Identity

by Ingrid Thoft

  “Legally prescribed narcotics.”

  Cristian ducked out of the room and spoke to someone. He stepped back in and closed the door behind him.

  “So has he given you guys anything?” Fina asked.

  “Quiet as a church mouse,” Pitney said, then sipped her coffee.

  A light tap on the door produced a cup of water, which Fina used to wash down a pill. “What’s his name?” she asked.

  Cristian opened the folder. “Denny Calder.” He looked at her expectantly.

  Fina shook her head. “Nope. Did you ask him about the pictures of Haley?”

  “He lawyered up,” Pitney commented, glancing at her phone.

  “He has a lawyer? His own lawyer?” Fina asked.

  “No,” Cristian said. “Public defender.”

  “I wish I felt more optimistic about this,” Fina said, standing.

  “No reason to,” Pitney said. “He’s not going to give us anything.”

  “Well, let me know if he does,” Fina said as Cristian opened the door. He followed her into the squad room and toward the stairs.

  “What did the doctor say?”

  “Surprisingly little. His bedside manner was slim to nonexistent.”

  “But you didn’t leave AMA, did you?” Cristian asked.

  “Against medical advice? That’s an offense worthy of disinheritance in the Ludlow clan.” Fina took the stairs slowly. “I got a clean bill of health. I feel like shit, and that wouldn’t bother me so much if I knew Haley was safe.”

  “I would still keep an eye on her if I were you.”

  “I was all set to get her some protection, but I’d rather not if it’s not necessary.”

  “That’s your call,” Cristian said. They were standing outside the front door of the station. Cops and other members of the public floated by. An old woman came up the stairs, bumping a metal grocery cart behind her. She was wearing a hat with a plastic daisy stuck in the brim.

  “Young man,” she said, gripping Cristian’s arm, “I need to report a crime.”

  “They’ll help you inside, ma’am,” Cristian said, offering her a pleasant smile.

  “But I like the look of you,” she said to him.

  “Everybody likes the look of him,” Fina said. The woman stared at her and curled her lip at Fina’s appearance. She returned her attention to Cristian. “President Kennedy has been stealing my People magazines.”

  Cristian glanced at Fina, who suppressed a smile. “Inside, ma’am. The desk sergeant would be happy to help.”

  The woman snuck another look at Fina and pulled her cart behind her into the station.

  “Wow. I’m so sorry I’m not a cop,” Fina said, rolling her eyes.

  Cristian grinned. “I’ll let you know if we get anything out of Denny Calder.”

  “Thanks.” She started down the stairs. “How’s Cindy?” she called back to him.

  Cristian shook his head and went back inside. Fina hailed a cab and headed back to Nanny’s.

  • • •

  Danielle Reardon answered her phone after two rings. “Are you making any progress?” she asked Fina.

  Jeez. Fina had many masters on this case.

  “Yes, and you could help me make some more.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you have surveillance cameras outside your home?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. I wonder if I could get the tapes from the night Hank was killed.”

  “Why? You think his killer was here?”

  “I just need to check something, and the tape would be helpful.” Fina didn’t feel like arguing or explaining; she just wanted the damn tapes.

  “You’ll have to speak with Mickey Hogan at Universum. He oversees all our security.”

  “Okay. I’ll give him a call. Thanks. How are you holding up?”

  Danielle sighed on the other end of the line. “I’m okay. One of my sisters is here visiting.”

  “How’s Aubrey?”

  “She’s good,” Danielle said. There was some hesitancy in her voice. “She’s just doing her baby thing.”

  “Well, it must be nice to have your sister around.”

  “It is. In fact, we’re on our way out.”

  “Well, don’t let me keep you. Thanks, Danielle.”

  Fina dropped the phone onto the coffee table and rolled over onto her side. What she wanted to do, more than anything, was pop another pill and curl up under Nanny’s afghan, but that wasn’t how cases got solved. The detecting fairy didn’t flit by, sprinkling fairy dust in your hair while you slumbered.

  Calling Mickey Hogan was an option, but she’d learned that in certain circumstances, a battered appearance could work to her advantage. Contusions and lacerations indicated a level of seriousness that mere words couldn’t begin to convey.

  Fina changed into jeans that weren’t torn and bloodstained and a lightweight V-neck sweater. The bruises on her neck were faint shadows compared to the discolorations blooming around her eye and temple. She pulled her gun out of her bag and tossed a light jacket over her hand. If someone else was waiting for her downstairs, he was in for it.

  At Universum, the young receptionist, Tony, drew back at her appearance. She asked for Mickey Hogan and was ushered to the seating area to wait.

  “Can I get you anything?” Tony asked her in a hushed tone.

  Fina couldn’t imagine what might be on offer. “I’m good, thanks.”

  Tony returned to his desk and launched into an animated conversation with his desk mate. His frequent glances in Fina’s direction made her wonder if she was the topic of conversation.

  Ten minutes later, a beefy man in a dark suit led her back to Mickey Hogan’s office. Mickey was sitting behind his desk, flipping through a stack of papers.

  “Thanks for seeing me on short notice,” Fina said, taking a seat across the desk.

  “Christ.” He studied her face. “That looks painful.”

  “It was. Is.”

  “What happened?” Mickey turned the papers over and gave her his full attention.

  “I was jumped by some guy who’s been trying to warn me off.”

  “The investigation into Hank’s death?”

  “I think. He’s never that specific in his threats, just wants me to leave town for a bit.”

  “Did he take off?”

  “No. Luckily a friend of mine happened upon us and clobbered the guy. He’s at Boston PD right now. Denny Calder. You ever heard of him?”

  Mickey thought for a moment and then shook his head. He tapped a few keys on his computer.

  “Nope. We don’t have anything on him.”

  “They’re going to interview him, but so far, he’s not saying much.”

  “So what can I do for you?” Mickey leaned back in his chair.

  “I just spoke with Danielle about video footage from the house on Commonwealth.”

  Mickey nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  “She said you would have it for the night of Hank’s murder and I could take a look.”

  “Okay. Give me a minute.” Mickey picked up the phone and dialed a number. “Mickey Hogan calling for Mrs. Reardon.” He looked at Fina and shrugged. “Trust, but verify.”

  “Of course.” Fina rested her chin on her fist. The pain from her injuries was muted, but she felt just a tiny bit dopey from the pills. It was tough to find the sweet spot between being pain-free and completely loopy.

  Mickey had a conversation with Danielle that involved mostly nods and a few “Yes, ma’ams.” He hung up and tapped on his keyboard.

  “Did you ever determine if there were any unaccounted-for cars in the garage before or after Hank’s death?”

  “There weren’t any. We were able to match each car to its owner, and all visitors and gue
sts were accounted for. Here it is,” he said, turning the monitor toward Fina. Video of the Reardon front door started running in a new window. “Do you have a time frame?”

  “Let’s try eleven P.M. onward.”

  Mickey clicked the mouse. “What are you looking for?”

  “I assume the police asked you for this footage?” Fina countered.

  “Yup. What are you looking for?” he repeated, not willing to leave his question unanswered.

  “A couple of kids who claim they were camped out on the doorstep for about twenty minutes that night. Not doing anything, but hanging around when they should have been tucked up in bed.”

  Mickey maneuvered the mouse and jumped the video forward an hour. He set it to advance at eight times the usual speed, and they watched the frame stay virtually the same for a few minutes.

  “Wait. Stop,” Fina said.

  Mickey backed up the recording and started playback on normal speed. After ten seconds, Tyler came into the frame. He was followed by Rosie a moment later. The two of them sat down on the front steps and began talking.

  “Who are they?” Mickey asked.

  “Those are two knuckleheads who were fathered by Hank Reardon. Mum’s the word, by the way.”

  “Cryokids?”

  “Yup. They were recorded on a surveillance video driving around town, and when I confronted the girl, she admitted that they’d gone to Hank’s to hang out.”

  “Do you believe them?”

  Fina shrugged. “That’s all they seem to be doing.”

  “Do you think that was their intent?”

  “I don’t know, Detective Hogan.” Fina grinned. “But what else would it be? There’s not much they could get away with, given your security measures.”

  They kept watching the footage.

  “And that,” Fina said, pointing at Tyler lighting up a joint.

  Mickey nodded.

  Rosie and Tyler smoked for five minutes, seemed to have a conversation with someone out of frame on the sidewalk, and left seventeen minutes after they’d appeared.

  “Looks like they were telling the truth, at least about that,” Mickey said, pulling the monitor back to his side of the desk.

  “That’s something, at least.”

  “Anything else?”

  “The Reardons have other cameras, right? What about their movements the night of Hank’s murder?”

  “The cameras for the rear entrance didn’t record anything of note.”

  “Got it.” Fina stood. “Thanks for taking the time.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Will do.” Fina walked to the door. “One last thing,” she said, turning back to Mickey. “Do you think any of the Reardons are capable of murder?”

  Mickey looked impassive.

  “You can’t answer, right?” Fina said. “Because you work for them. I get it.”

  Mickey sighed. “You and I both know that most people are capable of murder under the right circumstances.”

  “I suppose,” Fina conceded. “Not a very reassuring thought.”

  “Luckily, the circumstances aren’t often right,” he said before ushering her out.

  Fina returned to the lobby area and asked to see Theresa McGovern. After making a call, Tony escorted her to the seventh floor, where the assistant was sitting at her desk, a phone receiver tucked under one ear. Fina took a seat in the chair next to her desk and glanced into Dimitri’s office. He was at his conference table with three men and two women, engaged in a discussion. It took a moment, but he did a double take when his eyes skittered across her features.

  “I understand, but the machine has been broken for almost a week. It needs to be fixed by Friday.” Theresa rolled her eyes. Her hair was pulled back in a chignon, her lips bright red next to her alabaster skin. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Good. Thank you.” She put down the phone.

  “There’s a machine you guys can’t fix?” Fina asked.

  “It’s the frosty Slurpee thingamajig.” Theresa gestured down the hallway. “We use it for happy hours and parties, and something’s screwed up with the piña colada side.”

  “That must be a blow to productivity.”

  “It is. No joke.” Theresa straightened some papers on her desk. “So why are you here? You got another gig for me? And what happened to your face?”

  “I was in a fight, and no, I don’t have a gig for you. I had a meeting with Mickey Hogan and thought I’d stop by to see if you have any other info for me.”

  Theresa picked up a plastic cup half-filled with iced coffee and took a sip. “Oooh, so you want something from me.”

  “I think we want things from each other. Nothing wrong with a mutually beneficial relationship.”

  “I haven’t made a lot of progress.” Theresa patted a stack of folders. “Dimitri’s got me working on a ton of extra stuff.”

  “Really?” Fina glanced through the glass again. What looked to be blueprints had been unrolled on the table.

  “Yes. Like making a gazillion copies for those people.”

  “Isn’t making copies part of your job?”

  “Yeah, but this isn’t strictly Universum business; they’re talking about the waterfront development.”

  Fina looked at Dimitri. If he felt her gaze on him, he wasn’t letting on. “I thought Dimitri wasn’t involved in that?”

  “He wasn’t.” Theresa jabbed at the ice in her cup. “But now he is.”

  Fina considered this bit of news. A slight throbbing had emerged on the side of her face, but she blinked and tried to ignore it. “Back to the part where you help me out; any new info about Hank’s medical records?”

  Theresa sorted through some folders on her desk. She opened one and pulled out a Post-it note.

  “Normally, Hank would have an annual physical for insurance purposes. It’s always been straightforward—just another appointment on his schedule—but this year, he had three appointments.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “No, just that it was different from the past three years, and Dimitri had his regular single appointment.”

  “But Hank didn’t seem sick?”

  “Nope.”

  “And he didn’t give any indication about what was going on?”

  “Nope, but there also were more calls to certain people around the same time.”

  “What people?”

  Theresa consulted her notes. “Jules Lindsley, his college roommate, and his wife. His ex-wife, I mean.”

  Fina looked at Theresa. “Something was wonky with his physical, and he started calling Juliana more often?”

  “I’m not saying it’s cause and effect. Maybe it’s just a coincidence.”

  “Maybe,” Fina said, rising from the chair. “Why don’t you get Dante to find you a gig?”

  “He’s working on it, but I still expect a little quid pro quo from you.” Theresa wagged her finger at Fina.

  “I’ll do my best,” Fina said.

  “Did you need to speak with Dimitri?” Theresa asked.

  “Nah. I think he already got my message.” She locked eyes with him before making her exit.

  Fina drove to Heritage and pulled into a space in the parking lot. A quick phone call established that Walter Stiles was still in the building, and she decided to wait. She knew that he’d kick her off the property, so following him to a more neutral location was her best bet.

  After half an hour—during which Fina listened to a story about food safety related to produce, which only confirmed that her diet of processed foods was the safest option—Walter came ambling out of the building. He swung his briefcase in one hand and clicked his car open with the other. Fina pulled into traffic behind him and tailed him to an athletic club in Newton. Once there, he grabbed a duffel bag from the backseat and started toward the entrance.

/>   “Walter!” Fina called across the parking lot. “Fancy meeting you here!”

  Walter shook his head.

  “No worries, I’m not going to make you late for your Zumba class. I just have a quick question.”

  Walter grimaced. “I don’t do Zumba, and I don’t have any answers for you, Ms. Ludlow. Any questions you have should be directed to the bank’s attorneys.”

  “Do you know a guy named Denny Calder?”

  Walter shifted his bag to the other hand. “I’ll tell you what I told the police: no.”

  “So they questioned you already.”

  “Yes.” He turned and walked away.

  “I know you’ve got secrets, Walter. I’m guessing they’re humdingers.”

  He moved a few steps back toward Fina. “You know nothing, Ms. Ludlow, and frankly, I’m shocked that anyone would pay for your ‘expertise.’ You seem to have a talent for getting beaten up and not much else.”

  “Well, I can’t take all the credit for that. Denny Calder deserves some.” Fina smiled at him. “We’re not done, Walter. You’re kind of like a bee in my bonnet at this point.”

  “Lucky me,” he said in a tone that could only be described as withering. Fina watched him walk through the front door of the club and disappear from view.

  Intellectually speaking, likability and guilt had nothing to do with each other, but Fina couldn’t help but hope that her suspicions about Walter would pan out.

  • • •

  Fina went home and took a nap. When she rolled over and checked her phone two hours later, there was a message from Cristian and one from Carl. She dialed Cristian’s number and left a message, but she couldn’t stomach calling Carl; she didn’t have enough drugs in her system.

  Her bandaged hands posed a problem in terms of bathing, so Fina gave herself a modified sponge bath and got back into her clothes. She repeated the trip down to her car with her gun once again in hand. With the car door securely locked, she returned the gun to her bag and took a deep breath. This was no way to live. Fina didn’t long for a white picket fence, 1.86 kids, or a dog playing fetch, but grasping a gun in her own condo building, looking like Sugar Ray Leonard? There had to be a better way.

  It took thirty minutes to get to Somerville and another ten minutes to find a parking space near the Sanchezes’ house. Rosie answered Fina’s knock, and they sat down on the couch after Rosie got two sodas from the kitchen. A large open bag of tortilla chips sat on the coffee table next to a bowl of guacamole.