by Joy Fielding
It took her five minutes to get dressed, another five minutes to fix her hair and makeup, four minutes to stand in front of the phone debating whether to call Ben, one minute to dial his number—This is Ben Myers. I’m not home right now, but if you’ll leave your name and number after the beep—another minute to let loose a string of expletives, most of them unflattering epithets involving anyone named Jennifer, and five minutes to wolf down the dinner that arrived just as she was about to leave. (God, what happened in here? I’ll send someone from housekeeping up right away.) Luckily, a lineup of cabs was waiting near the door to the hotel, and the driver assured her he could get her to her destination in no time flat.
“Ben’s gonna kill me,” she says now, pressing in the correct code.
“Come on up,” a voice crackles over the speaker. “Apartment 1710.”
A buzzer sounds to unlock the door, and Amanda walks through the old, sparsely furnished lobby toward the elevators. She waits what feels like an eternity for one of the elevator doors to open, then another eternity for the rickety, old elevator to grind to a halt at the seventeenth floor. It’s now a minute past her half-hour deadline. She wonders if Mallins, R., will open her door.
I was wondering when you bozos were going to get around to calling me.
What does that mean?
Hey, I booked this holiday six months ago, and I’m not canceling just because you guys suddenly woke up.
Woke up to what?
“What the hell am I doing here?” Amanda whispers between barely parted lips. “Ben’s gonna kill me.” Providing R. Mallins doesn’t kill me first, she thinks, and almost laughs.
The door opens. A middle-aged woman, short, round, with curly auburn hair, a pug nose sprinkled with tiny freckles, and an engaging smile, stands in the doorway, dimpled hands on wide hips. “You alone?” she asks, stretching her head into the hallway.
Amanda thinks about inventing a partner waiting for her downstairs, but one look into the woman’s clear brown eyes tells her lying wouldn’t be a good idea. “Yes,” she answers truthfully. “I’m alone.”
“Still not considered a very high priority, I take it.” The woman, wearing an orange sweatshirt and a pair of faded jeans, ushers Amanda inside the small apartment, furnished in shades of blue and green. “Nice to see some things never change. Here, let me take your coat. You can leave your boots on, if you’d like.”
Amanda wipes her soles on a remnant of blue carpet by the door and slips her coat off her shoulders, watching as Ms. Mallins hangs it in the sliver of space that passes for a hall closet. “I’m not sure I understand.” She looks toward the long window that takes up most of the living room’s north wall, sees the lights on in the apartment building across the street, and imagines people relaxing in front of roaring fireplaces, or settling in to watch their favorite shows on TV.
“Well, what would you know?” R. Mallins says with a shrug. “You were just a kid when all the shit went down.”
Amanda finds herself holding her breath. “When what … shit … went down?”
The woman laughs, shakes her head. “What is it with you guys? Don’t you ever talk to one another? I mean, I know the police are a pretty paranoid lot, but—”
“I’m not with the police,” Amanda tells the clearly surprised woman.
“Oh?”
“I’m sorry if I gave you that impression.”
The woman’s arms fold across her expansive chest. “Exactly who the hell are you?”
“My name is Amanda Travis.”
“Yes, so you said on the telephone. But you’re not with the police?”
“No. I’m with the defense team representing Gwen Price, the woman—”
“—accused of shooting John Mallins.”
“Yes.”
“Well, isn’t that rich.” R. Mallins smiles her obvious satisfaction. She motions toward the green-and-blue-striped sofa that sits on the light parquet floor at right angles to a single dark blue chair. “Please sit down. Can I get you a drink?”
Amanda thinks of the glass of red wine she left untouched on the table in her hotel room and hopes that housekeeping doesn’t take it away. She has the feeling she’s going to need it when she gets back to her room. “Maybe some water.”
“Water it is,” the woman says with a chuckle, half a dozen steps all she needs to transport her into the vaguely dingy galley kitchen. She runs the tap, retrieves a glass from the cupboard over the sink, and fills it with water.
Amanda notes that a handle has fallen off one of the white cabinets and been replaced by a bright red knob, like a clown’s nose. Ms. Mallins returns to the living room, offering her the glass with one hand, as the other motions toward the sofa.
“Please,” she says again. “Have a seat.”
Amanda dutifully sinks into the green and blue stripes of the sofa, her boots resting lightly on a small oval of pale blue carpet. “Ms. Mallins …”
“Why don’t you just call me Rachel.” The woman lowers herself into the dark blue chair, looking at Amanda with a smile that says, This should be fun.
“Rachel,” Amanda repeats.
“Amanda.” A sly smile pulls at the woman’s round cheeks.
“Exactly what … shit … went down?”
Rachel Mallins laughs. “You’re cute,” she says, as Amanda squirms, tries not to bristle, cute never having been a state she aspired to, or an adjective she coveted. “You don’t know anything, do you, Amanda?”
“Not very much,” Amanda admits.
“Yet you knew enough to find me.”
“That was easy. I looked you up in the phone book.”
“You looked me up in the phone book.” Rachel Mallins laughs again. It’s a pleasant, even raucous, sound. “May I ask why?”
“I interviewed Hayley Mallins, the murdered man’s widow,” Amanda begins, silently debating how much to tell Rachel Mallins, then deciding there was little to be gained at this point from keeping anything back. “She told me her husband’s mother passed away recently, and that her husband was here to settle her estate, so …”
“So?” Rachel leans forward in her seat, tucks one hand inside the other, listening intently. Amanda notes the absence of any jewelry.
“So, even though Mrs. Mallins denies it, I thought it might be possible there were other Mallinses around who were related to the victim.”
“Oh, you did, did you?”
“I did. Yes.”
“And are there many of us?”
“What?”
“In the phone book.”
“Oh. No. Not many. Six, actually.”
“Actually,” Rachel repeats, savoring the sound. “And you called us all?”
“You were number five on the list.”
“Lucky me.” Rachel Mallins laughs again. “Lucky you.”
“You’re saying you’re related to John Mallins?”
“I am.”
Amanda feels a breath catch in her throat. “Meaning?”
The slightest of pauses, a moment of indecision before Rachel’s response. “Meaning he’s my brother.”
The glass of water almost slips from Amanda’s hand. “Excuse me?”
“I’m John Mallins’s sister.” The smile slides from the woman’s face. “Have a sip of water, Amanda. You’re looking a little pale.”
Amanda takes a sip of water, trying to focus her thoughts, prepare her next question. “I don’t understand,” she says finally, giving up.
“Of course. How could you?”
“You’re saying Hayley Mallins lied when she told me her husband had no other relatives in Toronto?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“You don’t know whether she was lying or whether she honestly didn’t know about you?” Amanda offers, trying to pin the woman down.
“I don’t know anything about Hayley Mallins at all.”
“You’re saying you didn’t know your brother was married?”
“My brot
her isn’t married,” the woman states emphatically. “You can be quite sure of that.”
“I don’t understand,” Amanda says again, thinking she might as well be carrying a tape recording she can press in response to Rachel’s every pronouncement. I don’t understand. I don’t understand.
“Well, obviously, the man who was murdered last week at the Four Seasons hotel was not my brother.”
“I don’t un—” Amanda bites down on her tongue and lowers her glass of water to the round glass table beside the sofa, rising slowly to her feet, and trying to contain her budding anger. “Okay, I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, Rachel, but I really don’t appreciate being toyed with. So if torturing lawyers is your idea of a fun way to spend an evening, you’ll have to find yourself another attorney—”
“Oh, sit down. I thought you wanted to know about John Mallins.”
Amanda remains on her feet. “I’m listening.”
Rachel Mallins pushes herself out of her chair and walks over to the window. “You sound like Frasier Crane,” she says with a chuckle. “On TV?”
“I don’t watch much TV.”
“You’ve never watched Frasier? It’s a spin-off of Cheers. Surely you watched that.”
“Can we get back to John Mallins?”
Rachel looks vaguely wounded. “You have to understand that this all happened a very long time ago. Twenty-five years ago, actually.” She smiles, although this time the smile wobbles and threatens tears.
“What did?”
There is a pause before Rachel continues. “My brother and I were the product of what is now gently referred to as a ‘dysfunctional family,’ meaning our parents were both heavy drinkers, and my brother and I pretty much raised ourselves. And didn’t do a very good job of it either.” She shrugs. “I was married and divorced twice before I turned thirty. Do you believe that?”
“It happens,” Amanda replies when she can find her voice.
“I guess. You married?”
“No.”
“No, you’re smart. I can see that. Too focused on your career to waste time on incidentals. I never had a career. When I was fourteen, I had dreams about being a doctor. Oh, well, at least I finished high school.” Rachel tries to smile, but her lips form a stubborn purse and refuse to cooperate. “Johnny dropped out as soon as he turned sixteen. He started running with a bad crowd, drinking, doing drugs, the usual crap. Couldn’t hold a job. In and out of trouble. Got arrested at least half a dozen times, although the police could never make anything stick. Anyway, the last time I saw him, he was boasting about this great guy he’d just met, and how this man was taking him under his wing, how everything was gonna be different, and …”
“And?”
“And then he disappeared off the face of the earth.”
“What do you mean, he disappeared?”
“I mean I never saw him again.”
“Did you go to the police?”
“Of course. Just how interested do you think they were in finding him?” Rachel shakes her head. “About as interested as they are in speaking to me now.”
Amanda tries to make sense of everything Rachel has told her. “But why should the police be interested in speaking to you if you say the John Mallins who was murdered isn’t your brother?”
“Because the man who was murdered isn’t John Mallins,” the woman states simply.
Amanda says nothing. Instead she nods as if everything she has heard makes perfect sense, then resumes her seat on the sofa, and waits to hear more.
SIXTEEN
I could use a drink,” Rachel announces, slapping her hands against her thighs. “How about you?”
“Sounds good to me,” Amanda agrees, watching the woman cross back to the kitchen and kneel in front of the cabinet beside the fridge, her knees cracking loudly in protest.
“That’s the problem with being short and fat,” the woman says, rummaging through several bottles of wine. “You can’t store your booze on a high shelf ’cause you can’t reach it, and it kills you every time you bend down. I should just line the bottles up along the counter. Except that’s what my parents used to do. I think they considered it sculpture. Red wine okay?”
“Perfect.”
Rachel smiles her most engaging smile and reaches into the top drawer for a corkscrew. “When I first moved out on my own, away from my parents, both of whom have moved on to that great saloon in the sky, incidentally, I wouldn’t even consider keeping liquor in my apartment. Oh, I was such a goody-goody. Wouldn’t drink or smoke. Still don’t smoke.” She expertly uncorks a bottle of what Amanda realizes is a very good bottle of wine. “So, anyway, one night I had a date, some guy I’d been hoping to impress, and I’d invited him over for dinner. God only knows what I was thinking, since the only thing I knew how to make was shepherd’s pie. Good thing he liked shepherd’s pie.” She laughs, reaches for two wineglasses. “Anyway, this guy brought a bottle of wine, but we couldn’t open it because I didn’t have a corkscrew.” She shakes her head, obviously playing the scene out in her mind as she pours the wine into the glasses. “I had to knock on my neighbor’s door and ask if they had one I could borrow.” She crosses back into the living room, hands Amanda her wine. “I don’t have a drinking problem, by the way. In case you’re worrying that I’m some old lush who lured you here under false pretenses.”
“I’m not worried,” Amanda says, although that very thought has just crossed her mind.
“No, I made a solemn vow to myself many years ago that I was never going to be like my mother.”
Amanda nods. At last—something she understands.
“So I’m very careful about how much alcohol I allow myself. A glass of wine here and there under special circumstances. I’d say this qualifies, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t know. What circumstances are we talking about?”
Rachel raises her glass. “The man calling himself John Mallins finally getting what he deserved. Cheers.”
“Cheers.” They click glasses. Silence fills the small space between them. Amanda waits for the older woman to continue, but she says nothing. “Why do you say that he got what he deserved?”
“Because the bastard obviously killed my brother.”
How is that obvious? Amanda wonders, taking several sips of wine before asking the question out loud.
“I told you that right before my brother disappeared, he told me he’d met some guy who was going to turn his life around. Well, I think it’s pretty clear this guy killed him. And now, twenty-five years later, your client killed him.”
Amanda tries to follow the woman’s convoluted logic. “That’s quite a stretch,” she says finally.
“Why? How is it a stretch? You don’t think it’s more than a little suspicious that twenty-five years after my brother disappears, a man calling himself John Mallins, who just happens to be the exact same age as my brother would have been, and who even looks a little bit like him, suddenly shows up in the same city where he used to live. You don’t find that just a little bit strange?”
“A coincidence maybe.”
“A coincidence, my ass. That man killed my brother and stole his identity.”
“Whoa. Hold on a minute. Just because the man has the same name as your brother doesn’t mean he killed him. You don’t think it’s possible there’s more than one John Mallins?”
“No, I don’t think it’s possible. You’re the one who looked us up in the phone book. There were only six listings in a city of almost three million people.”
“That doesn’t mean there’s only one John Mallins in the entire world. The John Mallins who was shot and killed was from a little town in England, north of Nottingham,” Amanda says, recalling her earlier geography lesson from the man’s widow.
“And he came back to settle his mother’s estate, that’s what you said, right?”
“Yes.”
“How much do you want to bet that if you check the death notices for the past few weeks,
you won’t find any mention of anyone named Mallins? Hell, check the last year.”
“Even if that’s true, it wouldn’t necessarily prove anything.”
Rachel throws her hands up in the air, the wine sloshing around in her glass. “Shit, are you always this stubborn?”
“I’m just trying to tell you that …” Amanda stops. What is she trying to tell her? “If you really believe John Mallins is not only an impostor, but a murderer, why haven’t you gone to the police?”
“And tell them what exactly?”
“Exactly what you’ve told me.”
Rachel Mallins shakes her head. “The police are even more stubborn than you are. Hell, I went to the bastards twenty-five years ago, right after Johnny disappeared. I begged and pleaded with them to find my brother, and you know what they said? ‘Don’t worry about Johnny. He’ll turn up. Bad pennies always do.’ ” She gulps at her wine. “They wouldn’t help me then. Why would I help them now? Besides, it won’t bring Johnny back. It’s twenty-five years too late for that.”
Amanda finishes the last of the wine in her glass, accepts Rachel’s offer of more. “Isn’t it possible, just possible,” Amanda begins slowly, “that the man who was shot is, in fact, your brother?” She hurries on before Rachel can object. “You said it yourself—it’s been twenty-five years. People can change a lot in a quarter of a century. They get older, they gain weight, they grow a mustache.”
“They don’t disappear for no reason.”
“Maybe he had a reason. You said he was always in and out of trouble. Maybe he got in over his head and had to leave town in a hurry. Maybe he decided it was best not to tell you. Maybe he decided to start over. Maybe he eventually moved to England, opened a little shop, got married, had a family …”
“He didn’t get married and have a family.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because my brother was gay,” Rachel says, pouring herself a second glass of wine. “And please don’t tell me that gay men often get married and have families, because I know that. But I also know the man your client shot isn’t my brother.”