Identity (15 page)

“Yup,” Danielle responded wearily. “Not my usual work, and it’s not like Aubrey appreciates it.” Aubrey was Danielle and Hank’s daughter, not exactly an art critic at three months old.

“It’s amazing.”

Danielle wiped her hand on a rag. “So Michael sent you, right?”

“That’s right.” Fina nodded. “He wants me to investigate your husband’s death.”

Danielle walked over to the velvet-covered couch and sat down. “Have a seat.”

Fina sat at the other end of the sofa. “Congrats on your baby,” Fina said.

“Thank you.” Danielle smiled briefly. “She’s taking a nap right now.” The young Mrs. Reardon was making the standard hostess noises, but conveying little warmth.

“I’m sorry about your husband’s death,” Fina said.

“Thank you.” She studied her hands. “I still can’t quite believe it.”

“That’s a common reaction. It will take a while to sink in.”

Danielle twisted the gigantic diamond on her finger. “I don’t understand why Michael hired you. Your family’s firm was going after Hank.”

“Well, initially, we didn’t know it was Hank we were ‘going after.’” Fina made air quotes. “We were just looking for the donor.”

A sour look crept onto Danielle’s face. “Isn’t there some kind of conflict of interest?”

“No. We’re not working for Renata Sanchez anymore, and Michael seems okay with it.” The current relationship with Renata was unclear, but Fina couldn’t worry about that right now.

“And Michael doesn’t trust the cops,” Danielle noted.

“Apparently not.”

“No offense to you, but the cops are going to be all over this. We’re talking about Hank, not some homeless guy.” Her voice cracked, and she sniffled. Fina pulled a pack of tissues from her bag and offered it to her.

“Can you tell me who would want to hurt your husband?” Fina asked.

“You mean other than those women and their children?” Danielle dabbed at her nose.

“The cryokids? I’m not sure your husband is worth more to them dead than alive.”

“Maybe not, but I wouldn’t put anything past Renata Sanchez and her daughter.”

“Anyone else you can think of who had it in for Hank?”

Danielle looked around the room. “Hank made his share of enemies in business. He was developing some land on the waterfront; maybe someone was upset about that.”

“Dimitri Kask didn’t mention that when I spoke with him.”

“He wasn’t part of the deal.”

“By choice?”

“I have no idea. I didn’t meddle in my husband’s business.”

“Of course not.” Fina looked at the changing table, where a tiny dress covered in ruffles was laid out. Next to it sat a pair of pink tights that looked appropriate for a Lilliputian ballerina. “So you guys were okay?”

“Who? Me and Hank?”

Fina nodded.

“I don’t see how that’s your business.”

“The cops haven’t asked you that?”

“Of course they have, and that’s bad enough. Now I’m paying for you to ask me these questions?”

“Actually, Michael is paying me.”

“Same thing.”

Fina shook her head slowly. “Not really. Maybe you should take this up with Michael. I have to ask questions in order to investigate Hank’s death.”

Danielle leaned her head against the back of the couch and closed her eyes. “I’m so tired, but when I try to sleep, all I can think about is Hank.”

“Have you tried taking something?”

“Nah. I don’t like feeling out of it.”

There was a light tap on the door, and an older woman wearing a drab-colored dress stood in the threshold.

“Mrs. Reardon, the woman is here.”

Danielle looked annoyed. “The woman?”

“You know, to discuss the breathing technique.” She examined her shoes. “We’ve already rescheduled two times.”

Color started to creep up Danielle’s neck. “I’ll be down in a few minutes,” Danielle replied impatiently.

The older woman left, and Fina looked at Danielle. “Are you sure you’re okay? Is that a yoga thing?”

Danielle pressed her lips into a thin line. “Yes. It’s silly, but it helps with stress.”

“Of course. Sorry.”

“I need to go, so if you could see yourself out . . .”

“Right. I imagine I’ll have more questions for you.” Fina stood and reached into her bag. She pulled out her card and handed it to Danielle, who slipped it into the pocket of her jeans. Fina started toward the door. “Let me know if I can help in any way.”

Danielle shook her head slowly. “We’re beyond help,” she said, almost to herself.

Fina walked down the hallway to the elevator, which arrived after a minute’s wait.

Her job always reminded her that you couldn’t buy happiness.

•   •   •

“How about some dim sum?” Stacy D’Ambruzzi asked Fina when she slid into a booth at the Golden Pagoda restaurant in Chinatown. She pointed with her chopsticks. “Help yourself.”

“I don’t know.” Fina eyed the bamboo dishes littering the table. “It all seems like gelatinous sacs of goo to me.”

“Fina! Shame on you. Here. Try some of these.” Stacy used her chopsticks and placed two dumplings on Fina’s plate. “You’re not allergic to shrimp, are you?”

“No.” Fina picked one up with her chopsticks and dipped it in a shallow dish of soy sauce.

“Well?” Stacy asked, popping a pot sticker into her mouth.

Fina chewed. “It’s pretty good.”

“So, what do you need?”

Stacy was a senior tech in the medical examiner’s office and a good source of information. The Ludlows had provided her brother with legal representation in the past, and Fina had established a friendly quid pro quo with Stacy.

“What can you tell me about Hank Reardon’s autopsy?”

A short woman wheeled a cart up to their table and took the tops off of the bamboo dishes to give Stacy a peek. Stacy pointed at two, which
were deposited on the table. The woman scrawled something on the bill and left it behind.

“There’s not much to tell beyond what was released to the public. Death resulting from blunt force trauma. Pretty standard.”

Stacy was in her midforties and had spent most of her career in the ME’s office. Her physical appearance—hair shorn close to her skull, a plethora of tattoos, and a collection of small hoops and studs in her earlobes—belied her inner softie. Fina was convinced it was this very quality that made her so good at her job. She didn’t look at patients as slabs of meat, but instead tried to honor their humanity by treating their earthly bodies with respect.

“Any idea what the weapon was?”

“Small and heavy, like a mallet or a hammer.”

Fina grasped a pot sticker with her chopsticks and dipped it into the soy sauce. The center was flavorful pork. She’d always assumed good dim sum was an oxymoron, but maybe she was wrong. She’d have to report her breakthrough to Milloy. He was half Chinese and found her aversion to dim sum maddening.

“Was he in good health other than that?” she asked.

“Very. He obviously took care of himself and had regular physicals. I’m sure he had to for insurance.”

High-flying CEOs were usually required to undergo annual physicals for insurance purposes. Insurance companies wanted to protect their investments, and preventive care was a big piece of that. Too bad they didn’t feel that way about the rest of their customers.

“What about prints, fibers? Any of that good stuff?”

“You know I’m not really privy to that.”

“I know. Thought I’d ask anyway.”

“Phoenix claw?” Stacy held up a scraggly-looking item.

“What is that?”

“A chicken’s foot.”

“Aaaand you lost me.”

“It’s delicious.” Stacy widened her bright blue eyes. “Just try one.”

“Look at the nails on that thing. I’m not interested in eating anything with which I can pick my teeth after the meal.”

“You’re missing out,” Stacy said, gnawing on the scrawny toes.

“It’s all yours. How’s your brother?” Fina reached into her bag and pulled out a twenty.

“Staying out of trouble, for now.”

“If he gets into it again, call me. Anytime.” She put the money on the table and rose to leave.

Stacy looked at the twenty. “That’s too much.”

“I’m sure I owe you more than that,” Fina said. “And if you hear anything . . .” She reached over and gave Stacy a hug good-bye.

Fina returned to her car. She needed to think about the why of Hank’s death, not just the how. Means alone didn’t translate to murder, but motive and means combined usually had disastrous results.

Fina listened to her messages, ignoring the annoying check-in from Carl, and found that Risa had called just ten minutes before. Since Fina was heading to the MetroWest area anyway, she decided to swing by her house rather than call. Plus, Risa was an amazing cook, and there was usually a tasty treat on offer.

The Paquettes’ house was a three-story gingerbread Victorian in Newton that boasted a deep front porch. The untrained eye might not detect that the large addition off the back of the house wasn’t part of the original structure since it featured the same intricate design. The fancy shingles were painted in a scheme of deep Bordeaux, two hues of mossy green, and white, which looked striking and expensive.

Fina rang the bell, and the door was thrown open by Risa’s twelve-year-old son.

“Hi, Jordan. Is your mom home?”

“She’s in the kitchen. Mom, Fina’s here!” He rushed up the stairs, and Fina walked toward the back of the house. One of the features of the addition had been the expansion of the kitchen to incorporate a large family room and eating area. A granite island and a six-burner stove were command central, and the walls echoed the mossy green found on the exterior of the house. The space was warmed up by earth-tone tiles and brightened by white clapboard cabinets.

Risa was in her midforties and trim, with a quick smile and hazel eyes. Her hair was ashy brown and worn in a style that called to mind Princess Diana’s look in later years. It looked breezy and simple, but probably required a lot of upkeep.

Sitting at the breakfast bar with a glass of iced tea, she looked up from a magazine when Fina walked in.

“Hi.” Risa was surprised to see her. “I didn’t expect you to stop by. You could have called.”

“I know, but I have things to do out here. I thought it would be better to catch up in person.”

“Do you want some iced tea?” Risa asked, and slipped off her stool. “And no, I don’t have diet soda, so don’t bother asking.”

“Tea would be lovely.” She perched on a stool and watched Risa fill a glass with ice and pour the amber-colored liquid.

“How’s Haley?” Risa asked.

“She’s okay,” Fina said, and took the glass.

“I took her shopping, and I thought I might offer to take her to the movies one of these days. Do you think she’d like that?”

“I think it would be great for her. Why don’t you run it by Patty? She’s the teenager whisperer these days.”

“I will,” Risa said, and sat back down. She sipped her tea.

Since Melanie had been her best friend, Risa felt a sense of responsibility toward Haley, but Haley had never been the warm, fuzzy type, even before Melanie’s death. She wasn’t the easiest child to mother.

“So, in your message you said you needed my advice about something,” Fina said.

Risa rotated her glass on the granite countertop. Fina waited. Silence was one of the most powerful tools in her arsenal.

“Yes, but I’d like to keep it between the two of us.”

“Of course.”

“Which means I don’t want the rest of your family to know.”

Fina grinned. “I am aware of what ‘between the two of us’ means. I promise I won’t discuss it with my family. I’m good at keeping secrets.”

Risa studied her short, buffed nails and took a deep breath. “I don’t know why I’m nervous. I mean, it’s not a big deal, and it’s just you.”

“It is just me. Think of it this way—there’s nothing you can tell me that I haven’t already heard in one form or another. I’m essentially unshockable.”

“Okay.” Risa looked around as if ensuring the kids weren’t within earshot. She took a deep breath. “Well, you probably don’t know that I was adopted.”

Fina had a swig of tea. “I did not know that.” What was it with her and babies these days? She was fast becoming the Dr. Spock of private investigation.

“I told Melanie, but she promised not to say anything. It’s not a big deal, just, it’s private.”

“I understand.”

“Nowadays, people talk about everything, but that wasn’t the case when I was growing up. There was a lot of secrecy and shame associated with adoption forty-some years ago.”

“Sure.”

“The only people who know are Marty and Melanie.” Marty was Risa’s husband, a sweet, reliable bore.

“Your kids don’t know?”

“No, I didn’t really see the point. They’re so close with my mom and dad. Why complicate things?”

“So what’s changed?”

Risa slipped off her seat once more and walked over to the stove. She pulled plastic wrap off a deep plate and held it up to Fina. “Would you like a piece of ginger-peach galette?”

“What took you so long to ask?” Clearly it was a stall tactic, but any stall tactic that involved Risa’s cooking was welcome.

Risa pulled plates from an upper cabinet, doled out two pieces, and handed Fina a plate and fork. She sat back down.