Mistaken Identity

“How much are lessons?”

“Twenty-five bucks a half hour. Gotta sign me a form, if you serious.”

“I am.” Judy felt dismayed. A half hour? She couldn’t learn much about the gym in half an hour. “Can I take an hour lesson?”

“A half hour be more than enough.” Mr. Gaines chuckled, revealing a cracked front tooth that looked like a piece of white bread with a bite taken out of it. “Believe me. Puh-lenty. You got time on your hands, you train. In between lessons, you train. Hear me? Train. Run. Lift. Heavy bag. Reflex bag. I give you a schedule. All my students got a schedule.”

“How about three lessons a week?”

“Hoo-ee, you fast. Most people, they do one a week. What the hurry?”

Judy paused. “I already know the basics. My dad boxed. He was a cop.”

“A cop, huh?” Mr. Gaines repeated, and Judy nodded, though she was making it up as she went along. Her father was a Stanford professor who would have abhorred boxing if he’d ever deigned to form an opinion about it.

“I think there’s something about cops and boxing, don’t you?” Judy asked, digging for information. “They seem attracted to it. Isn’t there a detective who manages a boxer here?”

“Sure. Star Harald. Great boxer, about to turn pro. You oughta see that fight, at the Blue. Too late to get tickets, go

“Do you know him, this detective?”

“He’s dead now.” Mr. Gaines clucked. “Good manager. Knew the sport. He got shot. Murdered.”

“Shot? That’s awful. Did they catch who did it?”

“Sure did. His girl. She’s went to jail for it, I think.”

“His girl?” Judy echoed, as if she hadn’t known. “Did you know her?”

“Nah. Not much. She was mean, you know? Never said nothin’ to me, hung with the wives and girlfriends. Figured she was the one who done it, when I heard about it.”

“Why? What made you think that?”

“Some people, they jus’ bad.” Mr. Gaines shook his head. “Wrong numbers, my mama use to call ’em. Now that girl, she was jus’ a wrong number.”

Judy worried. Everywhere she turned was a completely credible witness who thought Co

“Now, Miss Judy, you want to talk lessons or not? You sign me the form, we can start nex’ week.”

“How about tomorrow morning?” she asked, and Mr. Gaines laughed.

31

Be

Be

Be

She left the kitchen for the living room. Completely fitted out, it revealed sophisticated taste. The paintings on the front walls were original oils of city scenes by a fine artist named Solmssen: gas stations, storefronts, and a street in Manayunk that had the starkness of Edward Hopper. Over the dining room table hung an abstract watercolor, and a large reproduction of a Lichtenstein dominated the living area, its broad black lines showing a weepy comic-book blonde. Be

She walked into the bedroom, which would have been equally classy if she had bothered to rebuild the heavy bed. She’d dragged up only the headboard, of antique brass, and rested it against the front wall according to the police photo. The hue of the brass told Be

That was it. She whirled around. The cookware in the kitchen, the art in the living room, the antiques in the bedroom cost major money. That would be in addition to the rent, a thousand a month, which was straining even Be

Though the answers would help her defense, they weren’t ones Be

32

“Where have you been, Be

“I was working on Co

“Where were you working? You weren’t at the office. I called and got your voice mail.”

“I was at the crime scene. Where you off to, so early?”

“I have to be in King of Prussia by eight o’clock.” Grady gave the Goody comb a shake and set it down. He was dressed for work in a light gray suit, white oxford shirt, and flowered Liberty tie. “The merger is on again and the venture capitalists want more changes. I don’t know when we’re go

“Wonderful.” Be

“I’ll do it. You get too damn crazy.”

“Thanks. You finished in the bathroom? I need to shower. I have to get back to work.” Be

“I see the press is smelling blood.” Grady looked sympathetic. “You were all over the news on the radio. They’re reporting that Co