Identity (14 page)

One look at Mickey Hogan and Fina knew that security at Universum wasn’t a complete joke. She’d requested ten minutes with him after visiting the crime scene. He was sitting behind a desk in a small, windowless room with a laptop before him. A door behind him led to some kind of nerve center that was dark and filled with screens. Fina sat down in a chair across the desk and stretched to get a better look at the control room; Mickey Hogan closed the door with his foot.

“Does Lieutenant Pitney know you’re here?” Mickey asked after examining her license.

“She doesn’t know I’m here at this exact moment, but she knows I’m on the case.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. “I assume you’re ex-BPD?”

“Yup. Thirty years.”

“Let me guess: You took your pension, put your feet up, and got bored.”

Mickey grinned. Given the math, he must have been in his midfifties, but looked ten years younger. His hair was cut close to his skull, and he wore a blue suit and tie. He was broad through the shoulders, and when he leaned back in his chair, Fina saw the gun at his hip. “Something like that.”

“Sounds like my friend Frank Gillis.”

“I know Frank. Didn’t he work for your father?”

“Yup, and he trained me.”

“He’s a good guy. Still working?”

“Kind of part-time. He likes to keep a hand in things, but doesn’t want to work that hard anymore. Did you consider going private when you left the force?”

Mickey shrugged. “I thought about it, but corporate was a better fit; good pay, great benefits, normal hours, no stakeouts.”

“But peeing in a cup is so much fun,” Fina said.

“Nothing stopping me from doing that if I want to.”

She laughed. “True.”

Mickey adjusted in his seat. “But you’re not here to trade war stories, right?”

“Right. Michael Reardon hired me to investigate Hank’s death. I’ve spoken with Dimitri Kask, and I’ve looked at the scene. Your officer Joseph Skylar was my tour guide.” Fina couldn’t help but grin.

Mickey sipped coffee out of a Universum mug. “Don’t knock Joseph. He serves a purpose.”

“He’s not exactly intimidating, though.”

“He doesn’t need to be. He likes to keep an eye on things and solve the small problems. I never get any complaints that Joseph hasn’t been helpful and courteous.”

“Fair enough. Is there anything you can tell me about Hank Reardon’s death? Like who found him?”

“One of the night-shift guys.”

“Was it unusual for Hank to be here in the middle of the night?”

“It wasn’t his usual schedule, but these guys, they work all the time. Sometimes when they’ve been traveling, they land at Logan at odd hours and can’t sleep, so they come into the office for a few hours to work and then go home and crash, or they come back to the office after a function.”

“So you wouldn’t be surprised to hear that Hank or Dimitri was here at, say, one
A.M.
?”

“Not really. These guys”—he gestured in the air—“their lives aren’t normal by any stretch of the imagination.”

“Because of their wealth?”

“Their money, their ambition, their influence, their responsibilities. You name it, everything is on a grand scale.”

Fina nodded. “They’re not like everyone else.”

“No, they are not.”

“So what do
you
think happened? Hank drove into the parking garage, got out of his car, and someone bashed in his skull?”

“Basically.”

“But I saw a lot of cameras when I was on the third floor, and you need a pass card to get into the garage.”

“Hank’s was the only car that came into the garage during that time.”

“So the murderer came in on foot?”

“Or came in hours earlier and hung around.”

“There’s no footage from the time of the murder?”

“There is, but there’s nothing to see.”

“But the perpetrator left somehow.” She was quiet for a moment. “Did he take anything from the scene?”

“You’re assuming it was a he?” Mickey asked.

“No, I’m not, actually. Just trying to keep it simple.”

“He didn’t take anything that we know of. Hank still had his wallet and phone. His briefcase was open and papers were strewn about, but no one knows if anything was missing, since we don’t know what was in there in the first place.”

There was a tap at the door, and Mickey looked up at a young man in a similar blue suit.

“Boss, Mr. J. wants to see you.”

Mickey pushed back his chair. “That’s Mr. Jessup, our CFO. We’ll have to cut this short.”

“Of course.” Fina rose and put her bag over her shoulder. “I’m assuming that you have some pretty serious security here, given the nature of the business.”

“That’s one of the reasons I like the job. I don’t get a lot of blowback
about resources. When I tell them they need to hire more people or update the systems, they do.”

“Then it’s got to feel pretty shitty that Hank was killed here.”

Mickey massaged one hand with the other. “It does, but I’m not convinced that his murder had anything to do with the company.”

“You think it was personal?”

Mickey cocked an eyebrow. “You tell me. It seems like the suspect list is pretty extensive.” He held the door for Fina. She gave him her card and bade adieu to Tony at the front desk.

Things were starting to get interesting.

•   •   •

Fina hit the speed dial for Cristian as she approached the Longfellow Bridge.

“Menendez.”

“In the interest of full disclosure, I wanted to let you know that Michael Reardon has hired me.”

“To do what?”

“Find out who killed his father.”

The line was quiet for a moment. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” A bike rider weaved in and out of the cars ahead of her. Fina liked the idea of sharing the road in theory, but in practice, she wished her car were outfitted like a trash truck that lifted and overturned dumpsters. With the push of one button, pesky cyclists would be cleared from her path, easy peasy.

“Isn’t there a conflict of interest with Renata Sanchez?”

“I finished my work for her.”

“Pitney warned you to stay out of it.”

“She can’t actually tell me what jobs to take. That would be, you know, against the law.”

“And you expect me to tell her this?”

“No, I’m happy to tell her; I just wanted to tell you first.”

“Good luck with that phone call.”

“Thank you!”

Fina was relieved to get Pitney’s voice mail; she had every right to take the case, but nobody liked being chewed out. She’d just finished a chatty message describing her excitement at the prospect of working together when she arrived at the Reardon homestead.

The Reardons lived on Commonwealth Avenue between Fairfield and Gloucester, in one of the most expensive properties in the city. Their ten-bedroom, eighteen-bath mansion left little doubt of Hank’s net worth.

When someone was murdered, the victim’s spouse was always the go-to suspect, but this was even truer when there was a lot of money involved. And when it came to Hank Reardon, “a lot” was a drastic understatement.

Fina squeezed her Impala into a parking space and climbed the wide steps to the front door. If Mrs. Reardon had been closer in age to her husband, Fina might have worn a more conservative outfit, but they were the same age; looking like her peer, in a casual dress and wedge sandals, could only be a good thing.

Fina used the knocker, which was the size of a dinner plate, and waited for the large wooden doors to swing open. She was given the once-over by a fifty-something woman in a maid’s outfit.

“Hi. I’m here to see Danielle. Michael, her stepson, asked me to stop by.”

“And you are . . .”

“Here to see Danielle,” Fina repeated.

“I mean, do you have some ID?”

Fina pulled her PI license from her bag and handed it over. The maid studied it and then closed the front door, leaving Fina on the stoop.

After five minutes, Fina sat down on the top step and fiddled with her phone. Under normal circumstances, she might worry that her ID was lost forever, but in a fifteen-thousand-square-foot house, it took considerable time to get from one place to another. She was in the
middle of sending Haley a text when, five minutes later, she heard the door open behind her.

“Mrs. Reardon will see you now.”

“One sec.” Fina held a finger over her head. “I just need to finish this text.” Fina made the missive newsier than necessary while the maid sighed loudly.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Fina said with a smile as she hopped up and dropped her phone into her bag. The maid scowled, and Fina followed her inside.

“Wow,” Fina said as she stepped over the threshold. The foyer was enormous and dominated by a dark wooden staircase that loomed two stories and featured an elaborately carved banister. The doors and windows were outlined with equally detailed molding, and polished wooden floors peeked out from underneath a twenty-by-twenty Oriental rug. “They don’t make them like they used to.”

“No, they don’t,” the maid agreed. She straightened up, and the corners of her mouth curved into a slight smile. Her workplace was a showplace; no wonder she felt proud. “This way.” She beckoned Fina down the hallway to the right, where they stopped in front of a large wooden door. Fina heard a whirring sound behind it. After a moment, the maid pulled open the door, and the modern elevator doors behind it yawned open.

“Mrs. Reardon is in her studio on the top floor.”

They stepped into the mirrored car, and the maid pressed the button marked
5
. They rode in silence and emerged into what felt like a completely different house. A small passageway led to a large open space flooded with sunlight, which reflected off the white walls and white-painted floorboards. Skylights loomed overhead, and from the other windows Fina could see green and the Prudential Building. The rest of the urban detritus was hidden from view, leaving only an edited, visually appealing slice of Boston.

“Mrs. Reardon?” the maid called out across the canvases and easels that littered the space. “I’ve brought a visitor.” She started across the
room; Fina followed. They picked their way through drop cloths and canvases to a seating area by a window. There was an overstuffed sofa and a scratched coffee table. A couple of large wooden tables were covered in photos, clay, and other sculpting equipment. According to Fina’s digging, Danielle had been a fine arts major in college and had met her husband while working at one of the tony galleries on Newbury Street. The rumor was that she was actually a talented artist.

The maid looked around. “Well, she was here.” She walked back toward the elevator and picked up a wall-mounted phone.

“She’s in the nursery,” she said after a moment.

They took the elevator to the third floor and padded down a long hallway with high ceilings and intricate picture moldings. The maid knocked on the frame of an open door.

“Mrs. Reardon? The visitor.” She made Fina sound like an alien.

Everything about the room, including the occupant, was camera-ready. Danielle Reardon was wearing a pair of dark-wash skinny jeans and a fitted white T-shirt, showing no signs of extra postpartum pounds. Her long blond hair was pulled back in a smooth, shiny ponytail. Her tan offset a star-shaped diamond pendant that dipped close to her firm cleavage, and on her ring finger she sported the walnut-sized engagement diamond and chunky diamond band that Marnie had gaped at during the meeting with Jules.

The room was bigger than most studio apartments and shared the same high ceilings and elaborate moldings as the rest of the house. Two floor-to-ceiling windows were covered by sheers and framed by heavy drapes and valances. Everything was decorated in shades of pink, including a sleigh crib with a canopy that dominated the room. There were also a changing table, armoire, couch, and rocking chair, but no photos, books, or pictures that Fina could see. It seemed ridiculously over the top. Didn’t babies just need a drawer to sleep in and a diaper to poop in?

They listened as the maid shuffled out, and Fina walked over to Danielle. “Fina Ludlow. We met at Jules Lindsley’s office.” She offered
her hand but was rebuffed by Danielle, who held up paint-stained hands.

“I would, but I don’t want to get this on you.” Her palms were spotted with green paint. “Just making some changes,” she said, gesturing to a wall mural depicting the Public Garden and the Swan Boats. It was incredibly detailed, and the rich browns and greens popped out from the pink background. Fina took a step and examined it more closely. She pointed at a trail of ducklings behind a larger duck.

“Jack, Kack, Lack, Mack, Nack, Ouack, Pack, and Quack?” Fina asked.

Danielle rolled her eyes. “Obviously you grew up around here. You people are obsessed with that book.”

“You didn’t read it growing up? It’s a classic.” Fina’s nephews still loved to hear
Make Way for Ducklings
, and a pilgrimage to the Public Garden and the Swan Boats was a rite of passage for Boston-area kids.

“Not that I remember, but I’m from Southern California; we were playing on the beach, not sitting inside, reading books,” she said with a smidgen of bitchiness.

“You painted this?” Fina asked.