Identity

by Ingrid Thoft

  “Well, I was certainly annoyed that Hank was acting out a cliché, and it put Michael in a weird position, having such a young stepmother.”

  “He seems okay with it.”

  “I think he’s gotten used to it, and there is a twisted cachet having an attractive stepmother practically your own age.”

  “And the money? Is Danielle taking what’s yours?”

  Juliana’s eyes widened. “You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

  “It didn’t strike me as necessary.” Fina took a swig of the shake.

  “You’re right. It’s not. Obviously, I did okay in the divorce, not that I asked for much, relatively speaking.”

  Fina raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh, I could have bought the whole block, Fina—may I call you Fina?”

  Fina nodded.

  “I could have bought the whole block, if I’d taken what Hank had to give, but my days in the world of grotesque wealth are long gone.” Juliana drained her drink. “That’s part of the reason we split up.”

  “Too much money? That’s a first.”

  “Once you’ve got ten million in the bank, how much more do you really need? Hank thought you could never have too much, but all you have to do is go to other countries—or even certain neighborhoods in the city—to realize there is such a thing as too much.”

  “You’re not exactly slumming,” Fina said, pointing toward the wide sandy beach.

  “Hardly. My point is that there’s a wide spectrum, and I didn’t want to live at the very end. I have a pampered life, but I give a lot to charity, and I’m involved in causes in a way we never were as a couple.”

  “So you’re not just writing checks.”

  “Nope. I’m trying to join the human race, as opposed to watching it from a luxury box.”

  “You’re still active in causes associated with the Reardon name even though you’re divorced?”

  Juliana looked affronted. “It’s my name, too. She doesn’t get to take that from me.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting that, but just like friends get split during a divorce, I assume the causes do as well. Unless you had the most amicable split in the history of mankind and work alongside your ex and his wife.”

  “You’re right,” Juliana conceded. “We did split the charities, or rather, I’ve kept the ones that are most important to me.”

  “Which are?” Fina continued drinking her protein shake, noticing that the residue of it clung to the side of the glass. She could only imagine what it was doing to her organs.

  “I’m most involved with an orphanage in India and the Reardon Breast Cancer Center for Reflection and Rejuvenation.”

  “I’m familiar with the center. It’s in Cambridge, right?”

  “Yes. It’s a wonderful organization, and we serve an extremely diverse population. We’re focused on the spiritual component of surviving cancer.”

  “Which means what?”

  “Alternative therapies and mental practices that support traditional medicine. We don’t recommend patients forgo their chemotherapy or anything like that, but things like good nutrition, meditation, stress reduction, they can all play a part in recovery.”

  “It sounds interesting.”

  “It is. You should visit the center sometime. I think you would find it eye-opening.”

  “Is Michael worried about his inheritance? In terms of Danielle, I mean.”

  Juliana seemed surprised by the change in subject, but recovered quickly. “I think he’s appropriately concerned. He likes Danielle, but on paper, she certainly fits the profile of a gold digger, and now with Aubrey and these other children emerging . . .”

  “What do you think about that?”

  “I think it’s just like Hank to create a big mess from what was probably a brief period of impulsivity. And I feel bad for my son,” Juliana added. “He didn’t sign up for this.”

  Fina steeled herself to finish her shake. Blech. “Any idea who might have killed him?”

  Juliana was silent for a moment and gazed down at the beach. A couple of kids were trying to launch a kite, but the wind wasn’t cooperating. Kite-flying was one of those activities that Fina never really understood; say you finally got it airborne, then what?

  “Hank wasn’t overly concerned with people’s feelings, and he played in the big leagues, but killing him is a whole other thing.” She looked at Fina. “I couldn’t hazard a guess.”

  Juliana carried the empty glasses into the kitchen and walked Fina toward the door. The walls in the living room featured large photographs that were riots of color. Women in saris, heaps of spices, and dark-skinned children with bright white teeth were the subject matter.

  “Are those from India?” Fina asked.

  “Yes. I go every year. Have you ever been?”

  “No.”

  “It’s an amazing place. Very spiritual. My travels in India really set my life on a different path.”

  Fina followed her to the front door. She gestured at a sleek bike in the foyer. “You bike?” she asked.

  “Actually, I’m a triathlete, so swimming, biking, and running.”

  “That’s impressive.”

  “You look like you’re in shape,” Juliana said. “You should try it.”

  “I run occasionally, but generally, I try to do as little as possible. I think that’s the opposite of a triathlon.”

  “Try it,” she cajoled. “You’ll be hooked.”

  “It’s really a cult, isn’t it? You exercise junkies are always trying to recruit innocent souls.”

  Juliana laughed, and Fina handed her a business card. “If anything else comes to mind, don’t hesitate to call.”

  “Sure.”

  Fina turned halfway down the stairs. “I hate to ask, but where were you the night Hank was killed?”

  “Right here, in bed. All that training makes me sleep like a log.”

  Fina climbed into her car. She gazed in her rearview mirror and saw Juliana framed in the doorway. From that angle, it looked like she was holding up the house.

  • • •

  Fina drove from Swampscott back to the city, with a quick stop in Revere at Kelly’s Roast Beef. Juliana’s shake had left her on the full side, but thoroughly unsatisfied; nothing that some fried clams and French fries wouldn’t cure. She sat in her car with the windows rolled down and watched the parade of humanity that meandered by. There were sunbathers of every age and shape enjoying the last gasp of summer. Small children fed the seagulls that loitered beneath one of the gazebos, much to the dismay of a group of old women gabbing on a bench. Teenage boys leered at girls in string bikinis who seemed to welcome the attention.

  Fina dipped a clam in tartar sauce and pondered Hank and Juliana Reardon. Was their divorce really that amicable or was Juliana a terrific actress? Fina knew that she had experienced a spiritual awakening of sorts from her travels and charity work, but it was unusual for people to walk away from money. And it was especially unusual for first wives of wildly successful men to do so. Corporate wives often got little credit for the years of work they put in to further their husbands’ careers. When the marriages fell apart, they wanted to be compensated for the time and effort they could never get back; they didn’t want their generally younger replacements to reap all that they had sown. But maybe Juliana Reardon really was different. She had her causes, and there was no question that she led a full life. She wasn’t sitting around pining for Hank and the way things used to be.

  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 c
an’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.