Mistaken Identity (8 page)

“That’s it, basically. I wasn’t that close to my parents, and my mother, not my real mother, was sick a lot. She had multiple sclerosis. They both died in a car crash when I was nineteen. I was about to start college, at Rutgers, on full scholarship.”

Bennie couldn’t help but notice that Connolly’s youth echoed hers. “How’d you get a full scholarship? They’re hard to come by.”

“Basketball.”

“Athletic?” Bennie hid her surprise. Her own scholarship to Penn had been academic, but if they’d been giving them out for women’s rowing she would have gotten one. “How’d you do?”

“Lousy. I blew out my knee. Never lived up to potential, that was what the coach said. I dropped out when the scholarship wasn’t renewed. I was an English major.”

So had Bennie been, but she wasn’t about to mention that. “Ever been married or divorced?”

“No.”

“Ever lived with anybody?”

“Not before Anthony.”

Bennie made a note. “Okay. Tell me how you met Della Porta.”

“In a laundromat in town, when I first came to Philly. He was washing towels, tons of towels, and drinking coffee. I’m a coffee freak, so we started talking.”

Bennie didn’t say anything. She was a coffee fanatic. The similarities were impossible to ignore, or was she looking for them? “When did you and Anthony start living together?”

“We dated for about a half year before I moved in. I had been living with him for about a year when he was killed.”

Bennie didn’t have to make a note. It was a year ago that she and Grady bought the money pit. “How did you and Anthony get along?”

“Great. We were happy. He was a great guy.”

“No fights?”

“No more than normal. We were happy. Really.”

“Ever talk marriage?”

“A little, but nothing definite,” Connolly answered, and Bennie thought of herself and Grady. If Connolly and Della Porta were renovating a house, Bennie would kill herself.

“Okay, what happened the night Anthony was killed?”

“I came home from the library and he was lying there, dead. There was so much blood.” Connolly’s voice trembled. “It was horrible.”

“What time did you come in?”

“About eight at night. I’d been at the Free Library all day. I always used to leave at six-thirty and it takes an hour or so to walk home.”

“Did you work at the library?”

“No. I wrote there, on the computer, because it was quieter than the apartment, with the construction going on across the street. And the room in the library was real pretty, with ironwork all around.”

“What were you writing?”

“A novel. I was almost finished with the first draft. It was sort of literary fiction, I guess you’d call it.”

“Where’s the book now? Do the police have it?”

“I think they took the disk, but the book was protected with a password. If they insert the disk and use the wrong password, it’ll erase.”

“Your whole book will erase? All your work, wasted? You don’t have a hard copy?”

“I wasn’t far enough along. It wasn’t much good anyway, and I have bigger worries right now, like proving I’m innocent.”

It seemed strange. Bennie jotted a note to check the property receipts when she got the D.A.’s file. She wanted to know everything the police had seized. “All right, back to the night Anthony was killed. You found him. What did you see?”

“He was lying on his back, facing up, and there was the most awful expression on his face.” Connolly looked away, her attention apparently focused on the memory. “There was so much blood on the rug, on the couch, on the wall. At first I just stood there in shock, then I went over to him. I knelt beside him and I saw he was dead.”

“How did you know that?”

“You could tell. God. There was a hole right in his forehead, like someone had … drilled it.” Connolly bit her lip, which was a light, glossy pink. “I didn’t know what to do. I just knelt over him. I guess I was in shock. Then I ran out.”

Bennie scrutinized Connolly’s expression, limned with grief. She couldn’t determine whether Connolly was telling the truth. Bennie was usually able to pick up lying in her clients, but the resemblance between her and this client was screwing up her shit detector. She worried that Connolly wasn’t the woman she appeared to be, even though the woman she appeared to be was Bennie. “You ran out? You didn’t call the police?”

“Not a smart move, I know.” Connolly brushed her hair back with nails that had been filed into neat half-moons. “I was in a panic. I was worried whoever did it was still in the apartment. I wanted to get out of there.”

“What did you do when you ran out?”

“I ran down the street. Then I saw a cop car coming around the corner and I freaked out. I ran into the alley at the end of the street and out the other side.”

“You ran from the cops? Why?”

“I was afraid of them. I didn’t know what had happened to Anthony. I knew it would look like I killed him and I had no good alibi.”

A human reaction, but the wrong one. If it was true. “What was the patrol car doing there, if you didn’t call for it?”

“Maybe somebody else did, I don’t know. Going down to set me up, probably.”

Bennie checked her notes. “You and Anthony lived on Trose Street, about twenty blocks from the Roundhouse. Were they on patrol?”

“I don’t know. We were sorta close to the Roundhouse, that’s why Anthony kept the apartment. He used to stop home to get his stuff before he went to the gym.”

Bennie wrote it down, but it didn’t make sense. Had a neighbor heard the gunshot and called it in? What was the time of death? She didn’t know the most critical facts, which was why she hated taking a case this late in the game. All trial lawyers did. They even had a saying for it: stepping into someone’s else underwear. “Okay. You ran out and the cops saw you. Then what?”

“It was McShea and Reston. They threw me down onto the ground, cuffed me behind my back, then took me in the patrol car down to the Roundhouse.”

“Who’re McShea and Reston? You know them?”

“I met them once or twice, and they testified at the preliminary hearing. Anthony used to be friendly with them, at least Reston. The two of them were both in the Eleventh until Anthony got promoted to detective. They had some kind of falling out but Anthony never wanted to talk about it. It was in the past, I thought. Until they framed me.”

Bennie held up her hand. “Wait on that. Keep it chronological. What happened to you after your arrest? They took you in?”

“They took me down for questioning. I was the only suspect, right off. They didn’t look for the real killer. I was charged and put in jail that day. I’ve been rotting here, since there’s no bail for murder in Philly. Assholes.”

“Did you answer their questions?”

“No. I asked for a lawyer and they set me up with this kid who got court-appointed.”

“The same night?” Bennie’s hand remained poised above her legal pad. She didn’t know how Connolly had gotten representation and hadn’t had time to check the docket for counsel of record. “I never heard of somebody getting a court-appointed lawyer that fast. I’m surprised you didn’t get a public defender.”

“My lawyer’s worse than a public defender. His name is Warren Miller, in town. He’s an insurance lawyer, real corporate.”

“Can’t be. Not in a homicide case.”

“I’m telling you, it’s all part of the setup.” Connolly leaned over the counter. “They framed me, they planted the evidence, then they set me up with a shitty lawyer. I wouldn’t be surprised if the judge is in on it, too.”

“Judge Harrison Guthrie? Not likely,” Bennie scoffed. Guthrie’s reputation was sterling and he was one of the most scholarly, respected judges on the Common Pleas Court bench. “You didn’t sign a statement, did you?”

“No.”

“Figures.” The cops could question somebody for hours but unless the suspect made a full confession there would be no statement. It was only the first step in ignoring evidence that pointed away from a suspect’s guilt, all in a process intended to do justice. Bennie came back to the crux of her problem with Connolly’s story. “What I don’t get is why the cops would set you up.”

“I don’t know either. I wish I did. Whatever happened in the past, they killed Anthony for it and framed me. You see what I mean?”

“No.” Bennie skimmed her notes. “Let’s go back to the apartment, the living room. Were there signs of a struggle? Furniture turned over, things broken or messed up?”

“No.”

“Was the door locked?”

“Yes. I used my key to get in, even downstairs.”

Bennie made a note. Della Porta had known the killer. He had let him in. It jibed with what she read about the crime in the online newspapers. “Was Anthony supposed to be meeting anyone at home?”

“Not that I knew of.”

“Was there music on, anything like that? Drinks around?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t notice. I just saw the body. I don’t remember anything but that.”

Bennie checked her notes from the newspaper. “The D.A.’s case is that you shot Della Porta, got his blood on your sweatshirt, then changed and threw the bloody sweatshirt in the Dumpster in the alley. They found a Gap sweatshirt, size large. Was it yours?”

“It was my sweatshirt, but I wasn’t wearing it that day. I had on a workshirt. That’s what they picked me up in and it was clean. If I was going to kill Anthony, you think I’d put bloody clothes in a Dumpster next to the apartment? How dumb do you think I am?”

“Did anybody see you at the library wearing a workshirt that day?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Bennie’s eyes narrowed. “You think Reston and McShea set you up. How well do you know these guys?”

“I met them at a cop thing, a barbecue, but I didn’t really know them. Like I said, they were old friends of Anthony’s from when he was a uniform. He used to hang with them, used to go out at nights. They called them board meetings because they were all bored at home.”

Bennie considered how to phrase the next question tactfully, then gave up. “Was Anthony involved in anything dirty?”

“Of course not.” Connolly sat back in her chair, her eyebrows bent in offense. “Anthony was as straight as they come. You don’t know what he did, for Star. He lost money on Star, to help him.”

“Star’s the boxer Anthony managed, right? I’d like to talk to him.”

Connolly paused. “Don’t bother. He won’t help us. He hates my guts.”

“Why?”

“I’d hang at the gym with the boxer’s wives. I got to know them, became friends. Star didn’t like me around the gym. Thought I distracted Anthony.”

“Did you discuss this with Anthony?”

“No. Anthony had his work and his boxer. He did his business, I did my book. We understood each other.” Connolly cocked her head. “Do you have a boyfriend? I know you’re not married, you don’t wear a ring.”

“I have a boyfriend, but we’re not discussing me.”

“Ever been married?”

“None of your business.”

“Me neither, like I said. I didn’t get along with my father, my adopted father. They give us workshops here, on relationships. They’re mostly bullshit, but they say you can’t have good relationships with men if you don’t have a good relationship with your father.”

“That what they say?” Bennie flipped the page, surprised to find herself tensing up. “Where does he live, by the way?”

“Who?”

“My father. Bill.”

Connolly paused. “He never said.”

“No? Did he ever say how he got here, to visit?”

Connolly smiled. “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about family stuff.”

Bennie’s thoughts clicked away. The prison wasn’t easily accessible by public transportation, so he had to be close by, within driving distance. Odd. She had always imagined her father living far away—California, for some reason. If you’re going to abandon your family, at least change area codes. Bennie slapped her legal pad closed. “Okay, that’s enough for now. I’ve got to file for a continuance. I’ll be in touch.”

“Okay, sure. I’ll see you when?”

“Soon as I need you. Stay tuned.” Bennie left the interview room, preoccupied. Where did her father live? She hadn’t wondered about it in years. Did she care now? She went through the prison’s exit procedures—a perfunctory pat-down, trip through the metal detector, and signing out—which gave her an idea. It shouldn’t be difficult to find out where her father lived; if he had visited Connolly he’d have to give an address. Bennie should check the prison records, if only to verify Connolly’s story.