Identity

by Ingrid Thoft

  “I’ll tell them that you’re my baby mama,” Tyler said, grinning devilishly. “That should get tongues wagging.”

  “I’m old enough to be your mama, but thanks for the compliment.” Fina put the swab into a plastic test tube that came with the kit and dropped it into her bag. “I’ll let you know if I get a match.”

  Tyler gave her a loose salute, and Fina threaded her way back through the kitchen.

  Walter took his time filling his mug from the cappuccino maker in the kitchen. He had splurged on the machine, but good coffee was a necessity in life as far as he was concerned. Most of the staff seemed to appreciate his generosity. He carried the froth-topped mug into his office, where Ellen Alberti was sitting in front of his desk, engrossed in a conversation on her cell phone. He put down his coffee and sank into his large leather swivel chair. He tapped his wristwatch and looked at Ellen.

  “I’ve got to go,” Ellen said, “but that sounds terrific. Let’s get a meeting on the books.” She listened and then laughed. When she tipped her head back, a small gold charm fell into the hollow of her neck. Ellen was very attractive.

  “That was Kevin Landry,” she said after hanging up. “He’s running the NRM conference this year.” As a board member, Walter always attended the National Reproductive Medicine conference. It was an opportunity for him to hobnob with the other movers and shakers in the specialty and stay informed about the latest medical advances.

  “Hmm,” Walter responded.

  “He has an idea for a panel. I think it’s a great opportunity.” Walter sipped his coffee as he listened.

  “I’d be happy to participate. Just check my schedule with Jenny.”

  “Actually, Walter, he’s asked me to participate.”

  “Really?” Walter’s tone implied his doubt.

  “Really.” Ellen smiled at him. He could never tell if she was being genuine with her bright smiles. Sometimes they struck him as mocking punctuation she added to the ends of her statements.

  “So did Margery fill you in on the brochure?” he asked.

  “She did.”

  “Good.” Walter had led a meeting the day before to discuss Ellen’s newest project.

  “I was concerned about something, though,” she said, and looked at him.

  Walter knew what she was going to say: that she was upset he had held the meeting without her.

  “I don’t mean to be indelicate, but I was concerned when you convened the meeting yesterday. Since you’re well aware of my schedule, I wondered if you got mixed up?” She tilted her head. “Perhaps had a lapse?”

  Walter stared at her. “A lapse?”

  “Yes.” She winced. “You wouldn’t have purposely excluded me from my own meeting, so I wondered if you were feeling all right.”

  “I’m just fine, Ellen, but I appreciate your concern. Since Margery filled you in, let’s move on to other business.”

  “Of course.” She adjusted in her seat. “A private investigator stopped by earlier today. She’s representing a Heritage client who is threatening to sue to reveal the identity of her donor.”

  Walter sipped his cappuccino. “That’s absurd. No court will even hear a case like that, let alone rule on it.”

  “I agree, but it could stir up some unwanted attention, and the climate is changing. I’m sure there are other parents who share her frustration with anonymous donation.”

  Walter puffed out his chest. “They all signed the papers. They knew what they were getting into. Seems ungrateful to me.”

  “I don’t think we want to broadcast that sentiment.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting that we should. What did this PI want from you?”

  “Nothing. I think it was just a shot across our bow, but I thought you should know.”

  “Good luck to her. It will rack up legal fees on our end, but I suppose that can’t be avoided.”

  Ellen shrugged. “The cost of doing business, but I don’t think we’ve seen the last of her.”

  “No?”

  “You know Carl Ludlow, right? It’s his daughter. They’re known for being bulldogs.”

  “Well, there’s nothing for them here,” Walter said brusquely.

  “I know, Walter, I’m just saying that I think she’ll be back.”

  “We have better things to do than fend off frivolous lawsuits and overzealous investigators.” Walter drained his coffee. “Let’s discuss the new FDA recommendations, shall we?”

  Ellen nodded her assent and consulted the notepad on her lap.

  He was quite sure that he was irritating Ellen, and that was just fine.

  • • •

  Fina stopped at an office building in the Longwood Medical Area and submitted Tyler’s swab to a private lab that promised results within forty-eight hours. The general public assumed that DNA tests took an extraordinarily long time, but that wasn’t true. The testing itself was expeditious, but expensive. Police departments and district attorneys didn’t have the money to run the tests, which explained the delays and backlogs. That was one of the benefits of working in the private sector: Fina didn’t have to work hard to stretch her dollar.

  She continued on to a modest ranch house in Newton, a home that would be considered comfortably sized in other towns, but was downright small by Newton standards. A collection of thirteen villages, Newton was a much coveted suburb of the city that offered strong public schools, parks and lakes, and prime marathon viewing. Houses went for millions of dollars, but there were also starter homes in the range of half a million. The street Fina turned onto was a mix of retirees who’d bought their homes decades ago and young families bringing in six-figure salaries. The small front yard of 56 Wellspring Street was tidy, and a welcome plaque hung next to the front door. Fina knocked on the screen door frame before letting herself in.

  “Hello?” she called out.

  “In the kitchen,” a voice responded.

  Peg Gillis was standing at the sink, looking out the window into the backyard. Her hands were covered in suds. Fina stood next to her and followed Peg’s gaze. The freshly cut lawn sloped down to dense woods and was bordered on either side with rhododendrons.

  “What the hell is that thing?” Fina asked. A large bird was poking at the grass with its beak.

  “It’s a wild turkey.”

  “It’s huge. Is it friendly?”

  “I haven’t invited it in, but I’m sure Frank is doing his research.”

  “Is that how he’s keeping busy? Researching the local wildlife?”

  Frank was a semiretired PI who had taught Fina everything she knew. Actually, everything she knew that was legal. He couldn’t be held responsible for her less ethical activities.

  Peg rinsed her hands and dried them on a dish towel. “Are you joining us for dinner?” Five forty-five was the dinner hour at the Gillises’ house. This schedule made Fina feel like she’d stepped into a wormhole straight to Miami and its early bird specials, but she also appreciated the consistency. Grown-ups are really toddlers at heart; they feel safer with routines.

  “I’ll sit with you, but I’m not going to eat if that’s okay.”

  “That’s fine. Frank!” Peg called toward the other end of the small house. “Dinner!” She turned to Fina. “Could you set the table, hon?”

  Fina gathered plates and utensils and set two places at the round table nestled in the corner of the kitchen. Frank walked in a few minutes later, and the three sat. Fina watched them dig in to a traditional boiled dinner, otherwise known as corned beef and cabbage.

  “Bet you’re sorry you turned this down,” Frank said, stabbing a pale, mushy potato with his fork.

  “No offense to Peg, but no. I’m not a fan.” Fina took a sip of a diet soda she’d found in the refrigerator.

  “How are things at Ludlow and Associates?” Frank asked between mouthfuls.
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  “Never the same without you.” Fina shook her head. Frank had left the firm a few years before, and Fina sorely missed his presence. “I’m still in the doghouse.”

  “Sweetie, you’ve been in the doghouse since the moment I met you,” he said kindly.

  “My recent sins may even be worse than flunking out of law school.”

  “I don’t see how you could have swept your brother’s behavior under the carpet,” Peg commented. “You wouldn’t have been able to live with yourself.”

  Fina rotated her drink on the tabletop. “I know, but now Carl can’t seem to live with me.”

  Peg patted her hand. “Hang in there.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “So what are you working on?” Frank asked.

  “Uncovering the identity of a sperm donor. A single mother by choice used a sperm bank seventeen years ago and now she wants to find the daddy. I’ve just started, and it feels more like a soap opera than a mystery.”

  “An anonymous donation?” Peg asked.

  “Supposed to be. The mother has gotten it into her head that her child has a right to know the identity of her father, regardless of the legalities.”

  “You don’t agree?” Frank asked.

  “The mom signed a contract when she bought the sperm. She knew what she was getting into. I understand that times change, but then the law should be changed moving forward, not retroactively.”

  “Sounds like it could get sticky.” Frank put a forkful of cabbage into his mouth. It looked like bleached seaweed.

  “Especially when you factor in the mom. Do you remember the Ramirez case?”

  “Remind me,” Frank said.

  “It was the slip and fall in public housing a few years ago. One of the witnesses was the head of the Urban Housing Collaborative. That’s the mom: Renata Sanchez.”

  “It rings a bell.”

  “She’s in the news a lot,” Peg commented, and cut a piece of corned beef. “She does a lot for the lower-income community.”

  “I know,” Fina said, “and she has my respect and admiration for her work. It’s the other stuff I’m not sure about.”

  “What does the child say?” Peg asked.

  “That’s the part I’m not thrilled about. Her daughter has no interest in the case. Renata is convinced it’s in Rosie’s best interest, but Rosie doesn’t want to find out her father’s identity, at least not like this.”

  “The daughter doesn’t get a say?” Frank asked.

  “Her mother isn’t too concerned with her opinion.”

  “So why are you involved?”

  “Carl wants to attack from two fronts. He wants me to investigate less orthodox channels while he tries to push the case law. I’m not opposed to figuring out the donor’s identity. Tech-savvy kids are already doing that on their own. It’s the public crusade part I don’t like.”

  “Having kids used to be so much easier.” Frank took a sip of coffee. He was one of the few people Fina knew who drank coffee as an actual mealtime accompaniment, not just a pick-me-up or dessert in disguise. “Either you could or you couldn’t.”

  “It was simpler, but I’m not sure it was easier,” said Peg. “It wasn’t easy if you wanted them but couldn’t have them.”

  “Agreed, but now it’s so complicated.” Frank smiled at his wife. “We had it easy. The old-fashioned way.”

  “Oh, you know, I don’t need to hear this,” Fina said, sipping her soda.

  “We’re not your parents,” Peg said.

  “But you’re old enough to be my parents.” She gave them both a stern look. “The same gross-out rules apply.”

  Frank chuckled. “What’s your next move?”

  “I just talked to another single mother. Her kids share the same donor.”

  “Does she want to be involved?” Peg asked.

  “No, but one of her kids is interested.”

  “Sounds like a lot of reluctant witnesses to me,” Frank commented, sitting back in his seat. “You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

  “I know it. Enough about me. What are you two crazy kids up to these days?” Frank updated Fina on the recent influx of wild turkeys due to a construction project down the street. Fina offered to shoot one to shorten their Thanksgiving to-do list, but there were no takers. Conversation shifted to Peg’s work as a school nurse, a career that often rivaled Fina’s in terms of blood and gore. Peg was equal parts serene, loving, and tough, which made her perfect for her job.

  Fina helped do the dishes and then walked to the living room with Frank, where he settled into his easy chair for some TV and his nightly dish of vanilla ice cream.

  “I’ll pull out my notes on the Ramirez case. Maybe there’s something in there that will be useful, some background info on Renata,” Frank offered, digging into his dessert.

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “Keep in touch,” he said as a farewell and a directive. “And let me know if you need help.” Frank knew he’d done a good job training Fina, but he also knew that she flirted with danger on a regular basis.

  “Always,” Fina replied, smiling.

  • • •

  The Sanchez case was at a standstill until Fina got the DNA results, so she spent the next morning in a deposition and the remainder of the day working a car accident case. She photographed the intersection in question and conferred with an accident reconstructionist who did the math required in such cases. Accident investigations weren’t exciting, but there was something satisfying about collecting all the data and reaching a solid conclusion. Medical malpractice suits were notoriously gray, but physics don’t lie. There are rules that govern how objects move and interact with one another that leave little room for interpretation.

  Back home later, Fina gathered her notes, computer, phone, and a bag of miniature Reese’s peanut butter cups and settled on the couch. Her UMass contact had procured a list of graduates from the class of 1972, and she had an incomplete list from the high schools in Joliet. She typed her company credit card number into a site that promised a list of all males born in Joliet, Illinois, in 1951. Fina would end up with lists, lots of lists, but if there were any overlaps, she might be able to identify the donor.

  • • •

  She opened her door the next morning to Stanley, the doorman, who handed over a couriered package from the lab that had processed Tyler Frasier’s DNA sample. Fina ripped open the package and scanned the results.

  Bingo.

  There were two men in the lab database with Y chromosomes closely matching Tyler’s. According to the document, there was a 60 percent chance that Tyler and the two men had a common male relative in their family tree. The most promising piece of information was the names of the two men. The older of the two was Arthur Riordan of Davenport, Iowa. The second was Richard Reardon of Springfield, Illinois. Fina pulled up an online map and found that in the scheme of things, Davenport, Springfield, and Joliet—the donor’s birthplace—were within spitting distance of one another. Fina knew from past investigations that it wasn’t unusual for the spelling of surnames to morph over moves and generations.

  Fina went to the kitchen to give her brain a moment to process the information and also to find something to satisfy the grumbling in her stomach. It was ten in the morning, which seemed like a perfect time for cold pizza. She grabbed a diet soda and bit into a piece of Hawaiian, the sweet pineapple and salty ham mingling in her mouth. Back at her computer, she put aside the results from the lab and pulled up the lists from her computer.

  Fina examined the first list, male births in Joliet, Illinois, in 1951, and felt her muscles begin to tense. The second list of high school graduates in Joliet in 1969 led to a pronounced ache in her lower back. By the time she finished searching the UMass graduates for 1972, Fina was fighting a full-on muscle spasm.

  She had a n
ame that matched all the criteria.

  Oh, fuck.

  • • •

  “We’ve got a major issue,” Fina said, striding into Carl’s office a couple of hours later.

  “Jesus, you really have no manners,” Carl said, and looked up from his computer. A half-filled plate sat next to his keyboard.

  “That’s your takeaway from that statement? My lack of manners?”

  “What is it, Fina?” He sat back in his chair. He was wearing a light gray suit, perfectly tailored to his frame, with a faintly striped shirt and a tie of blues and grays. Carl’s clothes made a statement—that he was wealthy and had good taste—but he didn’t take many risks on the sartorial front. Fina didn’t think he was confident enough to mix patterns and colors, and if Carl wasn’t good at something, he didn’t like doing it.

  Fina shut the door. She sat down in the chair in front of her father’s desk. “I’ve identified the donor that Renata Sanchez used resulting in her daughter Rosie.”

  “Why is that an issue?” Carl cut a piece from the fillet of whitefish on his plate and put it in his mouth. Ludlow and Associates shared a corporate kitchen with a few companies on neighboring floors. For most of the employees, it offered tasty upscale cafeteria food, but Carl and the other executives often enjoyed individually prepared meals. Today, her father seemed to be eating halibut or cod and a mixed green salad.

  “It’s Hank Reardon.”

  Fina watched his chewing slow and then stop, as if a motor had gradually lost its power. Carl swallowed a sip of mineral water.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You heard me. Hank Reardon.”

  Carl put down his fork and wiped his fingers on a napkin.

  “Hank Reardon?”

  “Hank Reardon.”

  Carl rubbed his eyes. “Fuck.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  Hank Reardon was one of the most high-profile businessmen on the Eastern Seaboard, perhaps even in the whole United States. He’d made his fortune in high-tech while young, and everything he touched seemed to turn to gold. The father of a grown son, his first marriage had lasted twenty-four years, and his second was in its infancy—the marriage, although the bride wasn’t much beyond that. Hank and the new Mrs. Reardon had recently had a baby girl. The possibility that Hank Reardon was the father of multiple cryokids promised a scandal of epic proportions. He had status in the community and the wealth to match it.