little justice the law could offer.
She glanced over at Bennie, who smiled back at her. Bennie had gotten a million restraining orders in her day, but she hadn’t tried to interfere when Mary had fumbled her way through filling out the forms in the Clerk’s Office. But that was Bennie Rosato for you.
“DiNunzio,” Bennie whispered, patting her hand. “Have faith in yourself. I do, in you.”
Mary felt a surge of gratitude, and when the court crier called out their case number, she felt taller than she ever had before. She went to the podium, stood before the judge, and said, with pride:
“May it please the Court, I’m Mary DiNunzio, of Rosato & DiNunzio.”
Chapter Fifty-six
Bennie sat in the police cruiser, parked outside of Alice’s house. The day was sunny and hot, and it was sweltering in the car, but Officers Villarreal and Dayne had made her wait while they’d gone inside. She’d led the cops to the house, though she knew that Alice would have flown the coop by now. Oddly, it looked as if she’d left her front door unlocked, because they had walked in easily.
Bennie felt strange, sitting where criminals usually sat, in the backseat behind a perforated metal grate. It only added to her feeling of not being herself, and she had on clothes unlike any she’d ever wear, a blue tank top with glitter around its plunging V-neck, tight jeans shorts, and shiny gold flip-flops. The outfit was all that the social worker could scrounge up at the hospital, evidently left behind by a country hooker, if not Daisy Duke herself.
The cops emerged, Officer Villarreal frowning in the sunlight and Officer Dayne behind him. He was the older of the two, thin and taciturn, playing up his elder-statesman role. They walked to the cruiser, and Officer Villarreal went to see her in the backseat, since he was the nice one, who did all the talking.
Bennie shifted to the half-open window. “She’s gone, huh?”
“Not exactly.” Officer Villarreal eased the brim of his cap upward on his forehead. “Alice Connelly doesn’t live here. The house belongs to someone else.”
“That’s not possible.” Bennie tried to think. It was the right house. She’d remembered the address. “I was in this house. This house belongs to Alice Connelly.”
“You’re confused.”
“No, I’m not,” Bennie shot back. “Let me go in. Let me look around. I have to see it.”
Officer Villarreal scowled. “Only if you conduct yourself appropriately and the homeowner agrees.”
Officer Dayne interjected, “This isn’t a game, Ms. Rosato.”
Bennie inched to the window. “I swear, it’s Alice’s house. Please let me out, I want to see it.”
Five minutes later, Bennie was looking around the kitchen, dumbfounded. The chairs sported flowery pads, and family photographs sat on a table, and there was even a window air conditioner. She realized instantly that Alice had merely used the house and told the officers as much, though they withheld judgment. They introduced her to the homeowner, one Sally Cavanaugh, an older woman with bright eyes, short gray hair, and a loose-fitting shift that read SO MANY BOOKS, SO LITTLE TIME.
Bennie turned to her. “Ms. Cavanaugh, were you at home on Friday night?”
“No, I was on vacation, in the Poconos. I came home early because the weather was bad.”
“Where there any signs of forced entry? Broken screen, an open window?”
“Not at all.” Mrs. Cavanaugh gestured at the cops. “As I told the officers, this is just the way I left it. Everything’s in order. I never like to come home to a messy house. It’s too depressing.”
“Can I see your wineglasses?”
“Why not?” Mrs. Cavanaugh went to the cabinet and reached for a glass in the front row, but Bennie stopped her with her bandaged right hand.
“Wait, they could be evidence.”
Officer Villarreal came over. “Wouldn’t she have washed them before she put them back?”
“Yes, but how careful could she have been? She didn’t expect me to live, and she could have washed them by hand. If you test them, I’ll bet you’ll find some latent prints and drug residue.”
“
“What?” Bennie asked, dismayed.
“My book club came over, and it’s time to pick the books for the year, and well, you know how that goes.” Cavanaugh smiled sheepishly. “Janey gets a little carried away, and so do I. We had some vino to smooth things over.”
“So you washed the glasses?”
“Of course. I did wash them by hand.” Cavanaugh turned to the cops. “What type of drug was it?”
Officer Villarreal answered, “Nothing to worry about.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. May I ask, do you have a paper bag?”
“Yes, right here.” Mrs. Cavanaugh fetched one from a stack behind the microwave and handed it to him.
“Thanks.” Officer Villarreal accepted the bag and reached for the wineglass, but Bennie grabbed a paper napkin and handed it to him.
“You might want to use this.”
Cavanaugh said, “Yes, I saw that on
Officer Villarreal put the glasses into the bag. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Cavanaugh, and we’re sorry to have bothered you.” He turned to Bennie. “Time to go.”
“No, I’d like to see the rest of the house, and I have more questions.”
“We do the police work in Cambridge County. Thanks for your help, though.”
“It’ll just take a minute. There might be clues as to where Alice went.”
“I said, we have to go.”
“But we need to find her. God knows where she could be, by now. We’re here, and if we looked around and-”
“No.” Officer Villarreal put a heavy hand on Bennie’s shoulder, steered her to the door, and ushered her outside, where he handed the evidence bag to Officer Dayne and stowed her in the backseat, his smile cooler. He had given her a chance in the hospital, but he was losing faith.
“Why don’t you call the farmer who found me? You talked to him already. Ask him where he picked me up, then I can show you the box she buried me in, in the field.”
“We’re a step ahead of you, Philly.”
“You mean we’re going now?”
“Yes.”
“Then we need to find Alice, as soon as we’re done.”
“Please, sit back.” Officer Villarreal closed the cruiser door, went around the front, and got in, twisting on the ignition.
Bennie shifted toward the metal divider. “Also, Officer Villarreal, could you call dispatch again about my car? Maybe it’s been spotted.”
“We already put the APB out. If it turns up, we’ll hear about it.”
Officer Villarreal accelerated, Officer Dayne manned the police radio, and Bennie sat back, left to her thoughts. The box in the field would prove her story. The cops would see the tunnel, the broken lid, the pieces of her clothes. They might even find blood samples, hair, and fibers that could lead them to Alice.
Officer Villarreal hit the gas as they sped along one-lane roads for almost twenty more minutes. Humid air blew into the backseat as they whizzed past clapboard farm houses, tall blue silos, soybean fields, and black Amish buggies, their drivers’ faces hidden under the brims of straw hats, their bay horses lathery with sweat. She noticed a commotion down the road, where police saw horses blocked the street and traffic was being detoured. An array of cruisers, newsvans, and pickup trucks sat parked along the side, until the road veered out of sight. Over the ridge, a hazy gray cloud puffed into the blue sky like a random thunderhead.
