She was on her own. The hallway was quiet, dead-still, and dim. A line of low-wattage lights down the middle of the corridor lighted her path like a runway. She scooted along the wall, running a finger along the cinderblock, her heart pounding. Not with fear, with excitement. The guards’ break room was down the hall to the right, but nobody would come out now. Dexter had brokered the deal. Alice sprinted around the corner into the corridor that led to the computer room. She arrived at the door and stuck a finger into her sneaker for the key. She fished out the key, shoved it in the lock, and slipped inside, breathing hard.
The computer room was dark and empty, but Alice felt right at home. The monitors were lined up against the wall, their dustcovers sloppy, and the seats in a row in front of them. She’d have met Valencia in this room but for the security camera behind the curved mirror. She couldn’t fix everything. It was probably too dark for the camera to pick her up, but Alice wasn’t taking any chances.
She hurried through the lab to the adjoining storage room and let herself in with the same key. The room was full of dusty cardboard boxes that contained ancient 286 machines, castoffs that ended up here for a rehabilitation that would never happen, like the inmates. Sticking out were some Gateway boxes, with those stupid cow-spots in black and white. They were new computers that some rich bitch donated to make herself feel good, and Alice had been mickeying with the inventory to disappear them. She knew two guards who wanted them for their kids and was about to barter them when the Rosato thing happened.
Alice hunched behind the boxes. The plan was for the guard to let Valencia enter through the other door, off the hall, not the one off the computer room. Valencia would probably be worried, wondering why a meeting about her case had to be held in the dead of night, but she’d come anyway, like a sheep to the slaughter. The weak needed only an excuse. They agreed to their own death.
Suddenly the doorknob twisted open on the other side of the room. Alice edged out of sight, flattening against the boxes at the sound. Valencia would be shuffling through the door in the next second, and Alice knew exactly what she had to accomplish. Put her at ease, then kill her. Alice peeked around the box.
But the silhouette in the doorway wasn’t Valencia’s. The outlined shoulders were massive, the hands huge. The form was Leonia’s. Alice recovered from her surprise a second too late.
Leonia charged like a Brahma bull. Her heavy hand arced through the air and a homemade knife glinted in the light from the hallway. Alice grabbed Leonia’s wrist in midarc and squeezed. The two women wheeled around the room, crashing into cardboard boxes as they fought for the shank. Alice’s arms spasmed with effort. It wasn’t enough. Leonia threw her backward.
Alice fell against the boxes and slid down. Leonia was on her in a split second. The shank hovered above Alice’s chest. Her heart thundered. Adrenaline poured into her bloodstream. She forced herself to think. To act. “No!” she shouted, and kneed Leonia brutally in the pubic bone.
“Ugh,” Leonia grunted in pain and released her grip. Alice rolled to the side, whipped the screwdriver from her waistband, and whirled around.
“You bitch!” Leonia shouted, getting up, and Alice grabbed Leonia by the hair, wrenched her neck backward, and stabbed the sharp screwdriver into Leonia’s throat.
Leonia’s eyes flared wide in shock. Her mouth opened but no sound came out. Blood welled around the screw-driver. Leonia struggled to stand up, still alive.
“Shit,” Alice said. It was harder to kill somebody than most people realized, especially a bull like Leonia. Alice shoved the screwdriver deeper, wedging it into the soft tissue near the jugular. She couldn’t pull it out or she’d be covered with blood. Tough to explain to the prison laundry. Suddenly the door opened and Alice turned.
Valencia stood shocked in the doorway, and Alice knew instantly what to do. “Help me, for fuck’s sake!” she whispered, and Valencia stepped forward, already starting to whimper.
“Díos!” she said, more a cry than a word.
“Take her knife!” Alice ordered, and Valencia bent over and took the shank from a stricken Leonia and handed it to Alice.
“Thank you,” Alice said, taking the knife. “Now hold the screwdriver.”
“Hol’ what?” Valencia asked, horrified.
“The screwdriver! Now!” She grabbed Valencia’s hand and placed it on the screwdriver. Valencia turned her head away, like a kid at the dentist, which was convenient. Alice raised the knife and brought it down into Valencia’s chest, burying it deep.
Valencia emitted a baby’s squeak and collapsed to her knees, falling heavily to the floor. It was a solid hit. Alice stood over them both, panting hard, waiting until they’d bled enough. It had gone well. Two birds with one stone. It would look like a prison fight with the inmates killing each other. Alice even took the extra step of wrapping Leonia’s hand around the shank, just to be sure. Her tracks were covered. All the prints were right. The guards would stay quiet or they’d incriminate themselves.
Alice waited until she was sure they were dead, then left the room and slipped back into her cell with Dexter’s help. She undressed in the dark to the sound of her roommate’s bogus snoring and eased silently into the saggy bed. Later she’d deal with Shetrell, pay her a little visit. It was too risky to do right now, and Alice felt tired. She was fake-sleeping by the time the sirens went off much later, signaling that they’d found the bodies.
49
Surf was hiding by the entrance to Della Porta’s rowhouse when Rosato ran out like a bat out of hell, the dog bounding beside her to the Ford. Shit! She hadn’t turned out the light upstairs so he didn’t know she was coming. He’d missed his chance to get her in the entrance hall. Fuck! Rosato was running so fast he didn’t run after her. She would’ve made him easy, maybe screamed.
Surf stepped behind the tree as the Ford roared out of the space. Then he darted to the TransAm, climbed in, and twisted on the ignition. He stopped abruptly. Hold on a minute. What was going on? Rosato hadn’t been in a hurry to get to Della Porta’s but she was in a real big hurry to leave. Why?
Surf peered over the rumbling hood of the car at Della Porta’s apartment. Rosato had left the light on. What was she doing up there anyway? Why did she run out?
Surf switched off the ignition and got out of the TransAm.
50
Bennie pulled up, confused by the sight. It was the dead of night, but the prison was alive with activity. Light blasted through its slitted windows into the night and alarms screamed from the watchtowers. Vehicles of all sorts clogged the entrance: black cruisers from the Department of Corrections, white squad cars from the city cops, news vans with tall poles for microwave transmission, and three fire rescue trucks. What had happened? An escape? A fire? Bennie steered into the parking lot with an excited Bear running back and forth on the backseat.
A Philadelphia cop came toward her. “Back it out!” he shouted over the din, waving her off with a black Maglite.
Bennie stuck her head out the window. “My client’s in there. I have to see my client. Lawyers on trial have twenty-four-hour access.”
“Not tonight, lady.”
“What’s going on? Has there been a fire?” Fright gripped her stomach. As furious as she was at Connolly, she didn’t want anything to happen to her.
“I said, back it out, lady!” the cop shouted, but Bennie pulled beside the entrance, yanked up the emergency brake, and leapt from the car. “Hey, wait!” the cop bellowed after her, but she ran toward the hubbub. Her breath came in ragged bursts and she realized she was afraid. She didn’t know why, or how, but she was afraid. There could have been a fire. The rescue trucks. Or a fight, a riot. She raced toward the crowd of officials and reporters, then shoved her way to the entrance.
“Whoa, there,” said a tall prison guard, blocking the front door with another guard in a black shirt. “Nobody’s going in here tonight.”
“But my client, my twin, is in there,” Bennie heard herself say.
“What? Why? At least give me some information. What’s going on? Is it a fire, a riot?”
“A problem,” the guard said, glancing at the other.
“What kind of problem? Come on, tell me. Jesus, it’s all over the news, right?” Bennie gestured at the news vans, and the guard softened reluctantly.
“Knife fight. Two women inmates killed.”
“No!” Bennie cried. “Who? Do you have names?”
“Next of kin ain’t been notified, right, Pete?” He looked at the other guard, who shook his head. “Can’t tell you nothin’ ’til then. It’s procedure.”
“Just tell me, was Alice Connolly killed?”
“Connolly?” The guard shook his head. “That’s not one of the names. You’re okay.”
Still the news struck Bennie like a deadweight. She couldn’t understand the dull pain at the core of her chest. She should have been relieved, but she wasn’t. A knife fight. Something felt very wrong. “Who was killed? Tell me.”
“That’s all we can tell you. You want to see your twin, call in the morning and arrange it with the warden. They’ll be in lockdown all night. Open for business as usual tomorrow morning.”
Bennie turned away without a word. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t see. Television klieg lights were everywhere. Sirens blared. Reporters yakked into microphones. Bennie’s gut torqued with emotion. It was hard to breathe. She found her way to the fringe of the crowd. She gulped cool air and regained her footing.
A double murder, the night before Connolly’s trial. The same night after she and Connolly had talked. Holy God. Bennie squinted up at the brick of the maximum security institution. Red, white, and blue lights flashed on its façade like a carnival. THE OPPORTUNITY TO CHANGE glinted in the kaleidoscope of colors, and she remembered the day she met Connolly.
And then Bennie knew. Deep within, the knowledge grew without notice or warning and spread beyond logic and rationality. Her bones told her, rattling with the news, then Bennie’s very heart confirmed it. Connolly had killed tonight. Bennie knew it, sure as she lived and breathed. Her mind reeled and she found herself caught behind a TV crew. White lights flashed on, and she slipped from the glare as she heard a cameraman say, “Okay, Jim, on in five, four, three, two, one.”
“Jim Carson reporting, this just in,” said an anchorman’s voice. “The dead in tonight’s fatal stabbing have been identified as Valencia Mendoza and Leonia Page. Prison officials are investigating how…”
Valencia Mendoza. Valencia. Bennie didn’t need the report to confirm what she already knew. Connolly had killed Valencia. Bennie had raised Valencia’s name and only hours later Valencia was killed.
Bennie spun on her heels, TV lights blinding her and sirens screaming through her brain. She stomed back through the crowd, keeping her head low to avoid being recognized, and charged to the main entrance, where the same two guards stood in front of the main door, regarding her wearily.
“I have to see Alice Connolly,” Bennie said, finding her voice.
“Told you, lady. They’re in lockdown.”
“She’s my client and she’s on trial on Monday. She has a right to consult with her attorney, a constitutional right.” Bennie wasn’t certain of the legalities but she wasn’t about to be stopped. “You won’t let me in, I want to see the warden now.”
“He’s busy.”
“You’re refusing to let a criminal defendant consult with her attorney? You want to be responsible for that?” Bennie’s fierce gaze flicked from one guard’s black name-plate to the other’s. “Officer Donaldson and Officer Machello. Those names will look good in the caption. You guys ever been sued for infringing the civil liberties of inmates? Depositions, trial, it’s a lot of fun. Costs a fortune, too, but you gentlemen probably have trust funds.”
“We got orders,” the guard said flatly. “It’s not our decision.”
“Then why are you deciding?” Bennie asked, and the guards exchanged looks.
Bennie had never met with Connolly in the secured “no-contact room,” but the warden had ordered it given the crisis. The room was smaller than the standard interview rooms, telescoped down to cell size, and a dense bulletproof window divided prisoner from lawyer, for the lawyer’s protection. Bennie gave the scratched plastic a sharp rap with her knuckles. Tonight it would protect the inmate from her lawyer.
The room smelled rank and its white cinderblock walls were scuffed. A metal grate with chipped white paint ran under the bulletproof panel, to allow voices to go through but not contraband or weapons. Bennie stood on her side of the room, waiting for Connolly to be brought up. She’d waited for over an hour already, but the time hadn’t cooled her off. Instead she grew only more horrified. Connolly was a killer, and on Monday Bennie would be defending her on a murder charge. The thought turned her stomach. She paced the tiny room behind the plastic chair bolted to the floor on her side of the window. She was trapped in this case, against everybody’s better judgment. Someday she hoped for better judgment of her own.
Bennie’s head snapped around as the guard unlocked the door on the inmate’s side of the no-contact room and let Connolly in. Then he closed the soundproof door and stood directly outside it. Inmates weren’t left unguarded for no-contact visits and especially not tonight. Bennie faced Connolly, who plunked down in her chair, her cuffed wrists slipping between her legs. She looked sleepy and less attractive than before, since her makeup had worn off. Or maybe because Bennie knew the truth about her.
“Now what?” Connolly said. The metal grate under the window drained the humanity from her tone, though Bennie was becoming convinced she had none anyway.
“Busy night up here, isn’t it?”
“Shit, yeah. Sirens. Assholes everywhere. Lockdown. They keep waking us up. I can’t get any rest.”
“The only ones who can are Valencia Mendoza and Leonia Page.”
Connolly blinked. “This is true.”
“That’s a good start. Let’s talk about what’s true.” Bennie sat down and glared through the plastic at Connolly. “You killed Valencia.”
“No.”
“You killed Leonia.”
“No.”
“Tell the truth.”
“I have.”
“I’m sick of your lying,” Bennie said through clenched teeth, and Connolly grinned crookedly.
“Nobody’s sicker than me.”
It took Bennie aback momentarily. “I found out Valencia was dealing for you and told you that the last time I saw you.”
“I’m not a dealer.”
“Yes, you are. You and Della Porta were in it together. I found your nest egg tonight. Half a million bucks under your living room floor. You killed Valencia to shut her up.”
Connolly’s head flopped to the side and she covered her eyes with her cuffed hands, but when she moved her hands to the side, she was grinning. “Peekaboo.”
“This isn’t a game. I asked you a question. You killed Valencia, didn’t you? And you killed Della Porta, too.”
“No,” Connolly said. “I didn’t kill Anthony, I told you that.”
“I don’t believe a word you say, not after this. You’re a liar, you’re a cheat. You sell drugs for money and you murder without remorse. You just stabbed two people to death and you’re pissed because we’re keeping you up.”
“I didn’t kill Anthony, I swear.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you back,” Connolly said evenly, then rose and pressed her face to the bulletproof glass. Her eyes loomed cold and furious, though her expression had hardly changed. “Get up. Stand up.”
“Why?”
“You want the truth, stand the fuck up.”
Bennie stood up and leaned close to the glass, almost eye-to-eye with the inmate who looked exactly like her. With their matching haircuts, tense and exhausted expressions, and lack of makeup, they could have been a single woman
leaning close to a mirror. None of this was lost on Bennie, who fought to maintain emotional control.
“Fine,” Connolly said, “I lied before. I sold coke and rock for a living. Lyman Bullock, who I fucked silly, laundered the money and socked it where nobody will ever find it, for a very healthy cut. I had a good organization, with good workers, the boxers’ wives. I ran those girls like you run yours. Better.”
Bennie struggled to contain her thoughts, in tumult.
“I capped Valencia and that black bitch. You have to, doing what I do. It’s a cost of doing business.” Connolly’s gaze bored into Bennie. “But the truth is, I did not kill Anthony.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You should. That went down the way I told you. The cops did it, I swear to God. That’s the truth.”
“The cops? Why?”
“Money, of course. We started out in business with them, Anthony did, but I could see we could do better without them. They were deadweight, and we didn’t need them for distribution, we had the girls. So we went solo and started cuttin’ in on their action. We were gettin’ bigger and bigger, and they musta got wind of it. I think they killed Anthony because of it and set me up for the murder. Anthony always said they had friends in high places, but I have no way to prove it. That’s where you come in.”
“You expect me to prove it,” Bennie said, her mouth dry as bone.
“You’re goddamn right I do. You have to prove those shits did it. I didn’t kill Anthony, they did. It goes all the way to the top. The D.A., the judge. They’re all in on it. They have to be.”
Bennie’s head throbbed dully. That much of it rang true, after the way Judge Guthrie had acted in his office. But could it be true? Could Connolly be guilty of everything but Della Porta’s murder?
“Now you’re my lawyer, you can’t get out, and you have to prove me innocent.”
Mistaken Identity Page 23
