One kid, no more than twelve, went sailing into the building’s entrance on a skateboard, baggy shorts flapping low on his hips. Different as they were, all entered the building and left again fifteen to twenty minutes later. Lou couldn’t prove that they were there to buy drugs. He couldn’t prove the sun was hot either.

He got out of the Honda, crossed the street, and asked the first person he saw if she knew Brunell. “Up on eight, 803,” the older woman said. She seemed resigned to being asked and evidently wasn’t worried that Lou was a cop. The drug dealer did business as openly as Woolworth’s. How much could that kind of security cost? Half a mil, under the friggin’ floor?

Lou found the elevator near the front entrance but it hadn’t worked in ages. The call button had been yanked out of its plate and the doors spray-painted with graffiti. He looked around for a stairway. The hall was filthy and reeked of urine. Bags of trash had been set outside apartment doors, contributing to the foul air, though in front of one door sat a tied stack of papers for recycling. Television blared through walls so thin Lou could identify Rosie O’Donnell’s laughter. A hip-hop beat pounded from behind a closed door, making him yearn for Stan Getz.

Lou spotted a broken EXIT sign on the wall and followed it around the corner to the stairs. The stairs, concrete with scored metal on the steps, were dark with grime. Cigarette butts and a dead Elmo toy littered the narrow passage. Eight floors. Lou sighed and took the first step.

“I’m here to see Pace Brunell,” Lou said, talking through the closed door to the apartment. He was trying to catch his breath from the walk upstairs, staring at the painted-on 803 in cockeyed black letters.

“Come on in,” said a man’s voice. The door swung open onto a well-built young man with light-blue eyes, densely coiled reddish-brown hair, and a dotting of tiny freckles across his cheeks. His wide nose and broad lips suggested an African-American heritage, but his skin was white, even pale. He wore a T-shirt and baggy blue basketball shorts that said NOVA.

“Are you Pace Brunell?” Lou asked.

“Sure am.”

“Lou Jacobs. Like to come in if I can.”

“Step into my office,” Brunell said breezily, then closed the door behind Lou, who glanced quickly around. A saggy tan couch sat in front of a teak coffee table, but the furniture wasn’t what Lou noticed right off. Wrinkled stacks of fifties, tens, and twenties sat on the table, at least thirty thou to Lou’s eye. Goddamn Sam! Next to the dough was a digital money-counting machine like they have in Vegas, press a button and it fans out money like cards. Coke packets wrapped in cellophane and twisted shut at both ends lay scattered on the table like hard candy.

“See somethin’ you like?” Brunell asked, and Lou shook his head slowly.

“You know, they used to put cigarettes on coffee tables, in china boxes. Very classy. You could lift off the top and there were the Camels. Or Pall Malls. Or Old Gold. It smelled like tobacco when you opened the box.”

“Cigarettes will kill ya.”

“I know. I miss ’em every minute.”

Brunell smiled and flopped on the couch. His gym shorts rode up, revealing a long scar on his thigh, knotty with keloids. “It’s Friday, you know. I’m busy before the weekend. You a buyer or what, pop?”

“No,” Lou said. “I came to talk about Joe Citrone. You know him.”

“Shit, I knew you was a cop.” Brunell slapped his leg in self-admiration. “You from the Eleventh, too?”

“No, I’m retired. I know Citrone protects you, your operation.”

“This ain’t a shakedown, is it?”

“At my age? No. I’m trying to find out why a cop named Bill Latorce got dead. I think it has something to do with Citrone.”

“Now, why you think that?” Brunell said, his smile vanishing.

“I heard it, over the shuffleboard courts. You remember Latorce, a black cop? He was working with Citrone, keeping you in business.”

Brunell stood up quickly. “Time for you to go, buddy.”

“But we’re having such a nice talk. I think we’re, what do they say, bonding?”

“You’re crazy, old man.” Brunell crossed the room, opened the door, and in one smooth move, yanked a matte-gray Glock from the back of his shorts and aimed it at Lou. “Get the fuck out.”

Lou eased out of the chair and went to the door. The sight of the gun wasn’t good for his heart, but Brunell wasn’t stupid enough to kill him. “You remember my name, Brunell?”

“Lou the Jew, motherfucker.”

“Get it right when you call Citrone. Tell him I’m the one from the parking lot, at the Eleventh.” Lou walked out, and Brunell slammed the door behind him.