Mistaken Identity (44 page)

The traffic light turned red, and she looked at the outside mirror. Behind the van she could see the slanted grille of the car, but it was still too dark to identify it as a TransAm. Maybe it wasn’t. She’d thought she had seen a black TransAm four times yesterday and had been mistaken each time. She was getting paranoid.

Still, Bennie hit the gas. The white van trailed her at a slow speed and she could see the dark car following close behind, almost tailgating. The three vehicles snaked around City Hall, traveled past the Criminal Justice Center, and headed for the Benjamin Franklin Parkway. Bennie lived in the neighborhood that surrounded the Art Museum at the west end of the parkway. She had chosen the location because it was affordable, unpretentious, and close to the Schuylkill, for rowing; the same reasons Thomas Eakins had picked it much earlier. Though it wasn’t far, Bennie found herself worrying if she’d make it home safely.

She accelerated, and her Ford moved onto the four-lane boulevard that was the Ben Franklin Parkway, slick and wet from the storm. Her tires splashed through a puddle in the gutter, spraying water onto the truck’s siders, and the Ford rumbled under the multicolored flags of all nations that flapped in the wind.
NIGERIA, KENYA, TANZANIA
, read the labels as Bennie sped past. The white van hung back, and after a moment the dark car popped from behind it and charged aggressively up the right lane, directly under a streetlight. It was a TransAm. Blue or black, Bennie couldn’t tell, but she wasn’t splitting hairs.

Her fingers gripped the steering wheel. The TransAm was thirty yards behind her and coming on strong. Her heart began to pound and she steered her truck around Logan Circle, struggling to remain upright as she whirled around Swann Fountain, which shot illuminated arcs of water into the night. The TransAm sped up, closing the distance between them, and Bennie saw its color as it passed by the lighted fountain. Black.
Oh, no.
The silhouette behind the wheel was of a man. It had to be Lenihan.

Her chest constricted. She thought fast. She had no weapon but she had a car phone, a hands-free model. Her fingers fumbled for the keyboard and she pressed the coded button for 911.

“Emergency operator,” said a professional voice when the connection crackled to life.

“I need help. I’m being followed, in a car. A black TransAm.” She plowed through another puddle and checked the rearview. It was only her and the TransAm. “I just passed Logan Circle and I’m heading for the Art Museum. What do I do?”

“Are you in your car, miss?”

“Yes! It’s a blue Ford.”

“And this car is following yours?”

“Yes! Yes!” Bennie struggled to steer and shout at the same time.

“What makes you think this car is following you, ma’am?”

The TransAm was closing in. It was twenty yards behind, then fifteen. Bennie stiff-armed the steering wheel. “Take my word for it! He’s a police officer named Lenihan.”

“Did you say a police officer is following your car, miss? Why don’t you flag him if you need help?”

“I need help
from
him. Put out a bulletin. I’m traveling west, up Ben Franklin Parkway. Should I drive to a station house?” Bennie had no sooner asked the question than she realized she had whizzed past the street that led her to her district’s station house. The TransAm was so close. Then it switched into her lane. Right behind her.

“Help!” Bennie shouted. She trounced on the gas pedal and the Ford rocketed forward, careening up the parkway. The streetlights blurred to bright lines. The flags were streaks of color. It was all Bennie could do to keep the truck stable. She aimed right for the Art Museum.

“Miss, are you there? Miss?”

“Help!” Bennie shouted, her own cry reverberating in her ears. She checked her rearview mirror and squinted against the light. The TransAm blasted its high beams into the Ford. The black car was right on her bumper. She could see the face behind the wheel. His expression, grim. His hair, blond. Lenihan.

A bolt of fear shot through Bennie’s body. The Ford barreled down the slick boulevard. Eakins Oval, the rotary in front of the Art Museum, lay just ahead. The traffic light turned red at the cross street but Bennie roared through it. She held tight to the steering wheel and took the curve around the Oval at speed. Light filled her truck and the TransAm jolted the Ford from behind. Bennie hung on to the steering wheel for dear life.

“Miss? Miss?” the operator asked. “Did you say the police are there?”

“No! Help!” Bennie cried, then gave up. The Art Museum loomed dead ahead, looking like an amber-colored temple to the ancient Greeks. Lights at its base set it glowing gold in the night and it stood high atop a promontory. A huge set of stairs led to its columned entrance. They gave Bennie an idea. She had to go where Lenihan couldn’t. She drove a truck; Lenihan had a TransAm. It was no contest.

Suddenly Bennie cranked the steering wheel hard to the right and the Ford skidded left. Its back end fishtailed, throwing her against the driver’s side door. The impact sent an arc of pain through her left shoulder but she hung on to the steering wheel, frantic. The Ford ended up facing the direction it came from. Bennie spotted the TransAm. It screeched into a full three-sixty, spraying water from its tires like a pinwheel. It would take Lenihan time to recover.

Bennie slammed on the gas and twisted the Ford onto the sidewalk. Her back wheels churned in grit and rainwater. She pointed the Ford at the steps of the Art Museum. There was nowhere to go but up. If Rocky could do it, so could Rosato.

She engaged her four-wheel drive and the Ford bounded onto the pavement and charged up the granite staircase. She bounced in the driver’s seat despite her shoulder harness, taking each step to the landing, then racing skyward. Fountains flanking the Art Museum steps spurted water into the air, misting onto the truck. Cast iron gaslights lit her way.

Bennie hit the gas. The truck bobbled like it was racing over railroad tracks. Its suspension squeaked in protest. Her jaw rattled in her skull. Her front tooth sliced through her lower lip. She felt her own warm blood bubble into her mouth. The truck hit the next landing and lurched forward.

Bennie checked the rearview. The TransAm had recovered from its spinout and tore onto the sidewalk after her, but it stalled at the bottom of the staircase. It took three steps up, then lost traction and slid backward. Bennie’s heart leapt with relief. She kept the gas flowing and the Ford climbed the next set of steps. Only one set to go to the plaza and the huge circular fountain in front of the museum. The Corinthian columns of its façade stretched before her, five stories high, bathed in golden light. At the top of the tiled roof, Greek gods and goddesses gazed with serene indifference into the dark sky.

The Ford surged forward. Bennie lost sight of the TransAm. She was five steps from the museum plaza. Around the back of the museum was a route she used to run on her way to the Schuylkill, which flowed on the far side of the museum. She wasn’t far from Boathouse Row, home of her own fiberglass scull. This was Bennie’s turf. She was nearly home free.

She took another jolt as the Ford climbed onto the granite flagstone of the plaza. The lighted fountain misted the Ford’s windshield. The Art Museum blazed before her. Bennie careened right, almost crashing into the stanchions that kept traffic from the plaza, then turned left onto the narrow road around the back of the museum. It led to a parking lot and a cobblestone road that returned to the parkway. She’d take the parkway to the nearest police station, back at Twenty-second Street. The voice of the 911 operator sounded far away.

Bennie glanced in her rearview. The TransAm was nowhere in sight. Then she realized it could come around the back. She had to get away before Lenihan came after her. She navigated the narrow road between the museum and a low stone wall. Cast-iron lamps lined the road and Bennie spotted a security camera mounted under one. She prayed museum security would come.

Out of nowhere, Bennie heard the roar of an engine. Her windshield filled with light. She threw up her hands. There was a deafening crash that drove her back into the seat, then snapped her body forward into the shoulder harness. Dazed, she opened her eyes.

Her windshield was a network of broken glass. Her hood had buckled in the middle. The TransAm had slammed into the Ford and sat facing her, its hood crumpled and leaking steam. A split second later, Lenihan staggered out of the car. In his hand was a black nightstick.

Oh, God.
Bennie tried her ignition but the Ford was dead. She looked around wildly. The phone was out. Lenihan was coming at the truck. He would kill her. She screamed, the sound thundering in her head. Her vision went foggy.

A cracking sound shattered her driver’s side window. Bennie looked over in terror. Lenihan was pounding the glass with the baton. His face was bloodied, contorted with a lethal fury.
Oh my God.

Bennie stopped screaming. She had to act, to go. To run. She snapped off her shoulder harness and scrambled to the passenger side of the truck. She wrenched open the door and almost fell onto the wet flagstone. She hadn’t hit the ground before she heard heavy footsteps behind her. Lenihan was upon her.

“You fucking bitch!” the cop bellowed. Lenihan grabbed Bennie by the neck from behind and jammed the nightstick under her chin, cutting off her windpipe. Her throat exploded in pain. Her eyes filled with tears. She clawed the nightstick, struggling to wrench it off.

“You’re dead, bitch!” Lenihan dragged her to the edge of the stone wall. A panel of lights at the foot of the wall blinded her. She gasped for breath. She tore at his hands, then his nylon windbreaker.

“Get over there!” Lenihan shouted, then slammed Bennie onto the hard edge of the stone wall. The rough stone scraped her cheek. Her ribs seared in agony. She dangled over the wall. She could barely see for the pain and the darkness. It was fifty feet down to a concrete delivery ramp. “Get over the wall!”

Bennie forced herself to think, but she was losing consciousness. She couldn’t breathe. Lenihan shoved her higher onto the wide wall and tried to push her over the side.
No,
God.
Her head flopped over the other side of the wall. A ballpoint pen from her blazer pocket rolled onto the wall. That was it!

With her last breath, Bennie grabbed the pen and stabbed blindly backward. Lenihan’s surprised gurgle told her that she had hit something. The nightstick eased at her throat. Her body shuddered as her lungs gulped air. There was no time to lose.

“Aaargh!” Lenihan cried. He dropped his nightstick and it clattered to the asphalt.

Bennie torqued in his grasp. The ballpoint hung from the base of Lenihan’s neck and he yanked it out. Blood spurted from the wound. His eyes blazed with renewed fury. He grabbed Bennie by the throat and slammed her back against the wall, banging her head against hard rock. She fought back on the edge of consciousness, hanging on his shirt so as not to fall over the side.

They struggled up and onto the wall, their shadows commingling in a grotesque lover’s dance, their silhouettes magnified in the lights. Lenihan’s blood drenched them both. Bennie felt its hot spray on her cheek. Its primal smell filled her nostrils. Her nails raked Lenihan’s windbreaker as he rolled her to the edge of the wall. The sky went black around her.

“Hey, you! Hey, cut that out!” came a shout, and Bennie felt Lenihan’s grip release her throat. She coughed for breath and opened her eyes long enough to see a museum security guard running toward them both. “Cut that out, you two!” the guard yelled.

Lenihan startled at the sight, then wobbled, losing his balance at the wall’s edge.

“No!” Bennie cried, and reached for him. His wind-breaker brushed her fingertips, but she closed her fist too late. Lenihan slipped from her fingers, his eyes sick with terror as he dropped over the side of the wall. The last sound Bennie heard before she collapsed was Lenihan’s final shriek, joined by the screams of approaching police sirens.

B
ennie hadn’t realized how much the police hated her until she walked into Two Squad that night, after Lenihan’s death. The squad room was a dirty light blue, crammed with battered gray desks, lined with dented file cabinets, and encircled by water-stained curtains. It seemed to Bennie that everyone was on the night tour as she walked through their silent ranks and was led into the interview room for questioning. It wouldn’t help to tell them that she was sorry. It wouldn’t help to tell them she felt worse than they did. Nor would it help to tell them that Lenihan was trying to kill her. Bennie Rosato, who had built a career suing the department, had now killed one of their own. That was all that mattered to them.

“Take a seat, Ms. Rosato,” said one of the detectives, though Bennie had been here many times. The room was tiny, its institutional green walls unscrubbed, and she sat down in the steel Windsor chair that was bolted to the ground, reserved for murder suspects. The room smelled faintly of stale smoke, and flush against the grimy wall was a rickety wooden table, half the size of a card table. Scattered across its uneven surface were blank statement forms and an ancient Smith-Corona.