“Oh, come on. Don’t try and sell me that.” Detectives never spent time sitting around the Roundhouse. They were always out on jobs, as they called them. “Lemme have your beeper number.”
“No.” The detective frowned and gunned the engine, probably so it wouldn’t stall. Detectives got the worst cars in the pool and bitched about it constantly. He shouted over the breathy noise, “The best hope of getting the knucklehead who killed your client is to leave it to the professionals! Let me do my job! You get in there, you’ll screw it up!”
“Wouldn’t think of it!” Bennie shouted back, withdrawing from the window.
“There is a line!” Detective Needleman wagged his finger. “Don’t cross it, Nancy!”
Bennie put up both palms. Don’t shoot, said her body language, and the Crown Vic cruised off.
She put her arms down when he was out of sight. She hadn’t actually agreed not to cross the line. Nancy Drew wouldn’t have, either. And she didn’t even have a law degree.
Chestnut Hill is one of Philadelphia’s oldest and most exclusive residential neighborhoods, settled comfortably to the north of Center City, first by the Quakers. The neighborhood boasts spacious, graceful homes built of distinctive gray-black stones, and its main street, Germantown Avenue, winds gently through the center of town and climbs the hill that lends the town its name. Tall leafy trees line the street, sheltering quaint colonial-scale storefronts refitted with tasteful versions of Baby Gap and Starbucks. Traffic was nonexistent at this late hour, so Bennie had Germantown Avenue all to herself, though its authentic cobblestones slowed her, destroying the shock absorbers on the Saab as she rumbled over them, bump bump bump, rattling her jaw and setting her teeth on edge. But that could have been her mood.
Robert. Dead. She rolled down the window and gulped in a lungful of fresh March air, waiting until the nausea passed. The night breeze wafted cool and green, full of promise, carrying the music of crickets. It qualified as a beautiful night, which somehow made Bennie angrier, for Robert’s sake. He wouldn’t get to see it, wouldn’t draw another breath on this earth. Why had he been meeting with Mayer? Did it matter?
She pressed the gas and the Saab climbed, bobbling past one green street sign then the next, looking for Prescott Road. Bump bump bump. Something in her felt satisfied at dropping in on Herr Mayer. Normally she wouldn’t contact a represented client without his lawyer’s consent, but Linette hadn’t thought twice about doing exactly that to her. Two wrongs make a lawyer.
She passed Gorgas Lane, then Cliveden. She had to be getting closer. Then a new thought struck her. She didn’t have to worry any longer about seeing a represented client. Robert’s death had mooted the rules of professional ethics, at least as applied to this situation. Because without a client, Bennie could be out of the class-action lawsuit. Bump bump bump.
The implications of Robert’s murder dawned on her only slowly, and she felt guilty and selfish for even thinking of them. Robert had been the principal of St. Amien & Fils, and it was a privately held French company. God knew what bylaws governed, if any, or how its being a foreign corporation mattered. Robert had to have a successor or a second-in-command; most companies had successor plans in place. Bennie would have to find him because unless he wanted to continue the lawsuit, there would be no lawsuit, as far as she was concerned. No class-action settlement to transfuse her firm’s finances, pay the rent, and get her back on her pumps. Whoever killed Robert could have unwittingly dealt a death blow to her law firm. She could lose Rosato & Associates. She could lose the associates. She could lose her house.
Bennie bit her lip not to think about it. That realization had no place now, not tonight. Robert had lost his very life, and he was the reason she was here. The green street sign coming up read Prescott Road, and she could feel a surge of new energy as adrenaline dumped suddenly into her bloodstream. She wanted answers, and she’d shake them out of Mayer if she had to.
She swung the Saab onto Prescott and hit the gas.
20
Of course I know what time it is,” Bennie answered, wedging a perfectly placed Saucony farther into the front door, which was being pressed on the other side by a startled Herman Mayer.
“Then what are you doing here? How dare you come to my home at this hour! This is an outrage! It’s the middle of the—”
“Let me in, Mayer!” Bennie heaved the door with such force that it sent the thin man staggering backward against the striped wallpaper of his entrance hall.
“What do you think you are doing?” Mayer’s back flattened against the wall, his thin lips formed a perfect circle, and his eyes flared behind his glasses. “You have no business being here! You are trespassing! I’ll call the police!”
“Do it!” Bennie closed the door behind her, then glanced around. There wasn’t a telephone in the entrance, only a cherrywood half-table that sat flush against the wall and a brass stand that contained an oversized golf umbrella. So she reached into her back pocket for her cell phone and thrust it at him. “Call 911. Be my guest. Ask for Detective Needleman and tell him where you were tonight. He’d love to know. So would I.”
“This is ridiculous!’’ Mayer shouted, but his tone faltered. He took the cell phone but didn’t open it up. He straightened his glasses and smoothed out a shiny merlot smoking jacket with a black shawl collar, something that Bennie didn’t know people wore in real life. He looked like a Teutonic Ward Cleaver and he glowered at her with the same ersatz sternness used on the Beav. Mayer asked, more quietly, “Why would the police care where I was?”
Bennie checked his reaction. His upper lip stuck to his teeth; his mouth must have gone dry. His forehead furrowed deeply in the soft light of a brass candelabra. She had caught him. He was hiding something. He had done it! Fury bubbled in her blood. She grabbed the golf umbrella from the brass stand and brandished it. It was all she could do not to break it on his head, but she wanted him tried and convicted. “Call the cops, Mayer. Before I beat the shit out of you.”
“I . . . cannot.”
“Why not? I broke into your house. It’s an outrage. I’m trespassing.”
Mayer was shaking his head. His lips tightened to a line like a rubber band.
“Tell me what happened tonight.” Bennie could barely breathe. He had done it. “I want the truth.”
“Tonight?” Mayer swallowed with obvious difficulty. “Well. So. Tonight I had dinner at the Palm, with Robert.”
Bennie blinked. So he’d confess to dinner. She could work with that. His stalling was calming her down. “Whose idea was the dinner?”
“Mine.”
“Why?”
“I wished to talk with Robert about the lawsuit. And to apologize, for today . . . my conduct in court.”
“And did you?”
“Why do you ask me? Ask your client.”
“Yeah, right.” Bennie clenched her teeth and brandished the umbrella, which was navy and bore a white WHYY-FM logo. She had the same one. So they both supported public radio. Still, it was heavy enough and had a rather nasty point for NPR. “I’m asking you, you complete and total shit.”
“I was trying to persuade him to step aside. I wanted him to agree to let me serve as lead plaintiff, but I was unsuccessful.”
“He didn’t tell me anything about this meeting.”
“I know. I asked him not to, and he agreed.”
“Why?”
“This was to be kept between us, as businessmen.”
“But you told Linette.”
“I did not.”
“Oh, please. You’re telling me you didn’t tell Linette? That he didn’t put you up to it?” Bennie was normally better at cross-examination than this, but she’d never conducted one after seeing the corpse of a murdered client.
“It’s the truth. I know you may not agree, but oftentimes lawyers merely complicate the . . . process.”
Bennie didn’t disagree. “Did you speak with Linette tonight?”
“It’s not your conce
rn, but I haven’t. I went to bed with a headache. After dinner, from the wine.”
Bennie eyed him under the umbrella. He was obviously lying. She didn’t have the best shit detector in the world, but he did all the dumb things like shifting his eyes back and forth toward the darkened living room. “What time did you finish dinner?”
“Eight o’clock, eight-thirty.”
It jibed with the time of death. “What did you do next?”
“I offered Robert a ride home, but he said it was a beautiful night, and he chose to walk. Really, this is absurd!” Mayer threw up his arms, and his funny sleeves billowed. The black satin that matched the shawl collar hemmed the cuffs, too. “Then I came home. And now I’m tired and I want to return to bed!”
“You did not, Mayer!” It was a beautiful night. Robert loved to walk. Now he was dead. Knifed by this man. Left to bleed in an alley. “You’re lying!”
“I did, I swear it,” Mayer stammered. He edged back toward the wall. “Honestly, call Robert and ask him! Do!”
“You bastard!” Bennie heard herself shouting. “You know Robert’s dead. You killed him! You did it!” She considered bringing the umbrella down onto Mayer’s head, but for the shock in his eyes and the gasp that escaped his lips.
“That cannot be. Robert dead?” Mayer shook his head slowly. “That cannot be.”
Bennie watched Mayer in a bewilderment of her own now. This guy was too stiff to fake it with such conviction, wasn’t he? It was so uncharacteristic, it had to be real. She lowered the umbrella harmlessly, surprised by her own violence and completely confused. She wasn’t sure if it was an act or not, but if he really didn’t know Robert was dead, he obviously hadn’t killed him. Then what was he so nervous about? What was Mayer hiding?
“Herman?” came another voice, and Bennie jumped. A light went on in the living room adjoining the entrance hall, and a young man emerged, in a matching Ward Cleaver robe. He was barefoot and evidently naked under the robe, which had slipped aside at the neck to reveal a skinny chest. “Is something the matter?” he asked, coming into the entrance hall, and he froze when he saw Bennie. “What’s going on here?”
Oh. So Mayer was gay. It was no biggie to Bennie, except for that marriage part. But Mayer was doing the freak.
“Go back upstairs!” he shouted at the young man, showing the temper he’d displayed in court. “Go upstairs! Everything here is fine!” The young man turned on his bare heel and padded from the room, his footsteps disappearing in the soft rug. Mayer looked at Bennie, his thin skin tinged so deeply it made her heart go out to him.
“Herman, I don’t care if you’re gay. Nobody should have to be afraid of who they are. Some of my best friends are gay. In fact, my best friend is—”
“How dare you! Leave my house this instant!” Mayer flew to his door, his robe billowing behind him. He flung open the door and grabbed Bennie by the arm, with a strength he hadn’t shown to date. “Out! Out now! You’ve done enough damage here!”
“Herman, relax.” Bennie let herself be shown outside, in disbelief. Did people still reside in the closet? So that’s what Mayer had been hiding. That was why he’d been so nervous. Silly. She actually liked him better now. If he was gay, he had to have a fun side. She could introduce him to Sam. After his divorce. “Look, I won’t go blabbing. Your personal life is your personal life.”
“Never come back here!” Mayer shouted, throwing her cell phone onto the pavement, where she heard it clatter, and slamming the front door shut behind her.
Bennie stood bewildered on the stoop as the light went off in the entrance hall; she could tell from the old-fashioned transom over the front door. She felt suddenly confused, exhausted, and defeated, and she reached for the wrought-iron railing as she stepped down the front steps. She didn’t understand Mayer. She didn’t understand anything. She wanted to know for sure who killed Robert. She wanted to go home and lay her head on a cool, thin pillow. She found her cell phone in the pachysandra, went to her car, and drove back down Germantown Avenue.
Bump bump bump. She was thinking about Robert. Trying to deal with the fact that he was dead. Wondering whether Mayer had in fact done it. Wrapping her mind around the notion that it could have been a foreigner-hater.
And realizing that the road ahead would get even bumpier.
Bennie had no idea what time it was when she slid finally into bed, too exhausted to perform all those good-girl tasks like washing her face, much less flossing. She had showered when she came out of the river, which was basically the same thing, even if it did seem like ages ago. She turned over in bed, wondering why things always went like that for her. Nice and even, except for periods of life-threatening drama. Why couldn’t she be more like the other girl lawyers?
She tossed under the light quilt, feeling a slight grittiness. It told her that her sheets were entering week three. So what. She’d been a little busy lately, and Bear didn’t mind. She threw an arm over the dog, snoring beside her in bed, where a man would usually be. In an alternate reality.
Bennie felt a twinge of guilt. She should have called Robert’s brother, introduced herself and offered condolences, inquired after the son at Harvard. But she’d been too preoccupied. Hot on the trail of a terrified homosexual with really bad taste in bathrobes. Bennie found her mind wandering to “Night by Night,” the Steely Dan song that had been playing in David’s Jeep.
She squeezed her eyes tighter. She had screwed up so much lately, and now everything had gone wrong. She’d have to find Robert’s successor and hope he wanted to continue to press the claim. It was a legal wrong to the corporation, not merely personal to Robert, so it could survive Robert’s death, as a technical matter. But figuring it out could take weeks she didn’t have. In the meantime, Rosato & Associates could go completely under. She’d have to let the bank foreclose on the house. She had no idea how she’d get another place, much less start over, with a bankruptcy on her record and her credit already so messed up, thanks to Alice.
Alice. Bennie shifted on her scratchy sheets. She had completely forgotten about her twin in the awful events of the night. Alice was still out there. She had tried to kill Bear. She had broken into her house. She could still be following Bennie, even to the crime scene. And before that. Bennie thought back. Had Alice followed her down to Delaware, to the place where her father used to live? Did Alice even know their father was dead?
Oh my God. Bennie’s eyes flew open. She couldn’t see anything but darkness. She couldn’t hear any sound but the dog. She knew there was no way she’d get to sleep tonight. Her brain had made a connection she hadn’t. She’d been so exhausted, her subconscious had done the work for her. She lay still on the pillow, as if paralyzed by the thought itself:
What if it was Alice who killed Robert?
21
No comment, no comment, no comment!” Bennie shouted to the reporters thronging in front of her office building the next morning. The sky was clear and the day pretty, but her mood was predictably grim. The morning newspaper headlines read: SECOND EUROPEAN TOURIST SLAIN. Today Bennie had to get busy and find Alice, not for her own account, but for Robert’s. If Alice had killed him, she would pay for it.
Bennie kept her head down through the reporters, since she didn’t have a free hand to flip the bird with. She carried her briefcase, her Coach bag, two newspapers, and a medium cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. She had taken the precaution of hiding Bear in the cellar at home, which he liked anyway because of its coolness, and nailing boards over the windows on the French doors. Her house looked like a war zone, or at least a fire code violation, but it would do until she could get the windows and doors fixed.
The reporters kept shouting their questions, but Bennie powered her way to the building’s entrance, then shoved through the double doors, crossed the lobby, and went upstairs. When the doors opened, she got off the elevator into the reception area. At the desk, Marshall looked drawn, not to mention extra large, in her baby blue maternity dress.
> “I’m just so sorry about Robert, I know you liked him.”
“Thanks. It’s terrible, isn’t it?”
“Awful.” Marshall handed her a flurry of phone messages, and the one on top was from David Holland. “I hate to deal with business, but so much is going on this morning.”
“I’ll say.” Bennie thumbed through her messages, almost as many as in the old days. Another call was from David with his cell number, one from Sam, and Hattie, her mother’s old caretaker. She flipped through the remaining messages, all reporters and creditors. “Look at all my new best friends.”
“And you’re not going to believe who’s in your office. He didn’t want to wait in the reception area, where he could be seen.” Marshall made little quote marks in the air. “He insisted I show him in.”
“Who?” Bennie asked, and when Marshall told her, she decided she was completely sick of getting caught by surprise every time she came back to her own office. This time the surprise wasn’t an Italian wedding, a tower of boxes, or even an eviction notice.
But it was basically the same thing.
“We need to talk, Bennie,” he began, and seated himself uninvited at the conference table in her office. A large man, he took up more space than Robert had in the same seat, not so long ago. Or maybe he just seemed bigger because his visit was unwelcome and his presence an intrusion. “Sorry about St. Amien.”
“Me, too.” Bennie remained standing and sipped her coffee, but didn’t bother to make him any because she wasn’t his professional. His face had its ruddy sunburn, and he wore a light houndstooth suit with a custom cut. His hair retained the wetness from a morning shower, darkening its reddish shade, and Bennie could still smell his too spicy shaving cream, a bit of which was stuck in his left ear. Her phone began ringing but she ignored it. “What do we need to talk about?”
Dead Ringer Page 19
