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 shed 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 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 Brookes 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."