by Ingrid Thoft
“Who found him?”
“Security guard.”
“What else?”
“Nothing else. The body is barely cold.” She rested her head against the back of the sofa and studied the ceiling. “Are we to assume this has something to do with us?”
“It seems like a safe assumption.” He exhaled loudly. “It means I’m going to have cops crawling all over my ass.”
“Probably. Have you spoken to Renata today?” Fina asked.
“I got a voice mail from her, firing us.”
“Really? Well, that solves some of our problems.”
“According to our contract, the relationship can only be terminated in writing.”
“And you’re going to hold her to it?”
Carl shrugged and was silent for a moment. “You think she has it in her to murder Hank Reardon?”
Fina moved her head back and forth. “Maybe.”
“She’s a small woman.”
“Blunt force trauma is an equal-opportunity means; with the right weapon, anyone can do a lot of damage.”
“You better go see her, figure out if she needs a criminal attorney.”
Fina stood. “You still think cryobanks and sperm donation are the next big thing in lawsuits?”
“Damn right I do. Murder means passion, and passion means lawsuits.”
“Spoken like a hopeless romantic,” Fina said, walking out the door.
• • •
Fina pulled up to Renata’s house just as Renata was shepherding Alexa out the front door. Alexa looked camp-bound, with an overstuffed backpack and a towel in her hands. Renata was juggling a briefcase, an insulated lunch bag, and a plastic bag holding a pair of heels.
“Not now, Fina. I don’t have time,” she said while unlocking the car door.
“Renata, we need to talk.”
“And I don’t have time right now. Call me later.”
“Have you seen the news?” Fina glanced at Alexa, who seemed altogether too interested in the conversation.
“I really don’t have time for a guessing game.” Renata leaned down and started the car.
“Hank Reardon is dead.”
Alexa’s eyes grew wide.
Renata’s mouth opened and then closed. “Well, I don’t know what I can do about it,” she finally said.
“The police are going to want to interview you, and the press are going to be even more demanding.”
“Well, this isn’t my fault!” Renata protested.
“The murder may not be, but the media circus is. What were you thinking, going to the press?”
Renata studied the ground and avoided Fina’s gaze. “I just wanted to set things straight.”
“That really worked. Where’s Rosie, anyway?”
“She stayed with a friend last night.”
“Rosie was wicked mad,” Alexa offered helpfully.
Renata glared at her.
“Is that so?” Fina asked. “What was she mad about, Renata?”
“She wasn’t just mad at me, if that’s what you’re suggesting. She was also angry with Hank and his attempt to pay her off.”
“For Pete’s sake, why did you tell her about that?”
“It’s her life. She has a right to know.”
Fina shook her head in wonderment. “Renata, come into the office so we can talk about getting ahead of this story, and don’t talk to the cops without counsel.”
Renata ducked into her car. Fina watched her drive away.
• • •
In her car, Fina was scrolling through her e-mails when her phone rang. Cristian’s number lit up the display.
“What’s up? Did Brad Martin do something dramatic, like buy a new vacuum cleaner?”
“I’m glad you amuse yourself. You need to come by the station.”
Fina looked out the window; a petite woman was on the sidewalk being walked by a large black Lab. “Because?”
“Because Pitney wants to see you.”
“I don’t know who killed Hank Reardon.”
“She wants to talk.”
“Oh, blah, blah, blah. I haven’t even done anything yet.”
“That we know of.”
“Fine. I’ll stop by.”
“She wants to see you now.”
“Well, I’m a busy woman.”
“So is she, and she has the law on her side and a lot of people riding her ass.”
“Don’t antagonize her? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Nothing gets by you, Ludlow.”
“I’m on my way.”
• • •
“I’m here to see Lieutenant Pitney,” Fina announced at Boston Police headquarters twenty minutes later.
The desk sergeant gave her a weary once-over and pointed to the uncomfortable wooden benches across from his bulletproof perch. After tapping her toe for ten minutes, Fina got up and waited her turn behind a uniformed cop and his odiferous charge.
“Can you let Lieutenant Pitney know I stopped by? I’ll try to catch her later.”
“What’s your name?” The desk sergeant asked.
“Fina Ludlow.”
“Ah. In that case, ‘sit down and cool your jets.’ That’s what she said to tell you.”
“Ugh. Fine.”
Fina sat and waited. Ten more minutes passed, but she was done cooling her jets. She started toward the front door.
“Ludlow!”
“Dammit,” Fina said under her breath. She looked up to see Pitney at the top of the stairs, beckoning to her.
She led Fina to a room reserved for victims and family members; it was painted a neutral color and had two comfortable couches and framed prints on the wall. There was a small round table surrounded by four chairs. Pitney took a seat and pointed at another for Fina.
“Not an interview room? I think you’re starting to like me,” Fina said.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
Fina and Pitney had a love-hate relationship. They were often on opposite sides of the fence, but each recognized in the other a smart, competent woman. Their interactions were fraught with lies, bickering, and grudging respect. They had most recently been at odds during the investigation of Melanie’s death, but Fina had provided Pitney with key information and hadn’t covered for her brother in traditional Ludlow fashion. Fina hoped this had earned her some points with the lieutenant.
“So you called, and I came,” Fina said.
“I’d like to get some things clear about the Hank Reardon case.” Pitney rested her hand on a folder on the table; her coral-colored nails looked like small wounds against the manila. They were a sharp contrast to her royal blue pants and red-striped blouse. Her gun sat on her right hip. Pitney was short and round and always brought to mind an armed garden gnome.
Fina sat back in her chair. “I know nothing about his death.”
“How is it that every time I turn around, you’re up to your neck in one of my cases?”
“You’re being a little dramatic. We were hired by Renata Sanchez to identify her donor and possibly sue the cryobank. I investigated, learned Hank’s identity, and the concerned parties were in talks.”
“But now one of the concerned parties is dead.”
“A man worth billions who had his share of enemies. I certainly hope your investigation is going to look at all possible suspects, not just the ones associated with my family.”
“What do you think?”
“Just checking.”
There was a tap at the door, and Cristian popped his head in. “Lieutenant, we’re ready for you.”
Pitney got up from her seat. “Don’t get in the way, and tell Cristian what you know.”
“Some of it is covered by privilege,” Fina reminded her.
&n
bsp; “Share what you can according to the law. Otherwise, you’re looking at obstruction.”
Fina scoffed. “You deem my very existence obstructive.”
“And I’m the one who’s dramatic?”
“I can’t help it; it runs in the family.”
“Good-bye, Fina.” Pitney left the room, and Cristian took her seat.
“What do you have for me?” he asked.
Fina sighed and gave him an overview of her investigation into Hank Reardon and his offspring. It didn’t take long.
“Have you seen that guy again? The one in the park?” Cristian asked.
“Nope. Maybe I was just being paranoid.”
Cristian looked at her. “You’re many things, but paranoid isn’t one of them.”
“Well, thank you.” Fina smiled.
Cristian grinned and shook his head. “Watch your back.”
“Oh, stop with the sweet nothings.”
Fina left the station satisfied that she’d done her civic duty for the day.
• • •
Back at Nanny’s, Fina fielded a concerned phone call from the building manager. Apparently, members of the press had connected her to Hank’s “coming out” as a donor and were eager to talk to her. They’d spent the day hanging around, annoying the other residents. It wasn’t the first time that Fina had brought the media to the building, and there was talk of her violating homeowners’ association rules.
“You’re not serious,” she told the manager.
“It’s disruptive, Ms. Ludlow. This is a quiet building, and the residents value their privacy.”
“Well, the press aren’t interested in them,” she noted.
He was silent.
“Fine. I’ll take care of it.” She hung up and retreated to the bedroom. After stripping off her clothes and climbing into bed naked, Fina lay on her back and looked at the ceiling.
Renata Sanchez really was the gift that kept on giving.
“We’ve got to do something about this,” Fina said, walking into Carl’s office.
“What’s the matter?” Matthew asked. He and Scotty were sitting with Carl at the shiny walnut table.
“We’re in the middle of something,” Carl said, flicking a glance in her direction.
“Well, you may be able to get work done, but I can’t when I’m being followed by reporters.” Fina had been trailed by a few when she popped out to get a hot chocolate and chocolate croissant earlier that morning. Forget the building manager—it was hard to detect when you were so damn detectable.
“What do they want from you?” Scotty asked.
“They seem to think that I’m going to lead them to some secret land populated by Hank Reardon’s cryokids and his murderer. I can’t do any investigating with an entourage, and my building manager is getting tetchy.”
“What do you want me to do about it?” Carl asked.
“I don’t know. Can’t you threaten to sue them?”
“On what grounds?” Carl asked.
“It’ll die down, Fina,” Matthew said. “Another story will push it off the front page. You just need to be patient.” He and Scotty looked at each other and burst out laughing.
“That’s hilarious.” Fina glared at her brothers.
“Why don’t you just solve the case?” Scotty said. “That might shut everyone up.”
“Who’s going to pay for that?” Carl asked, suddenly looking alert.
“Just put her on it for a limited number of hours,” Scotty suggested. “We did kind of contribute to the situation.”
“I’m not in the charity business,” Carl said.
Carl’s assistant poked her head around the door. “Mr. Ludlow, there’s a gentleman here to see you. His name is Michael Reardon, and he insists on speaking with you.”
Scotty and Matthew glanced between their father and sister.
“That’s his son, right?” Matthew asked.
“Yes. From his first marriage.” Fina felt the stirrings of a headache. She walked over to the bar and pulled out a diet soda.
“Set up an appointment, Shari,” Carl instructed.
“I don’t think he’ll take no for an answer,” Shari whispered.
“Dad, let’s just get this over with.” Fina sat down in an empty chair at the table and popped open the soda.
Carl sighed. “We’ll finish this later, boys.”
Scotty and Matthew gathered up their folders and laptops and were barely out the door before Michael Reardon strode in.
“I called you last night and this morning,” Michael said.
Carl stood and offered his hand to Michael. He then gestured to the chair that Scotty had vacated. “And I was going to return your call. Sit down, Michael.”
Even though he was twenty-eight, Michael Reardon dropped into the chair as directed. Fina recognized the behavior. In her experience, young men raised by powerful fathers were often blustery to the outside world, but cowed in the presence of their fathers or comparable father figures.
“This is Fina, my daughter. She’s a private investigator.”
“I know who she is.” Michael looked at her. “She’s the one who outed my father. This is her fault.”
Fina rolled her eyes. “It’s a little more complicated than that, but yes, I did uncover your father’s identity.”
Looking at him, Fina could see the family resemblance. More cute than handsome, Michael Reardon had sandy blond hair and a lean physique. He looked like a stretched-out version of his father, who had been shorter and a bit beefier.
“What can we do for you, Michael?” Carl asked. To the untrained eye, Carl might appear solicitous, but Fina knew his question was in service of his goal of dealing with Michael and moving him along.
“You need to fix this.”
Fina looked at Carl and then Michael. “What exactly do you want us to fix?”
“You need to find out who killed my father.”
“I think that’s a job best left to the police,” Carl said.
“Aren’t the first forty-eight hours the most important?” Michael whined. “After forty-eight hours, doesn’t the chance of finding the killer dramatically decrease?”
“That may be true for most murders,” Fina said, silently cursing Dateline, “but your father’s case is hardly typical. I’m sure every available resource is being brought to bear to find his killer.”
“It’s not enough.”
Fina sipped her soda and watched him clench and unclench his fists. When he felt her gaze, he slipped his hands into his lap.
According to a profile in Boston magazine, Michael had recently experienced an awakening of his social conscience and was seriously contemplating leaving Universum Tech for a more civic-minded position. It seemed to be an effort at atonement for having grown up the child of a billionaire, but his current attitude suggested that old habits die hard. He still fostered the belief that if you weren’t signing someone’s paycheck, you really couldn’t count on them to get the job done.
“So you want to hire Fina to find your father’s killer?” Carl asked.
Michael barked out a laugh. “I don’t think I should have to pay you. You’re the reason my father’s dead.”
Carl stared at him. “Did your father ever work for free, Michael? Is that how he ran his business?”
Michael swallowed. “No.”
“Well, neither do we. You can hire Fina, but she doesn’t do volunteer work.”
Fina glared at Carl. She didn’t want to do any work for the Reardons. She wanted to distance herself from them, not get more entangled.
“Fine. You’re hired.”
Fina opened her mouth to speak, but Carl cut her off. “Why don’t you two continue this in the conference room? I have work to do.”
“Dad.”
�
��Fina.” He stared at her. She relented.
“Michael,” she said, and stood up from the table. “Let’s go upstairs.”
The Ludlow and Associates boardroom was an impressive space. It was vast, like Jules Lindsley’s boardroom, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a conference table that could seat two dozen. Fina rubbed her bare arms and punched up the thermostat a few degrees. She took a seat at the head of the table and swigged her soda. Michael sat down next to her in one of the large leather chairs.
“I am genuinely sorry about your dad,” she said. “I’m not taking responsibility for his death, but I regret any role I may have played.”
Michael nodded, but was silent.
“But I need you to understand,” Fina continued, “that I have to tread lightly if I’m going to investigate this. Pissing off the cops isn’t productive.”
“Understood.”
“And we need to get one thing straight: When I investigate, I’m all in. I won’t tiptoe around your family even if it gets ugly.”
“Ugly? Uglier than Hank Reardon, businessman extraordinaire, fathering multiple cryokids?”
“It can always get uglier, Michael, and your description makes him sound like a pro athlete with a kid in every city. He was a sperm donor. Some people might consider that a selfless act.”
A sour look overtook his features. “My father was many things, Fina, a lot of them good, but selfless was not one of them.” He wasn’t as cute when he was being pissy.
“I’m just warning you that I have to investigate everyone: the cryokids, you, your mom, and your stepmother, too.”
Michael looked defiant. “Are you suggesting that my family had something to do with this?”
“I’m suggesting that I don’t know. Neither do you. But if the prospect of my digging annoys you, then this isn’t going to work.”
He examined his nails. They were neatly trimmed and buffed. “Fine, but none of us killed him.”
“But there may be other dirt that gets unearthed.”
“I don’t care.”
Fina studied him. “All right. Why don’t you tell me what you know?”
Michael took a deep breath. “A security guard found my dad in the Universum Tech garage.”