Lisa Scottoline - Daddy's Girl

"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 klieg-lights 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, with out 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.

Rain 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.