Identity (8 page)

“What the hell is that thing?” Fina asked. A large bird was poking at the grass with its beak.

“It’s a wild turkey.”

“It’s huge. Is it friendly?”

“I haven’t invited it in, but I’m sure Frank is doing his research.”

“Is that how he’s keeping busy? Researching the local wildlife?”

Frank was a semiretired PI who had taught Fina everything she knew. Actually, everything she knew that was legal. He couldn’t be held responsible for her less ethical activities.

Peg rinsed her hands and dried them on a dish towel. “Are you joining us for dinner?” Five forty-five was the dinner hour at the Gillises’ house. This schedule made Fina feel like she’d stepped into a wormhole straight to Miami and its early bird specials, but she also appreciated the consistency. Grown-ups are really toddlers at heart; they feel safer with routines.

“I’ll sit with you, but I’m not going to eat if that’s okay.”

“That’s fine. Frank!” Peg called toward the other end of the small house. “Dinner!” She turned to Fina. “Could you set the table, hon?”

Fina gathered plates and utensils and set two places at the round
table nestled in the corner of the kitchen. Frank walked in a few minutes later, and the three sat. Fina watched them dig in to a traditional boiled dinner, otherwise known as corned beef and cabbage.

“Bet you’re sorry you turned this down,” Frank said, stabbing a pale, mushy potato with his fork.

“No offense to Peg, but no. I’m not a fan.” Fina took a sip of a diet soda she’d found in the refrigerator.

“How are things at Ludlow and Associates?” Frank asked between mouthfuls.

“Never the same without you.” Fina shook her head. Frank had left the firm a few years before, and Fina sorely missed his presence. “I’m still in the doghouse.”

“Sweetie, you’ve been in the doghouse since the moment I met you,” he said kindly.

“My recent sins may even be worse than flunking out of law school.”

“I don’t see how you could have swept your brother’s behavior under the carpet,” Peg commented. “You wouldn’t have been able to live with yourself.”

Fina rotated her drink on the tabletop. “I know, but now Carl can’t seem to live with me.”

Peg patted her hand. “Hang in there.”

“I’m trying.”

“So what are you working on?” Frank asked.

“Uncovering the identity of a sperm donor. A single mother by choice used a sperm bank seventeen years ago and now she wants to find the daddy. I’ve just started, and it feels more like a soap opera than a mystery.”

“An anonymous donation?” Peg asked.

“Supposed to be. The mother has gotten it into her head that her child has a right to know the identity of her father, regardless of the legalities.”

“You don’t agree?” Frank asked.

“The mom signed a contract when she bought the sperm. She knew what she was getting into. I understand that times change, but then the law should be changed moving forward, not retroactively.”

“Sounds like it could get sticky.” Frank put a forkful of cabbage into his mouth. It looked like bleached seaweed.

“Especially when you factor in the mom. Do you remember the Ramirez case?”

“Remind me,” Frank said.

“It was the slip and fall in public housing a few years ago. One of the witnesses was the head of the Urban Housing Collaborative. That’s the mom: Renata Sanchez.”

“It rings a bell.”

“She’s in the news a lot,” Peg commented, and cut a piece of corned beef. “She does a lot for the lower-income community.”

“I know,” Fina said, “and she has my respect and admiration for her work. It’s the other stuff I’m not sure about.”

“What does the child say?” Peg asked.

“That’s the part I’m not thrilled about. Her daughter has no interest in the case. Renata is convinced it’s in Rosie’s best interest, but Rosie doesn’t want to find out her father’s identity, at least not like this.”

“The daughter doesn’t get a say?” Frank asked.

“Her mother isn’t too concerned with her opinion.”

“So why are you involved?”

“Carl wants to attack from two fronts. He wants me to investigate less orthodox channels while he tries to push the case law. I’m not opposed to figuring out the donor’s identity. Tech-savvy kids are already doing that on their own. It’s the public crusade part I don’t like.”

“Having kids used to be so much easier.” Frank took a sip of coffee. He was one of the few people Fina knew who drank coffee as an actual mealtime accompaniment, not just a pick-me-up or dessert in disguise. “Either you could or you couldn’t.”

“It was simpler, but I’m not sure it was easier,” said Peg. “It wasn’t easy if you wanted them but couldn’t have them.”

“Agreed, but now it’s so complicated.” Frank smiled at his wife. “We had it easy. The old-fashioned way.”

“Oh, you know, I don’t need to hear this,” Fina said, sipping her soda.

“We’re not
your
parents,” Peg said.

“But you’re old enough to be my parents.” She gave them both a stern look. “The same gross-out rules apply.”

Frank chuckled. “What’s your next move?”

“I just talked to another single mother. Her kids share the same donor.”

“Does she want to be involved?” Peg asked.

“No, but one of her kids is interested.”

“Sounds like a lot of reluctant witnesses to me,” Frank commented, sitting back in his seat. “You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

“I know it. Enough about me. What are you two crazy kids up to these days?” Frank updated Fina on the recent influx of wild turkeys due to a construction project down the street. Fina offered to shoot one to shorten their Thanksgiving to-do list, but there were no takers. Conversation shifted to Peg’s work as a school nurse, a career that often rivaled Fina’s in terms of blood and gore. Peg was equal parts serene, loving, and tough, which made her perfect for her job.

Fina helped do the dishes and then walked to the living room with Frank, where he settled into his easy chair for some TV and his nightly dish of vanilla ice cream.

“I’ll pull out my notes on the Ramirez case. Maybe there’s something in there that will be useful, some background info on Renata,” Frank offered, digging into his dessert.

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Keep in touch,” he said as a farewell and a directive. “And let me know if you need help.” Frank knew he’d done a good job training Fina, but he also knew that she flirted with danger on a regular basis.

“Always,” Fina replied, smiling.

•   •   •

The Sanchez case was at a standstill until Fina got the DNA results, so she spent the next morning in a deposition and the remainder of the day working a car accident case. She photographed the intersection in question and conferred with an accident reconstructionist who did the math required in such cases. Accident investigations weren’t exciting, but there was something satisfying about collecting all the data and reaching a solid conclusion. Medical malpractice suits were notoriously gray, but physics don’t lie. There are rules that govern how objects move and interact with one another that leave little room for interpretation.

Back home later, Fina gathered her notes, computer, phone, and a bag of miniature Reese’s peanut butter cups and settled on the couch. Her UMass contact had procured a list of graduates from the class of 1972, and she had an incomplete list from the high schools in Joliet. She typed her company credit card number into a site that promised a list of all males born in Joliet, Illinois, in 1951. Fina would end up with lists, lots of lists, but if there were any overlaps, she might be able to identify the donor.

•   •   •

She opened her door the next morning to Stanley, the doorman, who handed over a couriered package from the lab that had processed Tyler Frasier’s DNA sample. Fina ripped open the package and scanned the results.

Bingo.

There were two men in the lab database with Y chromosomes closely matching Tyler’s. According to the document, there was a 60 percent chance that Tyler and the two men had a common male relative in their family tree. The most promising piece of information was the names of the two men. The older of the two was Arthur Riordan of Davenport,
Iowa. The second was Richard Reardon of Springfield, Illinois. Fina pulled up an online map and found that in the scheme of things, Davenport, Springfield, and Joliet—the donor’s birthplace—were within spitting distance of one another. Fina knew from past investigations that it wasn’t unusual for the spelling of surnames to morph over moves and generations.

Fina went to the kitchen to give her brain a moment to process the information and also to find something to satisfy the grumbling in her stomach. It was ten in the morning, which seemed like a perfect time for cold pizza. She grabbed a diet soda and bit into a piece of Hawaiian, the sweet pineapple and salty ham mingling in her mouth. Back at her computer, she put aside the results from the lab and pulled up the lists from her computer.

Fina examined the first list, male births in Joliet, Illinois, in 1951, and felt her muscles begin to tense. The second list of high school graduates in Joliet in 1969 led to a pronounced ache in her lower back. By the time she finished searching the UMass graduates for 1972, Fina was fighting a full-on muscle spasm.

She had a name that matched all the criteria.

Oh, fuck.

•   •   •

“We’ve got a major issue,” Fina said, striding into Carl’s office a couple of hours later.

“Jesus, you really have no manners,” Carl said, and looked up from his computer. A half-filled plate sat next to his keyboard.

“That’s your takeaway from that statement? My lack of manners?”

“What is it, Fina?” He sat back in his chair. He was wearing a light gray suit, perfectly tailored to his frame, with a faintly striped shirt and a tie of blues and grays. Carl’s clothes made a statement—that he was wealthy and had good taste—but he didn’t take many risks on the sartorial front. Fina didn’t think he was confident enough to mix
patterns and colors, and if Carl wasn’t good at something, he didn’t like doing it.

Fina shut the door. She sat down in the chair in front of her father’s desk. “I’ve identified the donor that Renata Sanchez used resulting in her daughter Rosie.”

“Why is that an issue?” Carl cut a piece from the fillet of whitefish on his plate and put it in his mouth. Ludlow and Associates shared a corporate kitchen with a few companies on neighboring floors. For most of the employees, it offered tasty upscale cafeteria food, but Carl and the other executives often enjoyed individually prepared meals. Today, her father seemed to be eating halibut or cod and a mixed green salad.

“It’s Hank Reardon.”

Fina watched his chewing slow and then stop, as if a motor had gradually lost its power. Carl swallowed a sip of mineral water.

“What?” he asked.

“You heard me. Hank Reardon.”

Carl put down his fork and wiped his fingers on a napkin.

“Hank Reardon?”

“Hank Reardon.”

Carl rubbed his eyes. “Fuck.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Hank Reardon was one of the most high-profile businessmen on the Eastern Seaboard, perhaps even in the whole United States. He’d made his fortune in high-tech while young, and everything he touched seemed to turn to gold. The father of a grown son, his first marriage had lasted twenty-four years, and his second was in its infancy—the marriage, although the bride wasn’t much beyond that. Hank and the new Mrs. Reardon had recently had a baby girl. The possibility that Hank Reardon was the father of multiple cryokids promised a scandal of epic proportions. He had status in the community and the wealth to match it.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure enough. I can’t be one hundred percent sure until we get his DNA, but I wanted to update you in the meantime.”

“Hank Reardon’s not going to give you his DNA,” Carl said.

“He doesn’t have to.”

Carl moved some lettuce around with his fork. He contemplated a cherry tomato, but lost interest. “I don’t want to hear about it if your plan is illegal.”

“It’s not. But I do want you to know that you’re now a proud supporter of the Greater Boston Fund for Children.”

“What?” Carl put down his fork. “What are you talking about, Josefina?”

“You’ve made a generous donation, and Milloy and I will be attending their annual gala on Saturday night. You paid enough so that we’ll be seated close to the Reardons.”

“Tell me you’re not going to swab him between courses.”

“Hardly. I’m just going to emancipate a fork or a glass from his place setting once dinner’s over.”

“Sounds iffy.”

“Not legally. There’s no expectation of privacy for your cutlery at a public gathering, is there?”

“No, of course not. It just sounds hard to pull off.”

Fina shook her head. “It’s totally doable. I’ve done it before.”

“Hmm. The skills you have.” Carl pushed his unfinished meal away. “Put a twenty-four-hour rush on the DNA and tell me as soon as you get the results.”

“Will do.” Fina stood. “Once we confirm this, I think we should send Renata on her way.”

“You’ve made your feelings abundantly clear.”

“And yet it doesn’t seem to make any difference. I don’t think Hank’s identity will remain a secret under any circumstances, but this case is leaving a bad taste in my mouth.”

“As soon as you confirm the DNA, you’ll be done. And then you can
move on to cases that are more closely aligned with your values,” he said sarcastically.

“Right. Thanks, Dad.”

Carl focused on his computer screen. “I don’t make enough money to deal with all this crap.”

“Says the man who makes millions and doesn’t lose a wink of sleep,” Fina said, and left before her father could respond.