Identity

by Ingrid Thoft

  “Can anyone confirm that?” Cristian asked.

  “I don’t have a boyfriend, Detective, so no, no one can confirm that.”

  “Don’t you remember, Mommy? You got me a drink of water.” Alexa licked her fingers and gazed at her mother. The adults looked at her.

  Renata was silent for a moment. “I . . .”

  “I had a nightmare and you got me a drink and stayed with me until I fell asleep.” The girl looked at them, her round face a blank canvas.

  Fina silently implored Renata to shut up.

  Renata picked at something on the countertop. “I suppose that’s right.”

  “What time was that?” Cristian asked.

  “I don’t remember exactly. Maybe four or so.” Renata grabbed a sponge and ran it over the countertop.

  “Okay. We’ll be in touch,” Pitney said. “If you think of anything else or if anything changes . . .” She stared at Renata. “Call me. We’d also like to speak with Rosie.”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “It wasn’t a request, Renata. We need to speak with her,” Pitney said.

  “Do you have a warrant?”

  “We’re not arresting her, for goodness’ sakes.”

  “Then you’re not speaking with her.”

  “We can compel her to talk to us,” Cristian said.

  “Then compel away.”

  Pitney shook her head wearily and left the kitchen.

  “Enjoy those enchiladas,” Cristian said, walking to the front door. “They smell good.”

  “Renata,” Fina said.

  “You need to go, too, Fina. We’re having a family dinner before Alexa’s soccer game.” She shooed the trio out and closed the door behind them. On the front porch, Pitney looked at Cristian.

  “That was interesting,” she said. They walked down the stairs to the Crown Victoria parked out front.

  “Think you can get Rosie to talk to us?” Cristian asked Fina from the driver’s side.

  “I’m happy to try. As long as it’s with representation.”

  Pitney rubbed her eyes with her fingertips. “Oh my God, Fina Ludlow. Go away, please.”

  “Well, since you asked nicely.” Fina started walking away.

  Cristian called after her. “Keep in touch and try not to interfere!”

  “But I’m so good at it!” Fina said, and climbed into her car.

  • • •

  Twenty minutes later, she was less than a foot away from the curb on Mass Ave, arguably not the safest spot to wait for the light, when a man jostled into her, nearly sending her into the path of an oncoming SUV.

  “Shit!” she exclaimed.

  Fina regained her footing and retreated a safe distance onto the sidewalk. She scanned in every direction until her eye settled on a man wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. His back was to her as he jogged down the street toward a waiting cab.

  “Hey!” she hollered, but before she could catch up to him, he’d hopped into the cab and disappeared in the direction of Harvard Square.

  It was time to start paying better attention.

  • • •

  The meeting had been called to order, and Juliana had thanked everyone for giving up their Saturday afternoon. Enough of their board members had demanding jobs that they couldn’t pop out in the middle of the day to fulfill a charity commitment. They were halfway through the agenda, but two of the women were stuck on details relating to the boutique proposal. Juliana sipped her water and looked at the other members arrayed around the table. Mary Stevens and Jessica Laramee were arguing about the inventory system that would be implemented if and when the bra boutique opened at the center.

  Juliana decided to let them hash it out for a few more minutes. She had learned that some members had to hear themselves speak for a certain amount of time, regardless of the subject matter. She had to balance this need with the other board members’ limited patience, but it was a skill she had perfected over time. When she noticed Edith Steagen stifling a yawn, Juliana stepped into the breach.

  “Undoubtedly, this is an important issue, but I suggest, Mary and Jessica, that you discuss it outside of the full board meeting. I’ve no doubt that with Sheila’s input”—she nodded at the center’s director—“you’ll be able to reach a workable solution.” Juliana smiled.

  Mary and Jessica nodded and scribbled on their notepads.

  “Sheila, I understand you have some promising news on the facilities front?”

  “Yes, I was able to confirm that the house next door is going on the market.” There was a murmur around the table. “Obviously, this would be the perfect opportunity for expansion.”

  The Reardon Center currently occupied a large Victorian house on a side street in the northern part of Cambridge. The addition of the house next door would nearly double the center’s space.

  “That sounds wonderful,” Edith Steagen said, “but it would be an enormous investment and require a huge outlay of capital. It may be too ambitious.”

  “Edith! Is there any such thing?” Juliana joked. “This community is counting on us. We need to make this happen.”

  “Do you know something we don’t, Juliana?”

  Juliana smiled. “Let’s just say that I’m cautiously optimistic.”

  • • •

  Dinner at Scotty and Patty’s was a good time. It was occasions like these that reminded Fina why she hadn’t left the family fold years ago. True, her parents were challenging, and her oldest brother was a molester, but Scotty and his family and Matthew had a lot to recommend. Being a Ludlow wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t all bad.

  The kids had scattered, and Scotty took a phone call while Patty got more wine. Fina and Milloy sat at the table catching up on each other’s day.

  “A guy tried to push me into the street today, like he wanted me to get run over,” Fina said.

  “Anyone else told me that, I’d assume they were mistaken, but when it comes to you . . .”

  “When it comes to her, what?” Patty asked when she walked into the room with an open bottle of red wine.

  “She thinks someone tried to get her run over, and I was saying that when it comes to her, it’s completely within the realm of possibility.”

  “That’s a reassuring thought.” Patty topped off Milloy’s and Fina’s glasses.

  “The car must have come pretty close.” Milloy swirled the liquid before taking a sip.

  “Trust me. He came close, and I think there’s another guy following me who’s giving me the creeps.”

  “What are you going to do about it?” Milloy asked. Scotty came back into the room and slid into his seat.

  “What can I do?” Fina asked. “Be more careful?”

  “Now what?” Scotty asked.

  “Your sister thinks someone tried to run her over.” Patty struggled to conceal a grin.

  “Oh, honestly, Fina.” Scotty looked at her and reached for the wine. “Could we just take a break from the bloodshed?”

  “Stop being such a drama queen. Your wife thinks it’s funny.”

  Scotty stared at Patty. “It’s not funny.”

  She curled her fist in front of her mouth. “It’s a little funny.” Scotty frowned. “Think about it, Scotty. That poor bastard has no idea what he’s in for.”

  “She does have a point,” Milloy commented, grinning.

  “Stop being such a worrywart. It’s all good,” Fina said.

  “You always say that,” Scotty grumbled, and took a large gulp of wine. “And it never is.”

  Sunday was generally a slow day in the realm of private investigation. Most businesses were closed, and people were unavailable and less inclined to shoot the breeze with a stranger when they had family commitments.

  On Monday morning, Fina scrolled through her phone messages while the eleva
tor took her down to the garage. She started to exit and bumped into a man who answered her apology with a hand around her neck. Pushing her back into the elevator, he reached up and shattered the security camera with one swift motion.

  Fina kicked him hard in the groin, but the doors closed before she could escape. He slammed her up against the wall of the elevator and, after a couple of floors, pulled out the emergency stop button. The car jerked to a halt, and Fina stopped struggling.

  “Forget about your gun,” he said.

  She was quiet. It was good advice. People had this idea that if you had a gun, you had the upper hand, but that was a fallacy. You had to grasp the weapon, release the safety, aim, and get a clear shot, all of which was next to impossible in a small space in fifteen adrenaline-fueled seconds.

  “I’m not moving,” she croaked as his hand applied more pressure around her neck.

  “I think you should take a little trip,” he hissed in her ear.

  Fina was able to breathe, but just barely. Her head was aching, and her ears were starting to ring. “You’re a travel agent?”

  He stepped away and backhanded her across the face. Fina tasted blood where one of her teeth had cut her lip. Her cheek stung.

  He grabbed her around the neck again and squeezed.

  “Either get out of town or I’m going to relocate you myself.”

  Fina didn’t respond.

  “Understand?”

  She nodded.

  He depressed the emergency stop button and the car jerked to life. The doors opened on the fifteenth floor, and he pushed her into the hallway. “You can take the next one.”

  The doors closed, and Fina doubled over with her hands on her knees. She took a half dozen deep breaths and gingerly probed her cut lip with her fingers. Reaching into her bag, she wrapped her fingers around her gun and then pushed the up button for the elevator.

  Back inside Nanny’s, she turned the dead bolt, threw down her bag, and went into the bathroom. Her lower lip was starting to swell and split near the corner of her mouth, and a bloom of bruises was appearing around her neck.

  This was no time to take a trip.

  • • •

  Fina lay on the couch for half an hour with a bag of frozen peas on her lip. Finally, she took some Advil and willed herself to get up and retrace her steps to the garage. Twenty minutes later, she walked into Carl’s office.

  “Good,” Carl said. “I was just about to call you.”

  Fina plopped into the chair in front of his desk.

  “What happened to you?” He stared at her face.

  “I had a little set-to.”

  Carl sighed. “Are we going to get sued over this?”

  “Your concern is touching.” Fina went over to the minibar and pulled two diet sodas from the fridge. She popped open one, took a long pull, then pressed the second against her swollen lip.

  “How’s he look?”

  “You always ask me that, and whoever he is looks fine.” She sat down on the sofa. “I was at a decided disadvantage, being ambushed in the elevator.” Her neck was starting to throb. “We should sue the building. Their security is shit.”

  “We have bigger problems.”

  “Great. What now?”

  “Michael Reardon is on his way in.”

  “To see you?”

  “Yes. He’s not pleased with your progress.”

  Fina screwed up her face in concentration; it hurt. “So he called you? Wouldn’t calling me be more to the point?”

  Carl shrugged. He was seated in his large leather desk chair and slowly swiveled side to side.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Fina said.

  “What’s ridiculous is that you aren’t on top of this. You should have given him a progress report by now.”

  “Give me a break. It’s been less than a week since he hired me.” Fina rotated the cold soda on her face. “Maybe he should hire someone else if he’s unhappy.”

  Carl shook his finger at her. “The Reardons could be a cash cow, so make nice.”

  Shari tapped on the open door and leaned into the office. “Michael Reardon is here.”

  Carl nodded, and she ushered him into the room. He was wearing khakis and a checked button-down shirt. His sandy blond hair looked damp and neatly combed. The expression on his face when he saw Fina suggested that he didn’t expect the subject of the meeting to actually be in attendance, certainly not looking like a prizefighter.

  “Michael,” she said. She struggled off the couch, and they both sat down across from Carl. It was like being called to the principal’s office.

  “What happened?” he asked, giving her a weak smile.

  “Occupational hazard.”

  “Don’t worry about her. She’s fine,” Carl offered.

  “I was choked.”

  “Like choked, your air supply was cut off?” Michael asked.

  “Yes, hence the bruises.” Fina pointed to her neck.

  “You should get that checked out. A lack of oxygen to the brain is no joke. It can cause serious damage.”

  “How would you tell?” Carl mused.

  Fina glared at her father.

  “So, Michael,” Carl said as he sat back and rested his folded hands on his trim torso. “You sounded unhappy on the phone. I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

  “Well, I don’t know about unhappy.” He avoided Fina’s gaze and looked at Carl. He was seriously off base if he thought Carl would be the friendlier of the two. “More like unsure.”

  “About?” Fina asked. Carl shot her a warning look.

  “The investigation. Where things stand.” He glanced at her and looked away.

  Fina ran her tongue over her swollen lip and took a moment. The only thing worse than bitching about her was not having the balls to do it to her face.

  “I should have called you sooner. I apologize for that.” Fina made an attempt at a smile. “I’ve been busy investigating.” She gestured toward her face. “Obviously. But you should never feel that you can’t call me directly.”

  Michael pointed at her face. “That’s because of the investigation into my dad’s death?”

  “It’s my primary case right now.” True, it wasn’t her only case, but Fina had difficulty believing that Greta Samuels had hired some muscle to scare her off.

  “Jesus. I’m sorry.” He looked at his shoes.

  “It’s not your fault,” Fina said. “I just hope it reassures you that I’m making progress.”

  “People only beat her up when she’s getting close to a breakthrough,” Carl said.

  “He’s right,” Fina added, “and I meant what I said. Don’t hesitate to call me. Anytime. Day or night.”

  Carl rolled his eyes as Fina reached into her bag and handed her card to Michael.

  “If I don’t answer right away, it means I’m busy being beaten or something similar.”

  He pocketed the card. “I don’t want you to get hurt on my account.”

  “She’s tough. Don’t worry about her.” Carl glanced at his watch and then Fina. “The update?”

  Fina took a sip of soda. “I’ve spoken to Danielle, your mom, Renata Sanchez, Rosie Sanchez, Tyler Frasier, Dimitri Kask, Mickey Hogan, Joseph Skylar, Ellen Alberti, and the cops, of course. I’m making progress, but sometimes you just have to work the leads until something breaks.”

  Carl tapped a finger on his desk. Fina was familiar with this motion, a metronome of his impatience.

  “Wow, okay. I didn’t realize you’d done so much.”

  “When would you like me to provide the next update?” she asked.

  He thought for a moment. “How about in a couple of days? Even if you don’t have anything concrete to tell me, I’d feel better just hearing from you.”

  “Of course. I’ll be in touch.” Fina
moved to the edge of her seat. “I meant to ask you, where were you when your dad was killed?”

  “Me?” Michael pointed at himself.

  “Sorry, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask.”

  “I was at home.”

  “Is there anyone who can confirm that?”

  Michael fiddled with the watch on his wrist. “No.”

  “Great. Thanks.” Fina stood up. “There’s nothing else you need to tell me, right?”

  Michael looked askance. “Like what?”

  “Anything your dad said that seems relevant in hindsight. Your conversations with him.” She looked him in the eye and gave him the chance to come clean about his fight with Hank.

  Michael shook his head.

  “Then I’m off,” Fina said.

  He was unhappy with her? Well. She was none too pleased with him at the moment.

  • • •

  “I’m hungry,” Fina announced when she walked into Scotty’s office. Down the hall from Carl’s, her brother’s space was a fun version of their father’s. It had the same basic elements as Carl’s—glass desk, leather sofa, flat-screen TV, private bathroom—but the focal point was a pinball machine, the Magic Genie, which, though muted, flashed in some kind of amusement Morse code.

  “Good for you for using your words,” Scotty responded, “but now try to do something about it, like a big girl.” He looked at her, registering her injuries. “Oh, Christ. Should I even ask?”

  “Probably not. Is Michelle around?” she asked, referring to his assistant. “Can we order some lunch?” She plopped down on her brother’s couch.

  “I already ate, and I have a deposition in fifteen minutes. But she’ll get you something if you want. Or you could just buy yourself lunch like most adults in the workforce.” He looked up from the documents on his desk and smiled at his little sister.

  “Fine.”

  “How’s the Reardon stuff going?” Scotty asked. “Is that”—he pointed at her lip—“because of the case, or did you cut someone off in traffic? Is it the guy from Saturday?”

  “I assume it’s because of the case, but he didn’t introduce himself, and I didn’t get a good look at the guy the other day. There are a lot of pissed-off people. It will take some work to narrow down the list.”