Daddy's Girl (9 page)

T
he ride to the prison was barely long enough to get the heat going in Nat’s car, much less for her and Angus to process Graf’s reaction. She pulled up to the white guardhouse, and the same young guard emerged. This time his cap was on straight, and he wore his most official expression.

Nat lowered the window. “Hi, it’s Nat Greco and Angus Holt.”

“Sorry, we’re in lockdown.”

“It’s me, Jimmy.” Angus leaned over to show his face, and the guard’s dark eyes widened.

“I heard you got into it, but jeez! What you got there? You get
cut
, too?”

“No, just a few bruises and a fat lip.”

“Bastards! I heard it started over cigarettes. They’re
animals
.” Jimmy’s eyes flashed with contempt, and his gaze shifted to Nat, then quickly away. She read his mind—
I heard you almost got raped—
and flushed, unaccountably embarrassed. Jimmy returned to professional mode. “Anyways, sorry, I didn’t recognize the car. I gotta ask you guys for ID. I’m on orders. Tryin’ to keep out the riffraff, you know.”

“I hear you.” Angus shifted to get his wallet out of his back pocket, and Nat retrieved her driver’s license, then produced them both.

“Hold on. I gotta write down the number, and I don’t have a pen on me.” Jimmy turned away, muttering, and went back to the guardhouse.

“This joint is jumpin’.” Angus eyed the prison in the distance. “No pun.”

Nat craned her neck. State police cruisers, a boxy mobile crime lab, and other unmarked black sedans were parked in the driveway, blocking it completely. The parking lot was full. “What’s going on, do you think?”

“Evidence gathering, in connection with the murders. They’ll take photos, review surveillance tapes, listen to audiotapes, if they have them—though I doubt this place has that kind of hardware.”

Jimmy returned with their IDs. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” Nat took hers, slid it back in her wallet, and handed Angus his.

“Warden in, Jimmy?” he asked.

“No, he lef’ a while ago.”

“How about the deputy warden?”

“Went with him.”

“Machik?”

“He’s in.”

“Thanks. See ya.”

“Hope you feel better,” Jimmy said, stepping back from the car. “Botha you.”

Nat parked where she could, and they got out and walked up the road. Men in dark overcoats lingered on the icy driveway near the official cars, talking with state police, their hats low on their foreheads. Nat assumed that the men in overcoats were federal marshals because she recognized one as the marshal they’d seen yesterday, in the driver’s seat of the sedan. He waved when Nat and Angus approached.

“Nice shiner, Holt,” he called out, his voice carrying in the frigid air. “You owe me money.”

“What for?” Angus called back.

“I bet you wouldn’t get out in one piece, and you did.” He laughed, and so did Angus and the other men—everybody but Nat. She could feel her heartbeat speed up the closer she got to the prison.

“I know, right? Who woulda thought?” Angus caught Nat’s eye, and his grin vanished. “Gentlemen, this is Natalie Greco, my colleague.”

“Good to meet you, Natalie. I’m Edward Sparer.” The marshal shook her hand heartily, and then his gaze fell to her Band-Aid. His expression darkened instantly, and she knew he was thinking the same thing as the guard at the gate.

“Where were you guys yesterday when I needed you?” Nat asked lightly, and they laughed, the tension broken.

“Just glad you’re okay,” Edward said, smiling. “All’s well that ends well, huh? Now, Holt, we don’t care about.”

“Thanks, honey,” Angus said. “So what’s the deal? How long they gonna be in lockdown, you know?”

“They’re not saying but I think just today. We’re already standing down.”

“You’re always standing down.”

“Your tax dollars at work.”

Angus snorted. “How much am I paying you to babysit that thug?”

“Ha! You mean to freeze my ass off sittin’ in a car in the middle of East Jippip?” Sparer shot back, and they laughed. “Not
nearly
enough. I’m
dyin’
for a decent cheesesteak.”

“When’s his trial?”

“February 8. Hey, Williams was a good boy yesterday. Bided his time by himself, nowhere near the RHU.”

“You must be very proud.” Angus clapped him on the back, they all exchanged goodbyes, and Nat and Angus continued on their way through the parked cars. Angus took her arm and led her up the steps to the metal door with the cheery red paint, hit a buzzer, and showed his face through the window. The door was opened by a plump, middle-aged woman with a lipsticked smile. She was majorly made up, and her ersatz red hair was coiled in old-fashioned pin curls.

“Angus! How are you?” she said, eyeing his bandage. The pancaked foundation on her forehead almost cracked with concern. “You poor thing! What did they do to you? Come in, come in!”

“Thanks, Joanie.” Angus gave her a brief hug, then introduced Nat to her. Her name was Joan Wilson. “I understand that Kurt is in. Can I talk to him for a few minutes? It’s important.”

“I’ll check and see, but don’t get your hopes up. It’s busy here today.” Joan clucked and waddled off like a mother hen. Nat looked around the office area, which she hadn’t been in yesterday. An entrance hallway led into a wider, paneled hall lined with wooden office chairs. One end table held a cheap lamp and some wrinkled magazines. An American flag stood in a holder next to an Employee of the Month plaque, and a softball trophy on a side table made the place look more like a dry cleaner’s than a prison.

“Angus?” Nat was trying to suss out where she’d found Saunders. “This hall looks as wide as the one that runs through the prison. Is it?”

“Yes. Same hall, only we’re on the unsecured side.” Angus pointed to the right. “Conference room there.” Then, to the left. “There’re offices over there. The warden’s office is behind us, then the deputy warden’s. Then Kurt Machik’s office, down the hall where Joan went. He’s the assistant deputy warden.”

“Thanks.” Nat visualized the layout. They were at the bottom of the prison’s T shape, and the stem of the T was the long hall that ran the length of the prison. She tried to imagine where the room was in which Saunders had died. Close to here, somewhere near the bottom of the T. That was where the bodies should have been. Not near the RHU, which was all the way down the hall, at the top of the T. How could anybody mix that up?

“Angus!” a voice boomed, and Nat turned to see a tall, thin man with a gaunt face and brown eyes behind rimless glasses emerging from his office and closing a door behind him.

“Hey, Kurt. Thanks for seeing us.” Angus introduced Nat for the fortieth time that day. “Ms. Greco is the woman who was attacked by Kyle Buford yesterday, during my class.”

“Goodness! I’m very sorry.” Kurt Machik frowned so deeply, his forehead pinched in the middle, as if his thin skin didn’t fit his cranium. His hair was brown with grayish temples, cut short as a bristle brush, and he wore a dark suit, a white oxford shirt, and a dark blue tie with a tie tack in the shape of a musical clef.

“Can we talk in your office, Kurt? I think this should be private.”

“I was just about to get lunch. Would you two like to join me?” Machik turned to Nat stiffly, swiveling from the hip like a robot. “I know it sounds early, but we start at six in the morning here, so lunch is at ten thirty.”

“I’d rather not,” Angus interjected, but Machik shook his head.

“I have no other free time. My day is wall-to-wall, given the unfortunate events of yesterday. Follow me, please, and watch your step. The construction makes life a little difficult.”

They followed him past a box of tiles and went around a corner into a homey dining room. A long table occupied the middle of the room, covered with a tablecloth of red-checked plastic. White cabinets and white countertops surrounded the room. A microwave sat on its own stand, and a white refrigerator bore a sign reading
: HANDS OFF MY SLIM-FAST, GEORGE!
Hot chicken soup bubbled up from a large pot on a sterno rack, its aroma filling the room and steaming the windows. Sunlight filtered through lacy curtains, and the view was of the construction trailer and, behind that, a grove of towering, snow-covered evergreens.

“May I get you some soup, Ms. Greco?” Machik asked, holding up a paper bowl.

“Please, call me Nat. Thanks, sure.”

“Good. There’s a garden salad over there and some hamburgers.”

“Who does the cooking?”

“The inmates.” Machik handed Nat a paper bowl of soup.

Yikes
. “Thanks.” Nat took the soup, sat down at the table, and grabbed a white plastic spoon from a coffee can covered with red contact paper. She took the first sip of soup, which tasted salty but delicious, at least for felons’ fare.

“What’s the verdict?” Machik asked.

Guilty, what else?
“Great, thanks,” Nat answered, while Angus pulled up a chair and sat down heavily, tucking a stray blond strand behind his ear.

“Kurt, I’m angry about what happened yesterday in my class. Did you approve Buford and Donnell getting in? Nobody is supposed to get in unless I approve them.”

“I don’t recall approving them.” Machik chewed his hamburger. “You know you have a waiting list, and I usually take whoever’s next on the list and send you the inmate’s file, for your approval.”

“That’s my point. I looked through my files last night, and I have a file on each inmate and a letter, mailed to me at the law school, telling me who would like to enter the class. Those letters are signed by you. I didn’t get any letter for Buford or Donnell.”

“An actual signature or a stamped signature?”

“I think stamped. But what, are you blaming Joan now? Whether it’s signed or stamped, I got no letter.”

“As I said, I don’t recall approving those two.”

“Somebody had to, and you’re the only one who processes the approvals. How can you not recall?” Angus’s tone hovered at barely civil. “It couldn’t have been that long ago. Norris and Bolder, the inmates they replaced, were released a month ago. So if you approved it, you approved it this past month.”

“Not necessarily. I line up the approvals before the openings occur. It could have been a long time ago, and lots of paper crosses my desk in a month or two.” Machik didn’t sound rattled, but he did set down his prisonburger. “I am not certain how it happened, but I will check into that for you.”

“For
me
?” Angus raised his voice. “How about for you? How about for Natalie? How about you’re concerned that she could have been killed, or I could have? How about that you care about a legal aid program that’s now jeopardized? How about you care about these inmates, for God’s sake?”

“I’ve said I’ll look into it, and I will. You have my word.”

“Kurt, it’s outrageous. It endangered not only us, but everyone, especially since it happened during the riot.”

“It wasn’t a riot.”

“Oh, please.” Angus leaned back in his chair. “Don’t bullshit me. I was here, and the way it went down meant that neither of us could get out when the lockdown was announced. If Natalie hadn’t sent Graf over to where I was, I’d be dead.”

“I understand your position and I will address it. I will. I promise. I’ll get back to you.” Machik turned to Nat. “Obviously, I have yet to get a full report on what happened, and I assure you that as soon as our investigation is complete, we’ll supply you with one. Would you like me to send one to your lawyer, too?”

“My lawyer? I don’t have a lawyer.” Nat felt a kick under the table, coming from Angus.

“You don’t?”

“She means not yet,” Angus interjected. “And why do you assume I wouldn’t sue, Kurt?”

“I know you care about the institution. You’ve given our inmates a lot of your time over the years.”

Angus paused. “Tell you what. I’ll give you a written release if you get me that report by the end of the week.”

“No can do, Angus.”

“Try.”

Machik sipped from a plastic glass of water, which flexed in the center from the pressure of his long fingers.

Nat said, “I have a question. The news implied that the bodies of the inmates and the C.O., Ron Saunders, were found in the RHU. But that wasn’t true.”

Machik sipped more water. “I’m not sure exactly what was reported.”

“The article quoted the warden.”

“Perhaps he thought that was correct, at that point. I’m not sure when he was interviewed.”

“How could he have thought that? I found Saunders’s body myself, and it was nowhere near the RHU. It wouldn’t be an easy mistake to make, especially not by someone as familiar with the prison layout as the warden.” Nat gestured to the wall behind her. “The room they were in would be right on the other side of that wall, if I’m oriented correctly. There would have to be blood all over the rug, maybe even on the walls. I could show you.”

“Not today. We’re in lockdown, so I can’t permit you back there. But I’ll tell you, confidentially, that we don’t always give a detailed press release, for obvious reasons.”

“What reasons?”

“It’s for the safety of the community. So we don’t set off a panic.”

Angus asked, “Don’t you think they have a right to know?”

“Frankly, no.” Machik stood up slowly. The mood in the room had changed, and Nat and Angus stood up as well. “I do have to get back to work. I’ll talk to the warden and let you know.”

“When is lockdown ending?” Angus asked. “I have a client with an appeal at the end of the week. I need to meet with him to file his papers.”

“Unsure. Call before you come.” Machik picked up his plate, his burger half eaten, and shook Nat’s hand. “Again, I’m very sorry about what happened to you. I’ve enjoyed meeting you.”

“It’s mutual,” Nat said, but her lying wasn’t improving.

I
t was Domestic Initiative Night, and Nat stood at the sink in her kitchen washing a bundle of floppy watercress, waiting for Hank. He’d called to see how she was, and she’d said she’d tell him over dinner, but he was running late. She poured chilled chardonnay into a thin crystal glass and slipped an audiobook into the CD player: Frank McCourt reading his memoir
Teacher Man
. She set the watercress in the strainer, took a sip of cool, tangy wine, and breathed a relaxed sigh as soon as McCourt began to speak, his charming Irish lilt reverberating like Gaelic music in the galley kitchen.

“Here they come. And I’m not ready. How could I be? I’m a new teacher and learning on the job.”

Nat gathered wet watercress from the colander, put it in the salad spinner, slapped on the lid, and set it whirling. Each simple task carried her further from weeping widows and prison officials, from razorwire and stab wounds. The salad spun dry, and she took another sip of wine, eyeing the view outside the kitchen window. The cityscape under a curved moon, rocking in a black sky.

She took the dry watercress out of the spinner, arranged it on two white china plates, and scooped a perfect mound of lobster salad on top of each, light on the mayo, with chunky celery and fresh lemon. She slid a wooden mill from the shelf and ground fresh pepper on each salad, releasing the pungent scent of the peppercorns and adding the finishing touch. She carried both salads to the table and assessed the setting with a food critic’s eye. Round cherry table. The tasteful glow of two ivory candles, smokeless. Real linen napkins, also ivory. Red chunks of lobster adding just the right boldness. The stage was Revelations About Scary Scratches.

She cleaned up the sink, put away the dishes, and wiped down the black granite countertops until they glistened darkly. She took a self-satisfied sip of chardonnay, finally feeling at peace in the quiet apartment, the atmosphere enhanced by the sensibility of a writer as fine as Frank McCourt. On the audiobook, he was managing to articulate her own thoughts about her profession, though he’d never met her. Which, of course, was the magic of books.

“Honey!” came a shout from the front door. It was Hank, at the top of his lungs.

“TURN ON THE TV! RIGHT NOW! IT’S IMPORTANT!” It was her brother Paul, even louder.

Paul’s here?
“What’s going on?” Nat set down her wineglass, alarmed. Something must be on the news. Maybe about the prison. She crossed to the TV, a silver Samsung on the counter.

“IT’S GOING INTO DOUBLE OVERTIME!” Paul shouted, barreling toward her with Hank, and the three almost collided as the men thundered into the kitchen, racing to the TV.

“Babe, where’s the remote? Quick!” Hank hoisted his briefcase and gym bag onto the counter, knocking over her wineglass. It shattered upon impact, sending the chardonnay spilling onto the counter and over the side.

“Hank! Be careful.” Nat grabbed a paper towel.

“Oops. Sorry, sweetheart! Why is it so dark in here? Where’s the clicker?”

“FORGET IT!” Paul stood at the TV, punching the Power button. The sleek TV sprang to life, and a square of supersaturated hues glowed in the candlelit kitchen, flickering frantically as Paul kept hitting the channel changer on the cable box like a video game.

“Don’t break the TV, Paul,” Nat said, her tone big sister circa 1986, even to her. She pressed the paper towel into the spill, then reached for another to wipe the floor before the wine soaked between the boards.

“HE SHOOTS, HE SCORES!”

“All
right
!” Hank slapped Paul high five, as Nat rose with the wet towels and tossed them into the wastebasket. Shards of thin glass were strewn across the counter, glinting in the candlelight. She’d never get it all up in the dark.

“Don’t cut yourself, guys.” Nat flicked on the overheard lights, blinked against the brightness, and unrolled another towel.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Hank said, touching her shoulder. The TV set his profile aglow, his features flickering blue and red. “But this is the most incredible game ever.”

Nat hit the Off button on the audiobook. “When will the game be over?”

“TRAVELING! THAT’S TRAVELING, REF!” Paul pointed at the TV with the outrage of Émile Zola.

“And why is my crazy brother here? Hank?” Nat could see that Paul’s cold was just fine.

“Pass, you turd!” Hank joined in, yelling at the TV. “Pass! God, he’s such a hot dog!”

“PASS! NO, REF! WHERE’S THE FOUL, REF! WHAT ARE YA, STUPID?”

“Hank?” Nat raised her voice over the game. “Can you answer me?”

“Sorry. Our meeting ran late. What’s for dinner? We’re starved!” Hank’s attention remained riveted on the TV. “Fade away! Yes!”

“We? Paul is staying for dinner?” Nat didn’t worry overmuch about hurting her brother’s feelings. His ego was congenitally bulletproof.

“If we feed him, he’ll go,” Hank answered, glued to the game.

“YES! THREE POINTER! WE’RE ON THE MOOOOOVVVEEE!”

Nat poured herself a new glass of wine. She took a sip, mentally going to Plan B. She’d offer Paul some extra lobster salad, and then she and Hank could eat alone after he’d gone. At least Hank was hungry. Even in the bright light, the lobster salad looked delicious.

“I’d kill for a burger,” Hank said to the TV, his eyes dancing across the basketball court.

“BURGERS WITH CHEESE! PICKLES! THE WORKS! YES!”

Nat blinked. “I made the perfect lobster salad.”

“We had lobster for lunch, babe. “Hank threw his arms in the air. “Oh, come on, Iverson! You gotta make that shot!”

Lobster for lunch?
“Who has lobster for lunch?”

“YES! WHAT A SHOT! C-WEB! SO SMOOTH! DIDJA SEE THAT? SWEET!”

“We took clients to the Palm.”

“Why is Paul here?”

“We took one car. He’s dropping me off. Do we have any burgers?”

Nat sighed inwardly.
At the prison. Wanna go?

“Shoot, you lard ass!”

“A.I. WITH THE FADEAWAY! YES! I SWEAR, THIS IS GOIN’ INTO DOUBLE OVERTIME!”

Nat went to the refrigerator for ground beef.

Later, after the Sixers beat the Celtics in triple overtime, and Paul and his mouth had finally gone home, Nat and Hank sat at the table, she behind a cup of Celestial Seasonings and he a bottle of Heineken. She told him the lite version of the Buford story, then about Saunders’s death and his last words, and the visit to his widow.

“That’s terrible, babe.” Hank eyed her, his brown eyes rich with sympathy, and his usual grin gone for good. “You could have been really hurt.”

“I know.”

“I mean, this Buford character, what if he had gotten out of control? You could have been killed.”

Tell me about it
. “Honestly, I feel as if that’s almost behind me. What’s in front of me is telling the wife.”

Hank scratched his head, mussing his red-brown hair. “‘It’s under the floor’? What did he mean by that?”

“Maybe his will, or some money? I don’t know, but I hope she’ll understand when I tell her.” Nat sipped her cooling tea. “I dread going out there again.”

“Then why don’t you just call? Tell her over the phone.”

“I told her I’d go back.”

“Women.” Hank smiled and took a swig from the green bottle, then Nat filled him in about the visit to the prison and the press release, which was where they disagreed. Hank set down his bottle. “I don’t think they need to put in the press release where the bodies were found.”

“Why not?”

“First off, it’s disgusting. Second off, no company would explain every gory detail in a press release, especially if it makes them look stupid.”

“But they’re not a private company. They’re a prison, a state-run facility. They account to the public, not to a president or CEO.”

“I don’t see what difference it makes.”

Nat thought of Angus. “Don’t you think the neighbors have a right to know? The question is, who decides?”

“But what’s the point of telling the neighbors? It’d just get them all upset. They were never in danger.”

“But it’s not the truth.”

“So what?”

“There is no ‘so what.’ The truth is its own end. They created a false picture. I was there, and it was chaos.”

“Well, the good news is it’s over.” Hank cocked his head, his grin returning. “You talk to the widow, then you and this guy—what’s his name?—Angus, you’ll stop running around and get back to work.”

“We’re not running around.”

“What’re you doing then?”

“Following up.”

“Not your job, babe.”

“You jealous?”

“You know the answer to that.” Hank smiled, because she did know.

“Even though he has a long blond ponytail and asked me out?”

“And I bet you told him no. You love me, and we both know it. How could you not?” Hank rose with the empty bottle. “By the way, that cut on your cheek? It looks hot, bad girl.”

Nat managed a laugh.
Then you’re gonna love my chest.

“Did Angus get hurt, too?”

“Yes, on his face.”

“Good. Remind me to hit the guy if I ever meet him.” Hank snorted. “Bring a little excitement to those boring law parties.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“He takes you to a prison, then gets you to save his lame ass? He needs a girl to rescue him?”

Nat frowned. “You didn’t really say that, did you?”

“Bottom line, it’s true, isn’t it?”

“The prisoners work out all the time, Hank. Angus is a law professor, and he did fight for me.”
I just didn’t tell you that part.

“Hell, you were tougher than he was. A true Greco! Ha!” Hank rose, but Nat was feeling defensive. And guilty for not telling Hank the whole truth about Buford. He would see, in bed.

“Ready to go up?” she asked, rising.

“Now you’re talking.” Hank threw an arm around her, and the wall phone started ringing.

“If that’s Paul…” Nat reached over and picked up the receiver. It was a man’s voice, but not Paul’s. “Hello?”

“Professor Greco?”

“This is she.”

“Mind your own business. Stay outta Chester County, bitch.”