Lisa Scottoline - Daddy's Girl

"What?" Angus looked over, his blue eyes widening. "Why would Graf have done that?"

"I don't know. For the same reason he bullied Upchurch. There was animosity between them."

"That's a stretch, Natalie. We don't know enough to go there."

"But what if?"

Angus thought a minute. "Then how does Saunders end up dead?"

"He's a casualty, like you said, of war. Graf sacrifices him. He's just there to provide the story that Upchurch attacked him and he acted in self-defense."

"Graf kills Saunders?" Angus's lips parted. "That's crazy! They were best friends. You heard him."

"We've established that he's a liar."

"And a jerk and a bigot. But that's not the same as a cold-blooded killer. That's not how C.O.s work, anyway. They're tight, like cops. Like soldiers, too, come to think of it. Loyal to each other." Angus's car traveled another inch on the clogged road. "You know, we're forgetting something. There's one sure way to find out what really happened in that room."

"How?"

"They have video surveillance all over the prison. Did you see those silver orbs on the ceilings, with the mirrors? There're cameras inside them."

Nat hadn't noticed.

"I know they have videotapes of the riot. The troopers told me they turned them over to the Chester County D.A., as evidence. So they must have videotapes of that room, too."

Nat straightened in her seat, imagining a videotape of a brutal double murder and of her trying to save Saunders's life. Did she want to see it? Could she even watch?

"Which room was it, exactly?"

"I don't know. One of the staff rooms." Then Nat remembered. "Willie said they take inmates into the security office to discuss their write-ups."

"Good," Angus said, nodding. "That's what we need to do. Get those tapes, from the security office." The Beetle finally reached the corner, then Angus took a right off onto another road. Traffic flowed freer, and Nat felt her own gears rev up.

"So how would we do that? They'll never give them up voluntarily."

"If I didn't owe Graf my life, I'd subpoena them."

"What do you mean?"

"I'd file a suit on behalf of the inmate who was killed, Upchurch, for deprivation of civil rights and unreasonable use offeree, along the lines of my theory that Graf killed Upchurch needlessly, in return for Upchurch's killing Saunders."

"Upchurch's estate would be the plaintiff, right? And his family?"

"Yes, I'd have to find them."

"So this would be one of those lawsuits where the burglar sues the homeowner. The kind that endears lawyers to the populace."

"Thank you." Angus's eyes glittered with mischief. The Beetle zoomed ahead, and Nat's spirits lifted when she spotted a sign for 1-95. She had a shot at keeping her hunky boyfriend, which was a good thing. Angus said, "In my younger days, I'd be all over it, but I'm so corporate now. I need a good relationship with that prison, for the clinic."

"But I don't. I can sue the prison, for admitting Buford and Donnell to your class. For failing to adequately safeguard the other inmates, and us. They'd raise an immunity defense but it would be a first strike."

"Not bad." Angus nodded. "That's what Machik is worried about, and he deserves it."

"So we tell him we're going to file, then we give him my settlement demand." Nat shifted forward as a plan began to form in her mind. "We ask for a copy of the videotapes in return for my complete, signed release. Essentially, we offer him a free settlement. If he says no, we know something’s very, very wrong. Who turns down a free settlement? And if nothing incriminating is on the tape, he'll make the deal."

"That's a great idea! It blocks him in." Angus thought a minute. "But why will we say you want the tapes? What do we give as a reason?"

"We say it'll help me process the trauma of the event." Nat wasn't half kidding, but Angus laughed.

"You're an evil genius. Do you intend world domination?"

"Not at all. Tenure, merely."

"Done and done." They took off, and the Beetle hit the ramp for 1-95. They reached the highway, three lanes of flat road headed north into Philly, and the traffic moved fast. The reflected light of cars, houses, and buildings muddied the sky. It was almost nightfall. They whizzed past billboards of pretty people, their supersize smiles illuminated by spotlights from beneath. The Beetle switched into the fast lane, and Nat figured that now she might even get home before Hank.

"Now we're moving," she said happily. She checked her cell phone, but there were no messages from Barb Saunders.

"This is way better." Angus looked annoyed in the rearview. "Except the dude behind me is a tailgater."

"Ignore him. He'll pass."

"How nonviolent of you."

"It's this talk of knife fights." Nat shuddered.

Angus accelerated, but the car behind them blasted the Beetles interior with light. Nat turned around and squinted into headlights, which were higher than usual, above a large chrome grille.

"It's tall, like an SUV," she said.

"I think it's a pickup. He's been weaving through traffic. Must be a drunk. I can't believe Willie ever did stuff like this." Angus accelerated again. White reflective lines on the highway flashed by as one. Road salt made tick tick noises as it hit the Beetle.

"Slow down." Nat gripped the stiff rubber hand strap. "Make him go around you."

"Get off my ass, pal!" Angus shouted at the rearview, and the Beetle's interior finally went dark. The lane to their right opened up, and the pickup darted into the empty spot.

"Good." Nat relaxed. "I'll give him a dirty look."

"Nobody messes with Professor Greco."

Nat looked over and saw it was a black pickup, its F-250 letters and a Calvin decal in view. The Beetle and the truck sped side by side through the twilight. The asphalt glistened in the headlights. A veneer of black ice on the road winked darkly. In the split second before the accident happened, Nat saw it like deja vu. The pickup hit the ice. She screamed. The pickup sideswiped the Beetle in a dark flash of metal, sending both vehicles skidding into the guardrail, spraying sparks and making a hideous scraping noise.

PHOOM! The Beetle's airbags exploded. A hot plastic cushion burst into Nat's face and pressed her back into her seat. The car slid forward, out of control. She kept screaming, praying for the Beetle to stop. She couldn't see anything but plastic. She couldn't hear anything but her own yelling. Everything was heat and fear and a funny smell.

Finally, the Beetle came to a slow, jerky stop. Angus must have engaged the ABS brakes. Nat's face plowed into the pillow. Her shoulder collided with the passenger window. Powder was everywhere. Then the accident ended as soon as it had begun. Nat's airbag began to deflate, and she looked over.

Angus was slumped against his collapsing air bag, motionless.

The examining room was small and ringed with white metal cabinetry. Against one wall was a stainless steel sink, underneath an array of cleanser dispensers. A steel basket on the wall near the examining table held a blood pressure gauge and its rubbery black cord. The vital-signs monitors remained off, their black screens etched with frozen green and red lines. A plastic IV bag that read "Baxter" hung from a steel hook on the wall, dripping saline into the crook of Angus's arm. He sank back into the thin pillow, his blue eyes reddish under a forehead dressed with a new gauze bandage. His cheekbone had sprouted another wound, he'd cracked a rib, and doctors were trying to determine if he had any internal injuries, besides a bruised ego.

"That jerk!" Angus said. If he felt weak, it didn't show. "I would've kicked his ass if he'd been man enough to stop."

"Peace, brother."

"Screw peace!" Angus scowled. "That guy coulda killed us!"