Identity (26 page)

Fina slid a piece of paper across the table. “Could you look at these numbers and let me know if you recognize any of them?”

“What’s this about?”

“Just following up a lead. Nothing major.” Fina had learned over the years that it was never a good idea to give people too much information or context. If you did, the chances were greater that they would tailor their answers to present themselves in the most flattering light, regardless of their guilt or innocence.

Danielle studied them. Her expression was unreadable, but she lingered for an extra moment on one of the numbers. “Nope. They aren’t familiar.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” She drank some coffee. “Have you made any progress?”

“I have,” Fina said, “but nothing I can discuss just yet.”

Danielle frowned. “I’m his wife.”

“I know, but technically, I don’t work for you, and even if I did, I still wouldn’t have much to discuss yet.”

A man walked up to the counter. He was wearing tiny, skin-tight shorts, and his buttocks looked like two perfectly round spheres. His back was smooth and muscular, and his thighs were ropy. Fina tried to look away, to no avail.

Danielle followed her gaze. “See something you like?”

“No, actually,” Fina said quietly. “He looks like he’s on leave from Cirque du Soleil.”

“Not my type, either. He’s freakishly strong.”

“I’ll bet. He’d come in handy with a stubborn pickle jar, but beyond that, no thanks.”

“I guess there’s a lid for every pot.”

“I guess.”

“Was there anything else?” Danielle grabbed her bag. “I need to be someplace.”

“Nope.” Fina started to follow her to the door. “Actually, I wondered if Jules Lindsley had been in touch with you about Renata Sanchez.”

Danielle stopped and stepped to the side, out of the traffic pattern, toward a wall lined with flyers. “What about Renata Sanchez? She’s the one who came to my house, right?”

“The very one. I didn’t know if there had been any discussion about the cryokids. Things were obviously left up in the air.”

“Yeah. A lot of things are up in the air. That’s what happens when someone is murdered.” Danielle swallowed, struggling to maintain her composure. “Renata Sanchez is not my problem.”

“Just checking.”

Danielle pushed through the door in a huff, leaving Fina in her wake. Fina looked at the flyers on the wall. If she ever fostered a dog from the shelter who needed doggie yoga, she knew who to call.

Back in her car, Fina scrolled through her phone and found Rosie’s number.

“When does college start these days? November?” Fina asked her when she answered.

“It starts in late September, but I’m deferring for a year.”

“Got it.”

“Is that why you called me?” Rosie asked after a moment.

“No, of course not. I need to see you, and it occurred to me that you might be busy with school.”

“I’m busy with work. You know, the animal shelter.”

“Right. Any chance you could meet me for lunch?”

Rosie was quiet.

“Please?”

“I’m supposed to meet Tyler for lunch.”

“Perfect. I need to talk to him also.”

“Fine.”

Well, it wasn’t an enthusiastic response, but she’d take it.

She retrieved a message from Stanley, her doorman, informing her that she had a visitor camped out at her condo building. She didn’t recognize his name, and given her recent encounter with a stranger, she decided to meet him in the lobby rather than invite him upstairs.

Fina approached the front desk, and Stanley nodded in the direction of the seating area by the front door. There were a couple of leather chairs facing a gas fireplace that boasted a modest flame year round. Sitting in one of the chairs was a young man, barely out of his teens, wearing baggy black jeans and an oversized T-shirt.

“Him?” Fina asked.

“He insisted on waiting,” Stanley said. He made no effort to hide his distaste.

Fina walked over and faced him. “You’re waiting for me?”

“Yeah.” He stood. “You’re Fina Ludlow?”

“Uh-huh.” Fina was alert, her muscles tense and ready for whatever he had in mind.

“I’m Brett Linder. I’m one of those kids. You know, the test-tube babies.”

“Huh?” Fina narrowed her gaze.

“You know. The guy who died. I’m one of his.”

Fina studied him. He had a skinny build and shaggy light brown hair. He was swimming in his T-shirt, and his jeans were belted nearly below his ass. On his feet he wore large canvas sneakers.

“You don’t even know his name,” Fina stated.

“I know it.” His eyes darted around the lobby for a moment. “It’s Reardon.”

“Well, Brett, I don’t know what I can do for you.”

“You’re the one they keep talking about in the paper.”

“What is it that you want?”

“I don’t know, I just thought I should talk to some of the other kids. Get to know my family.” His eyes kept wandering to the bruises around her neck.

“Don’t you have a family?”

He shrugged. “Sure, but we don’t see one another much.”

“But you suddenly have a burning desire to know your half-siblings.”

“Yeah.” He smiled. “You got it.”

“So money doesn’t interest you?”

“Hey, if they wanted to throw some my way, I wouldn’t object.”

“I bet you wouldn’t.” She shifted her bag to her other shoulder. “What makes you think Hank Reardon is your biological father?”

“My mom used the same sperm as those other kids.”

“Heritage Cryobank?”

“That’s the one.”

Fina pulled her notebook from her bag. She asked him for his mother’s name and his date of birth. She turned to a new page and scribbled something down.

“Here’s the info for the detective investigating Hank’s murder and for Hank’s attorney.” Fina tore off the page and handed it to him.

Brett looked at the paper. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“You’re supposed to call them. I’m sure they’re interested in potential Reardon kids. The city will be crawling with them before too long.”

“I’m not a potential Reardon kid. I
am
a Reardon kid,” he said harshly.

“Well, you’re going to have to prove it.”

Brett shook his head.

“What do you do with yourself, Brett? Do you go to school? Work?”

“I have stuff, projects.” He stuffed the phone numbers into his pocket.

“No one is going to give you the time of day until you give a DNA sample to prove that you’re related to Hank Reardon. If this is a con, it isn’t going to work.”

“Fuck you, it’s not a con.”

Stanley looked up from the desk.

“And you’d better work on your attitude,” Fina said.

“Just because I didn’t go to some fancy school or shit doesn’t mean I couldn’t be his kid.”

“Of course not. But this”—she gestured at his clothes and general sulkiness—“is not going to help your case. Take a shower, pull up your pants, and call Jules Lindsley. There’s nothing I can do for you.”

“You don’t need to be such a bitch.”

“Brett, this is me being nice and giving constructive criticism.” Fina turned and walked back over to the front desk.

“We’re done, Stanley. Let me know if he shows up again.”

“Of course, Ms. Ludlow.”

Fina watched Stanley lead Brett to the door and indicate that his visit was over. She waited until he had left her sight line before pushing the button for the elevator. This was exactly what she didn’t need, troubled teenagers lining up at her front door.

•   •   •

On the face of it, Walter Stiles was not a particularly interesting man. He didn’t have any arrests on his record, didn’t owe any enormous sums of money beyond the mortgages on his two homes. Fina couldn’t find any record of a marriage or children. He seemed to be active in various professional organizations, including the National Reproductive Medicine Society, and turned up at the occasional charity event related to children. Fina found a couple of pictures of him with a blonde. They were posed with other couples at a Monte Carlo night benefiting a local after-school program.

The online Board of Medicine Registry only provided information for the past ten years and didn’t list any disciplinary action against Walter nor malpractice insurance payouts, but ten years was a small portion of a thirty-plus-year career. Fina would have to do more digging.

She was on hold for five minutes, skimming various documents, before Matthew picked up.

“Do you know anything about Dr. Walter Stiles?” she asked between bites of a banana smeared with peanut butter.

“Doesn’t ring a bell. Who is he?”

“He’s the head of Heritage Cryobank.”

Fina heard tapping on the other end. “He’s not coming up in our database, but that only means he hasn’t crossed our radar.”

“Okay. Could you get one of your helpers to dig a little more?”

“One of my helpers? You mean one of my highly paid associates?”

“No matter. Could be the lunch lady as far as I’m concerned, as long as she knows what she’s doing.”

“What’s the case number?”

Every case at Ludlow and Associates was assigned a case number, which was like the Holy Grail. Every minute of work, every photocopy and paper clip associated with the case had to be filed under the case number so that the client was billed for every last dime. If a paralegal did some research for Fina, his or her time had to be billed to Michael Reardon.

“What’s going on with you?” Fina asked after giving him the number.

“Work, as usual.”

“You can do better than that. Any hot dates?”

“You sound like Mom.”

“Mom asks you if you have hot dates?”

“She asks me if there are any serious contenders.”

“Well, the sooner you find a future Mrs. Ludlow, the sooner she’ll be less focused on me.”

“You’re deluding yourself. I could have four sister-wives and Mom would still be nosing around your business. You’re her daughter; it’s her God-given right to butt in.”

“That’s reassuring. Thanks.”

“Happy to be of service. Gotta run.”

•   •   •

She met Rosie and Tyler at a Chinese restaurant near Porter Square that boasted a $6.99 lunch special. When Fina arrived, they were already seated, sipping large sodas, their heads bent toward each other.

“Hi, guys,” Fina said, pulling out a chair. “Thanks for letting me crash your party.”

“I didn’t think you’d take no for an answer,” Rosie admitted, and sat back in her seat.

“I’m sorry to be pushy, but you are in the middle of a ‘situation.’” Fina made air quotes to make her point.

“What happened to your face?” Tyler asked, his expression equal parts repulsion and fascination.

“I was jumped.”

“Where?”

“In my condo building. Some goon suggested I take a vacation.”

“Because of Hank?” Rosie asked.

“I think so.”

Rosie picked at her cuticles. “That’s scary.”

“It was rather unpleasant, but I survived. I don’t have any idea who’s responsible, though, which is annoying.” Fina picked up the menu and perused the lunch specials. A moment later, a waiter took their orders and refilled Fina’s water glass, which she had drained.

“Did Rosie tell you about the conversation at the police station?” Fina asked Tyler.

“Yeah. I heard about it.”

“Have you reflected on that little chat, Rosie? Are you ready to come clean?”

Rosie’s eyes widened. “About what?”

“About whatever it is you’re lying about.”

She glanced at Tyler. “I’m not lying about anything.”

“Well, let me tell you how I see it. The police asked you some very specific questions to get your responses on the record. That usually suggests they already know the answers to the questions they’re asking and are just testing you to see if you’re going to lie.”

A waiter came to the table and deposited plates in front of each of them. Fina was always suspicious when food was prepared in the blink of an eye; she suspected this was one of those Chinese restaurants that made liberal use of the deep fryer and alternated between two sauces. Not that she was complaining; she loved deep-fried things with sweet, gloppy sauce.

She pulled the paper sleeve off her straw, stuck the straw in her drink, and swallowed some diet soda. “Do you see what I’m saying?”

“That the cops have some proof that contradicts whatever Rosie told them,” Tyler offered.

Fina pointed at him. “On the nose, my friend.”

Rosie picked up her chopsticks and grasped a broccoli floret. She put it in her mouth and chewed slowly. She took a sip of soda before speaking. “I don’t have anything else to say.”

“Which is not the same as proclaiming that you spoke the truth,” Fina pointed out.

“I’m sick of this whole thing,” Rosie said.

Fina looked at Tyler. “What about you? Are you sick of it?”

Tyler shoveled fried rice into his mouth and shrugged. “Sure, but whatever.”

“Remind me where you were the night Hank died.”

“I dropped Rosie at Sam’s apartment and drove home. That’s it.”

Fina mentally tripped on what he said. Something was bugging her, but she wasn’t sure what.

“Has school started for you?” she asked.

“Yup, but I’m still doing some shifts at the restaurant.”