Identity (25 page)

She also spent time reviewing Hank’s phone log and ended up with only three numbers she couldn’t identify. The reverse number lookups didn’t give her any answers, so she put in a call to her contact at the phone company, who was equally unhelpful. Fina called Theresa McGovern, but the numbers were unfamiliar to her. There was a time when Fina would have just called the numbers, but technology complicated things. Even when you blocked your number, there was no guarantee the recipient couldn’t ID you, and Fina didn’t want to tip her hand. She called Danielle Reardon instead and made a date for later in the day. Risa’s was her next stop.

Risa let her in while talking on the phone, and Fina followed her to
the kitchen. Risa was doing more listening than talking and rolled her eyes as the other person nattered on.

“Finally!” Risa said five minutes later, putting the phone on the counter. “That Mona can talk.” She took a deep breath and looked at Fina. “Did you have an accident?” Risa traced her finger close to Fina’s neck. “Those look like bruises.”

“A little mishap related to a case.”

Risa looked alarmed.

“Not your case.” Fina smiled. “I don’t think Greta hired someone to rough me up.”

“Well, that’s reassuring, I guess. What can I do for you?”

“Are the kids around?” Fina asked.

“Nope. Just me.”

“Good. I need to get a DNA sample from you.”

Risa gently gripped the edge of the granite counter. “Does that mean you’ve figured something out?”

“The birth certificate that Greta Samuels sent to me is an authentic birth certificate. The baby named Ann Sylvia Patterson—who shares your birthdate and time—was a real person. However, that doesn’t confirm that you are Ann Sylvia Patterson or that Greta Samuels is your aunt. The best way to do that is to run a DNA test.”

Risa’s gaze wandered toward the sliding glass doors overlooking the sizable backyard.

“If you’re game, that is,” Fina said. “If not, we can leave things as they are.”

“But if we do that,” Risa said, looking at her, “I won’t ever know if she’s my aunt.”

“No, you won’t. You should also know that Greta’s sister—possibly your mother—died six months ago.”

Risa picked up a glass of iced tea that was sweating on the counter. She took a small sip, then gently placed the glass back down. “So if we’re family, there’s no chance I’ll ever meet my biological mother.”

“Right.”

The thought and its ramifications hung in the air between them.

“If you decide to go ahead with the test,” Fina continued, “you need to prepare yourself for the two possible outcomes.”

Risa noticed the glass in her hand. “Sorry, did you want something to drink, Fina?”

Fina always hoped for refreshment at Risa’s house, but her friend looked genuinely troubled by the conversation, and it didn’t seem right to inquire what was on the menu.

“No, I’m fine.”

“I just—sorry, I don’t know why I’m having such a tough time with this.”

“Because it’s a big deal. It would be weird if you weren’t having a tough time. You’re allowed to feel conflicted, you know.” Fina stood. “You don’t need to make up your mind right now. Give it some thought. Talk it over with Marty.”

“Okay. That’s good advice. He always helps me figure things out.” Risa and Marty were like Scotty and Patty; they seemed like partners who supported and relied on each other, who had each other’s best interests at heart. Witnessing these relationships was always a revelation to Fina, who was used to the Carl-and-Elaine dynamic of two attention seekers wrestling for the upper hand.

“There’s no rush,” Fina said, and walked to the door. “Call me whenever. I know this is a lot to take in, and if you want to talk, I’m happy to listen.”

“Thanks, Fina. I don’t know why everyone thinks you’re such a hard-ass,” Risa said, the hint of a smile curling the edges of her mouth.

“Well, for God’s sakes, don’t set the record straight.”

Fina returned to her car and set off for the nearest fast food drive-thru. All that compassion had generated quite the appetite.

•   •   •

Before quizzing Rosie more about her alibi, Fina decided to quiz Renata at her office. Sometimes interviewing someone at their workplace
generated a different reaction, and Renata had her own dubious alibi to explain. Fina didn’t know if she would be more truthful in a professional setting, but mixing things up couldn’t hurt.

The director of a nonprofit organization dedicated to housing issues, Renata was equally respected and disliked by the various pols in the city, but to the disenfranchised population that she served, she was a hero. There were a lot of people who had a safe place to call home thanks to Renata Sanchez.

The organization was located in a nondescript brick building between the South End and South Boston. A sign on the door asked people not to smoke, loiter, or urinate within twenty-five feet of the entrance, but some of the locals were treating this as a suggestion, not a rule. Nobody was peeing, as far as Fina could tell, but there was a small group of men hanging around, shooting the breeze.

A young woman behind the wood laminate reception desk asked Fina to sign the visitors’ log. The waiting area was tightly packed with folding chairs, a couple of cheap side tables, and a few fake plants. The plants were an attempt to brighten up the place, but the effect was actually depressing. There was too little light—and perhaps too little attention—to keep a real plant alive.

“I’m here to see Renata Sanchez,” Fina said, showing her PI license. The young woman barely glanced at the ID before picking up the phone and punching in some numbers. She was white, in her early twenties, and had long greasy hair. Her fingernails were easily an inch long and sported intricate nail art. The bed of each nail was painted bright turquoise, and a gold stripe separated that portion from the tip. These were painted in a swirled pattern of pink and purple. It was impressive, yet hideous, all at the same time.

“Wow. I’ve never seen nails like that,” Fina commented when the receptionist hung up the phone. “How long does that take?”

The woman splayed her fingers and admired her talons. “A few hours.”

“That’s quite a time commitment.” Time that could be spent on washing one’s hair or other more basic hygiene tasks.

“It’s totally worth it, though,” the young woman said.

“Definitely.”

“Renata says you’ll have to wait. She’s with a client right now.”

“That’s fine.”

A middle-aged woman sat staring off into space. Fina took a seat on the other side of the room and scanned the reading material. Usually she had a tablet in her bag or could fiddle on her phone, but there was something to be said for checking out the reading material provided for the clientele, whether it was Heritage Cryobank or a nonprofit like this. It might not tell you much about the clients, but it generally told you something about the organization itself.

Here, she found government brochures explaining various housing programs, grants, and guidelines, but little else. A copy of
Woman’s Day
from the previous October promised the best recipe for cupcakes that looked like spiders, but instead, Fina grabbed a
Boston Herald
. The Red Sox were in the middle of a meltdown, and a lot of ink was devoted to the personality clashes plaguing the team. Had it been a team composed of women, Fina was sure they would have caught grief for being emotional and sensitive. The men, however, were praised for having integrity and being committed to the game. What bull honky. The whole mess could be solved by paying everyone minimum wage. They’d be too busy trying to make ends meet to bitch endlessly about the respect they weren’t getting.

“Fina Ludlow?” A trim black woman scanned the room.

“That’s me.” Fina left the paper on the chair and followed the woman down a dark hallway to a small office overlooking an alley. Renata was sitting behind the desk, a phone tucked between her shoulder and ear. She was speaking Spanish and gestured for Fina to take a seat. As the conversation continued, Fina took stock of the space. There were three tall gray filing cabinets and a particleboard credenza that was covered with neat stacks of paper. Renata’s space was crowded with stuff, but it wasn’t messy. On her desk were pictures of Rosie and Alexa at various
ages, and behind her on the wall, Renata had prominently displayed a photo of herself with the mayor.

“It’s only been a couple of hours. What now?” Renata had hung up the phone and smoothly switched to English.

“I know, but I thought we should chat.”

“I have a very busy morning.” Renata glanced at a paper diary in front of her.

“As do I, so I’ll make it quick. What isn’t Rosie telling the cops?”

Renata looked at her. “Nothing. There’s nothing she isn’t telling them.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Why are you asking me this? She told the police the truth.”

“I don’t think she did, and I wondered if you had any thoughts about that.”

“I know what you know, Fina.”

“Which isn’t the same thing as knowing the truth.”

Renata spread her hands open on the desk. “I know what she told me. Do you want me to give her a polygraph?”

“There’s an idea. No, I just thought that, as her mother, you might know if she was lying.”

“Does your mother know when you’re lying?”

“My mother always thinks I’m lying; we’re not a good case study.”

Renata’s shoulders sagged. She looked small in the desk chair. “I don’t know what to do about this.”

“Well, maybe I’m wrong.”

“But now you’ve given me one more thing to worry about.”

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intention. I thought you might have some insight.”

Fina studied her. It was true that Renata had set this in motion when she started her quest to reveal the donor, but no one could have predicted Hank’s death.

“This has turned into a bigger mess than you could have anticipated,” Fina said. “I know it wasn’t your intention.”

“No,” Renata agreed. “It certainly was not.”

Fina adjusted in her seat. “What’s the story with your alibi?”

“What about it?”

“It seems awfully convenient. Alexa just happens to remember her middle-of-the-night visit when the cops were there?”

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Who do you think killed Hank?”

Renata grabbed a paper clip from a small dish on the desktop. The dish must have been a school project gone awry. It was misshapen and a muddy brown color, a dish only a mother could love. She unbent the paper clip and manipulated it between her fingers. “It’s hard to believe that the man didn’t have enemies.”

“He did. Unfortunately, in the eyes of the cops, you’re one of them.” Fina grabbed her bag and stood up. “Thanks for taking the time, Renata.”

Fina was on the threshold when Renata spoke. “What’s going to happen with his estate?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, who gets his money?”

“I’m assuming his family.”

“What about his other families?”

Fina narrowed her eyes. “I don’t think the cryokids qualify as his family.”

“But they are,” Renata insisted.

“You’re going to sue his estate? Were you not listening to our conversation? You and your daughters are in a mess because you insist on stirring up trouble.” The sympathy Fina had felt moments before evaporated.

“So now we should just walk away? After we’ve come this far?”

“There’s no legal precedent of cryokids inheriting from their sperm donors.”

“And there was a time when women weren’t allowed to vote,” Renata countered. “Are you suggesting we should just accept things because that’s the way they are? The way they always have been?”

“Renata. Stop trying to bullshit a bullshitter. I’m a female private investigator who carries a gun, and I enjoy nothing more than smashing glass ceilings, but you can’t compare suffrage with sperm donations and inheritance law.”

Renata was silent.

“And if the law changes, why would any man want to
be
a sperm donor?” Fina asked. “Most wives wouldn’t be thrilled at the prospect of sharing their money with these ‘other’ families.”

“Speaking of which, are you investigating the Reardons or does hiring you make them immune?” Renata asked.

“Why would any of them have killed Hank if you were going to sue regardless?”

“Because it’s harder for me now that he’s dead. We know he was going to give the kids something when he was alive.”

“And you think Danielle might try to stop that?”

“Maybe.”

“Good-bye, Renata.”

Fina left the building, and the small group of men loitering out front parted so she could pass. One of them even complimented her butt. Who said gallantry was dead?

•   •   •

Fina felt decidedly overdressed as she waited in the café of a yoga studio on Beacon Street. The lithe bodies that poured out of the mirrored workout room were all dressed in sports bras and leggings and boy shorts, sweat glistening on bare skin. The bodies may have looked enticing, but the scent of hot sweat that accompanied them was pungent and odoriferous.

Danielle came over to the table where Fina was nursing a freshly squeezed orange juice. She pulled a gauzy T-shirt on over her sports bra
and rummaged around in her bag. The large leather satchel was home to a collection of goods, including a pacifier, tiny diaper, paintbrush, and package of molding clay. Once she retrieved a hair elastic from its depths, Danielle pulled her hair back into a bun. Her clear skin and rosy cheeks made her look like a poster girl for yoga.

She lingered a beat too long on Fina’s face, but didn’t comment on her appearance. “One sec,” she said.

Danielle returned a few minutes later with a large cup of steaming liquid.

“Were you doing hot yoga?” Fina asked.

Danielle nodded.

“It looks like torture.”

“It’s great,” Danielle said. “Your muscles get so warmed up, you’re able to reach positions you wouldn’t otherwise.”

Positions your body wasn’t intended to reach,
Fina thought, but she couldn’t argue with the results. There wasn’t an extra ounce of fat in the whole place.