Lisa Scottoline - Daddy's Girl

"This is where the hallway used to be." Nat ran a hand along the wall, then looked at her fingerpads. Drying white paint dusted the whorls on her fingertips, like fingerprints in reverse. "They've walled off the way to the room where Saunders and the inmate were killed."

"Oh, yeah, they're remodeling," Tanisa said, returning with an inmate. He looked about twenty-five years old, a slight African American man with his hair shorn close to his head.

"Hey, Willie," Angus said quickly, shaking the man's hand. "Why don't you go sit down, and I'll be right over."

"No sweat." The inmate left for an informal meeting area near the classroom.

"Tanisa, didn't there used to a hallway here?" Nat asked.

"Yeah, but it's gonna be a new set of staff offices. It was gonna be Phase Two but they moved it up to Phase One. The muckety-mucks musta wanted their new offices sooner."

"When did they change the schedule?" Nat asked, just as she spotted Machik walking toward them down the skinny new hallway. His dark suit jacket flew open as he walked, but his striped tie remained in place, under its musical clef.

"Angus! Natalie!" he called out, waving to them.

Tanisa turned. "Hello, sir," she said as he approached.

Angus shook his hand. "Kurt, what happened to the old staff offices?"

"Hello to you, too." Machik turned to Nat. "How's your cut, dear? Improved, I hope."

"Great, but I'm as confused as Angus. Where's the room where Ron Saunders was killed? Is it behind this wall?"

Machik maintained his smile. "It's being rebuilt. It'll be a set of offices, a suite. When it's all finished next year, we'll have two new pods, an enlarged infirmary, and three new classrooms."

"So the room we were talking about yesterday doesn't exist anymore?"

"I suppose not. They got back to work yesterday."

"Because of the riot?"

"It was a disturbance."

Persistence pays.

"Not at all, it was always part of the plan."

"Phase One or Phase Two?" Nat asked.

Machik's eyes narrowed behind his glasses. "How do you know those terms?"

Nat thought fast. She didn't want to get Tanisa in trouble. "I'm a builder's daughter. Greco Construction, ever hear of it?"

"Why, yes, I have," Machik said, surprised. "Well, that's my family. Most construction has a Phase One, which includes framing, piping, electrical, HVAC, and a Phase Two. Dry-wall, primer, paint, and the like. Phase Three is flooring, carpeting, the details. They're practically terms of art."

Tanisa's eyes shifted from Nat to Machik and back again.

"Phase One," Machik answered.

Why is he lying? "If they demolished yesterday, I bet the rug with the blood on it is still in a Dumpster. It's blue."

"I believe they emptied the Dumpster this morning." Machik frowned. "I fail to see why you're so interested in this issue."

I'm interested because you're lying. "Two men were killed in that room. I know. I was there. It's a crime scene."

"Natalie, Ron Saunders's murder was a tragedy for us, the first of its kind at this facility. My wife and I, as well as the warden and his wife, Elena, attended his funeral this morning. Now we have to move on. We have a prison to run. This was a crime scene, but the murderer is dead. There's no one to prosecute." Machik stiffened. "We have another crime scene in the RHU-which, by the way, we are preserving, for at least another day or two-and that's where we're devoting our resources and efforts. Understand?"

"I understand," Nat answered, but she didn't. She didn't understand why Machik would lie about the scheduling of the construction, or why they'd want to cover up the room in the first place. None of it made sense. She said, "Did you hear that Barb Saunders was burglarized?"

"Yes, I did. Terrible shame." Machik turned to Angus. "Now. Angus. If you're here for Willie Potts, he's waiting for you. He's got to be back in his cell in fifteen minutes."

"Why?" Angus frowned. "We just got here."

"We're moving him." Machik checked his watch. "Folks, I've got work to do. Tanisa, please show Angus and Natalie to Mr. Potts."

"Yes, sir." Tanisa motioned to them.

Angus turned to Machik. "Joe Graf in today?" he asked.

"No. He deserves the day off, don't you think?"

"Sure," Angus answered, meeting Nat's eye.

“Sorry about the delay, Willie," Angus said. He introduced Nat and set down his accordion file on a white Formica table, one of six built into the painted cinderblock wall. The tables stuck out in a line, and at each were plastic bucket chairs on either side, more fast-food restaurant than prison except for the uniformed CO. standing against the far wall.

“"Sail right," Willie answered, nodding. He sat behind a wrinkled manila folder. "How's your lip, Angus?”

“Fine. Where were you during the riot?”

“Hiding under my desk."

They laughed, and Angus turned to Nat. "Willie works in the processing room, which used to be across the aisle."

Willie added, "They got us down the hall now, trying to hook up all the computers. It's crazy. All those wires, like spaghetti."

"Why they stripping you out, Willie?" Angus asked, as he opened the folder, went through the papers, and pulled out an affidavit.

"My cellie's having some problems with the Mexicans."

Angus turned again to Nat. "A strip-out is when they take all the inmates belongings out of his cell, either to search for contraband or move him. I think I told you they move the inmates around, to cut down on gang rivalries. No chance for a fight, but no chance for a friendship, either."

"I'm my own friend," Willie said. "That's the best policy."

"I hear you. Okay, we don't have much time. I prepared this affidavit along the lines we discussed. It's what you told me last week. Why don't you read it and sign it?" Angus slid the paper to Willie, addressing Nat again. "Willie was picked up for his second DUI and is just about to finish up his stint."

Willie looked up. "I got eleven days left."

"He completed the alcohol rehab program here and now he teaches it. He's been clean and sober for how long now, pal?"

"Six hundred and eight days."

"Congratulations," Nat said, wondering what it was like to count your life in days. Days of sobriety. She was lucky, addicted only to books.

"We're filing an appeal for Willie on Friday, to get him pardoned, so his record won't show his DUI conviction. His experience in the office qualifies him for a number of jobs on the outside, but he needs to get his driver's license back so he can drive."

"This looks great, Angus. You got a pen?"

"Hold on." Angus rose and said to Nat, "Excuse me. Be right back. They're not allowed to have pens, and neither are we."

"Sure." Nat shifted as he left, then realized she was sitting alone with a prison inmate. Two days ago, this would have scared her, but after the riot, it didn't. Ironic. "So, you must be so thrilled to go."

"I can't wait. See my wife and kid, my grandmom." Willie beamed. "But I got no regrets. This place did a lot of good for me, and so did Angus. He helped me get the job in the office. I learned Microsoft Word and Excel, too."

"What do you do there?"

"I keep all the records, so they know when everybody's bit is up. and also infirmary visits, dental, write-ups, what have you."

Write-ups. Where had she heard that term? Then she remembered. Graf had said that just before the riot, he and Ron Saunders had had the inmate in to talk about his write-up. "What's a write-up?"

"When we get disciplined, say. They write us up."

"Do you, in the office, get a copy of a write-up each time an inmate is disciplined?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Please, call me Nat. How does that work?"

"The CO. fills out a form and gives it to me through the window in the processing office. I log it in, and that's it." Willie shrugged his shoulders, knobby in his thin T-shirt.