Mistaken Identity

by Lisa Scottoline

  “Hey, Star,” said a deep voice to his left, and Star looked over. It was Leo Browning, who managed one of the older heavyweights. Browning was fat, fifty years old, and white, but he talked like a brother and wore double knuckle rings. “It’s comin’ up on Harris, man,” Browning said in his gravelly voice. Anthony always used to say that Browning sounded just like Barry White, but Star didn’t know who Barry White was. “I watched you box that boy, just now. You’re bigger, you got a longer reach, and you’re quicker. Only you got your ass whipped, man.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Star said, though he knew it was true.

  “Look, I know Anthony managed your career real good. Took real good care of you. You don’t want to blow it now. You a heavyweight, man. You need a manager. You a boxer, you got to box.”

  “Don’t be tellin’ me what I gotta do, asshole.”

  “I know you thinkin’ that nobody can do as good by you, but that ain’t right. I can. I know your talent. I know where you want to go. I know how to get you there. The promoters, they know me. You don’t let me manage you, the promoters gonna pull you out of Harris.”

  “Bullshit. Contract says I’m top of the card.”

  “They find a way out of that. You got to stay strong, like nothin’ changed. It’s like when the president dies, you know, like when JFK got assassinated. You know JFK?”

  Star wanted to hit this dick. He hated it when whites talked down to him. Anthony never did that. Anthony knew he was smart. Anthony showed him respect.

  “When JFK, the president, got shot, they had to swear in the vice president right that day. Same fuckin’ day. You know why? They had to show the world that just ’cause a great man died, the line of power was okay. The country was in good hands.” Browning shifted closer in his fake alligator shoes. “You know, man, you’re all fucked up over Anthony. You got to get clear, man. You been in a funk for a year, mopin’ like a little baby.”

  Star’s neat head snapped around. He didn’t like to be talked to that way.

  “You heard me. You need somebody to tell you the truth, man, not like those yes-men you got. You upset about Anthony gettin’ whacked, you do somethin’ about it. You hear me, stop cryin’ and do somethin’. But don’t let it fuck up Harris, man. Lotta money to be made on Harris. A career to be made on Harris.”

  “Fuck you!” Star shoved Browning in the chest, and the man flew off his feet and crashed backward into the lockers.

  Star stood in the hot shower. Water pounded on his shoulders and coursed down the muscles of his naked body. His skin was sleek as a Thoroughbred’s, a rich, dark chestnut. Thick veins ran close to its surface and snaked down his forearms. Star stood under the water, his head thrown back, trying to keep his mind blank. Trying not to think about Anthony or the bitch who capped him. Or Browning, with the alligator shoes.

  You upset about Anthony gettin’ whacked, you do somethin’ about it.

  Star twisted the knob on the wall, turning up the water temperature. He let the hot water hit his shoulders. His muscles tingled. His veins opened wide as tunnels. Star imagined blood gushing through them like a red tide, rushing to the muscles. He felt bigger, stronger. Pumped.

  You upset about Anthony gettin’ whacked, you do somethin’ about it.

  Star squeezed his eyes shut tight and twisted the knob ’til the shower was hot as he could stand it. Then, hotter. Water scorched his biceps and blistered his chest. He opened his mouth and steaming water rushed in. His tongue was on fire. Star could take punishment, everybody said so. Blows that buckled the knees of other men, sending them to the canvas like they were prayin’ to God. But this was a blow that Star never took in the ring. This was a hurt like nothin’ he ever felt. He couldn’t make it stop and he couldn’t take it neither.

  You upset about Anthony gettin’ whacked, you do somethin’ about it.

  Hot water rained like flames from heaven, and suddenly Star roared. He never made no noise in his life, not in all his fights, but he kept roaring, not knowing where in him the sound came from. He heard it echo off the tile walls, turning the shitty shower into his den. He roared louder and louder until his skin burned like the sun. It made him feel strong and clear like never before. Star got tougher in the fire, like steel.

  And then he knew what he had to do.

  7

  At home, Bennie set the envelope to the side of a makeshift plywood table and arranged the photos while Grady Wells watched. A tall, skinny North Carolinian with light, curly hair, Grady had been Bennie’s associate and was now her live-in lover. They were renovating an old rowhouse together, rebuilding the shell floor by floor, even though Grady was a business lawyer who had as little spare time as Bennie. They talked about getting married in the house if it didn’t collapse first.

  “Okay, that’s everything,” Bennie said, whisking sawdust off the plywood with her hand. “You ready to examine Exhibits A, B, and C?”

  “Ready,” Grady said. He leaned against the two-by-fours that would reinforce the dining room walls. His gray eyes scanned the photos from behind gold wire-rimmed glasses, and he had already changed into the white DUKE T-shirt and jeans he wore to work on the house. “You say her name’s Alice Connolly?”

  “Yes. Now. The first photo, Exhibit A, you saw already. It’s the one with the airmen in front of the plane, the one I showed my mother. Exhibit B, the second photo, is of the same pilot, Bill Winslow, my father. Holding two babies about the same age.”

  “The same age?” Grady leaned over the black-and-white picture and compared it with the pilots’ group photo; a young, fair-haired man in a white T-shirt and rolled-up blue jeans was sitting on a brick step, grinning. It did appear to be the same pilot and in his arms were two infants swaddled in white blankets. “I can’t tell if they’re the same age. The photo’s so grainy and the babies so tiny, I can’t see their features.”

  “Me neither. They could be twins, but who knows? It’s Winslow, though.”

  “How do you know for sure? You never met your father, did you?”

  “No, but I think it is. Maybe he came back for this photo, I don’t know. That’s his name and his eyes are like mine. Now, this is Exhibit C.” Bennie picked up the last photo, suppressing the emotion it evoked. It was a picture of her mother and two other young girls, seated on a round stool at the type of luncheonette counter that didn’t exist anymore. Her mother’s eyes were fully made-up and her dark hair pin-curled around her ears. She had a rich mouth, vivid with lipstick, and her body curved amply in a sweater set and a slim skirt with a slit up the back. “Check this out, Grady. The hot number is my mother.”

  He grinned. “She looks so pretty. How old you think she was?”

  “Sixteen, seventeen. A lot younger than I am now. Isn’t that weird?” Bennie gazed at the photo. She was far too old for it to be a revelation that her mother had a life before she came along. The revelation was that she was ever healthy.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a photo of your mother that you haven’t taken. Let me see that.” Grady slid the photo from Bennie’s hand and flipped it over. There were tufts of torn black paper in its four corners and on the back, in a feminine script, was written, FOR BILL. “Interesting,” he said.

  “That’s my mother’s handwriting. I’m supposed to believe she gave the photo to Winslow, who gave it to Connolly. Who says she’s my twin.”

  “Do you believe her?” He raised a faint eyebrow.

  “No, of course not. Although it’s strange that she had these pictures, especially the one of my mother.”

  “Wait a minute.” Grady handed Bennie the photo with a frown. “This is a photo of your mother with two young women. The photo could have come from anywhere. Connolly could be the child of one of the other women.”

  “But it says ‘For Bill’ on the back, in my mother’s writing.”

  “Maybe Connolly forged it.”

  “Yeah, but how?” Bennie turned. “And what about the tufts of paper on the back of the photos? It loo
ks like they were all taken from the same photo album.”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t like you being manipulated by some con.” Grady folded his arms and his T-shirt edged up over slim, ropy biceps. Golden hair covered his forearms, and his wrists were narrow, so his Swiss Army watch seemed crudely oversized. “Does Connolly look like you?”

  “There is a resemblance, a definite resemblance.”

  “A resemblance doesn’t cut it for identical twins.” Grady pursed his lips. “Identical twins look identical. They come from a single egg, fertilized by a single sperm that splits. The DNA in identical twins is the same, and I’m sure you can test for it. Why don’t you ask Connolly for a blood sample and we’ll find a lab?”

  “That’s bizarre, don’t you think?”

  “No. Not if you’re even considering representing this woman, which I hope you’re not, by the way.”

  “You don’t think I should represent her?”

  Grady laughed softly. “Under no circumstances should you represent her.”

  “Why not?” Bennie didn’t necessarily want to represent Connolly, but she didn’t like being told she shouldn’t. “Because she could be my twin?”

  “Not exactly.” Grady shook his head. “Whether she’s your twin or not, you shouldn’t represent her. You don’t know who she is.”

  “How well do I have to know someone before I take their case? My God, Grady, I’ve represented people I barely knew, even barely liked.”

  “But this one may be your twin, and that makes you emotionally involved. You’ll get all bollixed up. How can you prepare a defense and maintain your objectivity?”

  Bennie laughed abruptly. “You represented me once, remember? You were in love with me and you represented me.”

  “That was different,” Grady said, maintaining an even tone. If they were going to fight, he wasn’t going to let fly with the first round. A Civil War buff, Grady was never as quick into battle as Bennie. His study of war had only reinforced its futility. “We weren’t that involved then, it was the beginning. Besides, it’s not your field anymore. Connolly’s case is at bottom a murder case, not a police brutality case.”

  “It’s still cops. Who better to investigate cops than me?” Bennie plucked the photo from the table and held it protectively to her chest. “Not everybody can handle a case like this, and Connolly has a lousy lawyer.”

  “If you’re concerned, get her a good lawyer. The lawyer you’d hire for me.”

  Bennie considered, then rejected, the suggestion. “If there’s even a remote chance that we’re related, I wouldn’t want another lawyer to represent her.”

  “Why not? It doesn’t follow that because Connolly may be your twin, you have to be her lawyer. On the contrary.”

  Bennie felt momentarily stumped. Grady, a former Supreme Court clerk, was making complete sense as usual. He forced her to think; it was one of the things she loved best about him. But this issue was about feeling, not thinking, and she couldn’t help the way she felt inside, even as she knew her feelings wouldn’t stand to reason. At her core, Bennie believed that blood was everything. Blood mattered. If Connolly were her blood, then Connolly mattered. And if Bennie walked away now, she’d never know the truth.

  Grady sighed. “You’re gonna represent her, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Bennie said, and the answer surprised even her.

  “You comin’ to bed?” Grady asked. He stood in the door to Bennie’s home office, the hall light silhouetting the leanness of his form. Grady was a full six feet, the only man Bennie had met who wasn’t threatened by her height, and his limbs were long and sleek. He was naked except for a pair of boxers. Bennie knew from his not-so-subtle display that he was inviting her to make love, but she couldn’t accept tonight.

  “Can I get a rain check?” she asked, sitting at the computer keyboard. She was researching articles about the Della Porta murder, which she needed before she met with Connolly again. Resting at her feet was an overweight golden retriever, Bear. The dog was the exact color of pumpkin pie and his feathered tail started beating against the floor as soon as Grady crossed the threshold and walked over.

  “You can’t get a rain check, babe.” Grady put warm hands on Bennie’s shoulders and gave them a gentle massage. He smelled of Ivory soap and mint toothpaste. “It’s not like a lunch date. It’s spontaneous.”

  “Spontaneity is overrated. Have your girl call my girl.”

  “As long as we’re negotiating, I’ll settle for the morning.”

  “But I hate the morning.”

  “Don’t whine. You have to pretend you like it.”

  “So what else is new?”

  Grady laughed and read the monitor over Bennie’s shoulder. “You on NEXIS? That’s a good idea. What’s your search request?”

  “I plugged in ‘Alice Connolly’ and limited it to a two-year period.” She punched the ENTER key to retrieve the articles.

  “Use ‘w/15 Della Porta.’ That’ll get you only the articles about the murder.”

  Bennie took the suggestion. “You’re helping, even though you think I shouldn’t take the case?”

  “I support all the stupid things you do.”

  “What a guy.”

  “So you do appreciate me.” Grady leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Good night. You’re off the hook, for now. I made you a pot of coffee. Don’t work too hard.” He scratched Bear’s head. “Take care of her, boy,” he said, and left the room, padding out in bare feet.

  Bennie bade him good night, then hit the keys to learn what she could about Alice Connolly.

  8

  Star glanced at the squirrelly dude in the passenger seat. Dude all but disappeared in the bucket seat, he was so fuckin’ short. Flabby even for a white guy and he had those hair plugs. Brown hairs sprouting out of his head like rows of tomato plants. To look at him, Star couldn’t believe the dude had juice, but T-Boy said he did. “T-Boy think your friend can help me out,” Star said.

  “T-Boy’s right. My friend knows everybody.” The dude nodded. “Everybody. He’ll help you out, no problem.”

  “Your friend know somebody in the house, is what I’m axin’.”

  “He knows everybody in the house. Everybody who matters anyways.”

  “Gotta be somebody who can do the job.” Star steered the Caddy up the street, past boarded-up crackhouses. Nobody was on the street, but Star still flipped up the collar of his Starter jacket. He couldn’t afford to be recognized and he was too big a man to hide. He used to be too good a man to be doing shit like this. “Nothin’ can go wrong, you hear?”

  “Nothin’s gonna go wrong.”

  Star hesitated. Not because he was scared, the deal wasn’t even illegal. The Champ used to say it all the time, Frazier in ten. No, the problem was that Star felt like such a fuckin’ pussy, payin’ somebody to do it for him. Man should do his own killing, but Star had his future to think about.

  “You know the bitch, right? Connolly, Alice Connolly.”

  “I know her name.”

  “He gotta do her by the weekend. That’s it, a week. You only got ’til the trial.”

  “My friend will get it done. You make sure you get it done.”

  “Shit, motherfucker!” Star shouted, twisting toward him in the seat. “Don’t be usin’ that tone with me. I don’t need no asshole tellin’ me. I got the deal. I carry Harris ’til the seventh, then he goes down. It’ll be the farthes’ he get with me. Tell your friend to put his money down. Harris gets knocked out in the seventh.”

  “Can’t be a decision, got to be a knockout.”

  “I know that! I said that!”

  Dude looked out the window in the dark. “My friend hearin’ shit about you. Heard you lost your touch. He don’t think you can deliver.”

  “I don’t give a fuck what your friend say, asshole! I deliver!” Star slammed the steering wheel. He hated this little ratfuck. He hated that Anthony was gone. He hated himself. “The seventh, Harris will be knocked
out! Man won’t know his own mother!”

  “Chill. My friend has a lot of money on you. A lot of money. He ain’t the kind of friend you fuck with.”

  “I ain’t the kind of friend you fuck with! Motherfuck!” Star rumbled like a volcano inside. Didn’t mean nothin’ to the dude Star fought Golden Gloves, was the next Tyson. Nigger could never get over. Star twisted the Caddy to the curb and jerked open the passenger door. “Get out, freak!”

  “What? In this neighborhood?” the dude said, his voice panicky.

  “I said, get out!” Star shoved the asshole onto the sidewalk and slammed the door closed. “Better run, motherfucker! It’s gettin’ dark out.”

  9

  “I’ll represent you, on two conditions.” Bennie set her briefcase on the Formica counter, yanked out a metal chair, and faced Connolly. The inmate was smiling, though her eyes remained icy, and Bennie tried to ignore the resemblance between them. “Number one, you have to tell me the truth. I have to know more about you than anyone else in that courtroom.”

  “That should be easy,” Connolly said, standing on her side of the counter. “You already do. We’re twins.”

  “Which brings me to condition number two. The only way I can represent you is if we keep the case, and only the case, in focus.” Bennie unzipped her briefcase and retrieved a legal pad. “Table the twin issue. I have to prepare your defense. That has to be paramount.”

  “Does this mean the photos convinced you?”

  “It means it doesn’t matter to the court case. Now, sit down and let’s get the facts.” Bennie gestured to Connolly, who sank slowly into the chair opposite her, her brow knit in disappointment.

  “It matters to me,” she said. “I still want to meet my mother. My real mother.”

  “Look, if we take time talking about personal issues, you won’t be alive to meet anybody. You answer my questions and we’ll do fine. It’s Tuesday already. We have less than a week until trial unless I can get a continuance. I have a hundred things to do on this case, in addition to my other cases.”