Daddy's Girl

by Lisa Scottoline

She appraised the new face in the mirror. Large brown eyes, small nose, bad hair, and no lip gloss; she looked like herself at age three. Not a good look for a single girl, but she didn't need a date. She shook her head and smiled. She actually liked it. Her head felt light and free, if colder. She went into the CVS bag and got her new pink glasses, the weakest prescription they had, and put them on. Funky. Cool. Artsy. Blurry. She went back into the bag one last time and extracted the big box. HIGH DIMENSION BLEACH BLONDE. High Speed Bleach Blonding! Yours in only ten to thirty minutes!

  "Prove it," Nat said aloud, and got busy.

  Forty minutes later, she was back in the Kia a completely different woman, in a punky white-blond haircut, funky glasses, and more makeup than most legal historians. She checked the rearview at a stoplight, satisfied that she'd changed her appearance enough to go forward. She'd been aiming for boho art major, but was settling for nearsighted coke whore.

  She got the address from Information and drove to a street off Ship Road in suburban Exton, home of the Phoenix Construction Company. She remembered the name from the trailer at the prison and she knew how construction companies worked. There had to be laborers who had demolished the room where Upchurch had been killed. Maybe she could talk to one. Or perhaps someone else from the company would know where the debris from the room had been taken, the bloody rug and even the drywall. The construction company was using a Dumpster at the site, and she remembered Machik saying that it had been taken away. Maybe she could find out where.

  She ate the second doughnut for courage, then drove up to the building. She parked in a small parking lot out front, which contained only a single car, and scanned the squat, two-story brick building. It had a white-painted sign that swung on a hinged holder off the side, and the entrance was painted loden green, next to a metal garage door. She got out of the Kia and walked to the entrance in the sunny cold. A stiff wind swept past, and her hand went reflexively to hold back her hair, but it wasn't there anymore.

  She zipped up her down jacket and tried to develop a plausible cover story. She wasn't dressed for Homeowner Seeking a Contractor and wondered if she could sell Hooker Seeking Crown Molding. She'd go with the flow. She was feeling bolder, now that she wasn't herself anymore.

  She opened the door, which set chimes ringing, and went inside.

  Chapter 32

  Nat stood still, confused at the sight. Dominating the waiting room of the small construction office was an old-fashioned portrait of a man who looked remarkably familiar. He had dark hair and a mustache, and wore an old-fashioned suit. She crossed to the picture and read the metal plaque underneath: Our Founder, Joseph Graf, Sr.

  Joseph Graf, Sr. ? Was the man related to Joe Graf, the CO. from the prison? The man had to be his father, didn't he?

  "May I help you, dear?" asked a woman who bustled in from an open doorway in the back of the room. She was about fiftyish, with big blue eyes, a pleasant smile, and graying brown hair that went all the way to her waist. She wore a tan sweatshirt with the letters FFA, with jeans and sneakers.

  Nat tried to collect her thoughts. "This is the company founder, huh?"

  "He was. Mr. Graf died many years ago. His son Jim runs the business now."

  "Its funny. He looks exactly like a guy who was in the newspaper the other day. I forget what the story was about."

  "Oh, the fussing at the prison. That was Jim's brother, Joe. He works there."

  "Right, that was it." Nat figured her makeover was working. "I saw a Phoenix trailer at the prison just the other day, when I drove past."

  "Sure, that's our job. How can I help you, honey?" The woman bent over and straightened the magazines on the coffee table. "We're not open today, but I have to come in. The filing never ends."

  Nat thought fast. "Funny, that's what I came about. I need a job, and filing sounds great to me."

  "Really?" The woman burst into a smile, then reached out her hand and shook Nat's warmly. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Agnes Grady Chesko. What's your name? I didn't even ask."

  Uh. Nat's gaze fell to the magazines. Car & Driver. "Carr. Pat Carr."

  "Well, Pat, I manage the office, do the books, and keep a whole crew of crazy guys paid. I'm what they used to call 'chief cook and bottle washer,' but you're too young to know that expression." Agnes eyed her. "You still in high school?"

  "Uh, no. I had a year of college. I was an art major."

  "That's nice. Where?"

  Somewhere far away. "University of Wisconsin, but I'm taking a leave. During the week I have a regular job."

  "What do you do?"

  Something believable. "I work at a bookstore in town."

  "Oh, I never go into Philly. It's too far, and I hate to pay for parking."

  "I could really use a Saturday job, just for the extra money."

  "We couldn't pay much. Maybe minimum wage."

  "Tell you what. Please, give me a tryout, for free, today. If you like what I do, then keep me at minimum wage."

  Agnes brightened. "So, you want 'pin money,' we used to say."

  "We call it tuition money."

  "Good one!" Agnes clapped her on the back, and Nat almost hit the wall. "I like a good sense of humor. You'll need it when you see that filing."

  "I can handle it. I'm good at the alphabet."

  "Hallelujah, looks like my prayers have been answered." Agnes laughed again and threw up her hands. "Come back into my nest, and I'll show you the ropes."

  Yay! Nat felt a tingle of excitement. They walked down a short hallway with an office and another door to the right. Nat looked over. "Is that the boss's office?"

  "Yep, he's not in much. He's always out at jobs. We've got twenty-three employees including me, full time, and we sub out the rest. Here's my den." Agnes gestured at a cramped office with a single window and a funny smell. A black metal desk covered with knickknacks sat against the back wall, and gray filing cabinets lined the interior wall, along with a messy shelf of black notebooks of building codes. Agnes stepped over to her desk, which held a large cardboard box, full of papers. "This is my filing, a year's worth."

  Yikes. "Yikes." Nat went to the box and peeked inside. There had to be invoices in there from the Dumpster company at the prison. In fact, there should be a file on the prison job somewhere in this office, if the place worked the way Greco Construction did. "I assume every job has its own file."

  "Right." Agnes took the top invoice from the pile, which read, John Taylor Residence, then crossed to the drawer and pulled out a manila folder labeled, Taylor Residence, John. "This is obviously the job name, so you put the invoice in the job file. It's not rocket science."

  "Gotcha. Residential jobs go by first letter of the last name, and commercial jobs go by the first letter of the company?"

  "Exactly. You catch on quick."

  It's that Yale law degree.

  "I'll get to work and catch up on my payroll. It'll be nice to have somebody else to talk to back here, especially another girl."

  "Great." Rats. Nat had been hoping Agnes would leave her alone with the files. She slid off her coat, set it on the back of a chair, and picked up the filing box, getting a stronger whiff of that funny smell.

  She looked down and almost jumped. A ferret slept on its back, on a net stretched over a blue plastic box. Its back legs flopped open pornographically. "Is that a ferret?"

  "Sorry, I should have introduced you." Agnes sat down at her desk and pulled her keyboard closer. "That's Frankie, my loverboy. Isn't he so cute?"

  "So cute." But is he gonna close his legs anytime soon? Nat picked up the filing box and set it nearer the file cabinets. "I'll get this off your desk so you can work."

  "Good idea." Agnes switched on a black Sony boombox on the credenza behind her. "Hope you don't mind the oldies station. I'm talking the fifties."

  "Fine with me," Nat said, until a woman started singing that she'd die if a man didn't call her. No wonder women were so messed up. It's a wonder we could even walk.

&nbs
p; "I'm a big Frankie Valli fan. He sang 'Sherry' and 'You're Just Too Good to Be True.' You know those songs?"

  "Yes, sure." Nat went through the top papers. Another bill for John Taylor Residence, then some lumber ordered from Tague for the Shields Family Addition. She took both bills and went to the correct drawers, starting with the Ts, in case Agnes was watching her.

  "They did a show about them on Broadway. Jersey Boys. I went with my girlfriends. Oh, did we have fun." Agnes's fingers flew across the keyboard, pounding like a rainstorm. "My friend Danielle threw a bra on the stage."

  "Was it hers?"

  Agnes laughed, and Nat kept her distracted.

  "Is Frankie the ferret named for Frankie Valli?"

  "Aren't you the detective!"

  One can only hope. "No, I'd be a bad detective. I'd be a great construction worker, though. I used to think it would be fun to do the demolition part, like where you take apart rooms."

  "Yeah, get all your aggressions out."

  "Right. Do you have employees here that do that? Maybe I can get a transfer."

  "Ha! The Mexicans do that, mostly. They don't even speak English."

  Damn. "It still sounds like fun, except for the cleanup. Where do they take all that stuff? Throw it in Dumpsters, right?"

  "Now that's not a job you’d want."

  "You do that yourselves or you have a Dumpster company?"

  "We use a company, whichever one's local to the job."

  "So how long have you had Frankie?" Nat went back to the box, took off the top few papers, and held them close to her chest as she went over to the C drawers, for Chester County Correctional Institution. She wanted that job file.

  "Five years, and I don't have him. He has me."

  Aw. "I used to have a cat, so I know what you mean." Nat checked the Cs, which were spread over two drawers, C-A to C-I and C-I to C-U. She went for the bottom drawer. "I don't know much about ferrets. Educate me."

  "First thing you have to know is ferrets aren't rodents. They're cousins of weasels, otters, and skunks."

  Nat slid open the bottom C drawer as Agnes typed and talked.

  "Ferrets are closer to dogs, more like dogs than cats. They make wonderful pets. Here's a fun fact. Ferrets are illegal in California."

  "Why?" The stench? Nat thumbed through the C files. Chester County Dance Studio Addition, Chester County Petting Zoo, Chester County VFW Post. No Chester County Correctional file. Why?

  "Discrimination, that's why. Discrimination and misinformation. The California legislature thinks that ferrets will turn feral, but they misconstrue the species." Agnes typed away. "Did you know that dog bites send a million people to the emergency room each year? But dogs aren't illegal. Ferrets are just plain discriminated against."

  "That's not fair." Nat thumbed through the folders again, looking for the Chester County Correctional file. No luck. She searched the rest of the second drawer in case it was misfiled, but still no luck.

  "Feral cats are lawful, and isn't that just so ironic? That's one of our arguments." Agnes's voice grew urgent, and she typed even faster. "I'm a member of Ferret Fanciers of America, and we petitioned California to legalize ferret ownership. Governor Schwarzenegger just isn't responding."

  "That's too bad." Nat closed the drawer and went back for another set of papers. Where could that file be? She picked up some papers and rifled though them. "By the way, do you keep copies of these receipts at the jobsites, too?"

  "No, all the paperwork is here at the office. It would get lost on site. These guys would lose their heads if they weren't attached."

  "For every job?”

  “Yes."

  Hmm. So the prison file wouldn't be in the construction trailer at the prison. "That makes sense."

  "There are a few special job files in Jim's office, though. He started keeping the real active jobs in there, since he's always referring to the files. If you have filing and can't find the job file, just give it to me and I'll go in to his office."

  "Okay. I don't yet." Nat turned away with the papers. So that answered her question. "Now, you were teaching me about ferrets."

  "Well, the Latin name of the domestic pet ferret is Mustela furo, and it's not a wild animal. They've been domesticated for a long, long time. Two or three thousand years."

  "Really?" Nat filed the last few invoices, thinking of a way to get into the boss's office for the file.

  "They're often confused with their cousins, the North American black-footed ferret, or Mustela nigripes"

  Nat checked her watch: 12:05. It gave her an idea, and she straightened up. "By the way, have you eaten lunch? I haven't."

  "It is that time, isn't it?" Agnes looked up from her keyboard, her eyes bright. "Goody! Let's go to McDonald's. I'll bring Frankie in his Ferret Ferry. I wear it on my shoulder, and it looks exactly like a purse."

  Bet it doesn't. "I have too much filing to go out on my first day. Either you could go out if you wanted a break, or I could go out and bring you something back."

  "Oh, right." Agnes thought a minute. "I should stay here to do payroll, so it would be great if you ran out and got the food. Do you mind?"

  "Not at all. I'm the gofer."

  "Gophers are in the Geomyidae family. Ferrets are in the Mustelidae family. We're ferret fans, here." Agnes laughed, and Nat smiled.

  "Now, what would you like from McDonald's?"

  "Do you know where it is?"

  No. "Yes."

  "Good. A Big Mac with a Diet Coke. Thanks."

  "Okay. It'll be my treat, since you're giving me a chance today."

  "You're too nice." Agnes smiled, and Nat grabbed her coat guiltily.

  "Hang in. I'll be right back."

  "We'll see you soon."

  "We?"

  "Me and Frankie."

  "Right." Nat looked down at the ferret. His legs were still open. Okay, him I won't miss.

  She hurried from the office and made noisy footsteps to the door, then opened the door so the chimes would ring and let it slam loudly, as if she had left the building. Then she hurried back, as lightly on her feet as she could, holding her breath as she slipped past the open doorway to Agnes's office.

  She took a quick left, stole down the hall, and darted into Jim Graf's office, her heart pounding. She scanned the room in a flash. Desk, computer, TV, building codes. File cabinets behind the desk. She ran for them, opened the cabinet quietly, and thumbed through the manila files. Albemarle Residence, Boston Pizza addition, Chester County Correctional Institution.

  There! Nat slid the folder out, shoved it under her coat, then closed the drawer silently. She ran out of the boss's office, tiptoed past Agnes's doorway, and hurried out to the front door—where she stopped, stumped. If she ran out, the door chimes would go off. It wouldn't take Agnes long to figure out which file was missing, and if she linked the prison file to Nat, her bleached-blond cover could be blown. She opened the door and closed it again, letting the chimes go off, then walked back noisily to Agnes's office and poked her head in the doorway.

  "I forgot your order," she said, faking a frown.

  Agnes looked up from the keyboard. Frankie slept soundly in his net, and somebody on the radio was wearing blue velvet. "Big Mac and a Diet Coke."

  "Got it. Sorry. See you," Nat said, and took off. She couldn't wait to get out of there and read the folder.

  It was almost Too Good To Be True.

  Half an hour later, Nat parked the Kia behind a Wawa, sipped a fresh, hot coffee, and inhaled half of a turkey hoagie with provolone while she opened the Chester County Correctional file. It was at least three inches thick, and the top invoice was from CCWM, for Chester County Waste Management.

  Bingo! She went through the entire file and pulled out all the CCWM invoices. There were four, and she set them side by side on her lap. An invoice was sent in June, September, November, and February. This month. Four Dumpsters hauled off, at a cost of $1,749.00. The February Dumpster had been taken away the day after the riot.
She considered the pattern. Four months for the first Dumpster. Four for the second. One for the last. It stunk worse than ferrets. She reached for the borrowed cell phone and pressed the number for CCWM, but the machine said they were closed on the weekend.

  Nat sighed, then noticed an icon on the phone. She'd gotten a message from Angus's number. She used the password Bill had given her, got to voicemail, then recognized the caller's voice, with a tiny fluttering.

  "Natalie, it's Angus, and I got your message at my office." He sounded anxious, and urgent. "Call me as soon as you get this. The D.A.'s looking for you. They found the murder weapon in a field."