Identity
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Publishers Since 1838
Published by the Penguin Group
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Copyright © 2014 by Ingrid Thoft
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Thoft, Ingrid.
Identity / Ingrid Thoft.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-101-59635-7
1. Women private investigators—Fiction. 2. Paternity—Fiction. 3. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3620.H58I44 2014 2013050432
813'.6—dc23
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
For the usual suspects,
Doug Berrett
and
Judith Stone Thoft,
and a few new ones:
Erika Thoft-Brown,
Lisa Thoft,
and
Kirsten Thoft
CONTENTS
Blood trickled out of her nostril onto her upper lip. It tasted metallic when the tip of her tongue instinctively swiped at it.
“Really?” Fina asked.
“Oh my God. I can’t believe I just did that.” Haley stood rooted to the floor, her gloved hands limp at her sides.
Fina freed her hand from the sweaty glove and grabbed a towel to blot her nose. “At least we know you can get in touch with your inner anger.”
“Aunt Fina, I’m so sorry.” Haley wrestled off her gloves and followed Fina over to a bench at the edge of the gym. “Should I get some ice or something?”
Fina gingerly palpated her nose with her fingertips. “It isn’t broken.”
Haley leaned back against the exposed brick wall. “I’m so sorry.” She looked genuinely distressed.
Fina swatted at her with the towel. “I’m fine. You think one errant punch is going to do me in?”
“I guess not.”
“Hey, you’ve thrown your first punch and drawn blood. I’m proud of you, sweetie. You’re a true Ludlow now.”
Haley looked doubtful. “If you say so.”
“How about a clean towel? That would help,” Fina said.
Haley made a beeline for the desk near the front door of the small bare-bones gym. Fina didn’t frequent the establishment, but it was in her neighborhood, and the signs for self-defense and kickboxing classes had piqued her curiosity. Her brothers had taught her to fight, and she didn’t understand why it wasn’t an equally valued skill set for girls and young women. Certainly it was more useful than sewing a button onto a shirt.
At the desk an older gentleman with cauliflower for ears handed Haley a fresh towel. Fina was dabbing at her nostril with it when her phone rang.
“Yes, Father?” she said when she answered.
“What are you doing?” Carl asked.
“Teaching your granddaughter essential life skills.”
The line was silent for a moment. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”
“Trust me, I’m doing you a favor.”
“Well, wrap it up. I need you in the office.”
“What’s going on?”
The phone went dead.
Ahh. Another satisfying father-daughter interaction.
• • •
Fina Ludlow was the private investigator at the family law firm. Ignoring her boss—her father, Carl—wasn’t an option. She walked Haley to the T, then grabbed a quick shower at home, where she pulled on some jeans and a fitted T-shirt and put her hair in a bun. When actively working a case, Fina opted for sensible shoes, but not knowing the nature of the summons, she grabbed a pair of black strappy sandals. It was the end of August, and the Boston weather couldn’t make up its mind: Summer? Fall? Summer? Fall? It had settled somewhere in between; cool breezes alternating with humid, still air.
Carl was sitting behind his desk when Fina arrived, a remote control
pointed at the TV. A fifty-five-inch version of her father stared back, urging them to call the 800 number at the bottom of the screen.
“You make a habit of watching your own commercials?” Fina asked.
“I approve everything before it airs.”
As a teenager, Fina had been embarrassed by the television ads hawking Carl’s talents as a personal injury attorney. It was bad enough that her friends saw them between episodes of
21 Jump Street
and
Cheers
, but a family trip to San Diego revealed the true extent of her father’s reach: his ads ran nationwide. People she’d never met had formed a likely negative opinion of her family. When Fina and her brothers complained about the notoriety, Carl reminded them that there would be no fancy trips or designer jeans without the ads, which was true, but Fina couldn’t help but notice that her classmates got the same spoils from parents performing arthroscopic surgery and building skyscrapers downtown. Over the years, though, Fina grew to understand that the family firm had its redeeming qualities. They were the top dogs who represented the underdogs. Sometimes, Ludlow and Associates was the only option for poor souls down on their luck.
Carl gestured at his doppelgänger onscreen. “That tie is bothering me.”
Fina shrugged. “Looks fine to me.”
“Not that I should be taking style advice from you,” Carl commented, hitting pause, freezing himself. “You couldn’t bother to dress up a little?”
“For what? You wouldn’t tell me what’s going on.”
“We have a potential client. She’ll be here any minute.”
“Who is it?”
“Renata Sanchez.”
“Renata.” She contemplated the name for a moment. “Renata from the Ramirez case?”
“That’s the one.”
Renata Sanchez had been a peripheral witness in a lawsuit a few years earlier. Fina had done some basic background on her and a phone
interview, though they’d never met in person. She was the director of the Urban Housing Collaborative, an organization dedicated to addressing the housing challenges of the poor. She was a heroine or a pain in the ass, depending on whom you asked, and she didn’t shy away from controversy.
Fina walked over to the bar tucked into the corner of the office. She pulled out a cold diet soda.
“That stuff is crap, you know,” Carl commented.
“You think?” Fina asked, eyeballing the bottles of booze on the bar. Carl took good care of himself—his broad shoulders and flat stomach belied his age—but he had a selective memory when it came to his own vices.
Carl ignored her and clicked his mouse. Fina popped open the can and sat down across from him. She took a sip.
“So, tell me about Renata.” Fina put her soda on the desk and rocked onto the back legs of the chair. The furniture in Carl’s office was high-end and contemporary. Glass and leather dominated and symbolized his approach to the law: Carl was interested in breaking new ground, not upholding the traditions passed down through generations. The space was dotted with sports memorabilia and black-and-white photographs of Boston’s twenty-first-century landscape. An antique map of Boston Harbor would never adorn these walls.
“You break it, you buy it,” Carl said, gesturing at the precarious tilt of his daughter’s chair.
Fina rolled her eyes. “The case?”
“It’s a doozy.” He brushed the lapel of his jacket. “She wants to sue the cryobank that provided the sperm for her kid.”
“Why? Is there something wrong with the kid?”
“No. She thinks she and her daughter have a right to know the sperm donor’s identity, despite signing off on an anonymous donation seventeen years ago.”
Fina gently squeezed her nose. “There’s no way she can win.”
“Maybe not.”
“So why are we even meeting with her?”
“I want to see how it plays out.”
“Sounds like a waste of time to me.” Fina dropped the front chair legs back to the floor.
“Let me worry about that.” Carl narrowed his gaze. “Is that blood?”
“What?” Fina reached up to her nose and dabbed at a lone drop that had materialized. “Damn. I thought I stopped it.” She rummaged in her bag for a tissue and blotted her nostril.
“Very classy,” Carl remarked.
“Ms. Sanchez is here,” Carl’s assistant, Shari, said, poking her head into the office before Fina could respond.
Carl nodded and straightened his tie. Shari returned with a woman who couldn’t have topped five feet two, her short stature only reinforced by her bottom-heavy physique. She had short wavy hair that was rich dark brown and skin the color of light brown sugar. Her pantsuit was black and looked inexpensive, but any lack of sartorial prowess was compensated for by her posture. She stood erect and looked Carl in the eye when he got up and shook her hand.
“Carl,” she said.
