Dead Ringer

by Lisa Scottoline

  “You mean like a sign-in log? It’s not superreliable.”

  “No, but it’s a start. Think you can get the guard to show it to you?”

  “In this dress? You have to ask?” Murphy smiled broadly, for the first time today. “Where are you going, Bennie?”

  She checked her watch. She hoped David was waiting out there, ready to go. She’d tell him about Linette on the cell, and she wasn’t completely surprised to find herself looking forward to the call.

  “Someplace sad,” Bennie answered after a moment. “But necessary.”

  26

  Situated at the southwestern corner of Rittenhouse Square, the lovely block-square Victorian garden designed by Frederick Law Olmsted, the Manchester was the most exclusive address in Philadelphia. Still, Bennie got no charge stepping into an elevator plusher than her living room, if only slightly smaller, and letting it carry her noiselessly upward. The elevator doors slid open on the penthouse floor, and Bennie found herself not in the hallway she had expected, but smack at the entrance to a large, well-appointed living room filled with people holding wineglasses and hors d’oeuvres on toothpicks, talking in small groups, their cadences more South of France than South Philly.

  “Excuse me, I’m Micheline St. Amien,” said a young, beautiful blonde, gliding from the crowd in a black tweed suit that had little flares at the cuffs, a flared skirt to match, and a cinched-in waist so narrow it made Bennie’s suit look like the Hindenburg. The C on its shiny black buttons announced that the suit was Chanel, but it could just have easily stood for Cash. Oddly, she didn’t have a French manicure. Bennie would have to tell Murphy that the French manicure thing was a sham. The French had American manicures.

  “Hello,” Bennie responded, extending a hand and introducing herself. “I’m, I was, Robert’s lawyer. Georges asked me to stop in. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you for your kind words, and for coming.” Micheline’s French accent was just light enough to register as cultured. Bennie had never known there were so many French people living in Philly. Micheline smiled pleasantly at her, though there wasn’t a laugh line marring her lovely cheekbones. She couldn’t have been thirty years old. “I understand Robert liked you very much.”

  “I hope so,” Bennie said, for lack of something better. She didn’t feel completely comfortable around the woman. Her manner was cool, and she didn’t seem all that broken up by Robert’s death. Bennie glanced around, and nobody here did. It didn’t make sense. Robert was a nice man. “Are these employees of St. Amien & Fils?”

  “No, these are our friends. Let me take you to Georges. He’s in his study. He’s not feeling well, and he’s not exactly mobile of late.” Micheline turned on her stilettos and sashayed down the hallway to the right, rolling her slim hips like a runway model.

  “Thank you.” Bennie lumbered, feeling roughly like Gentle Ben, in Ann Taylor. The walls were covered with tasteful tan fabric, and the corridor was lined with antique prints of the Seine, which the St. Amiens evidently found more beautiful than the Schuylkill, difficult as that was to comprehend.

  “Here is his study,” Micheline said when they reached the paneled door at the end of the hall, and she opened it. “I’ll leave you two alone and attend our guests. I know you have a lot to discuss.”

  “Thanks,” Bennie said, as Micheline closed the door behind her. Inside was a cozy, book-lined study containing a built-in walnut desk with drawers, a cushy brown leather chair with an ottoman, and a maroon glass ashtray on a brass stand next to it. The air smelled like the stale smoke of French cigarettes. In the center of the study sat a man in a wheelchair. His back was to the door and he appeared to be looking out the window, but when he spun around in the chair, Bennie almost gasped. Georges looked like an older version of Robert, with the same sleek silver hair, same bright blue eyes behind stainless-steel glasses, but with a full brushy beard, dark brown but laced with silver. Behind the beard, his lips tilted down into a frown, and his bushy eyebrows showed the same sad slope.

  “You must be Bennie,” Georges said with dignity, and he wheeled over a few inches with his left hand, more a gesture than anything else. His right leg lay completely flat on a metal support, encased in a graying cast, and he extended his right hand over it to shake hers.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Bennie grasped his fine fingers warmly, blinking back the wetness in her eyes, which had been provoked by his voice, so like his brother’s.

  “Thank you very much,” Georges said, and when he released her hand, the chair strayed to the left. “Please excuse this wheelchair business. I’m not very good with it, I fear I never became accustomed. Please, sit.” He motioned her onto the leather ottoman, and she sat. “I broke my leg several weeks ago, like a fool.”

  “That must have hurt,” Bennie said, glad of something else to talk about. She couldn’t imagine the pain he must be feeling, sitting alone in the room, wheelchair-bound. If misery loves company, Georges didn’t have any. She would stay awhile. “How did you do it?”

  “Riding. My horse has a bit of spirit, he forgets he is gelded. Comes the spring, he gets crazy, he believes he is a stallion. Many men do, you know.” Georges winked, and Bennie smiled.

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “Touché.” He laughed, just like Robert. “My warmblood, Gustave, he is a very pampered, very civilized dressage horse. He thinks he is beautiful—pardon, he knows he is beautiful—and he also knows he belongs only in the ring, on the perfect footing for his perfect hooves.”

  Bennie smiled. She could relate. She had a Bear, he had a Gustave. There are different forms of baby birds. It was all about love, anyway.

  “Gustave, he knows he doesn’t belong on the trail, nor do I. However, I spur him on, I take him out by myself, and along comes a little tiny creature, smaller than a squirrel, brown with a little tiny stripe, what do you call it”—Georges thought a minute—“a chipmunk! Is that it, chipmunk?”

  Bennie nodded. A cheepmunk.

  “This chipmunk, it is so little tiny it is only not even the size of Gustave’s one hoof!” Georges made a number one with his index finger. “Gustave, he is seventeen hands tall, very tall, and he leaps forward in great and terrible fear of his life, going as high as if he is jumping a Grand Prix fence, and, mon Dieu, he slips in the mud and goes tumbling down the hill”—Georges made a spiraling motion with his hand—“then I go down, and the little tiny chipmunk, he runs off and tells his friends!”

  “Oh, no!” Bennie couldn’t help but smile. The way he told the story made her I-almost-drowned-last-time-I-rowed story look like chopped foie gras.

  “Luckily, only one of us broke his leg.” Georges smacked his forehead with his palm, and Bennie laughed again. She didn’t get it. Robert had said that his brother was wacky, but she thought he was sort of cute. She could tell he was being a good host, cheering himself and her up, mixed with a little of Robert’s special alertness to women. She appreciated the effort, especially in the circumstances.

  “So how long will you be in the chair?”

  “Any day now, then they take off the cast, and I go back to work.” Georges took a minute to extract a handkerchief from a pocket of a soft cardigan sweater and dab his long, bony nose with it. “I am almost retired now, from my practice as a gynecologist, as you may know. But Gustave teaches me much, every time I ride him. You know what is said about horses?”

  “No, what?”

  “It is said, ‘The outside of a horse is good for the inside of a man.’ Churchill says this, either he or Roosevelt, or De Gaulle, I think.” Georges laughed. “I don’t know who said it really, one of those. Not Stalin, I am sure of it.”

  Bennie smiled, then thought about it. She wondered if her father had had anything to do with the horses, where he’d lived. If he had ridden. She found herself saying, “My father worked on a horse farm, outside of Wilmington.”

  “I like the horses, I love the horses, but Robert, he doesn’t like these so mu
ch. Our father, when we were very young, he taught us to ride, until our seat is perfect. But Robert, he doesn’t have the interest.” Georges fiddled with his handkerchief, momentarily lost in sadness. His mouth set, and his light blue eyes clouded like the sky. “I don’t understand why, why would someone kill Robert? He hurts no one.”

  “It is hard to understand,” Bennie said. She didn’t add that she didn’t understand it either. That wouldn’t help Georges now. And part of her knew that the deep wrench in her chest over Robert’s death wasn’t related to Georges. Because if Alice had killed Robert, his only mistake would have been choosing Bennie as his lawyer and remaining loyal to her. Bennie would be responsible for his death. And now she sat face-to-face with the grief and pain of his family.

  “It doesn’t make sense to me, not at all,” Georges went on. “They take his wallet, they take his watch. These things, they add up to what, a few hundred dollars? Why do they kill him for these things? Robert, he would have given them. He could afford to replace them, easily.”

  “The police think it has something to do with hatred for foreigners. That the killer targets them because they’re easy prey and because they have money, then kills them out of hate or resentment. But usually, criminals kill during robberies on impulse or to prevent identification. They don’t want to leave a witness.”

  “I see. The newspaper says they kill because he is French. Can this be? I do not believe it! The Americans I know from my practice, from my riding, they are kind. They have good hearts. A generous people. They share their country with the world! Bennie, do you think this is why Robert is killed?”

  “I’m not sure,” Bennie had to admit. He could see doubt on her anyway.

  “I don’t think you do!” Georges managed a smile, though his eyes shone with new wetness. “I tell my wife, I do not believe this is the reason, this hatred, but she says, no. It is because he is French. Silly! So I do not understand these stupid theories,” Georges said, partly to himself now, rubbing his forehead, and it was all Bennie could do not to tell him everything.

  “Let’s see what the police come up with,” Bennie said noncommittally, and Georges looked up, his forehead reddened under his silvery hair.

  “I hear nothing more from them today. The whole day goes by. Nothing.”

  “They’ll call if they have something to tell you. I know they’re investigating and I think they’re doing a good, thorough job.” Bennie wasn’t lying. Needleman was doing everything she’d want him to do, including checking the maitre d’ at the Palm. She didn’t blame him for not being a naturally suspicious lawyer.

  Georges gave a resigned sigh. “The coroner, from the morgue, he says we can take Robert home perhaps on Monday. Then they will be finished.” His upper lip curled with such distaste it showed even under his beard. “Micheline, she has made all the arrangements, for burial at home. She was very fond of Robert.”

  “I see,” Bennie said, but she didn’t. The woman hadn’t shed a tear to mess up her mascara. It was enough to make Nancy Drew suspicious again, and it was always fun to speculate without any factual basis. In fact, it was downright American.

  “So we will be burying Robert in our family plot. But this is too soon, too soon for Robert. He is my little brother, younger than I.” Georges paused, collecting himself. “Robert was good at the business, though. Quite good.”

  “He sure was.” Bennie considered taking the opening. She felt so uncomfortable about it, but she had no other way to find out about the succession plans. She had never met a single other person from St. Amien & Fils. “Georges, do you know much about the business?”

  “Just a little, what Robert mentioned.” Georges waved his hand dismissively. “But this is not my concern. Robert has his business, I have mine. We decide this, Robert and I, a long time ago, that Robert will work in the family business. I choose not. I go to the university for medicine.” Georges gestured at the books lining the room. “I enjoy a study of living beings, not a study of medical lenses, for God’s sake!”

  “So you don’t work in the business at all?”

  “Not at all.” Georges shook his head. “I am now on staff at only the one hospital. The insurance is so high, I go in only one day a week. I do not live to work, like Robert. He buys out my interest in the lens business, so long ago, and I don’t know what he does with it. We both agree to do this.”

  “But you must know who his vice president is, or his successor. I have to find out if that person wants me to continue the company’s claim against the trade association, or if I should just withdraw the complaint.”

  “Oh, you mean, who will take charge of the business, now that Robert is . . . gone?” Georges straightened in his wheelchair, hoisting himself up by both hands. “Of course I know that. Julien, of course.”

  Bennie perked up. An answer, and an easy one! “The one from Harvard Law. The one you asked me to meet today?”

  “Yes. He is Robert’s only son, and heir. Robert wants him to run the business, that’s why he sends him to Harvard. Julien makes his graduation this summer, in only one month. But Robert will not—” Georges’s throat caught with the thought that Bennie could have finished for him.

  “Robert will be watching, I’m sure,” Bennie said with conviction. She knew her mother was watching her, right now, and she’d only gone to Penn. “I’m sure Robert was proud of him. Harvard is one of the best law schools in the country.”

  “Robert is, was, so very proud of Julien. Julien graduates with degrees from the law school and the business school. He is admitted in some sort of special program, very difficult to get into, and his grades are quite good.”

  “Is he here yet? I know you wanted me to meet him, and now I think I should.”

  “Yes, he’s here. He arrives not long ago, his flight from Boston was delayed. He was very upset, as you can imagine. He and Robert were very close, especially since his mother’s death.” Georges wheeled around to the desk behind him and reached for the telephone. “Julien goes to get a shower, then to lie down. He’s in the guest room. I buzz him.”

  “Wait,” Bennie said, having second thoughts. “Maybe we should let him rest. I can come back another time. It’s so soon—”

  “No, he is wanting to meet you. He is a great fan of yours. He says we are to wake him when you arrive. He’s waiting for you.”

  “All right, if you think so.” So Bennie prepared herself mentally to meet a young man who had just lost a father he loved. Oddly enough, she sort of had an inkling of what that must be like.

  But that might have been the denial part.

  27

  F rench heartthrob came instantly to Bennie’s mind when they were joined in Georges’s smoky study by the young Julien St. Amien. As if his name weren’t sexy enough, Julien was tall, blade-thin, and handsome, with a dark, glossy pile of thick, wavy hair. Surprisingly, he didn’t look at all like Robert, with his wide, full lips and blue eyes so light she’d seen them only on Siberian huskies. Bennie reminded herself not to mention the Siberian husky part when she described Julien to the associates.

  “It’s so cool to meet you, Bennie!” Julien said, pumping her hand with some enthusiasm. His grin was broad, his manner excited—he had evidently forgotten his sadness at the very thrill of meeting her. He finally released her hand. “I’ll never forget when you judged us at our moot-court competition.”

  “Really. Thank you so much.” This kid is getting better looking by the minute. Bennie considered fixing him up with one of the associates. Men this young never appealed to her. She was a woman, not a girl. She wanted a man, not a boy. Even one with such superb judgment.

  “You asked so many questions, and they were all exactly on point,” Julien continued, his accent mercifully American. “It was an honor to have you judge us, and I admire your work so much, particularly in the area of police brutality and individual liberties.”

  “Well, thank you.” Bennie flushed at the flattery, but she was surprised. She remembered the ar
gument only vaguely; the students had simulated an appellate argument over some ridiculously obscure issue of criminal law, which was typical of most moot courts she had judged. She wasn’t even the marquee name of that panel; the real draws were the chief judge of the D.C. Circuit and the CEO of a Fortune 100 conglomerate. Bennie had been making her token cameo as the Diva of Public Interest Law, which was undoubtedly part of the reason she’d been going broke.

  “I’ve read everything you’ve written on the subject of civil liberties in the law reviews. I even ordered the reprints of your articles on the recent developments in excessive-force law, and the political implications. I wonder if you would take a minute to autograph them for me. They’re at school, but I’ll send them to your office.”

  “I’d be happy to,” Bennie answered, amazed. She hadn’t been asked to sign her reprints since the Clinton administration, and she suspected that Republicans used them for coasters. She couldn’t believe that anybody who liked her stuff was about to become a corporate CEO himself. Maybe the world was changing?

  “Thank you so much! You know, you were in the forefront of much of the excessive-force law. Did you see that the Third Circuit is following your analysis to the letter, in the case of—”

  “Julien, please, enough!” Georges interrupted, good-naturedly. He waved his handkerchief from his wheelchair. “You’re embarrassing our guest. See, her face is turning quite red!”

  Bennie laughed. “Georges, you be quiet! He’s making me feel like Celebrity Lawyer. Don’t stop him.” It wasn’t so much that she loved the flattery, but it was such a relief not to be sad for a minute. Small talk had many uses, and since her mother’s death Bennie had decided that true grief was like windshield wipers; intermittent, and taking over in spurts, often when you thought you were almost past it. She turned to the young man. “Please go on, handsome. Tell me in detail about how great I am.”