by Ingrid Thoft
“How are things with you?” Fina asked.
“Not very good.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Greta sniffed, and Fina rolled her eyes.
“Risa would like to meet with you,” Fina said.
“I thought she didn’t want to meet me.” Greta sounded hopeful, but skeptical.
“She wasn’t ready to, but now she is.”
“That would be wonderful.”
“Good. I know travel isn’t easy for you, but I’m wondering if you could meet us someplace other than Rockford.”
There was a pause. “Us?”
“Yes, I would be joining you,” Fina said.
“You mean you’re going to drive her to the meeting?” Greta asked.
“And join you as you get acquainted.”
“My health is a family matter, Fina,” she said. “It’s really not your business.”
Fina rubbed her temple, feeling a headache coming on.
“Here’s the thing, Greta. Risa is practically part of my family, and she’s asked me to participate. Secondly, you’re not in a position to dictate terms.”
“You make it sound like a business meeting,” Greta said disparagingly.
“You may be biologically connected, but you and Risa don’t actually know each other. For all intents and purposes, you’re strangers, which does make this a business meeting of sorts.”
“Fine. If that’s how you want to do it.”
“It’s not how I want to do it,” Fina clarified. “It’s how Risa wants to do it.”
“That’s fine.” Greta sounded annoyed, and Fina didn’t give a shit. Organ beggars didn’t get to be choosers.
“How about Tuesday? Do you have dialysis or are you available?” Fina asked.
“I’m available.”
“Do you still have the same e-mail address?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ll send you the particulars and the location once I figure it out.”
“How is Risa?” Greta asked before she could hang up.
“She’s well.” Fina didn’t elaborate.
“And her tests are going okay?”
“As far as I know, the tests are going okay.”
“Well, that’s good,” Greta said.
“Good night.” Fina hung up and scowled at the phone.
She hadn’t walked in Greta’s shoes—didn’t know what it was like to need something so desperately that only one person could provide—but regardless, the woman rubbed her the wrong way. Risa had her own family, and Greta never asked after them or seemed curious about things that weren’t directly connected to her own experience. Maybe her circumstances created blinders, or maybe Greta just didn’t care about her niece.
21.
Fina woke the next day feeling rested and ready to pound the pavement. Dinner with Milloy had banished any lingering annoyance with Greta Samuels, and she’d slept well. Fina wondered if the funeral having come and gone also contributed to her good mood. Even though she hadn’t known Liz personally, the anticipation of her death and burial had cast a certain pall over Fina’s days. Liz’s life was officially over, but Fina felt like her investigation was just getting started.
Cristian had relented and sent her stills from the surveillance photos and even thrown in a copy of the crime scene inventory. Fina reviewed the list, but nothing struck her as unusual. The items the police found in Liz’s kitchen were exactly what you’d expect to find: mail, bills, a sweatshirt, a pair of kid’s soccer cleats, an empty laundry basket, and the typical eating and cooking detritus. Fina tucked the information away for the time being.
Her enthusiasm about the case waned when she retrieved a message from her father. Fina had learned at a young age that it was best to suck it up and deal with Carl head-on. Avoiding him was a fruitless endeavor, so you might as well just call him back—sooner rather than later.
“I’m working on it if you’re calling about the car fire,” she told him.
“Good, but that’s not why I’m calling.”
“Oh! Are you just calling to wish me a good morning? Perhaps inquire after my health and well-being?”
“Are you on something, Josefina?” he asked. “You sound high.”
Fina sighed. “If only. What’s up, Dad?”
“I want to meet with Bobbi Barone as soon as possible.”
“For any particular reason?”
“Yes. I want in on this lawsuit. Do I need to remind you that’s the whole reason you’re working this case?”
“To fill your coffers and get justice for Liz—in that order. No, you don’t need to remind me,” she said.
“Just set it up. It’s in her best interest to jettison the Podunk lawyer. The stronger she goes into this, the better off she’ll be.”
“I’ll call her, Dad, but it’s Saturday, and her daughter’s funeral was yesterday. She may not want to talk to anyone.”
“If that’s the case, schedule it for Monday, but today would be preferable.”
“Fine. I’ll call her.” Fina wanted to add that she couldn’t make any promises, but that was the sort of statement that only annoyed Carl. He didn’t want promises or excuses. He wanted action. Stat.
“Good. I have some time later this afternoon, or I can make time tonight. Talk to Shari.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Fina said, but he’d already hung up.
She called Bobbi and asked if she’d be willing to stop by the Ludlow and Associates offices later in the day. Fina wanted to update her on the case, and Carl was interested in discussing the lawsuit with her.
“I completely understand if the last thing you want to do today is discuss the lawsuit.”
“It beats the alternative, which is lying in bed with the covers pulled over my head.”
“I don’t know,” Fina said. “That seems like a reasonable response to recent events.”
“If I crawl into bed,” Bobbi said, “I may never crawl out. I need something to focus on, and the lawsuit seems like a good option.”
“I want to be up front, Bobbi,” Fina told her. “My father wants to represent you, but I’ll still investigate Liz’s death regardless of your legal representation.”
“I appreciate your honesty, Fina, but I’m not opposed to the idea of changing lawyers. Thatcher Kinney may be a friend, but I’m not convinced he’s a legal dynamo.”
Fina knew he wasn’t a legal dynamo, but kept that to herself. They made a plan to meet at five at Ludlow and Associates. After Fina confirmed it with Carl, she showered, ate breakfast, and got on with her day.
She drove over to the North End and shoehorned her car into a questionably legal space on a side street. Before getting out, Fina took a survey of the scene to see if she had any company. She’d been vigilant since the fire, but no one seemed to be on her tail.
She walked a couple of blocks to a small dry cleaner, where she asked for the owner and waited by the counter for a few moments. The middle-aged woman at the register seemed to be doing some paperwork while listening to talk radio. Fina hated talk radio. If she wanted to hear people heatedly bitch about things of which they knew nothing, she’d have dinner with her parents.
“Fina!” A man came out from behind a set of curtains with his arms spread wide. “My dear, you look wonderful!”
“Thank you, Angelo,” Fina said, leaning in for matching kisses on both cheeks.
“Come in. I was just finishing something.”
She followed him into the back room, which was a mess of bolts of fabric, a large folding table, a small changing area, and a pedestal in front of a three-way mirror, as well as a couple of file cabinets and an old wooden desk. Angelo took a seat in an easy chair and gestured for Fina to take the folding chair beside it.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked.<
br />
Angelo Capriasano was in his late seventies and had been making the Ludlow men’s suits for more than three decades. He was an Italian immigrant—rumored to be connected to organized crime, though not actively involved—and a whiz with a needle and thread.
“My father sends his regards,” Fina told him. Carl didn’t even know she was there, but it was the polite thing to say.
“And send mine to him. I just did a suit for him a couple of months ago.”
“He always looks good thanks to you.”
Angelo beamed.
“I’m actually here to pick your brain,” Fina said.
“I’m all yours.”
“I’m trying to locate a guy, and I have very little to go on.”
Angelo nodded. “Okay.”
“Here’s a picture of him.” Fina handed him a printout of the photo that Cristian had finally sent her the night before. “His defining feature is that he’s probably six feet five, so I’m thinking he can’t buy clothes just anywhere.”
Angelo reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pair of glasses. He studied the photo. “He looks big, but how do you know how tall he is?”
“There are other photos of him, and the cops were able to come up with measurements relative to the location.”
“And the cops can’t find him?” Angelo asked.
“Probably, but I’d like to find him first.” She smiled. “And I have to be a little more creative in my methods.”
He nodded. “He’s not just tall,” Angelo noted. “He looks broad to me, too.”
“Right. Can you buy clothes that big off the rack?”
“Sure, but there aren’t that many racks to choose from. There are only a handful of places that sell that kind of stuff.”
“We think he’s black and young,” Fina said. “Are there any places that come to mind?”
Angelo returned his glasses to his pocket and got up from the chair. He was of average height, an inch or two lost in the stoop of his posture. His hairline had steadily receded over the years, and now a pillowy tuft of white stood up from his pate. He went to a file cabinet on one side of the room and started rooting around in the drawers.
“Hmm,” Angelo said before moving his search to a box of paperwork on one of the shelving units. Fina looked around at the crowded space and wondered how he ever found anything.
“Here we go.” He held up a slip of paper and returned to his chair. Fina glanced at it, but couldn’t make sense of the chicken scratches covering it at various angles in both pen and pencil.
“It’s in Italian, cara mia,” Angelo told her, grinning.
“That explains it,” Fina said.
“I have some big customers, but mostly I do their suits,” he explained. “The young guys—the more urban ones—go to these places for other stuff.”
Fina didn’t know if “urban” was code for “black” or “gangster,” but she wasn’t going to give Angelo a lecture on political correctness.
He dictated the names and addresses of four shops, which Fina typed into her phone. Before putting the photo away, she asked him to look at it once more.
“What does that look like to you?” she asked, pointing at the man’s ankle.
Angelo pulled his glasses out again and studied the image. “It looks like a logo of some sort, but I can’t make it out.”
“Neither can I,” Fina said.
“You know, a guy this tall has feet to match. He definitely can’t buy his socks at Lord and Taylor.”
“So they were also bought at a specialty store,” Fina mused, “or online.”
Angelo made a small disapproving noise and waved his hand in front of his face.
“Not a fan of online shopping, Angelo?” she asked.
“Craziest thing ever. You need something, you go to the store or the person who makes it. Not out there,” he said, gesturing into the ether.
“Good luck with that approach,” Fina said, leaning over to kiss him good-bye. “And thanks for the suggestions. I owe you.”
“You kidding? Ludlows are my best customers. Your father understands. You have to be loyal.”
“He certainly values loyalty,” Fina said. As long as you’re loyal to him, she added in her head. “See you soon.”
She went back through the curtains and returned to her car, where she scrolled through the list she’d just compiled.
God, she hated clothes shopping.
How’d she end up with this task?
—
Fina pulled into the parking lot of the first store on Angelo’s list, which was in Medford. The store didn’t open for twenty minutes, so she called Risa and confirmed that her schedule could accommodate the tentative date with Greta. She hopped on a nearby Starbucks Wi-Fi and searched for a good meeting spot. Kittery, Maine, was just over the New Hampshire border and offered a host of meeting options, given the outlet mall and all the hungry shoppers who needed to be fed. It also provided some distance from the prying eyes of Rockford.
Fina wanted something more conducive to conversation than a fast food joint, so she settled on the Popover Place, which promised “bread, butter, and Yankee hospitality,” whatever that was. She wrote a quick e-mail to Greta with the details and asked for confirmation that she could make it. If Greta was a no-show, there was no amount of Yankee hospitality that would appease Fina.
The clothing store was like being inside a room full of fun house mirrors. Everything was taller, longer, and wider than seemed humanly possible. Fina couldn’t imagine having to wear such clothes, let alone launder them. One outfit would be half a load. And the shoes took the carnival theme even further; they were enormous, like something only clowns or performers in sideshow attractions would wear.
A couple of young men were browsing among the racks. She walked over to the counter, behind which stood an associate who looked to be a customer, too. He was upwards of six feet four inches with a head of curly black hair. Unlike the man on the video, his height wasn’t matched by his weight. He was thin, almost reedy, like a stiff breeze might take him airborne. He was wearing a suit with a name tag reading JOE and was making a note on a pad of paper.
“One moment, ma’am. I’ll be right with you,” he said.
Ugh. The “ma’am” was like a dagger through Fina’s young heart.
The phone behind the register rang. “Stuart? Can you answer that?” Joe said to another clerk who popped up from behind a display of sweat suits. Stuart was tall, but not much more than six feet. He was slightly overweight and looked to be in his fifties. He ambled over and, much to Joe’s chagrin, answered the phone on the fifth ring.
“How can I help you?” Joe asked Fina as Stuart looked something up in the computer for the caller.
Fina smiled and leaned on the counter. “I’m trying to locate a man who might be a customer of yours.” She pulled the picture out of her bag.
Joe took the photo and examined it carefully. “Can I ask why you’re trying to locate him?”
“I found something—something of value—next to my car.” She pointed at the photo. “And I’m trying to locate the item’s owner, but I can’t really see his face.”
“What makes you think he might be one of our customers?” Joe asked.
“His size, which I know seems silly, but I didn’t know where else to start.”
“I don’t know him,” Joe said, folding his hands and resting them on the counter, “but even if I did, we like to protect our customers’ privacy.”
“I completely understand,” Fina said, thinking it was one of the dumbest things she’d ever heard. “The thing is, a few years ago I lost a piece of jewelry that my grandmother had given me. She died and then I lost it in a movie theater. I was so upset.”
“I can imagine.”
“But there’s a happy ending,” Fina said. “A w
eek later, a man contacted me, and he’d found my ring! I was so relieved.”
Joe sighed. “I still don’t think I can help.”
“I hate to think that I have something of value that belongs to someone else,” Fina said.
Stuart hung up the phone and peered over Joe’s shoulder. “What did he lose?” he asked.
Joe adjusted his body so his colleague was forced to take a step back.
Fina smiled. “I don’t think I should say what the item is. That way, only the rightful owner can claim it.”
“Of course,” Joe said.
Stuart craned his neck to get another look at the photo.
“I wish we could be of assistance, but I’m afraid we can’t.” Joe handed the photo back to her.
“I knew it was a long shot, but I thought I’d try,” Fina said, folding the picture and slipping it into her bag. “Would you mind if I left my number in case he happens to come into the store?”
“That would be fine,” Joe said, reaching for paper and pen. Fina dictated her number to him rather than handing over her card. They didn’t need to know her true line of work.
Fina watched Stuart out of the corner of her eye. She wondered if he was governed by the same sense of propriety Joe was.
“Perhaps the police could be of assistance,” Joe suggested.
“I went to them first,” Fina said, “but they’ve got more serious issues to deal with. I know it seems silly, like a wild-goose chase, but someone else did it for me once.”
“It seems very decent of you,” Joe said, and smiled. He was cute if you didn’t mind snuggling up to a beanpole.
“Thanks for your time,” Fina said, heading for the door.
Sometimes she wished for a job where she could cross things off her list with confidence, but that was rarely the case. At least in the initial stages of an investigation, Fina had to listen to what people had to say without any assurance that they were telling the truth. Maybe Joe and Stuart didn’t recognize the man in the photo, or maybe they needed a little time to contemplate what was in it for them.
—
Who’s Fina Ludlow?” the young woman asked from the bed.
