Daddy's Girl (18 page)

N
at came downstairs with the borrowed sweatsuit in hand, dressed in a worn Fair Isle sweater, a pair of old jeans, and ancient blue Danskos. She went into the kitchen, where her father, mother, and Brooke sat talking at the cherry table behind flowery mugs of coffee. Junior, Tom, and now Paul and Hank clustered around the wireless TV on the counter, sipping Heinekens and watching ESPN on low volume.

“Honey, are you okay?” Hank set his bottle down, crossed the room, and gave Nat a big hug, smelling of cigars.

“I’m fine.” Nat held her emotions in check. The boys kept watching TV, while her parents and Brooke fell abruptly silent, evidently eavesdropping.

“I’m sorry I didn’t take your call.” Hank released the embrace, and his dark eyes searched hers. “I’m sorry about everything.”

Paul half turned. “HANK, TELL HER ABOUT A.I.”

Nat looked up at Hank. “Tell me we’re not going to talk about basketball.”

“We’re not. You’ve been through hell tonight.”

“A.I. WENT INTO THE CROWD AFTER A BALL, AND HE’S SO TALL THAT HANK TOUCHED HIS HEAD. HIS ACTUAL HEAD.”

Her mother asked, “I thought A.I. was short. Isn’t he short?”

“ALLEN IVERSON IS SHORT, MA. HE’S A.I. ONE. I MEANT A.I. TWO. ANDRE IGUODALA. HE’S SIX SIX!”

“Nat, so tell us.” Her father sounded calmer, and he looked at her without anger. “Brooke explained the legal side, but I want to know from you what’s going on.”

“Dad, if I go into it, we’ll argue, and it’s late.” Nat walked over to Brooke, gave him the folded sweatsuit, and extended her hand. “Thanks for helping me tonight. I do appreciate it, but I’ll be interviewing other lawyers before I make my decision.”

“Hold the phone.” Brooke raised an index finger. “Your dad and I solved the problem. I’m referring you to a lawyer with plenty of state-level experience.”

“Thanks, but no,” Nat said, and her father looked as if he’d been slapped.

“What are you talking about? Of course you’ll take Carter’s referral. It’s all settled.”

“No thanks.” Nat shook her head. “I’ve made the decision, and it’s final.”

“Nat, don’t be crazy.” Her father stood up, his frown returning. “Sit down and tell us what’s going on. I want to know why you were in Chester County tonight and what happened.”

“Dad, I’m tired and I don’t want to talk about it now. Please try to understand.”

“Sit down and talk to your parents!” her father said, and Nat turned to Hank.

“Let’s go home. I’m beat.”

Her mother said, “Nat?”

Her father said, “Nat!” He folded his arms in his thick robe. “At least take Carter’s referral. I’ll pay for it. You’ll have the best lawyer in the city and it won’t cost you a dime.”

“No, thanks.”

“Hank, talk to her. You’re staying over, aren’t you?”

Hank looked from Nat to her father and back again. “Your parents invited us to sleep here tonight. It might make sense, given the storm.”

“No, thanks.” Nat imagined her epitaph would read, “No, Thanks.”

“It’s raining too hard to drive into the city, dear,” her mother called from the table.

“We’ll be fine. I’m tired and I want to go home.” Nat looked at Hank. “Please. Let’s go.”

“Nat, what’s gotten into you?” her father said, raising his voice, and her brothers turned from the TV.

Junior said, “Stay if they want you to stay. You’re being stupid.”

Tom said, “It’s the Nutty Professor.”

“LET’S ORDER PIZZA! PLAY CARDS, CHEER EVERYBODY UP!”

“Paul, you need some sleep,” her mother said, but he ignored her. “That cold will never go away if you don’t get some rest. I fixed up your bed upstairs.”

Enough
. “’Bye, everybody.”

“I said I want you to stay,” her father repeated, scowling.

“Sorry, gotta go. See you guys. I’ll call you tomorrow and explain everything. We’re all too tired to talk tonight.”

“You’re really going?” her father demanded.

“You’re not gonna cry?” Tom asked, in mock disbelief.

“DIDN’T YOU LOVE JELLY?” Paul laughed, but Nat wasn’t even tempted to give them the finger.

Maybe I really am growing up.

Hank steered the BMW down the street, the car’s windshield wipers beating against the rainstorm. “You’re upset, huh?”

“It’s been a long night.”

“Can I know what happened?”

“Would you mind if we talked about it at home?” Nat felt too drained to go over it again. Now that the adrenalin had left her body, she was exhausted.

“Sure, no sweat.” Hank steered the car around a corner, and water from the gutter sprayed to the middle of the car doors.

“Sorry we didn’t stay over. I had to get out of there.”

“I could tell. So could they.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nat looked over, but Hank kept his eyes on the road. They stopped at a traffic light, and the brake lights of the car in front of them outlined his features in red.

“You kind of blew them off, didn’t you?”

“It’s late, Hank.”

“I understand, but you should rethink your dad’s offer about the lawyer. You’re cutting off your nose to spite your face. He’s just trying to help, Nat, and he’ll pick up the tab.”

“I make money, Hank.”

“Not that kind of money.”

A good point, but still.
“It wouldn’t end there. If I take his money, he gets involved in picking the lawyer, and if I persuade him to let me choose my own, he’ll second-guess him to death. I’m on my own. Is that so hard to understand?”

“In these circumstances, yes. If the cops are talking about charging you with murder, you need the best lawyer you can get.” Hank’s voice echoed harshly in the car, and Nat could see a full-fledged car fight coming on, which was always the worst.

“What about the circumstances in which you tell my parents we had a fight?”

“So what?”

“That’s our business.” Nat didn’t raise her voice. It wasn’t her style. “It’s between us.”

“What’s the difference? It wasn’t a secret.”

“It’s personal, and you told him about Angus, too. He asked me if I was cheating on you, which is completely inappropriate.”

Hank looked over, and so did Nat, unfortunately at the same moment. In car fights, nobody’s eyes were supposed to meet, and even in the darkness she could see the question his eyes were asking.

“I haven’t cheated on you, and I wouldn’t.”
Natalie, listen.
“Another man isn’t our problem, we are. We have an issue with where we end and the Grecos begin. And in my life, I can make my own decisions.”

“You’re doin’ a helluva job so far.”

Ouch
. “Thanks.”

“I’m trying to get through to you.” Hank braked again as the car slowed in front of them. They both looked into the distance, saying nothing. The only sound was the beating of the windshield wipers. It went on that way for almost forty minutes, and Nat felt finally as if she were about to burst, with what she didn’t know.

“Hank, this isn’t going to work.”

“What isn’t?”

“Us. Anymore.”

“What?”
Hank almost twisted around in the seat, a hand on the wheel.

“I’m sorry.”

“What? Why? We’re doing fine. I said I was sorry.”

“We need to take a break. I need some time to think. I need to process what’s going on.” Nat stole a glance. Hank went back to staring straight ahead, straight-arming the wheel.

“You’re just upset,” he said. “It’s a lot for one night. Too much.”

“That’s not the problem. It’s underlying everything, you and my family. It’s like I’m in some sort of net and I can’t get free.”

“I’m a net now?”

“I need to think. I need to concentrate on myself and the situation I’m in.”

“You want space.” Hank’s voice turned sarcastic, but it was as good a way of putting it as any.

“Just give me some time.”

“I thought you wanted space. Which is it, space or time?”

“Both.”

“Fine, you got it, baby.” Hank shifted in the driver’s seat, facing forward. “How long?”

“I don’t know.” Nat made herself stay the course, as much as it hurt him. If she took it back, they’d go home, agree that they’d fought only because they were tired, and go to bed. She straightened up.

Hank drove ahead in silence, the rain pounding on the car’s roof. After a while, he asked, “It’s him, isn’t it?”

“No,” Nat answered, though in truth, she couldn’t be completely sure. She flushed red and looked out the window, seeing nothing.

“So who gets custody of your parents?” Hank asked, after a time.

“You do,” Nat answered, and they both faked a laugh. Two blocks from her building they could see a throng of reporters on the sidewalk out front, sheltered from the rain by a blue tarp. Nat said, “Oh boy.”

“I don’t suppose you want to stay at my place. Not enough time or space, huh?”

Awkward
. “Please don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“Fine.” Hank exhaled loudly, and they stopped at the light. “Then I suggest you go to a hotel.”

“I’m not hiding. I have nothing to be ashamed of. Drop me off in front, please.”

“Is that smart?”

“No, but it’s right.”

“You’re a trip, you know that?” Hank chuckled sadly, and Nat felt tears come, but held them back. He stopped the car a short distance from her building, where he leaned over and gave her a dry kiss on the cheek.

“So this is it?” he asked softly.

“For now. I’m sorry.” Nat opened the door, got out of the car, and hurried to her building in the rain. She flipped up the hood of her coat, and the press didn’t recognize her until she was almost inside the building. They surged forward when they did, turning on klieglights and dogging her to the door with videocameras and microphones.

“Ms. Greco!” they shouted. “What happened tonight in Chester County? Why did the trooper stop you?” “Were you drinking? Did you take a Breathalyzer?” “Any comment?”

Nat hit the revolving door at speed, and it dumped her dripping into the lobby, startling the aging security guard, Bill Sasso. “Hey, Bill.”

He rose slowly, eying Nat. “Professor Greco, I didn’t expect you tonight. I thought the reporters would put you off. They been out there for two hours.”

“Sorry about that.”

“I told ’em you didn’t kill nobody. You give me all those books, for my granddaughter.”

“Thanks.” Nat felt her throat catch. She went over to the marble security desk and leaned on the top. The TV was on mute, next to a half-complete
Daily News
crossword. “The cops kept my car and keys. I can’t get into my apartment.”

“I got ya covered, professor. I’ll take you up.” Bill set down his pencil, retrieved a jangling key ring from the drawer, and shuffled to the elevator with her. They rode up in companionable silence, and Bill walked her to her door and unlocked it. “Sleep tight.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem. Stop by the desk tomorrow. I’ll get ya a new key.”

“Thanks again.” Nat opened the door to her apartment and switched on the lamp in the living room. The door closed behind her with a definite
thunk
.

For a minute, she stood in front of the door and eyed the apartment. Book-lined, silent, and still. It smelled of chardonnay and forced air. It was home. She felt herself exhale, for the first time. So much had happened in one night. She thought of Barb, then the trooper, then the scene at the station. Jelly. Now she was home, but her world had changed. She was a murder suspect. She needed a lawyer and a plan. She’d have to defend herself at school. She was on her own, without Hank. She felt completely at a loss, loosed from her moorings. Untethered. This was the freedom she’d wanted, so why did it feel so empty? She thought about calling Angus, but that was the wrong answer. She needed to think. To regroup. To figure out what had happened and what would happen next.

She crossed to the couch and sank into her favorite spot, like a soft beige nest. Her whole body finally relaxed, and in the next minute she felt tears come to her eyes and heard herself hiccup a sob. This time she let it come, because there were no reporters or brothers, and she couldn’t hold it back even if she tried. She didn’t know who she was crying for, whether it was Barb, Trooper Shorney, or Jelly.

Or even, ashamedly, herself.

R
ain lashed her bedroom windows, and Nat tossed and turned, trying to set her emotions about Barb and Trooper Shorney aside. She had to focus on who was trying to frame her for murder. She reviewed the facts for the second time, then turned over, restless. The bedside clock read 5:17 in glowing turquoise numbers. Then she noticed the tiny red light blinking on her answering machine. She had forgotten to check her messages when she came in. She turned on the bedside lamp, squinted against its brightness, propped herself up, and hit Play.

“Hello, we’re Food Data and we’re interested in knowing how often you eat in local restaurants—”

Nat hit Delete, remembering why she never checked her messages—because they were as full of crap as her snail mail and email. The next message was equally useless, but the third was from a voice she almost recognized.

“Professor Greco, this is Willie Potts, from the prison. I got your number online. You asked me about the write-up on Simon Upchurch. I checked the records and I never got one. There’s your answer but keep it on the down. Say yo to Angus.”

Nat hit Play again, then shifted upright as the message replayed. It confirmed that Graf had been lying when he said that he and Ron Saunders had brought Upchurch in for a write-up. So why had they brought him in? Given that money and drugs were entering the picture, Upchurch may have been involved in drug dealing with the C.O.s. Maybe they were supplying him with OxyContin and he sold it to his fellow inmates.

Nat didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t take her suspicions to prison officials, who were busy walling off crime scenes. She couldn’t tell the police, because they suspected her of killing one of their own. She thought about calling Angus, but he’d be asleep and was stuck in the hospital anyway. She was on her own. If anybody was going to figure out who was behind this, it would have to be her. She wasn’t used to being
a capella
, but maybe it was time to start. Nobody was going to save her hide but her. She jumped out of bed and hit the floorboards. She had some research to do, and there was only one logical place to start.

Book smart, huh?

A half hour later, she was going downstairs in the elevator, dressed in jeans, clogs, a black turtleneck, and the last coat she owned in the world, a blue down jacket from college. In a purse was the cash she’d collected from her jewelry box, old wallets, leftover clutches, pockets, and couch cushions. She had $562.36 to catch a killer. She hit the lobby and looked beyond the security desk to the revolving door. The thunderstorm must have been passing, dotting the glass with only a light rain. The sidewalk was empty, and the press gone. Evidently, the First Amendment was sleeping in.

She went to the desk, where Bill was dozing over his finished crossword, his chin folding into his hand beside an empty Dunkin’ Donuts cup. He’d taken off his red hat, revealing a balding head with stray strands of gray. Nat whispered, “Bill?”

“I’m awake,” he said, popping off his hand with a start. He reached automatically for his cap, but Nat waved him into stillness.

“Can you help me out? I need a car and I can’t rent one because I don’t have a license. Can I please borrow your car, just for the day? I’ll pay you.”

“Okay, professor. But you gotta give me a ride home.” Bill checked his watch sleepily. “I get off in ten minutes.”

“Thanks so much. By the way, you got a cell phone?”

“Sure, but I never use it.”

Perfect.

An hour later, Nat had dropped Bill off at his apartment and hit the expressway, traveling out of the city in his underpowered tan Kia, which, judging from the smell of its interior, ran on cigarette smoke. Old newspapers, a crushed Winston pack, and toll receipts littered the dirty floor, but beside her on the passenger seat sat her fresh supplies: a cardboard cup holder with a hot coffee, a sesame bagel with butter, and a MapQuest printout. The borrowed cell phone was recharging in the cigarette lighter, though Nat would have sworn it made the Kia go even slower.

She motored south under a sky swept of clouds, brightening bottom to top in shades of pale pink, dark rose, then rich blue. Rain had washed away most of the snow beside the road, revealing patches of muddy brown. She checked the smudgy rearview mirror to make sure no black pickups were following her, but traffic was light and apparently innocuous. She felt reasonably safe, in a car that no bad guy could identify as hers.

In time she exited the highway, entered the city of Chester, and drove through its rundown neighborhoods, looking for the right street. Brick rowhouses lined blocks strewn with debris, and shutters hung lopsided on windows insulated with Saran Wrap and covered with iron bars. A hand-lettered
BEWARE OF DOG
sign sat stuck in a door, next to a child’s drawing of Santa Claus in Crayola colors. Trash cans had been overturned, and old cars sat parked along the streets. She found the house, parked the Kia, and straightened the black NASCAR cap she’d bought as a makeshift disguise at a Wawa convenience store. She checked the rearview and noted that the cuts on her cheeks had grown faint. Things were looking up, if she didn’t dwell on that impending homicide charge thing.

She got out of the car, locked it, crossed to the house, and knocked tentatively on the front door, which was opened by an older African American woman who peered timidly around the side of the door. Her eyes were a milky brown and deep-set, cold and flickering with caution, in a full face. Her hair was a straightened and thin gray and she wore it to her chin, with sparse bangs cut midway across her forehead, like a septuagenarian Betty Boop.

“My name is Nat Greco. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for the residence of Simon Upchurch.”

“Buried him Thursday.” The old woman frowned, leaning closer to the door.

“I’m sorry. I was at the prison the day he was killed. I wondered if I could come in and talk to you.” Nat raised a white bag from Wawa. “I brought some doughnuts.”

“I got diabetes.”

Or not
. “Maybe if I could come in, we could talk. It wouldn’t take long.”

The woman opened the door a crack and eyed Nat up and down. “You’re jes ’a lil’ thing.”

“Thanks.”
I think.
“It’s cold. You must be cold, with the door open.”

“I’m warmer ’n you.” The old woman smiled crookedly, showing spaces between her teeth, and Nat laughed with her.

“I’m here because I wanted to talk to you about Simon. Was he your son?”

“My brother’s. I raised him, but he wasn’t mine.”

“Could I come in? Please? It’s important.”

The front door opened a crack, and after a minute, the woman unlocked the barred door and propped it open with a hand.

“Thanks,” Nat said, stepping inside.