Daddy's Girl (17 page)

And ultimately, Nat.

Nat felt almost numb as she was administered a gunshot residue test by a forensic technician, then changed into a red-and-black sweatsuit that Brooke got for her, which read, Germantown Academy. She handed over her clothes and watched as they were carefully placed in plastic evidence bags and labeled, then she was escorted out to the barracks’ waiting room. Brooke rose from a plastic chair across from the vending machines and crossed to her with a smile.

“Much better!” he said. “Clean clothes, and they fit perfectly.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“That’s my girl.” Brooke leaned closer, so the troopers watching on the other side of the bulletproof glass couldn’t hear. “There’s lots of press outside, waiting in the parking lot. We have no comment, understand? Are we on the same page this time?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Here, wear this.” Brooke slid his topcoat off of his arm and placed it over her shoulders.

“Thanks,” Nat said, touched.

He chucked her under the chin. “Keep this up. Head high. You have to look like a law professor, not a common criminal. The pictures they take will be seen by your jury pool.”

“Jury pool?” Nat practically wailed, then caught herself. She had to get her act together. She pushed her wet hair back, twisted it into a knot, and tucked it in the collar of the coat.

“Here. Wipe your face, too.” Brooke slid a monogrammed handkerchief from his tux pocket, and Nat gave her cheeks a quick swipe, then handed it back.

“Thanks. Ready for my close-up,” she said. Brooke smiled grimly as he slipped an arm around her and they walked to the door and opened it together into the cold rain. A barrage of camera flashes exploded from a throng of reporters that surged toward them, shouting questions.

“Professor Greco! Look over here!” “Professor Greco, is it true you were at the Saunders’s house tonight?” “Professor Greco! Did you know Trooper Shorney prior to the stop tonight?” “Can you confirm that the murder weapon was found in your car? We saw it being impounded!” “Come on, give us a statement, Ms. Greco! Are you a suspect?”

“We have no comment!” Brooke raised a warning hand as he powered Nat through the parking lot, and Nat lowered her head, but it wasn’t against the rain. She felt unaccountably ashamed as they hurried along. She wanted to answer their questions but she couldn’t. She wanted to explain everything but she wouldn’t. She had to let their charges go without contradiction, and she knew her silence would be held against her. She had never understood the presumption of innocence until now.

When the world was about to decide her guilt.

N
at sat in the passenger seat of Brooke’s Mercedes coupe, his coat wrapped around her like a cashmere cocoon. They drove silently through the dark suburbs, and she tried to process what had happened. It felt unreal. Trooper Shorney, shot dead. She wondered if he had a family. She thought about Barb’s condition, too, but it wasn’t appropriate to call local hospitals about her, or her sister or mother tomorrow. Could they really believe she had had something to do with Barb’s shooting? The thought sickened her.

Brooke asked, “Do you mind if I put on the news?”

Yes
. “No.”

Brooke switched on the radio, and KYW came on. The lead story was the Sixers game, the thunderstorm, then breaking news. The announcer said, “Natalie Greco, a professor at the University of Pennsylvania Law School, is being questioned by the Pennsylvania State Police in connection with the shooting death of Trooper Matthew Shorney, during a routine traffic stop. Police officials are saying that Greco is a person of interest in connection with the slaying, and in addition, with the attempted murder of Barbara Saunders of Pocopson, whom Greco had visited before the traffic stop.”

Nat’s mouth went dry. She’d never heard her own name on the radio, much less in a police report, in the same sentence as “shooting death” or “attempted murder.” She tuned out the next report, looking out of the car window at the lights of the split-levels, refracted crazily in the droplets. She shuddered at the shame she’d brought on the law school. She thought of Vice Dean McConnell, then of her students. Would they believe she had had something to do with the shooting, too? Would she still have a job after this? What about tenure? Her life was spinning apart, unraveling like a rope under tension.

The Mercedes took a smooth, cushy turn, and Brooke said, “I work with a very good PR firm to do damage control for my SEC clients. How about I give them a call tomorrow?”

“Let’s wait on that. I’m not ready for the day when a defendant needs a publicist.”

“Be realistic, Nat.” Brooke looked over, his distinguished features appearing concerned in the dark car. “You should get ahead of this curve. You saw those reporters. They smell fresh meat.”

“I know.” Nat voiced her greatest worry, and it wasn’t the press. “Do you think they’ll charge me?”

“Not on what they have.”

Nat agreed, as a legal matter. “It’s too circumstantial. There’s no motive.”

“The money could be a motive, but it doesn’t seem sufficiently compelling, and they have to run down your story about the man in the ski mask.”

“You believe me, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Brooke answered, but Nat wondered if it was the retainer talking.

“That Trooper Duffy’s ready to hang me.”

“But Mundy’s not, and they’ll have to get their ducks in a row before they charge you. They don’t want to file a case they can’t prove.”

“Gotcha.” Nat breathed a little easier. “May I borrow your cell phone? I want to call my boyfriend.”

“Sure.” Brooke slid a black Razor from inside his tux and handed it to her.

“Thanks. Excuse me. I’ll be just a minute.” She tried Hank’s cell number but he didn’t answer. She hung up as voicemail started, then pressed in the hospital number, which she’d memorized by now.

“Natalie, are you okay?” Angus asked, as soon as the call connected. “How’d you do?”

“Fine. My dad’s lawyer got there before yours did, but we did fine.” Nat slid a sidelong glance at Brooke, whom she’d begun liking since he sacrificed his handkerchief.

“I know. Bennie just called me.”

“Please tell him I’m sorry.”

“She’s a woman. Bennie Rosato. Ever hear of her?”

“Yes, sure.”
Only the best lawyer in town, if a little bitchy.
“Well, tell her I’m sorry. I managed not to answer all of their questions.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Of course.”
Not
. “I’m on my way to my parents.” She didn’t really want to go there, but Brooke had insisted, acting on orders.

“They didn’t charge you, did they?”

“Not yet.”

“Tell me what happened. Everything!”

“I can’t now. When are you getting out of the hospital?”

“Tomorrow, they promised. I heard the report on the TV. The story of the cop’s murder is the headline, with Barb Saunders being secondary. I think they’re connected.”

“They have to be.” Nat ran out of time to connect the dots. The Mercedes was turning onto her parents’ street, which was quiet and still this late at night. “Gotta go. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll work it out. I’ll call you at school and we’ll figure out what happens next.”

“Thanks,” Nat said, flipping the phone closed. They pulled into the circular driveway of her parents’ house, behind three different black Cadillacs, the official car of the Greco family. That meant her brothers were present and accounted for, except Paul, who was probably at the basketball game with Hank.

“What a lovely home,” Brooke said, parking the car and cutting the ignition. “It looks like a French chateau.”

“It’s supposed to. My father got the idea for it after a trip they took to France. The model’s called the Chamonix.” Nat eyed the house, its lights ablaze and its slate turrets spearing a stormy sky.

It could have been her mood, but tonight it looked like the Bastille.

Nat twisted her key in the lock, but the door was flung wide by her father, whose mouth dropped open when he saw her.

“Christ, Nat!” He tore off his reading glasses. He was wrapped in a navy Ralph Lauren robe and black socks. “What the hell happened tonight?”

“It’s a long story, Dad.” She stepped into the warm, dry entrance hall, aglow in the bright light of the chandelier. Her father was already turning to Brooke, who was entering the house behind her.

“You the guy from Dechert? Bart told me he’d send somebody.”

“Carter Brooke,” he said, offering his hand, which her father shook with a decided frown.

“What the hell, Carter? They arrested my daughter?”

“I wasn’t arrested, Dad.” Nat was trying to run interference, but her father was glaring at Brooke.

“They think John Greco’s daughter would kill a cop? What the
hell
?”

“She’s not being charged, as yet.” Brooke gestured don’t-shoot with his palms. “They questioned her, and she didn’t say much—”

“Not much?” Her father’s eyes flared, and he shut the door. “Why’d you let her say anything? If anything happens to her, I’ll sue the whole damn firm.”

“Dad, don’t work him over. He did great.” Nat slid out of Brooke’s topcoat and brushed it off, as Tom and Junior bounded from the kitchen and into the entrance hall, their faces bright with excitement and caffeine. They both wore white shirts and dark slacks from work. There was no casual day at Greco Construction.

“Nat, they think
you
shot a cop?” Junior was almost laughing.
“You?”

“Are we being punked?” Tom asked, incredulous. “Or is Dad?” They both burst into laughter.

“Thanks for the support.” Nat shot them the finger. In another mood, she would have said,
I could shoot a cop if I wanted to.

“She’s not a suspect, but this is no laughing matter,” Brooke said sternly, but Nat’s father faced him, nonplussed.

“There’s a few things you have to understand, Calvin.”

“Carter.”

“Nat’s the last one of my kids who would ever get arrested. She’s the one we never worry about. Ever.”

Gnat
. “Dad, I wasn’t arrested,” she said again, but her father didn’t look over.

“The boys, yes, they get into trouble. Little things from time to time. Drinking parties, like that. And Paul, for sure, I could definitely see that. I hold my breath with that one.”

“Paul’s a friggin’ idiot,” Junior added.

Tom snorted. “The smart money’s on the IRS.”

“I see,” Brooke said, and Nat could tell he was trying to establish Good Client Relations in the overcrowded entrance hall.

Her father continued. “But, Nat? Impossible. We should sue for false arrest. They have that, don’t they?”

“She’s the brainiac,” Junior added, and Tom agreed.

“The lil’ professor.”

“John, you don’t have to convince me.” Brooke set down his leather envelope on the cherry console. “I’ll take you through my notes and explain everything that happened.”

“Nat? That you?” Her mother came down the curved staircase in a navy silk bathrobe, her face a glistening mask of worry under Dr. Perricone’s night cream. Her hair was in a ponytail, and two bobby pins held shorter stands from her forehead. “My goodness, honey, what happened? Is that mud on your face?”

“I’m fine, Ma.” Nat set Brooke’s topcoat on a side chair. “How did you guys know I was there, anyway?”

“They know all,” Tom answered. “They see all.”

“Morty Blank’s son was driving by and saw you going in.” Her mother reached the bottom of the staircase and gave Nat a stiff, fragrant hug. “He called us right away.”

“Yeah, and why didn’t you call us, Nat?” her father asked, his tone changing. “You get arrested and you don’t call? I have to depend on the off-chance that one of my golf buddies sees you?”

“I didn’t get arrested.” Nat’s head started to ache, but her father was just warming up. He’d never yelled at her before, but his temper had flared at her brothers. Now that he knew she was alive, he felt free to kill her.

“Why did you go back to Chester County?” he asked, raising his voice. “Hank told us somebody threatened you if you went out there again.”

“It wasn’t a threat.” Nat felt annoyed at Hank, in absentia. “And he shouldn’t have discussed it with you.”

“Why not? He’s family. He was worried about you and he turned out to be right.” Her father frowned. “What’s gotten into you, Nat? Is it that teacher, the cuckoo clock with the ponytail?”

Angus
. “Is there anything Hank
didn’t
tell you, Dad?”

“This is just terrible.” Her mother sighed, rubbing her forehead with her fingertips. “First Paul, and now this.”

Nat asked, “Where’s Hank, anyway?”

“He and Paul should be here any minute,” her mother answered. “The Sixers went into overtime, so they were late leaving.”

“Another high for A.I.” Junior shook his head in admiration.

“He’s so
money
,” Tom said. “I can’t believe we missed another overtime game. Paul’s a ticket pig. Pneumonia, my ass.”

Brooke kept his own counsel, as Nat’s father put his hands on his hips. “So what is it, Nat? Is it this guy? Is something going on with you two?”

Natalie, listen.
“Dad, that’s none of your business.”

“It certainly is my business, if he’s getting you into trouble with the police. How do you think that looks?” Her father pointed a stiff finger at her. “You know, sometimes you’re book smart, but that’s about it.”

Ouch
. “You know what, I need a shower.” Nat turned abruptly and went up the stairs, then stopped midway. Something was missing. She looked down at the elegant entrance hall. “Where’s the cat?”

Her mother pursed her lips. Her father looked up and said tightly, “It happened the other day.”

Jelly
. Nat felt a knot in her chest. “What happened?”

“He didn’t wake up, is all I can tell you. I found him on your bed.” Her father’s frown relaxed, his anger mitigated slightly. “The vet said he’ll give us his ashes.”

“He was old,” Junior said matter-of-factly.

“You gonna cry?” Tom chuckled. “If you really loved him, you’d cry.”

Nat turned numbly away, climbed the rest of the stairway, and went to her bedroom, where she stripped off the sweatsuit and headed straight for the shower, vowing to keep it together. When she’d finished, she wrapped herself in a soft white bath towel and padded dripping into her room. She ran a finger over the comforter on Jelly’s corner of the bed, and long gray cat hairs stuck to her fingertips.

She felt that knot again and scanned her bedroom with new eyes. She hadn’t lived at home in over a decade and had slept here only a few nights. Her parents had carted her old furniture here, so the bedroom looked oddly stop-time, circa high-school French Club. An undersize white dresser stood against the wall, across from a double bed with a matching little-girl headboard and a desk she’d never studied at, complete with a white chair and a blue tufted cushion. A set of white bookshelves held books from middle school onward. She had outgrown all of it a long time ago, at least in theory.

Nat realized that she hadn’t picked out anything in this bedroom, much as she hadn’t picked Jelly. Or her lawyer. Or even her boyfriend. All of it had been selected by her father, and she’d gone along to get along. She wondered for the first time if even her choice of profession had been a reaction to him. It had been a forgone conclusion that she wouldn’t work for the family business. Either way, she’d been living a life defined by someone else.

And suddenly, she didn’t want it to stay that way.