Identity (35 page)

Fina made a quick call to see if Walter Stiles was at Heritage Cryobank. According to the receptionist, he was out, which made it the perfect time to pay a visit to Ellen Alberti.

The cryobank was busy when Fina arrived. She rushed into the reception area and interrupted as another woman was conferring with the receptionist. It was a different receptionist than last time, thankfully. Presumably, the original was basking in the glow of new motherhood.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, but my sister is back there.” Fina gestured toward the door leading to the rest of the bank. “She’s going to kill me if her appointment has already started.”

The other client glared at her, and the receptionist waved her in. Fina gave her a big smile and walked through the door. Wow. Still not locked. These people were idiots.

Fina wound her way through the hallways and knocked on Ellen Alberti’s open door. The associate director looked up from her lunch, momentarily confused.

“Do we have an appointment?” She had carved out a small square of space on her desk, which was occupied by a salad in a Tupperware container, a diet soda, and a shiny red apple.

“No. I don’t know if you remember me or not.”

“Wait.” Ellen pointed at her. “You’re the private investigator.” Ellen was wearing tweed pants with a blue sweater set. Peeking out from her medium blond hair were large gold earrings, and on her wrist was an assortment of bracelets.

“Fina Ludlow.” Fina looked at the chair in front of the desk and dipped her head in question.

“Just put that stuff on the floor,” Ellen responded.

Fina transferred the stack of files to the industrial carpet and took a seat.

“You just waltzed back here again?” Ellen asked. She stared for a beat too long at Fina’s neck.

“I told you that your security is horrible. Aside from people wandering around where they shouldn’t, someone could walk in with a gun and take over the entire place. You can’t think this is a good setup, and your insurance provider definitely can’t.”

Ellen dropped her fork into her salad and leaned back in her chair. She put her hands up and shrugged. “I think it’s terrible.”

“So call your insurance company and tell them you’d like them to do a security audit.”

“Which will end up costing us more money.”

“You don’t think it’s going to cost you money when someone sues you?”

Ellen tipped her head to the side.

“I’m not talking about Renata Sanchez,” Fina said. “I’m talking about some other mother who claims her eggs or the sperm were interfered with. You can’t guarantee that your supplies are secure.”

“They’re under lock and key,” Ellen insisted.

“Trust me. Any good attorney would have a field day with your lax security. It’s just a matter of time.”

“Is that why you’re here, to give me security advice, save me from a lawsuit?” She speared a cherry tomato with her fork.

“No, that’s just a bonus. I was wondering if Hank Reardon had been in touch with you before his death.”

Ellen considered the question for a few seconds. “No, he wasn’t in touch with me.”

“You took a long time to think about that.”

She took a sip of her drink. “I wanted to be sure. I was searching my memory.”

“Do you know if he was in touch with Walter?”

“You and Walter are on a first-name basis?”

“Actually, I visited Walter yesterday at his home.”

“I’m sure he was thrilled to see you.” Ellen grinned.

“‘Thrilled’ might be a bit of an overstatement. But back to my question: Was Hank Reardon in touch with Walter?” Her hand drifted up to her lip; it was almost completely scabbed over.

“What happened to your face?”

“Accident. No biggie. Hank and Walter?”

“I don’t know if they were in touch.”

“Huh.” Fina gazed out the window. It was coming up on her favorite time of year. She loved fall, when the leaves were blazing with color and the air was crisp but not too cold.

“You’re suggesting that Hank was in touch with Walter?” Ellen asked. “Not Hank’s attorney?”

“I’m not suggesting anything.”

Ellen chewed a mouthful of lettuce. “You’re very cryptic.”

“Just trying to make sense of all the bits and pieces of information. You don’t seem surprised that perhaps Walter was up to something.”

“Oh, I
know
that Walter was up to something,” Ellen said, looking Fina in the eye.

“Really? What’s that?”

“I don’t know exactly what, but I don’t trust him, and neither should you.”

“And you’re telling me this because . . . ?”

“I’m feeling charitable.” She snapped the top onto the Tupperware.

Fina brushed a loose hair back from her face. “Maybe, or maybe you think it’s time for Walter to move on.”

“Speaking of moving,” Ellen said, “I wonder why he removed a couple of file boxes from the cryobank last week. He claimed they were personal files, but that’s hard to believe. But why would he remove cryobank files? It’s curious, and obviously against policy.”

“Ellen, you are just full of interesting tidbits.”

She blotted her lips with a napkin. “I just want to do the right thing.”

“Who knew the world of assisted reproduction was so cutthroat?” Fina stood and put her bag over her shoulder. “I appreciate your time, Ellen. Good luck with your coup d’état, and let me know if I can do anything.” Fina pushed her card across the desk. “And for Pete’s sake, do something about your security.”

Ellen looked at the card and slid it under her blotter. “Take care, Fina.”

In the reception area, Fina smiled at the receptionist and gave her two thumbs up. The woman beamed back at her.

Somehow, Fina didn’t think they were celebrating the same thing.

•   •   •

Fina called the medical lab from her car. She waited on hold for a couple of minutes, forced to listen to a Muzak version of a Rolling Stones song. Finally, a surly lab tech came on the line and informed Fina that the second sample for her test had not yet arrived.

She hung up and dialed Greta Samuels’s number. After six rings, someone finally picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Greta Samuels, please?” Fina asked.

“She’s not available at the moment. May I take a message?”

“Could you tell her that Fina Ludlow called and ask her to call me back?”

“Fina Ludlow,” the woman said slowly, as if writing it down at the same time. There was a small commotion in the background, and the woman whispered to someone else before coming back on the line. “Could you hold on for one moment?”

“Ah . . . sure,” Fina said to the empty line. She could hear more conversation in the background and what sounded like the phone being put down and picked up again.

“Fina?”

“Greta?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“I thought you weren’t available.”

“My friend was mistaken.”

“Okay. What’s going on? I just called the lab, and they haven’t received your sample.”

“Oh, things have been very busy.”

“I don’t understand. When we spoke on Wednesday, you were going to stop by the doctor’s office that day.”

“Well, they didn’t have an appointment available.”

“Greta, you contacted Risa, remember? It’s not really fair for you to approach her and then drag your feet over the test.”

“I’m not dragging my feet,” she responded snappily.

“If you’re getting cold feet, I suggest we stop things now, before we go any further down this road.”

“I promise I’m going today,” Greta insisted. “The doctor’s going to do the procedure and fill out whatever that legal form is that you require.”

“Procedure” seemed a little dramatic for a DNA swab, and the legal form was a standard affidavit. Greta seemed on edge.

“That’s terrific, and I’ll let you know as soon as I have the results,” Fina said, wanting to end the call on a high note.

“Well, good, then. I’ll talk to you soon.”

Greta hung up, and Fina slipped her phone into her bag. What had
that been about? First, Greta couldn’t wait to claim Risa as family, and now she was stalling. Greta was asking a lot of Risa; she should be grateful that Risa was entertaining this whole notion in the first place, not giving Fina attitude.

She had teenagers for that.

•   •   •

Fina called Jules Lindsley’s office to determine if he was around—no need to spring for parking if he was out of the office. The melodious voice on the other end of the line assured Fina that Mr. Lindsley was present, so she drove to the parking structure below his office and prepared to pay a king’s ransom for the privilege.

She sat in the waiting area of his office, sipping water and leafing through
Boston
magazine. Fifteen minutes later, Jules came down the hallway, his briefcase in hand. As long as Fina had known him, Jules had had white hair, but he never struck her as old. Instead, with his understated but well-tailored suits and shiny loafers, he struck her as timeless.

“I can talk if you walk with me, Fina, but I don’t have time to stop.” He offered his hand. Fina jumped up and shook it.

“That works for me.” She followed him to the elevators.

“What happened to your face?” he asked. The two businessmen who shared the car stole glances at her.

“On-the-job injury, but I’m on the mend.”

“I don’t know how your father manages. I’d be a wreck if my daughter were in your line of work.”

Fina swatted away the comment. “Well, you have a heart, Jules. That would make it difficult.”

He laughed heartily, and they exchanged more pleasantries until they reached the sidewalk.

“So what’s this about?” he asked as they dodged the pedestrian traffic.

“I know you have privilege and all that,” Fina started, “but I’m trying to get a handle on Hank’s estate. Who gets what—that sort of thing.”

“If you know about privilege, then why are you even asking? I can’t tell you anything.”

“You’re aware that Michael Reardon hired me, right?”

“Yes, I am, but I still can’t tell you his father’s business.”

“There’s
nothing
you can tell me? Even about the funding for the center?”

“Why would you ask about that?” Jules looked at her as they waited for the light to change.

“Because sources have told me that changes were afoot that were causing friction between Hank and Juliana.”

They’d arrived at the entrance of a large office building across from South Station. Commuters were streaming in and out of the doors of the old station, the daily influx and exodus under way.

“I can’t comment.”

“Ugh. This is so frustrating.” Fina put her hands on her hips, but realized that the posture made her look like a four-year-old. Jules smiled at her. She dropped her hands to her side.

“Okay. One last question,” Fina said.

“Quickly, so I’m not late for my meeting.”

“I had a visit a few days ago from a kid named Brett Linder.”

Jules looked at her but showed no reaction.

“He claimed that Hank is his biological father.”

“Why did he approach you?”

“Apparently, he’d seen my name in the news. I told him that he should contact you or the cops.”

Jules rolled his eyes. “I haven’t heard from him, but that doesn’t mean I won’t.”

“I also told him that he’d have to prove that Hank was his biological father.”

“Yes, he will. What was his response?”

“He wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of a DNA test. Maybe he’s telling the truth, but it seemed kind of convenient.”

“I can’t imagine he’ll be the last to crawl out of the woodwork—or the petri dish, as it were.”

“I wouldn’t think so. Also, Renata Sanchez is interested in what Hank’s death means for her.”

“She should get in line. Everyone wants to know what Hank’s death means for them. I need to go.”

“Of course. Thanks for talking to me.” Fina started walking.

She was ten feet away when he called after her. “Fina!”

“I don’t know if any of the Ludlows are in the market for a house,” Jules said when she stood next to him again, “but I hear there’s a lovely place in Cambridge that’s just come on the market.”

“Is that so?” Fina pulled out her notebook and a pen. “Well, you know us. We’re always looking for a good investment.”

“The address is Forty-four Oak Street.”

“Thanks for the tip, Jules.”

Frank had taught Fina early in her training that she should take any clue in stride, no matter how cryptic. Act like information was unexpected and the messenger might get cold feet. If Jules had suggested she buy an orangutan, she would have dutifully noted the details and looked into purchasing a giant jungle gym.

It sounded like she needed to take a drive over the river.

•   •   •

Forty-four Oak Street was lovely and—surprise, surprise—it was smack-dab next to the Reardon Center. Fina pulled over to the curb and gazed at the two buildings. The center was in a large Victorian that looked freshly painted and had attractive landscaping in the front yard. There was a driveway that ran along the building’s side and led to a parking lot out back. A couple of women, one of whom wore a scarf over her bald head, were standing on the front steps, deep in conversation. The house next door was of equal size, but not quite as well
maintained. There was no For Sale sign out front, but Fina didn’t doubt the intel; Jules had good sources.

Just what was Juliana up to?

•   •   •

Fina grabbed her mail from the condo lobby and started sorting it in the elevator. Bills, catalogs, and junk mail made up the majority of the pile, not to mention an offer from a company interested in recycling her remains and using them as compost. A couple of years earlier, Fina had noticed that she was getting a lot of mail from AARP and other businesses targeted to those closer to the end of their lifespan than the beginning. She’d had her financial planner do some digging to determine that she wasn’t a victim of identity theft or a mix-up on her credit report. He came back empty-handed, and they determined that on some list out in cyberspace, she was an octogenarian interested in things like long-term care insurance, seated motor scooters, and burial alternatives. Fina had seen the future, and it wasn’t pretty.