Identity (32 page)

“Yeah, it’s all because of you. Is there anything you don’t take credit for?” Dante padded into the kitchen in his bare feet and grabbed two bottled waters from the fridge. He threw one at Fina, who caught it one-handed.

“What happened to your face?” he asked. “Piss off someone else?” He leaned on the kitchen counter and unscrewed the top of the bottle.

Fina sat down on a black leather sectional and unscrewed her bottle cap, then took a sip. “Apparently. You wouldn’t know anything about it, would you?”

“You’re accusing me?”

“No, I’m not accusing you. Don’t be so defensive! I thought you might have heard something.”

Dante shook his head. “What else do you want? You always want something.”

“Just a couple of questions. You ever heard of a kid named Brett Linder?”

He walked over and sat down in a black leather chair next to her. The apartment was the prototype of a bachelor pad: black leather furniture, glass accent tables, an enormous flat-screen TV, an Xbox, and piles of games.

“No. Should I?”

“Not necessarily. I just thought I’d ask.” Fina put the water on the coffee table. “How’s business?”

Dante leaned back and put his bare feet on the table. Generally, Fina found men’s feet to be disgusting, but Dante’s were smooth, his nails trimmed and neat.

Fina leaned forward, examining his toes. “Do you get pedicures?”

Dante shrugged. “Maybe.”

“They look good. That must make you a hit with the ladies. Nice feet are a bonus.”

He puffed up his chest. “Believe me, the ladies have nothing to complain about.”

Fina rolled her eyes. “I’m sure. So, business? It’s good?”

“Business is good.”

“I guess having Bev Duprey out of the way has been a positive development?” Bev Duprey had been the owner of the city’s most exclusive escort agency and had also overseen a successful porn business. Her physician son had been decimated by a Ludlow and Associates lawsuit, and when she’d taken revenge on Rand and Haley, Bev had wandered into Fina’s crosshairs. With Bev out of play, Dante’s business opportunities had multiplied.

“You want credit for that, too?” Dante asked.

She gestured at him with her water. “I’ve earned the credit for that.”

“And now you’re here to collect.”

“I want you to keep your ears open. I want some info on Brett Linder and the mystery man who threatened me.” She gestured toward her face.

“Why’s this kid so important?”

“He may not be. He could just be a nuisance, or he could be a murder suspect. The more I know, the better. Also, I need you to get a DJ a set at Crystal.”

“What do I look like to you? A temp agency?”

“She’s good. You’ll like her.” Wow, she made lots of stuff up. “Give me your e-mail address, and I’ll send you her info.”

Dante recited it, and Fina entered it into her phone. “Is she hot?” he asked.

“Look her up and decide for yourself.” Fina stood and walked to the door.

“When do you start owing me?” Dante asked.

“I don’t think of it as owing each other. I think of it as scratching each other’s backs.”

Dante smirked. “I bet you’d love that.”

Fina leaned toward him. “I like men, Dante, not boys.” She punched him again in the arm before walking down the hall toward the elevator. “Keep in touch!”

He slammed the door, and a moment later, the music blasted from his unit.

His neighbors must love him.

•   •   •

Fina popped into a coffee shop around the corner from Dante’s and ordered a diet soda. She claimed an empty overstuffed chair and checked her e-mail. Her contact at the Registry had come through with the car registration info, which Fina forwarded to Emma. She was contemplating her next move when Carl showed up on her caller ID.

“Yes, Father?”

Carl snorted. “I want an update.”

“Why? Has Michael Reardon been telling on me again?”

“Come to the club at six thirty.”

“I’m not having dinner at the club. I can update you right now.”

“I don’t want an update over the phone. Why won’t you have dinner at the club?”

“I was there last night with Mom and Patty.” A homeless man sat down across from her. He rummaged through a plastic bag and took out a small collection of Tupperware, which he proceeded to sort.

“So?”

“I’ve had my fill of Mom for the week.”

“Don’t talk about your mother like that.”

“How many nights a week do you have dinner with her?”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

Carl was silent. Left to their own devices, the two of them could stay on the line all day trying to outlast the other.

“I’m not going to the club for dinner,” Fina finally said. “I have work to do, but I’ll try to stop by and give you an update. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Carl said, and ended the call.

Fina stared at the phone for a moment, and something clicked.

An impatient, bossy man.

That’s why that voice mail had sounded so familiar.

A moment later, her ringing phone snapped her out of her musings. The homeless man glared at her, the sound seemingly disturbing his work.

“I e-mailed you that E-Z Pass statement,” Emma said when Fina picked up.

“That’s great, thanks. I’ll take a look right now.”

Fina toggled over to her e-mail and scanned the list of transactions from Emma, quickly at first, then more slowly a second time.

Dammit.

There was nothing there.

•   •   •

Walter Stiles had left the office for the day, and Fina decided to approach him away from the cryobank. Catching him off guard seemed
like a good idea, and he might be less cagey if his professional reputation wasn’t foremost on his mind. This was more likely to happen at his home in Framingham.

Five minutes after exiting Route 9, Fina was winding along sparsely populated roads that tucked in and out of the woods. She didn’t understand the appeal of living out in the sticks, even if you were really only ten minutes from the nearest mall. Some people found it peaceful, but it felt creepy to her.

She turned into a road marked by two stone columns and followed Walter’s driveway to a moderate-sized contemporary house. The exterior was shingled in dark wood that blended in with the large forest it abutted. The doorbell didn’t sound like a standard chime, more like the first few notes of a classical piece. As she waited, Fina peeked in through the glass bordering the door. The space was full of light and wood and looked expensive and custom-built. Walter had done all right for himself.

A woman opened the door. She was in her fifties, wearing a velour tracksuit, her dyed blond hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. Fina recognized her as Walter’s companion at various charity events that had been featured in the
Globe.
“Yes?”

“I’m here to see Walter. Ellen said he’d left for the day.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“He should be.”

“He’s back there,” she said, and led Fina through the living room with its white walls and high ceilings. The doors were framed with intricate moldings, and the wood floors were polished to a sheen. They walked through a modern kitchen, which featured a corner of windows overlooking the woods. The accoutrements of dinner preparations were laid out on the counter, and a small TV was broadcasting the news. “Do you work at the bank?” the woman asked over her shoulder.

“No, just consulting. I’m Fina.”

The woman turned and offered her hand. “Lucy. Walter hasn’t mentioned you.”

“Our work hasn’t overlapped much.”

“Walter, Fina is here.” Lucy poked her head around the door frame into a smaller room.

Walter sat at a wooden desk, his back to a wall of windows. He was reading something on the desk and glanced up after a moment. He peered at Fina and scowled.

“Why are you here?” He started to rise from his seat.

Lucy looked confused.

“I was telling Lucy that I’m consulting with the bank on the Reardon situation.” Fina stared at him. It was a game of chicken, but Fina couldn’t really lose; if he kicked her out, that just confirmed that she was onto something.

“Should I not have . . . ?” Lucy glanced between the two of them.

“It’s fine. I’ll take care of it.” He pointed to a love seat perpendicular to the fireplace, and Fina sat down. The room must have been cozy in winter, but without a roaring fire and autumn colors outside the window, it seemed oddly barren. Walter glared at Fina, and Lucy padded down the hallway.

“Is that your housekeeper or your wife?” Fina asked before he could speak.

“Neither. What are you doing at my home?”

“Short workday for you today, or do you always leave before three?” He didn’t answer. “Okeydoke. I have some questions I want to ask you.”

“I’m calling the police. This is harassment.” He picked up the phone on the desk.

“Please do. They can fill me in on your interactions with Hank Reardon. I’m assuming you’ve already told them about that?” Walter stopped dialing. “I don’t actually care about your baby-making empire. I’ve been hired by Michael Reardon to find his father’s killer. That’s my only concern.”

Walter was quiet. He moved his jaw as if he were actually chewing on this notion. He sat down in his large desk chair. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“So the police know you had contact with Hank shortly before his murder?”

“The police are aware of details that are relevant to the case.” He folded his hands on the desk.

Fina smiled. “Nice try, Walter. I’m from a family of attorneys, remember? I’m fluent in evasion.”

“Any conversations I had with Hank Reardon are covered by doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“What? That’s bogus. You weren’t his doctor.”

“I have nothing to say on the matter.”

“Obviously you and Hank knew one another, but I can’t figure out why you and his widow don’t want anyone to know that he was in touch. What’s the big secret?”

“You’ve never heard of privacy?”

“I think the fear of bad publicity trumps privacy.” Fina stood and looked at the bookshelves. A couple of shelves were filled with medical journals and some awards. There were a few pictures of Walter receiving the awards, smiling proudly while holding a crystal bowl or a shiny plaque. The other shelves were crammed full of books—the classics, from the looks of the spines—but Fina would have bet money that they had been acquired by a decorator, not a voracious reader. A couple of banker’s boxes were on the ground next to a basket of firewood.

“Do you want to hear my theory?” Fina asked.

“No, and would you kindly sit down? I don’t want you pawing at my things.”

“Walter, I haven’t touched anything, but if it makes you feel better.” She reclaimed her place on the love seat. “I think that Hank Reardon was incensed and was coming after the cryobank.”

Walter gave her a pitying look. “That’s preposterous, and why are you so sure he was angry? Maybe he wanted to champion the work of the cryobank.”

“You make it sound like you’ve cured cancer. I know reproductive
medicine is a big deal, but you’re not Jonas Salk or Mother Teresa in a lab coat.”

“You shouldn’t assume donating sperm was a source of shame or unhappiness to Mr. Reardon.”

“I didn’t say it was, but I know that he didn’t want the publicity. Trying to convince me that he wanted to be the next poster child for the cryobank is going to be a hard sell.”

Walter waved his hand. “Your theories aren’t of any consequence. It’s time for you to leave.”

“Okeydoke.” Fina rose once again. “Take care, Walter.”

She walked back through the kitchen, where Lucy stood at the sink.

“Nice to meet you, Lucy.”

“Bye.”

Fina saw herself out and sat in her car for a moment before turning the key. There was some issue or bone of contention between Walter and Hank, she was sure of it. If Hank had just threatened legal action, he would have sent Jules Lindsley as his emissary, but he’d contacted Walter directly.

Walter and the widow Reardon could stonewall her all they wanted. It just made her more curious.

•   •   •

This time, Danielle Reardon’s maid didn’t make her wait on the doorstep, but she did leave her in the foyer for ten minutes. Fina took a seat in an elaborate chair that was probably from some French monarchy. It had a scrolled back, and the arms were oversized and curvy. Covered in striped silk, it probably cost more than Fina’s car.

“She’s in her study,” the maid announced.

“I can find it if you tell me where it is,” Fina said, rising from the chair.

The maid gave her a withering look. “I’ll take you.” The security at the Reardons’ was certainly better than that at Heritage Cryobank.

They rode the elevator to the fourth floor. Fina was directed a few doors down the hallway into a room overlooking Commonwealth Ave. There was a large couch, a fireplace, bookshelves, and a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. Danielle was on the phone, pacing by the window.

“But he assured me that he would take care of the permits,” she said, gesturing for Fina to come in. “Uh-huh, uh-huh. Would you? Thanks.” She hung up a moment later.

“What’s going on?” Danielle asked. She was wearing a wrap dress that hugged her figure perfectly, and her hair was down. It was shiny and glossy, like she’d just stepped out of a shampoo commercial. She wore a couple of necklaces of varying lengths. Her feet were bare, with manicured toenails. Fina could see a pair of three-inch heels kicked off in front of the couch.

“Do you have a minute?”

“Sure.” Danielle shrugged and walked over to a wall cabinet. She pushed on a panel, which opened to reveal a wet bar. “Do you want a drink?”

“Sounds good. What do you have?”

Danielle stood back to show off an incredibly well-stocked bar. “I’m partial to vodka myself. Vodka martini? Vodka and cranberry? Vodka tonic?”

“Vodka and cranberry.” Fina sat down on the couch. The room retained the feeling of a men’s club, but there were touches indicating this was Danielle’s space. There were framed black-and-white photographs on the shelves, and the coffee table books were all art-related. The couch was covered in a cranberry-colored fabric, and the room was accented with deep reds and silvers. “I didn’t know if you’d be busy with baby stuff right now,” Fina said.