Identity (28 page)

“Hello?” a voice answered.

“Ms. Samuels? This is Fina Ludlow, the private investigator in Boston.”

“I was worried. I haven’t heard from you in days.”

“I’m sorry about that, but I’ve been busy.”
And I don’t work for you,
Fina thought.

“Did your associate review the birth certificate?”

“He did. How’s your cousin?” Fina asked.

Silence.

“Ms. Samuels? How’s your cousin? The trip you took?”

“My cousin is fine.” She perked up. “Thank you for asking. So do I finally get to meet my niece?”

“Not quite yet.”

“I don’t understand,” she exclaimed. “You verified the birth certificate.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t prove that Risa is Ann Sylvia Patterson or that the two of you are related. The only way to do that is to run a DNA test.”

Silence.

“But I don’t know anything about DNA tests.”

“You don’t have to.” Fina wandered into the kitchen and opened the same cabinets she had minutes before. She found a box of graham crackers tucked into the corner and a jar of peanut butter. “I just need a sample from you. I’m getting one from Risa later today. Then we’ll send them both to the lab for analysis.”

“How do you get the sample?” The stress in Greta’s voice suggested she was imagining a six-inch needle.

“It’s just a cotton swab from the inside of your cheek. Fast and not the least bit painful.”

“Well, that sounds okay, I guess.”

“I’d like to have my associate stop by today. It will only take a minute.” Fina figured she would hire the same local PI to do the swab and overnight it to her.

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t like the idea of a stranger doing it.”

Fina dipped a graham cracker into the peanut butter and bit into it. The cracker was slightly stale, but it would do.

“Well, unfortunately, I can’t do it. I’m in the middle of a murder investigation here in Massachusetts.”

“Oh my. That sounds awful,” Greta said.

“So I can send my colleague?”

“Could my doctor do it? I’d feel more comfortable.” Her voice was the equivalent of auditory handwringing.

Honestly. It was a cheek swab, not a pelvic exam. This woman was turning out to be a real pain in the ass.

“That would be fine, but I’d need an affidavit swearing that the doctor was the only one who handled the sample. I really do need it today, and I’ll pay for a courier to get it to the lab.”

“Why is there such a rush?”

“Risa is anxious to get the information. Is that a problem from your perspective?”

“Of course not.”

“Good.”

“I just never thought this would be so complicated.”

“It really isn’t. Just a quick trip to the doctor’s office. I imagine she’s submitted affidavits before.”

“She?”

“Your doctor. She or he.” Fina put the top back on the peanut butter and walked into the living room.

“Oh goodness, dear. I wouldn’t go to a lady doctor.”

Fina held the phone away from her ear. Apparently she hadn’t just dialed Maine, but Maine in the 1940s. “He, then. I’m sure he’s submitted affidavits before.”

“I’ll call the office as soon as we’re done.”

“I think we’re done,” Fina said. “Unless you have more questions?”

“No, no. I’m all set.”

“Great. I look forward to getting your sample.” Fina ended the call and watched the tugboats race across the harbor, no longer burdened with the tanker. With the DNA samples, Risa would soon have an answer. Although Fina wasn’t sure there was any good answer to this particular question.

She changed gears and started a background check on Brett Linder, and what little she found reinforced her wariness about his
appearance on the scene. He had two recent arrests that listed his age as nineteen, one for disturbing the peace and the other for felony theft. Fina didn’t have access to sealed juvenile records, but she found it hard to believe his life of crime had started at age nineteen. Arrests of young men were often like rats: For every one you saw, there were more lurking in the shadows. The good news was that Brett Linder wasn’t really her problem—unless, of course, he had killed Hank.

She put a call in to Hal Boyd, her finance guy, but only got voice mail. Fina had a completely aboveboard financial manager who took care of her own money, but for casework and ethically questionable activities, she employed Hal. Next, she left a message for Emma.

Her phone rang, and she looked at the display. It was Milloy calling; she was late for lunch.

“I’m on my way,” she told him, gathering her bag and keys with her other hand.

“You better be.”

Fina drove like a madwoman, which wasn’t much different from her usual approach, and slid into a booth across from Milloy at Legal Sea Foods ten minutes later. He was sipping an iced tea, and there was a diet soda with a lime at her place. On a small plate in the middle of the table, foil-wrapped butter pats were inserted into the middle of two rolls.

“Oh, you’re the best.” Fina liked her butter pat to be pre-melted in the warm roll before she peeled back the foil and spread it on the bread.

“I ordered for us,” he said.

“Thanks.” Fina took a long drink of soda and sat back. “So, what were you up to last night?” She certainly hoped
he
hadn’t been on a date. There weren’t many things you could count on in life, but Fina had grown used to the idea that Milloy and Cristian would always be available. Clearly, her assumptions were faulty.

“Dinner with Zeke and a couple of other guys.” Milloy and Fina had met their freshman year at BU and knew many of the same people. Fina, however, was more of a loner than Milloy, and much of her social
energy was put into her family. Who had the time to nurture friendships when they were busy putting out fires on the home front?

“How’s the case going?” he asked, spreading butter on his roll.

“It’s a mess, but they usually are, right?” Fina unwrapped her butter, but stopped when a man approached the booth.

He pulled a chair away from another table and took a seat at theirs. Dan Rubin was a freelance reporter in his fifties whom Fina had encountered on previous cases. He was wearing dark blue cotton pants and a wrinkled button-down shirt untucked on one side. His hair looked unkempt, and his complexion was ruddy. Over one shoulder, he had a battered leather messenger bag. If you subtracted about thirty-five years, Dan looked like a private-school boy who was late for lacrosse practice.

“I hear you’re on the Reardon case,” he said, swigging from a bottle of water.

“You’re back,” Fina noted. “Dan, this is Milloy. Milloy, Dan.”

Dan thrust out his hand and shook Milloy’s. “I took a little time off.”

“I heard,” Fina murmured. The waiter set down two steaming bowls of chowder and a few packets of oyster crackers. “I hope it was helpful.” Rumor had it that Dan had been in rehab, and although Fina found the man annoying, she didn’t wish him ill. She’d seen enough addiction in her work to know it was an evil scourge.

“Time will tell,” Dan said, looking around the restaurant. “So
are
you working on the Hank Reardon case?”

“You know I am. What do you want, Dan?”

“I want a scoop.”

“And I can’t tell you about my clients. Why don’t you do some investigative reporting? Like, what’s the deal with the ME’s report?” Fina already knew what was in it from Stacy, but she was curious if Dan had anything to add to the mix.

“It’s being released today. I guess his wife was trying to fight its release, but it’s public information.”

“Any thoughts on the murder weapon?”

“I came here to ask
you
questions,” Dan said, sipping his water.

“And I have nothing to tell you.” Fina rolled her eyes at Milloy before dipping her spoon into the chowder. It emerged from the bowl holding a plump clam and a nugget of potato.

“But it’s got something to do with the sperm donation, right?” Dan’s leg bounced on the floor. Another minute of that and she’d have to punch him in the leg. “Can you imagine waking up and finding out that Hank Reardon was your father?”

“No, I can’t.” It was bad enough waking up and remembering that Carl Ludlow was.

Dan drained his water. “I think the donor babies are the key.”

“Are you basing that on any information or just your reporter’s thirst for scandal?”

“It’s a good story, Fina.”

“Leave the kids alone, Dan.”

He leaned closer to her. “Why? What do you know?”

“You should leave us alone,” Milloy said. “You’re giving me indigestion.”

He glanced at Milloy, sizing up his physique. “I will, but just tell me what you know.”

“Nothing,” Fina said. “I just know that they had nothing to do with the circumstances of their conceptions and births. And most of them are barely legal.”

“Didn’t stop you from talking to them.”

“Good-bye, Dan.”

“What do you think about the wives? I heard there was a big brouhaha at the funeral.”

“I heard the same thing,” Fina said wearily. She’d heard no such thing, but you always got more from people if you pretended you were already in the know.

“Apparently, this town isn’t big enough for the two of them. I wonder what’s going to happen with the Reardon Center,” he mused, watching Fina.

“Your guess is as good as mine.” She returned his gaze.

“Does Hank’s death open the money taps or close them even tighter?”

“I don’t know, but untangling Hank’s business interests alone should keep you busy,” Fina said before eating a spoonful of chowder.

“What do you know about his waterfront development deal?”

Milloy put down his spoon in annoyance.

Fina shook her head. “Nothing.”

“I heard that Dimitri Kask was cut out of it. Care to comment?”

“Good-bye, Dan, and stop following me.”

“Just doing my job, Fina.”

“Me too. Just FYI, I’m a little jumpy these days, and I carry a gun. I would hate to accidentally shoot you.”

“I’m not afraid of you.” Dan chuckled.

“You should be,” Milloy said, and stared at him.

Dan stood up and pulled out a business card. “If I come up with something, I’ll be in touch, and you do the same,” he told Fina.

“Um, okay . . . no. Did you have a lobotomy while you were away? We’re not buddies or partners.”

“Never say never.” He stood up and ran his hands through his disheveled hair before hurrying out of the restaurant.

“What a pest,” Fina said, and made room for the bubbling seafood casserole that was placed before her.

“Do
you
think Hank’s murder is connected to the sperm donation?” Milloy asked.

Fina poked at the top of the dish, releasing steam from the buttery crumbs. “I think it’s a strong possibility, but Danielle and Juliana both have a horse in this race, in terms of money.”

“So what was he saying about the center? Some of my clients go there.” Milloy was a massage therapist and had magic hands. He worked on a range of clients, from professional athletes to cancer survivors.

“Juliana founded the center when she was still married to Hank; it’s her baby, but the new Mrs. Reardon has been trying to get a foothold in
the city’s social and philanthropic circles. Maybe Hank wasn’t going to fund both of their interests indefinitely.”

“You think he was killed over a charitable donation?”

“Not the donation, but the money in general and everything it provides: luxurious homes, ski vacations, status in the community, respect.”

“You live in a dark and twisted world.”

“We all do; some of us are just more aware of it.”

“What’s next?” Milloy asked.

“I need people to start telling me the truth.”

Milloy snorted. “Good luck with that. You know, you’re not an optimistic person by nature, and yet you always hold out hope that people are going to tell the truth.”

Fina sat back in her seat. “You’re right. There actually is a small part of me that expects the best of people.”

Milloy shook his head. “Wonders never cease.”

•   •   •

Michael Reardon suggested that they meet at his home rather than the office when Fina called him after lunch. After the recent intervention, he really wasn’t in a position to turn down her request for a meeting. It wouldn’t take long before he started pining for the good old days when she hadn’t been in touch.

Fina scrolled through her e-mail while waiting for him on the stoop of his South End brick row house. The street was tree-lined and charming, and you’d never know that Copley Square was only a five-minute walk away.

“Hi.” Michael lifted his hand in greeting and trotted up the stairs. Inside, Fina followed him up a wide staircase into a bright open space that encompassed the kitchen, living room, and dining area. Most everything in the place was white, with a few dashes of blue and green. The decor was tasteful and reminded Fina of his mother’s house in Swampscott. Beachy chic seemed to be a Reardon theme.

“Nice place,” Fina said.

“Thanks.” Michael rubbed his hands together. He looked nervous. “Your face looks better.”

“Eh. No permanent damage. I just have to let time do its thing.”

They looked at each other.

“Look, about the other day—” Michael said.

“Don’t worry about it. I should have called. It’s water under the bridge as far as I’m concerned.”

“It’s just been so stressful,” Michael explained, “and I’m desperate for some information.”

“That’s understandable.”

“Can I get you something to eat or drink?” He opened the large stainless-steel fridge and studied its contents. “I’m afraid all I’ve got is OJ and diet soda.”

“Diet soda? The nectar of the gods? Yes, please.”

Michael’s shoulders relaxed. “Do you want a glass and some ice?”

“Nah. Thanks.”

Fina took the can and followed him to a sofa tucked into the bay window at the front of the town house. She popped the drink open and took a long slug. “I have to tell you, this is so much better than what your mom served me.”

Michael laughed. “Oh, God. Was it thick and green?” He opened his can and took a sip.

“It was. I think my intestines still haven’t recovered.”