Identity (54 page)

The maid punched the down button and gave Fina a nudge into the elevator when it arrived. She stood next to her, glaring during the brief ride down.

The doors opened onto the first floor, where they were met by a large man in a dark suit. He was wearing an earpiece like a Secret Service agent, his legs firmly planted like two enormous tree trunks.

“Please remove her,” the maid said.

The man took hold of Fina’s elbow and guided her to the front door.

“Thank you, kind sir,” Fina said as he reached for the doorknob.

He opened the door and steered her out before slamming it behind her.

She really wasn’t having much luck with the fellas lately.

•   •   •

Fina called Theresa McGovern from the road and asked for a brief meeting with Dimitri. He was leaving in a couple of hours for San Jose, but Theresa could squeeze her in if she hurried. When Fina arrived half an hour later, Dimitri was at his desk, tapping away at his laptop.

“Fina.”

“Dimitri. How’s the waterfront development deal going? The one you didn’t care about?”

He smirked. “Fine. Thank you for asking.”

Fina sat down in a chair facing his desk. “Have you ever seen Aubrey Reardon?”

“The baby?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sure I have.” He looked puzzled. “Why?”

“You’re sure?”

Dimitri shrugged. “Well, actually, I don’t know.”

“It’s important. Try to remember.”

“I know that Danielle and Andy are always trying to set something up.”

“But has that something ever happened?”

Dimitri pinched his lower lip between two fingers. He shook his head.

“Don’t you find that odd?”

“A bit, but Hank lived in the spotlight, and maybe he didn’t want his daughter to be scrutinized.”

“But I can’t even find a picture of this child. Did you get a birth announcement?”

“I don’t know. Andy handles that kind of stuff.” Dimitri leaned back in his chair. “What are you suggesting? That she doesn’t exist?”

“No, no. I think she exists.”

“So what then?”

“I’ll let you know.” Fina rose and left the office, waving good-bye to Theresa.

•   •   •

Cristian had left her a message, so she called him from Nanny’s.

“I’m working on that lead,” he told her, “connecting Denny Calder to Walter Stiles.”

“Good. Here’s a juicy tidbit: I’m pretty sure that Walter committed fraud, which explains why he didn’t want me poking around.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Pretending to run tests on sperm donations that he actually didn’t. For all I know, he’s still doing it today. I’ll tell you more later.”

“Why not now?”

“Because I don’t have proof.”

“When has that ever stopped you?”

“Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf, growing more cautious.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I think I know who sent the photos of Haley.”

“Who?” There was a bang on the other end of the line, as if Cristian had dropped the feet of his chair onto the floor.

“I don’t want to say.”

“Of course you don’t. Do you have any proof to support this theory?”

“Nothing that would make a DA happy, but I’m working on it.” She sucked on a square of chocolate she’d found on the coffee table. “Rand’s in town.”

“That’s not good.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Is he here to stay?”

“So he says.”

“I’m betting you say otherwise.”

“If I have anything to do with it.”

“Be careful, Fina. Your brother is dangerous,” he reminded her.

“That’s exactly why I’m trying to do something about it.”

“Anything I can do? That’s legal?”

“No, but thank you for asking.”

“Want to get some dinner later?”

“Like a date?” she asked.

“Do you want to have dinner or not?”

“I’d like to, but I have a previous engagement.”

“A date?”

“A party, but it’s work-related, so don’t get jealous. I’d bring you, but you’d cramp my style.”

“I bet.”

“How about a rain check?”

“Sure.”

“Talk to you later.”

She disconnected and called Milloy, asking if he wanted to go to a party. He was game, and they made a plan to meet later.

Fina spent the next couple of hours watching videos on YouTube—videos that made her cringe and made her heart ache.

But was it motive enough for murder?

The Saveena Gallery was in Fort Point, not far from Nanny’s condo. In recent years, the area had been revitalized by the Big Dig and the rehab of old factories into lofts and restaurants. It was a neighborhood that attracted artists and start-ups, the second population promising to squeeze out the first before too long.

They left Milloy’s car with the valet and walked into the minimally decorated space. The walls were white, and the ceilings rose fifteen feet. The floor was scarred, dark-stained wood, and beams crisscrossed overhead. Art of various sorts was displayed throughout, including sculptures, photographs, ceramics, and some of Danielle’s paintings. The space was crowded with a well-dressed forty-something crowd.

Fina and Milloy got drinks and did a circuit of the room, checking out the art.

“What’s this all about?” she asked Milloy quietly as they studied a sculpture made of empty boxes of Kraft macaroni and cheese.

He looked at her. “You really want to hear my theory?”

She squeezed his arm. “Eh. Not so much.”

“That’s what I thought.”

They moved on to an abstract painting featuring shades of brown, listening while a hipster in square glasses expounded on its “visual fluency and cultural dissonance.”

“Rand is back in town,” Fina said while staring at a photograph of a turkey.

“I thought he’d been exiled to Miami.”

“He was. Carl shipped him off, gave him some clients down there. I thought it was permanent, but apparently it was only until the dust settled.”

“I assume he’s never going to be prosecuted for the abuse?”

Fina gave him a withering look. “Over Carl’s dead body, and frankly, the publicity would destroy Haley. I guess I was naïve, but I thought he was gone for good.”

Milloy raised an eyebrow.

“Apparently,” Fina said, “all is forgiven. It makes me want to throw up.”

They were moving away from the photo when Michael Reardon appeared before them.

“Hi, Fina. I didn’t know you were coming.”

“I’m always happy to support a good cause.”

Milloy coughed into his cocktail napkin.

“Michael, this is Milloy Danielson. Milloy, Michael Reardon.” The men shook hands. Michael stood up straighter in an unconscious attempt to compare more favorably with Milloy.

“Well, enjoy yourselves,” Michael said. “I’d like a progress report tomorrow.”

“And I’d like to give you one. Just give me a call.”

Michael walked off. Across the room, Fina caught sight of Danielle, who was in rapt conversation with a Red Sox player. He was a recent trade, and Danielle was probably trying to dive into his deep pockets before Juliana did.

“I’ll be right back,” Fina said to Milloy.

She wended her way through the crowd until she found a waiter to direct her to the ladies’ room. He pointed toward the back of the gallery.

The hallway was long and poorly lit, with doors leading off in
various directions. Since she’d never met a closed door she didn’t want to open, Fina tried each one. The first was locked. The second was a supply closet. The third was a large studio space, and the two beyond that were the restrooms.

Fina looked around before ducking into the studio. She didn’t want to turn on the lights, and luckily it was a clear night and the moon shone brightly through the large windows. The space was filled with tables on which sat projects in various stages. It looked as if artists had their own workstations. There were oil paintings and watercolors on one table, a set of pottery on another.

She took out her penlight and examined the shelves and closets that lined the walls. They were filled with paints and brushes, pencils and clay. In one corner, there was a pile of smocks that were ripped and stained. It brought back memories of art class in school. Fina had never liked art class—not because she didn’t like art, but because her own talent was slim to nonexistent. Maybe you weren’t judged on your ability, but nothing could ease the shame you felt when your sculpture looked like the Michelin Man.

Fina moved her light in a steady arc, but then stopped. She negotiated her way around some easels and stood in front of a table with chunks of stone. Off to the side, a wooden box held what looked like hammers with small square heads. Resisting the urge to pick one up, she sunk down onto a nearby stool. The light pointed away, but in its beam she caught sight of something else that gave her pause. It looked like an igloo, but it was actually the opposite.

It was a kiln.

•   •   •

Fina urged Milloy to go home once his interest in the art had been satisfied, as well as his limited appetite for cheap wine.

“You don’t want me to stay? I think you’re up to something,” he said.

“Moi?”

“That was an awfully long bathroom break.”

“Don’t you worry about my lady parts.”

“Be careful.”

“Always.”

Fina took another lap of the room and made sure that Danielle saw her in the thinning crowd. When there were only a dozen guests left, Fina pulled out her phone and texted Cristian before heading back down the hallway to the studio. She returned to the stool between the sculpting hammers and the kiln and waited in the dark.

Five minutes later, the lights flickered on and Danielle glared at her from the door.

“I didn’t invite you,” she said.

“I thought the more the merrier. It’s a fund-raiser, after all.”

“We don’t need your money.” Danielle shut the door behind her and started walking across the room.

“Did you really think threatening my niece would get me to stop?”

Danielle stopped walking. “What are you talking about?”

“The pictures you took of my niece—at her school, playing field hockey—not really a good showcase for your talents.”

“You’re not making any sense. I don’t know your niece.”

“Really? Because some of the photos in your studio looked awfully familiar.”

“I take pictures all over the area. That’s coincidence, nothing else.”

“Photos at a school? A school to which you have no connection? That’s just creepy.” Fina thought for a moment. “Why don’t you have any photos of Aubrey?”

“My child is none of your business.”

“I understand why you’d keep her out of the public eye, but I haven’t seen one in your own home, not even in her nursery.”

Danielle glared at her.

“I am sorry about her situation, for what it’s worth,” Fina said.

Danielle put a hand out and steadied herself on one of the tables. “What?”

“I’m sorry your child has cystic fibrosis. That must be heartbreaking, especially since nowadays it can be detected prenatally.”

Danielle’s eyes scanned the room.

“Why wasn’t she tested when you were pregnant?” Fina asked.

Danielle barked a weak laugh. “Because her father wasn’t a carrier, or at least that’s what we’d been led to believe.”

“But Hank was, right? And so are you. His test results were falsified by Walter Stiles at the cryobank twenty years ago.”

Danielle avoided her gaze.

“So Hank had his physical and found out the truth, and either you were too far along to end the pregnancy or he didn’t want you to.” Fina adjusted her butt on the stool. She was perched there, ready to pounce if necessary. “I watched some videos this afternoon about breathing techniques and the treatments you have to give babies with CF. It was awful. I can’t imagine having to do it with my own kid.”

“I don’t want your pity,” Danielle said.

“Trust me, I don’t pity you.” Fina tried to relax her back muscles. “I don’t understand why you’re keeping Aubrey a secret. No one will think less of you because your child is sick, and the prognosis for CF isn’t nearly as dire as it used to be.”

“Really? You think nobody judges me?” Danielle spat out the words. “When it’s just
my
child who’s sick? Not all the other children my husband fathered? And they keep coming out of the woodwork, like that degenerate Brett Linder!”

“You were jealous of the cryokids?”

“I was pissed.” Her voice rose. “I didn’t even want a baby, but he insisted. So we finally have one, and it turns out that she’s not a regular baby, she’s a baby that needs so much. She never stops needing things!”

“Isn’t that the definition of a baby?” Fina yelled back.

“You have no idea. She needs care all the time and special medicine and interventions and even then, she’ll never get better.”

“So that’s why you keep her out of sight? So people won’t know you have a baby with health issues? That’s your solution?”

“Stop being such a judgmental bitch. This is not the life I signed up for.”

“Nobody gets the life they signed up for.”

“Really? Hank did. Having a sick child didn’t change his life one bit.”

Fina glanced over at the box of hammers. “How did you get into the garage that night?”