She motored south under a sky swept of clouds, brightening bottom to top in shades of pale pink, dark rose, then rich blue. Rain had washed away most of the snow beside the road, revealing patches of muddy brown. She checked the smudgy rearview mirror to make sure no black pickups were following her, but traffic was light and apparently innocuous. She felt reasonably safe, in a car that no bad guy could identify as hers.
In time she exited the highway, entered the city of Chester, and drove through its rundown neighborhoods, looking for the right street. Brick rowhouses lined blocks strewn with debris, and shutters hung lopsided on windows insulated with Saran Wrap and covered with iron bars. A hand-lettered beware of dog sign sat stuck in a door, next to a child's drawing of Santa Claus in Crayola colors. Trash cans had been overturned, and old cars sat parked along the streets. She found the house, parked the Kia, and straightened the black NASCAR cap she'd bought as a makeshift disguise at a Wawa convenience store. She checked the rearview and noted that the cuts on her cheeks had grown faint. Things were looking up, if she didn't dwell on that impending homicide charge thing.
She got out of the car, locked it, crossed to the house, and knocked tentatively on the front door, which was opened by an older African American woman who peered timidly around the side of the door. Her eyes were a milky brown and deep-set, cold and flickering with caution, in a full face. Her hair was a straightened and thin gray and she wore it to her chin, with sparse bangs cut midway across her forehead, like a septuagenarian Betty Boop.
"My name is Nat Greco. I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm looking for the residence of Simon Upchurch."
"Buried him Thursday." The old woman frowned, leaning closer to the door.
"I'm sorry. I was at the prison the day he was killed. I wondered if I could come in and talk to you." Nat raised a white bag from Wawa. "I brought some doughnuts."
"I got diabetes."
Or not. "Maybe if I could come in, we could talk. It wouldn't take long."
The woman opened the door a crack and eyed Nat up and down. "You're jes 'a lil' thing."
"Thanks." I think. "It's cold. You must be cold, with the door open."
"I'm warmer 'n you." The old woman smiled crookedly, showing spaces between her teeth, and Nat laughed with her.
"I'm here because I wanted to talk to you about Simon. Was your son?"
"My brother's. I raised him, but he wasn't mine.”
“Could I come in? Please? It's important."
The front door opened a crack, and after a minute, the woman unlocked the barred door and propped it open with a hand. "Thanks," Nat said, stepping inside.
Chapter 30
The woman wore a maroon fleece top with a pair of dark stretch pants, and was short and sturdy as she powered in terrycloth slippers through a darkened living room stuffed with couches, mismatched chairs, several wooden end tables, three old TVs, and four rolled-up rugs. Nat almost tripped on a footstool on her way into a small kitchen, where the woman showed her a wooden chair.
"You can sit here," she said, looping a thick finger around the top rung of the other chair.
"Thanks." Nat set the doughnut bag on the table, only half of which was cleared. The other half held stacks of white plates, two napkin holders, and three sets of identical glass salt-and-pepper shakers, restaurant style. Extra dishes, salad plates, and glasses of various sizes lined the kitchen counters. It was like living in a warehouse, but eccentricity wasn't Nat’s concern. She herself had a To-Be-Read room. "I'm Nat Greco."
"I remember."
"I didn't catch your name."
"I didn't tell you it."
Nat couldn't get her students to participate, either. She wished for a Clinique mustache.
"You don't look like a cop killer," the woman said abruptly.
"You knew who I was?"
"I watch TV. I keep up. You think I don't?"
"Okay, then you know."
"Take off that ugly hat. Take it off."
Nat complied, taking off the hat and setting it next to the doughnuts. "If you knew who I was, why'd you let me in?"
"You didn't do it, did you?"
Nat blinked. "No."
"Just cause the cops say you did it, doesn't mean you did it. Cops lie all the damn time, even on HI' white girls. They lied on Simon. He never shoulda gone to jail." The woman shook her head slowly. After a pause, she said, "Belle Rhoden's my name."
"Pleased to meet you, Belle."
"Call me Mrs. Rhoden. I honor my late husband." I m sorry.
"He died thirty-two years ago. Would you like some water?"
"I'd love some."
Mrs. Rhoden turned, took an upside-down glass from the counter, shut off the tap, and set the glass of water in front of Nat.
"Thanks." Nat took a sip. "I'll get to the point. I was wondering if you could tell me a little bit about Simon."
"What do you mean?"
Nat didn't want to lead with the OxyContin part. "Well, I was at the prison when the riot broke out. I went to get help and I ran into the room where Simon was killed."
Mrs. Rhoden went to the sink, took another glass from the counter, and filled it with water.
“I would have tried to help him, but he was... gone." Nat relived the gruesome scene. Upchurch lying on the floor, the metal blade sticking from his chest. She felt embarrassed that she couldn't remember much more about him. She'd been focused on Saunders because he was still alive. And maybe, she had to admit, because he wasn't an inmate.
Mrs. Rhoden sipped some water, set the glass down on the counter, picked up a paper towel, and set it on the top of the glass, inexplicably.
"One of the C.O.s who was there told me how Simon was killed," Nat said, "but the story doesn't make sense."
"CO. That a guard?"
"Yes."
"What'd he say happened? All they told me was it happened during the riot. That's what the papers said, too." Mrs. Rhoden thought a minute. "I been too upset to think about how he died 'xactly, just yet. They asked me did I want to identify him, and I said, No, sir."
"I understand." Nat paused. "Do you mind talking about it now? It's my understanding that he wasn't killed in the riot."
"Go on ahead."
"Well, the guard said that he and another guard brought Simon into an office because he was caught with marijuana, and that Simon pulled a homemade knife and stabbed Ron Saunders, one of the guards."
Mrs. Rhoden gasped softly, and Nat felt a guilty twinge.
"He said that Simon tried to kill him, too, but they fought for the knife, and the guard killed Simon in self-defense."
"Who told you that?" Mrs. Rhoden asked, her tone limned with anger.
"The guard who survived. Joe Graf."
"That's a flat-out lie, that's what that is."
"Why?" Nat's heartbeat quickened.
"Simon would never stab nobody. It jes' wasn't his nature. He got picked on all his life, beat up. Besides, he wasn't big enough. He was only about a hundred and sixty pounds and five foot seven."
Nat considered the source. Mrs. Rhoden loved her nephew, and she could be in denial. After all, Upchurch had been in prison for something.
"And he never smoked reefer. Ever."
"How do you know?"
"He had asthma very bad."
"Some people with asthma smoke marijuana," Nat said, testing her.
"Not Simon. His father—that's my brother—he died of an asthma attack. Simon was right there, only thirteen. The boy held his own father while he passed, waiting for an ambulance. Reefer would've killed him, and he knew it. Had a problem with cigarettes, even. If he was around cigarette smoke, he couldn't take but a breath."
Nat felt a chill. It rang true. But was Upchurch dealing OxyContin with the C.O.s? "Did Simon know either of the guards, Ron Saunders and Joe Graf?"
"Not that I know of."
"Did you visit Simon at prison?"
"I got no one to take me. He called from time to time."
"When
he called, did he ever mention Graf or Saunders?"
"No, jes' said he was fine, tryin' to keep his nose clean, do his bit, then get out."
Nat mulled it over. "Why was he in the RHU?"
"They said he was a troublemaker, but he wasn't."
Troublemaker. His feud with Graf that Willie Potts had told her about.
" 'Scuse me a minute. Wait here." Mrs. Rhoden left the room and returned with a framed photo and some papers. She handed the photo to Nat. "That's my Simon."
Nat took the photo, which showed a smiling young man in a white polo shirt, his handsome face marred by a large birthmark on his left cheek, pink speckling against dark brown. She hadn't noticed it the day he was killed and realized why. She'd seen only the right side of his face.
"He was twenty-two."
"Young." Nat had students that age. They lived ten miles from here, but theirs was a far different life.
"He didn't have no family but me. His mama lef' a long time ago, and he grew up here in this house, with me. Graduated Chester High, but he had a hard time." Mrs. Rhoden shook her head. "The kids teased him all the time on account of his birthmark. Called him names. He jes' los' his way at school."
"Did he work after he graduated?"
"Sure, he did. He wasn't triflin.' He spent all his extra time on the computer, I think it was easier than bein' with people and get-tin stared at. Came to me one day, sayin' we could sell things on the computer, on eBay. I never heard of it before but, sure enough, he was right." Mrs. Rhoden's deep-set eyes lit up at the memory. "Oh, we sold glasses and spoons, everything and anything we could get our hands on, from church sales and garage sales. He showed me how to use the camera and take the pictures, and write about the forks and things. He did most of the computer. Oh, it was quite a little business. I was waitin' for him to get out, but..." Her voice trailed off.
"I'm so sorry."
Mrs. Rhoden waved off Nat's attempt at sympathy.
"So how did he end up in jail?"
"He wrote his name on a check that come in. He got in trouble for fraud, forgery. It was a mistake. The public lawyer told him to agree to the plea bargain and he wouldn't go to jail but three months. He made his plea, and that damn judge gave him two years." Mrs. Rhoden sighed. "He had done a year and seven months when he got killed.
Nat handed her back the photo, wondering about the papers in Mrs. Rhoden's hand.
"A man came here, from the prison. He's the one who told me about Simon."
"Who?"
"Mr. Machik."
Nat blinked. "He was here? When?"
"Came over the very night it happened. Sat right where you are now."
"Really." Nat was kicking herself. She should have expected Machik would contact Upchurch's family.
"I tell you, he knew better than to say anything to me about Simon stabbin' some guards. He gave me these to sign." Mrs. Rhoden finally handed Nat the papers.
"It's a release," Nat said, scanning the document. "A standard form release, saying you won't sue them over Simon's death." She thumbed quickly to the signature page. "You didn't sign it, thank God."
"No, I didn't. You think I would?"
"I'm just happy you didn't. He shouldn't have showed you this, without you having a lawyer. That's taking advantage."
"I know that. You think I didn't?"
I give up. "How much did he offer you, to sign it?"
"Fifty thousand dollars."
Whoa. "That's real money."
"He wanted me to sign right on the spot. I wouldn't hear anything about that." Mrs. Rhoden's upper lip curled slightly. "I tol' him, I was insulted. Talkin' about money at a time like that. I hadn't even picked out that child's casket!'
"So what happened?"
"I threw him out."
Good for you." Nat's thoughts raced ahead. The offer was more than nuisance value. Machik knew Graf had been up to no good. Nat went back to Angus's theory that Upchurch had simply been executed. He must have double-crossed them on a drug deal. Or not paid off, or maybe skimmed profits. And if Machik was covering it up, was he in on it, too?
"I told him nothing would bring Simon back, and he didn't come here to talk about Simon, he came to get me to sign that paper. Phony."
"So you don't believe the story they told me, about what happened in that room?"
"Hell, no. Hell, no."
Nat hesitated. "This may be a rude question, but if there were some kind of drug dealing in the prison, do you think Simon would have been involved in it?"
"No."
Hmmm. "Why not?"
"If he were gonna do that, he could've done that on the corner." Mrs. Rhoden gestured toward the front door. "But he didn't. It wasn't his way. He was here all the time, on eBay, putting up the pictures and taking the bids. We lived on what we had. He kept to himself, like a little mouse."
Gnat. "Did he ever take OxyContin for any reason that you know?"
Mrs. Rhoden squinted. "Oxyclean?"
"OxyContin. It's a painkiller. A pill."
"No. Simon never took pills like that."
Nat wasn't convinced. "Does Simon have a bedroom here?"
"Surely."
"Would you mind if I looked in it?"
"For why?" Mrs. Rhoden lifted a graying eyebrow, and Nat had to tell the truth.
"I have no idea."
Chapter 31
Nat hustled to the Kia in the cold, wrapping the down jacket around her. She hadn't learned anything from her search of Upchurch's bedroom, which had been remarkably clean and neat, containing only a double bed, dressers full of folded clothes, and a fake-leather box of assorted jewelry. She'd looked through his desk and papers for a drug stash that didn't exist, and his check register showed no amount greater than three figures. She'd even gone through his computer files, but they held only eBay URLs, a variety of blogs, and a modest collection of online porn. She'd thanked Mrs. Rhoden, but left with more questions than answers. And the doughnuts.
She jumped into the cold little car, started the engine, and hit the road. She picked up the cell phone, still plugged in. She couldn't wait to tell Angus that his theory wasn't so crazy after all, and she wanted to talk about those videotapes, too. She pressed the number for the hospital and, when the operator came on, asked for Angus's room.
Mr. Holt was discharged," the operator said.
Thank you." Nat hung up and tried Angus's office, but there was no answer and the voicemail machine was full. She called information, asking for Angus Holt in the Philadelphia area, but he was unlisted. Damn. Nat went for the Wawa bag while she tried to figure out her next move. The soft glazed doughnut pinched perfectly between her fingers, tasted delicious, and left pasty sugar on her hand. The car warmed up, and the sugar rushed her brain. She'd have to wait on the videotapes, but maybe there was another way to find out what had happened in that prison room. By the time she finished the doughnut, she had another idea. But first she needed to run an errand. She hit the gas.
A half an hour later, she was slipping into a gas station bathroom with a plastic CVS bag and your basic key-on-a-gross-wooden-block, favored by the finest restrooms. She set the plastic bag in the filthy sink, covering its brown tear of rust. She wasn't in love with this part of the plan, but she had no choice. The CVS clerk had looked at her funny, and if Mrs. Rhoden had recognized her, others would, too. She slid off the NASCAR cap and shook out her hair, which fell to her shoulders. She took a red Goody comb from the CVS bag, brushed her hair, and then bade it goodbye. She'd had the same haircut since French II, so maybe it was time for a change.
She got her new scissors from the bag and unwrapped them, then grabbed a hank of dark hair and cut it off about three inches from her head. The scissors groaned as they cut, or she did, and she went quickly around her head, chopping her hair into short, chunky pieces. Dark strands fell into the sink, and when she had cut off enough, she ruffled up her head, shedding tiny brown filaments that fell like cinders from the sky after Fourth of July fireworks.
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Daddy's Girl Page 21
