“Hear me out,” Connolly said, holding up a hand. “You need some background. I was the sick twin, you know, from before we were born. We had something called ‘twin transfusion syndrome.’ That means the twins share one placenta and the blood meant for one twin goes to nourish the other. When we were on the inside, my blood went to nourish you. I weighed four pounds at birth. Most of those babies died, especially in those days. Bill said they can’t even find my birth certificate.”
“Oh, come on,” Bennie said, suddenly annoyed. “I took your blood? What a bunch of crap.”
“It’s the truth, all of it, every word. Bill told me when he visited.”
“Are you saying that my father visits you? In prison?”
“Sure. Comes in his flannel shirt, no matter how hot it is, and his little tweed coat. Said he was looking out for me. That was when he told me you were my twin. He told me to call you. He said you’re the only lawyer who could win my case, that nobody knows more about the Philly cops than you.”
“Gotcha there, Connolly. My father has no idea what I do. He doesn’t know me at all.”
“Oh no? He follows your career. He has your clippings.”
Bennie paused. “Clippings, you mean from the newspaper?”
“You know, I couldn’t wait to meet you when I found out about us. I have so many questions. Do you remember anything, like, from the inside?” Connolly edged forward on the counter, but Bennie leaned away.
“Inside?”
“I do. I have memories of you, like a ghost. A phantom, but close to me. They have to be from the inside, it’s the only time we were together. When I was little, I always felt lonely. Like a piece of me was missing. I always hated being alone. Still do. Then Bill told me about you and it all made sense. Now, tell me about our mother. What’s the matter with her? Why doesn’t anybody want to talk about her?”
“I have to go,” Bennie said, rising finally. The inmate was a con artist or delusional. The police conspiracy was paranoia. Some clients weren’t worth the trouble, no matter how intriguing the case. She reached for her briefcase. “I’m sorry, I wish you the best.”
“No, wait, I need your help.” Connolly scrambled to her feet like a shadow left behind. “You’re my last chance. I didn’t kill Anthony, I swear. The cops killed him. They’re covering for each other, they set me up. There’s a group of them.”
“You already have a lawyer, let him handle it.” Bennie snatched the wall phone off its hook. It would ring automatically at the security desk.
“But my lawyer can’t do shit. He’s court-appointed. He’s seen me maybe twice all year. The most he’s done is keep me here. He’s part of the conspiracy, too.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you.” Bennie hung up the phone and edged to the window in the door. Where was the guard? The cinderblock corridor was empty. There were three locked doors between her and the outside. A panic Bennie couldn’t explain flickered in her chest.
“I was hoping you’d believe me, but I guess not. Read this before you decide. Our mother hasn’t told you everything. It’ll prove what I’m saying is true.” Connolly pushed a manila envelope across the counter, but Bennie left it there.
“I don’t have time to read it. I have to go, I’m running late. Guard!”
“Take it.” Connolly thrust the envelope over the counter. “If you don’t, I’ll mail it to you.”
“No, thanks. I have to get back to work.” Bennie jiggled the doorknob and pressed against the window in the door. A heavyset guard hustled down the hall, her pant legs flapping, her expression more annoyed than alarmed.
“Take the envelope,” Connolly called, but Bennie ignored her and twisted the doorknob futilely. Come on. The guard finally reached the cell, jammed a key into the lock, and swung the door open so wide Bennie almost stumbled into the hall.
“Guard!” Connolly shouted. “My lawyer forgot her file.” She stretched over the counter with the envelope in her hand, but in a swift movement, the prison guard drew a black baton from her belt and brandished it.
“That’s far enough, you!” she shouted. “Sit down! You want a write-up?”
“Okay, okay, relax!” Connolly said, folding instantly into the chair and raising her arms protectively. “She forgot her file. I’m trying to help. It’s her file!”
Bennie backed against the door, her feelings in tumult. She didn’t want to take Connolly’s file, but she didn’t want to see her clubbed. The inmate who looked so much like her cowered in the chair, and Bennie felt frightened for her and of her at the same time. “She wasn’t going to hurt me,” she heard herself saying.
The guard turned under the raised club. “That your file or not, lawyer?”
“Uh, yes.” She didn’t want Connolly beaten, for God’s sake.
“Then take it!” the guard ordered.
Bennie lunged for the file and stuck it under her arm. Her mouth felt surprisingly dry, her chest tight. She had to get out of the prison. She hurried out the door and for the exit, clutching the unwanted envelope to her breast.
3
Four patrolmen crammed into a booth at Little Pete’s, taking the table farthest from the door by habit. Blue cotton epaulets buckled as they squeezed onto vinyl benches and radios rested silently at their thick leather belts. In the middle of the table, black nightsticks rolled together like an urban logjam. Corded blue caps, each with a heavy chrome badge affixed above a bill of black patent, sat in a row on a nearby ledge. It was early for lunch, as the night tour called every meal they ate, but James “Surf” Lenihan had another bug up his ass.
Surf got his nickname because he looked the part: sun-bleached white-blond hair and a tan, muscular build from summers spent lifeguarding in South Jersey. Surf had the antsy metabolism of a natural athlete and was always worked up about something-the new contract, the reassignments, the court time. He leaned over the table to talk, even though Little Pete’s was practically empty. “It’s for real,” Surf whispered, but Sean McShea laughed so hard he almost choked on his cheesesteak, and Art Reston called Surf a horse’s ass.
“Why you swallow shit like that?” Reston asked, shaking his head. He was tall and strong, with a well-groomed dark mustache that hid a too-thin upper lip and brown eyes that glinted with occupational skepticism. Reston ’s fifteen years on the force had taught him never to believe anything unless ballistics, forensics, or the union president swore to it.
“It’s true, okay?” Surf raked a hand through a thatch of bangs. “Rosato is Connolly’s twin. I heard it from Katie’s girlfriend, the one who works at the house. She told Katie that Rosato visited today.”
“The girlfriend’s puttin’ you on.” Reston dropped his pepper ham hoagie into a red plastic basket shaped unaccountably like a boat. Next to him, Sean McShea, still laughing, wrested a napkin from the steel dispenser. A chubby, cheerful man with a bulbous nose and ruddy cheeks, McShea was a natural for the Santa Claus gig at Children’s Hospital. His large face reddened with mirth as he wiped his mouth, leaving a blot of ketchup on the pebbled napkin.
“She’s not puttin’ me on,” Surf said. “Why would she?”
“Fuck if I know. Maybe she’s got the hots. Wants you to throw her a bone-yours.” Reston laughed, but Surf’s face remained a mask of alarm.
“You don’t believe me, we can check the logs. I’m tellin’ you. Rosato was there. Katie said they look alike, too.”
“Bullshit.” McShea finally stopped laughing and wiped his eyes with the other end of the stained napkin. “If they looked that much alike, somebody woulda noticed it.”
“No.” Surf shook his head. “Connolly’s hair is dyed red. Rosato’s a blonde. Also, Rosato’s heavier, remember?”