Identity (10 page)

“Are you checking out those guys?” Cristian asked.

“No, just trying to wrap my head around adolescence. You couldn’t pay me to be that age again.”

“This age isn’t always so great, either,” Cristian remarked.

“True, but there’s something particularly cruel about having your body calling the shots. At least adult angst isn’t completely evident to the rest of the world.”

He stretched his legs out in front of him. “So give me some details about this guy.”

“Well, as you know, his name is Brad Martin. Can’t get any more vanilla than that. He’s thirty-six years old, works for an insurance company, and owns a town house in Burlington.”

“Does he have a record?” Cristian asked, poking a tiny straw through the foil top of a juice box. “Teo! Juice?”

Matteo abandoned his work moving all of the sand in the sandbox out of the sandbox and trundled over. He smiled at his father, his cheeks plump like a little chipmunk’s.

“You are one good-looking kid, Matteo,” Fina commented, and watched him wrap his lips around the tiny straw. He sucked up the juice, which dribbled on his chin.

“I hungry, Papa.”

Cristian rooted around in a Thomas the Tank Engine backpack and pulled out a bag of Goldfish crackers. Matteo draped himself over Cristian’s lap, his head toward the ground. He shoved a couple of crackers in his mouth and chewed.

Fina tilted her head and looked at him. “That can’t be easy.”

“Teo, sit up. You can’t swallow hanging upside down.”

The child pushed himself up and continued chewing. He crammed the fish in his mouth like a prisoner breaking a hunger strike.

A light breeze ruffled the leaves. After a minute, Matteo pushed the near-empty bag into his father’s lap and returned to his work in the sandbox.

“Matteo, you’re supposed to keep the sand in the sandbox, buddy,” Cristian called out to him. “He’s totally ignoring me.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t think he’s got the attention span to finish the job,” Fina commented. “Any moment now a leaf will blow into his peripheral vision that will require his expertise.”

“So, criminal record?” Cristian asked.

“Nope. He’s got a lot of parking tickets, but so do lots of people.”

“I hate the parking ticket thing,” Cristian commented.

“I know you do,” Fina said, patting his hand.

“Seriously. Read the signs, and if you screw up, pay the ticket. How hard is that?”

“Very, it would seem.”

“Debt?”

“Nothing jumps out. I just covered the basics but didn’t turn up anything.”

“Maybe you should do some surveillance.”

“Of what?” Fina looked at him. “Him microwaving his Swanson TV dinner before sitting down in front of
Dancing with the Stars
?”

“It’s not as crazy as you make it sound.”

“It’s a little crazy, but I’ll keep looking. I haven’t exhausted all the options yet.”

Matteo ran over to the bench and inserted himself between Cristian and Fina.

“Ina!” he exclaimed, and wiped his snotty nose on her bare arm.

“I love you, too, Matteo.” She held her arm, smeared with snot, toward Cristian. “Really?”

“And you don’t think you’re cut out for motherhood?” He laughed and ran a baby wipe over her arm.

Fina averted her gaze and enjoyed the physical contact with Cristian. There was a coolness in the light breeze, alluding to fall’s
imminent arrival. After a moment, Fina’s attention wandered across the street, where a man lingered by a car. He pressed a phone up to his ear. Fina studied him.

“See that guy over there?” She nodded in his direction.

Cristian glanced up. “Yeah. What about him?”

“I don’t know. He just looks familiar. Does he look familiar to you?”

Cristian stuffed the snotty wipe into a baggie and stared at the man. Aware of the attention, the man started walking down the block at a brisk pace.

“Not to me. Is someone following you?”

“I’m not sure.” Fina ran her fingers through Matteo’s dark brown curly locks. “If he is, our paths will cross before too long.”

“Ah. Something to look forward to.”

“Indeed.”

•   •   •

Fina almost fell off the couch that afternoon when her browser refreshed and a large photo of Hank Reardon was splashed across Boston.com. Captain of industry, pillar of society, husband, father, philanthropist. And now, Hank had a new item to add to his résumé: donor baby daddy.

Carl was unavailable, and Renata’s phone went straight to voice mail. Fina spent the next couple of hours watching as all hell broke loose in cyberspace. When she learned that Carl had left the office for the day, she knew a house call was in order, as much as she disliked visiting the familial home.

•   •   •

Juliana Reardon looked at the photo on Boston.com and sighed. The new Mrs. Reardon always got top billing—even when the news was bad—and the old Mrs. Reardon was generally relegated to a small link at the bottom of the page.

Juliana was the old Mrs. Reardon.

She’d married Hank Reardon before he was a household name, before his net worth numbered in the billions. They’d been college sweethearts and then raised their son as Hank built his empire. There had been happy times—or at least satisfactory ones—but that had ended five years ago when they’d divorced. Juliana had outgrown her role as corporate wife and started to care about things other than flower arrangements and ski vacations. Her more active participation in the community was okay by Hank, until it started taking her away from him. By that time she was more interested in choosing the paint colors for the Reardon Breast Cancer Center for Reflection and Rejuvenation, and the writing was on the wall.

It hadn’t taken long for Hank to replace her with Danielle, a beautiful woman almost young enough to be his daughter. Juliana hadn’t expected him to stay single, and his choice of mate wasn’t really that surprising, but it wounded her deeply nonetheless. Juliana knew she had more to offer than Danielle—more intelligence and experience—but that didn’t seem to matter much nowadays. Danielle was young and pretty in a stereotypical California beach girl kind of way. No matter how many triathlons Juliana did, her butt would never be as perky as Danielle’s, her face never as unlined.

She could have accepted that given her other assets: She was the mother of Hank’s son and the face of Reardon philanthropy, but Danielle was chipping away at those advantages, too. She’d given birth to a daughter, Aubrey, and was becoming increasingly involved in charity work throughout the city. Some organizations were even starting to favor the new Mrs. Reardon over the old Mrs. Reardon, which was appalling. When Danielle was in diapers, Juliana had already raised millions of dollars for Boston’s needy, and this was how they expressed their gratitude? By replacing her?

Well, now the shit was really hitting the fan, and for once, maybe being the old Mrs. Reardon wasn’t so bad. True, Hank had donated the sperm when he and Juliana were on a “break” shortly after college, but the focus right now would be on him and, therefore, Danielle. And the
cryokids coming out of the woodwork? They were Danielle’s problem, at least for the time being.

•   •   •

Carl and Elaine lived in an enormous stone and shingle house in a wooded neighborhood in Chestnut Hill, ten minutes from Scotty’s house. Her parents had an affection for new houses that were built to look old, an approach that never worked as far as Fina was concerned. Those houses always had a Disneyesque feel to them, and it wasn’t as if there weren’t plenty of authentically old houses. They lived in New England, for goodness’ sake.

The façade of the house had odd proportions: windows that looked too big and a circular outcropping of glass that interrupted the sight line. Fina pulled up to the four-car garage and let herself into the mudroom. She crept in, hoping that she could make it to her father’s office unscathed, but her plans were torpedoed as soon as she entered the kitchen.

Elaine was standing in front of the open refrigerator in a nightgown and robe. She wore slippers festooned with feathers.

“What are you doing here so late?” her mother asked.

“I need to talk to Dad.”

Elaine pulled out a bowl covered in plastic wrap. She peeled back a corner and sniffed.

“Looks like banana pudding to me,” Fina said, looking over her mother’s shoulder.

“I know what it is.”

“Then why are you smelling it?”

“I’m trying to decide if I want any.”

“I’m sure there’s some stuff for a salad in there,” Fina offered. “Nothing like a salad to hit the spot.”

Her mother frowned and put the bowl on the spotless counter. She reached into a drawer and extracted a spoon, which she dipped into the thick confection.

“Is Dad in his office?”

“He’s downstairs, in the wine cellar.”

Fina left her mother to her pudding and took the stairs down to the lower level of the house, which had a workout room, screening room, laundry area, and wine cellar. Fina went to the end of the hallway and knocked before opening the door.

Her father looked up. The room was the size of some studio apartments, with every inch of wall covered by racks of wine bottles. There was a granite island in the middle of the space, surrounded by bar stools. Carl was examining a couple of bottles.

“We need to talk,” Fina said.

Carl studied the racks. It was only in the last ten years that Carl had developed an interest in wine. Fina couldn’t tell if he was genuinely interested or if it was a rich man’s pursuit that he needed to get in on. She found the topic to be a complete snooze fest.

Carl reached over and pulled out two more bottles, which he set down next to the others. “This can’t be good.”

“Renata went to the press.”

Carl stared at her. “That woman! I told her not to talk to anyone.”

Fina rested her butt on one of the stools. “I don’t think Renata’s a great listener.”

“I want you at her place first thing tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“To see where she’s going with this campaign of hers.”

“She’s made it clear where she’s going, don’t you think?”

Carl uncorked a bottle and poured a small amount into a red wine glass. He proceeded to swirl the glass, then study and smell the liquid before taking a sip. He passed the glass to Fina. She sipped.

“Can you taste the black pepper in the finish?” he asked, taking it back.

“No more than I can taste the pickle.”

Carl snorted, poured himself a full glass, and corked the bottle.

“Just go over there and take stock. I’ll call Jules.”

“She’s really screwed her bargaining position.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. There’s nothing like the court of public opinion to inspire people to be generous.”

“I’ll be in touch.” Fina pulled the wine cellar door closed behind her.

It was kind of sad, her parents indulging their appetites alone, on different floors. But maybe that was the key to their long union.

Whoever was outside Fina’s door was annoyingly persistent. It was seven thirty in the morning, and she wasn’t in the mood for a visitor.

“Really?” Fina asked when she opened the door to Milloy.

He handed her a cup from the café across the street. “It’s hot chocolate.”

Fina took off the plastic top and inhaled the rich aroma. “What’s so important? Not that I don’t love seeing you.”

“I was in the neighborhood, and I thought I was a better wake-up call than Carl. He’s going to be calling you any minute.”

“Why?” Fina asked, and led him back to the bedroom. She climbed under the covers and invited Milloy to join her. He sat on top of the duvet and sipped his coffee.

“Hank Reardon is dead.”

Fina started, and hot chocolate jumped out of the cup onto her hand. “Ouch.” She licked her hand, which then burned her tongue. “Dammit. Okay. Start over.”

“Hank Reardon was killed last night or early this morning. Too soon to know.”

“Please tell me it was an accident.”

Milloy grinned.

“I’m having trouble wrapping my head around this.” She looked at him. “This isn’t good.”

“Do you think it’s related to your investigation?”

“It seems awfully coincidental. Fuck. I’m not usually involved in a case until
after
the victim dies.”

“Don’t jump to any conclusions.”

Fina’s phone rang. She reached over and looked at the screen. “Yes, Dad,” she answered.

“You heard?”

“I heard.” Fina raised her hot chocolate in salute to Milloy.

“Come in so we can get ahead of this thing.”

“Will do.”

“I mean sooner rather than later.”

“You always do, Dad.” Fina ended the call and sipped her drink. “He’s so bossy.”

Milloy narrowed his eyes. “I can’t imagine what that’s like, spending time with someone who’s bossy.”

She frowned. “I’m not bossy. I’m decisive.”

“Just keep telling yourself that.”

Fina put her hot chocolate on the bedside table and threw back the duvet. “I better make some calls. Carl’s always nicer if I bring him information.”

Milloy followed her to the living room.

“Thanks for the heads-up, Milloy. I owe you.”

“Always,” he said, and left.