Mistaken Identity

“Oh, come on,” Be

“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 fla

“Gotcha there, Co

“Oh no? He follows your career. He has your clippings.”

Be

“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?” Co

“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,” Be

“No, wait, I need your help.” Co

“You already have a lawyer, let him handle it.” Be

“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.” Be

“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.” Co

“I don’t have time to read it. I have to go, I’m ru

“Take it.” Co

“No, thanks. I have to get back to work.” Be

“Take the envelope,” Co

“Guard!” Co

“That’s far enough, you!” she shouted. “Sit down! You want a write-up?”

“Okay, okay, relax!” Co

Be

The guard turned under the raised club. “That your file or not, lawyer?”

“Uh, yes.” She didn’t want Co

“Then take it!” the guard ordered.

Be

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 Co

“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. “Co

“No, I never even saw Rosato. I could give a flying fuck.” Reston snorted. “It’s a con, kid. A hustle. Co

“So what if it’s a scam? It doesn’t matter. If Co

Next to Surf, Joe Citrone listened in his typical stony silence. Joe was near retirement age, tall, with a bony nose that was bracketed by elongated wrinkles around a small mouth and a sharp chin. Joe didn’t talk much and always looked sad to Surf because he had those dark circles under his eyes that Italians get. Still, Joe was the smartest cop Surf knew.