Identity (18 page)

Fina stuffed her trash in the bag and started the car. An old man with drooping, leathery skin ambled by with a metal detector and a large pair of headphones. With his tiny Speedo, he wore more on his head than on his nether regions. Maybe he was European? It was the only possible explanation.

•   •   •

Fina went home to Nanny’s and pulled out the letter that Risa had given her. Greta Samuels was the name of the alleged aunt, and she lived in Maine. She claimed that her older sister had given birth to Risa, but she didn’t go into any details. Since Risa had never had the urge to find her birth parents, she hadn’t done any research of her own, leaving Fina little to go on. She dialed Greta Samuels’s number.

“Hello?” a voice answered after two rings. Her inflection rose on the word, as if it were a question, not a statement.

“I’m calling for Greta Samuels. Is she available?”

“This is Greta.”

“My name is Fina Ludlow, and I’m an associate of Risa Paquette’s.”

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end. “Oh goodness. Is Risa there?”

“I’m afraid not. I’m a friend of hers and a private investigator, and Risa has asked me to speak with you on her behalf.”

“But why didn’t she call me herself?”

“I’m sure you can understand her hesitation, Ms. Samuels. She hasn’t heard from her birth family in forty-six years, and then one day she gets a letter from a woman claiming to be her aunt. Risa wanted to be cautious.”

“Of course, I understand. I’m just so anxious to meet her.”

“Do you have any documentation regarding her parentage? A copy of her birth certificate, maybe? Or perhaps your sister has something?”

There was a long pause. “Unfortunately, my sister has passed.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. When was that?” Fina doodled on a notepad.

“Six months ago.”

“And she didn’t leave any paperwork that would be relevant?”

“I’m afraid not. My sister . . . well, she could be difficult.”

Fina looked out the window toward Logan. There was a line of planes waiting at the end of the runway. From her vantage point, they were silent, silver birds, but up close, their power would be deafening.

Fina had a sister once. Her picture hung on Nanny’s wall, her memory permanently wedged between Fina and her mother. Sisters could be difficult, and Fina hadn’t even met hers.

“Hmm. I’m sorry, did you say you have some documentation?” Fina asked again.

“I’m sure I could dig something up.”

“If you could e-mail it to me, that would be great.”

“Well, I’m not very good with e-mail, but I have a friend who is. I could ask her to help.”

“That would be great.”

Fina hung up the phone with no more clarity about Greta Samuels and the veracity of her claim. She was left with a gnawing question, though: Why now? Why, six months after her sister died, was Greta suddenly interested in her long-lost niece?

•   •   •

Walter knew that Ellen would be only too happy to meet with the police, but there was no way he would let her represent the cryobank in this instance. That’s why he dismissed her from his office when the two detectives were shown in by his assistant, Jenny. Ellen looked annoyed, which pleased him. If she was irked, he must be doing something right.

“What can I do for you, Detectives?” he asked after dispatching Jenny to fetch three cappuccinos.

“It’s ‘Lieutenant,’ actually,” the woman said, handing her badge to Walter. “And this is Detective Menendez.”

“I stand corrected.” He smiled and handed back her ID. She didn’t fit his image of a policewoman, but that’s because he was thinking of the female cops on TV. They always wore dark-colored, figure-hugging pantsuits, their guns snug against their waists. This Lieutenant Pitney was short and slightly plump, with ample breasts. Her hair was a mass of curls, and her outfit looked like wallpaper you’d find in a kindergarten classroom. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m sure you’re well aware that Hank Reardon died in the early hours of Tuesday. We’re interested in his relationship with the cryobank.”

“‘Relationship’ makes it sound more involved than it was,” Walter said. “He made donations here a long time ago. That was the extent of it.”

Walter gestured to Jenny, who hovered in the doorway with a tray. She came in and left it on his desk. The detectives took their mugs, and Walter watched as the lieutenant opened three packets of sweetener, sprinkling them into the hot liquid. Detective Menendez sipped his slowly without adding anything to it.

“When was that exactly?” Detective Menendez asked.

“I’d have to check the records.” Walter stirred his coffee. “About eighteen years ago.”

“And since then he hasn’t had any contact with the cryobank?” Pitney asked.

Walter considered the question. “I couldn’t say.”

“You can’t say?” Pitney peered at him. “Or you don’t know?”

“I don’t know if he’s been in touch. Our organization is quite large; I’m not privy to every conversation and every meeting.”

“Of course not. We thought perhaps given the recent publicity that Mr. Reardon had been in touch.”

Walter shook his head.

“Is it Heritage’s policy to protect a donor’s identity?” Detective Menendez asked.

This ping-ponging of questions was annoying and presumably designed to throw him off guard. It wouldn’t work.

“Of course, unless the donor has agreed to an open donation, in which case any offspring can be in touch once they reach the age of eighteen.”

“So Heritage didn’t have anything to do with revealing Hank’s identity?”

Walter sighed. “As I’ve said, we had nothing to do with Hank Reardon’s situation.”

“Except for the conception of all the kids,” Pitney added.

“Yes, Lieutenant, except for that.”

“How many kids did he father?” she asked.

“I couldn’t tell you.”

Pitney smirked. “Because you won’t tell me or because you don’t know?”

He sipped his coffee. “I don’t know.”

Cristian sat forward in his seat. “You don’t know how many kids he fathered?”

“We’re not required to keep track of that information.”

“Is there a limit to how many donations a man can make?” Pitney asked.

“How is that possibly relevant to Hank Reardon’s demise?”

“Why don’t you humor us, Dr. Stiles, and just answer the questions?”

He sighed. “We are in the process of implementing a program that will limit the number of donations. In terms of the number of children that are produced, the mothers will be required to report on their success rate in terms of conception.”

“I keep hearing the word ‘required,’” Pitney said. “Isn’t there an ethical standard somewhere, short of what is required by law?”

Walter tipped his head to the side. “That’s rather Pollyannaish, don’t you think?”

“I heard about a guy who thinks he has seventy-five kids,” Pitney said. “You don’t think that’s problematic?”

Walter sipped from his mug. “Reproductive technology is on the cutting edge; we are finding our way as we go.”

“And finding a way to make as much money as possible,” Detective Menendez offered.

Walter leaned back in his chair. “I have to say, I’m surprised at your negative attitudes toward assisted reproduction. Surely you know people who have benefited from it.”

“I don’t have a problem with assisted reproduction, Dr. Stiles,” Pitney clarified. “I have a problem with policies that seem devoid of common sense. You seem quite comfortable offering ‘assistance’ except for any assistance that might cut into your profit margin.”

“You’re very cynical, Lieutenant.”

Pitney shook her head. “Not really. I’m just looking at the facts.”

“Do you have children?” he asked her.

“No,” she said impatiently, “and I can’t imagine how
that’s
relevant.”

“And you?” he asked Cristian.

“A three-year-old son.”

“Ahh. So you understand that people don’t want to encounter road blocks when they’re trying to create a family. When you’re trying to become a parent, you lead with your heart.”

Pitney rolled her eyes. “I don’t think making sure that a child doesn’t
have seventy-four half-siblings—or at the very least keeping track—is a road block, but apparently, my opinion is too theoretical to count.”

“Speaking as a parent, Dr. Stiles,” Cristian said, “the idea of fathering dozens of kids creeps me out, even if I wasn’t raising them.”

“Well, then, thank goodness you aren’t a donor.” Walter smiled. This interview was getting away from him, and he didn’t like it.

“You require medical tests of your donors, I assume?” Pitney asked.

“Of course. We have an extensive battery of required tests.” He reached into his desk drawer and took out a pamphlet. “They’re all listed here.”

Cristian took the brochure and tucked it into the breast pocket of his jacket. “Thanks.”

Pitney drained her cappuccino and stood up. “Thank you for the coffee, Doctor. It was certainly an improvement from what we’re used to.”

“My pleasure. Don’t hesitate to call if you have any questions.” He exchanged cards with the detectives and walked them to his office door.

“And where were you Monday night and early Tuesday morning?” Pitney asked as she tucked his card into her bag.

Walter looked at her. “An alibi, Lieutenant? Why would I want to hurt Hank Reardon? He was the best possible advertisement for Heritage.”

“Or its worst possible enemy if he blamed you for the revelations about his donations.” She smiled at him and waited.

“I was at home,” Walter said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my assistant will see you out.” Jenny jumped up from her desk, and Walter closed his door.

He hoped they were satisfied. He didn’t need them poking around.

•   •   •

Fina spent a couple of hours contacting Rosie’s friends, to no avail. None of them had heard from her in the last forty-eight hours, and
although it was hard to judge their veracity over the phone, they didn’t strike her as being overly suspicious.

She decided to deal with one name on the list in person, so after fueling up with Cheetos and a diet soda, Fina made her way to Arlington. There were a few stray reporters on the sidewalk outside Marnie Frasier’s house, but they only made a halfhearted attempt to engage her as she climbed the steps. Fina rang the bell and then knocked, but there was no answer. After a moment, she pulled out her phone and dialed Tyler Frasier’s number.

“Yeah?”

“Tyler, it’s Fina Ludlow, the detective. I’m outside your front door. Do you mind letting me in?”

“My mom’s not here.”

“I wanted to talk with you, actually.”

“I’ll be right up.”

A minute later, the front door drifted open—as if she’d said “Open sesame”—with no one visible on the other side. Fina quickly stepped into the foyer, closing the door firmly behind her.

“Sorry. I didn’t want to end up in any photos,” Tyler said. He was standing off to the side, just outside of the sight line of the reporters.

“I understand. Sorry for just dropping by.”

“No worries. Come on downstairs.”

She followed him into the spotless kitchen and down a steep flight of stairs to the basement. The only natural light in the space was from the window wells. The room was carpeted and divided into two areas by a sectional couch. The couch anchored a seating area with a fireplace and a large TV. The space behind the couch was filled by a round wooden dining table, illuminated by a pendant light. The TV was tuned to ESPN, and preseason football highlights jumped across the screen.

Every available surface was covered with clothes and magazines. Shoes the size of casserole dishes were strewn on the shag carpet, and even a couple of framed pictures on the wall were askew.

Fina swiveled her head to take it all in. “Tyler, this may be the messiest room I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen crime scenes where there have been violent struggles.”

Tyler guffawed. “You’re just saying that to make me feel special.”

“Your mother is okay with this?” Marnie had struck Fina as the type to run a tight ship.

“Oh, she hates it, but it’s our compromise.”

Fina held up her hands. “What’s the compromise? No decomposing bodies?”

Tyler climbed over the back of the sofa and began gathering a pile of clothes in his arms. He cleared a small space and nodded for Fina to take a seat.

“None of my shit is upstairs, plus I cook and keep the kitchen neat.” He plopped down onto the couch on the other side of the L.

“You’re responsible for the kitchen?” Fina looked toward the ceiling. “It was spotless.”

“It has to be. That’s a big part of school: keeping your station clean and organized and following health and safety codes.”

“But left to your own devices . . .”

Tyler shrugged and smiled. “What can I say, I’m a free spirit.”

“I’m here about Rosie Sanchez; her mom can’t find her. Any chance she might be under one of these piles?”

Tyler looked around the room, as if doing a quick visual inventory. “She’s not here.”

Fina held his gaze for a moment. “Do you know where she might be? Renata hasn’t seen her since Monday, and she’s starting to worry.”

“I haven’t talked to her.”

“So you two haven’t been in touch since Hank died? Since yesterday morning?”

“Nope.”

Fina adjusted her feet and looked at a sneaker on the floor. Next to her own foot, it looked yeti-sized.

“What are your thoughts about that?” she asked him.

“About what?”

“Hank Reardon’s death. I assume your mom discussed your paternity with you before it broke in the papers.”

“Yeah, I knew.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s wild, man. I can’t believe that guy was my dad.”

“Did you want to meet him?”

Tyler smirked. “Does it matter? He made it pretty clear he didn’t want to meet us.”

Fina watched a wide receiver get clobbered on the screen. “Not exactly the fairy-tale ending that Renata was looking for.”

“Yeah, but she’ll never admit it. She’ll say that it was never about Hank; it was about truth and human rights and all that bullshit.” His carefree manner eluded him for a moment. “She’s so full of shit.”