Identity (23 page)

Sunday was generally a slow day in the realm of private investigation. Most businesses were closed, and people were unavailable and less inclined to shoot the breeze with a stranger when they had family commitments.

On Monday morning, Fina scrolled through her phone messages while the elevator took her down to the garage. She started to exit and bumped into a man who answered her apology with a hand around her neck. Pushing her back into the elevator, he reached up and shattered the security camera with one swift motion.

Fina kicked him hard in the groin, but the doors closed before she could escape. He slammed her up against the wall of the elevator and, after a couple of floors, pulled out the emergency stop button. The car jerked to a halt, and Fina stopped struggling.

“Forget about your gun,” he said.

She was quiet. It was good advice. People had this idea that if you had a gun, you had the upper hand, but that was a fallacy. You had to grasp the weapon, release the safety, aim, and get a clear shot, all of which was next to impossible in a small space in fifteen adrenaline-fueled seconds.

“I’m not moving,” she croaked as his hand applied more pressure around her neck.

“I think you should take a little trip,” he hissed in her ear.

Fina was able to breathe, but just barely. Her head was aching, and her ears were starting to ring. “You’re a travel agent?”

He stepped away and backhanded her across the face. Fina tasted blood where one of her teeth had cut her lip. Her cheek stung.

He grabbed her around the neck again and squeezed.

“Either get out of town or I’m going to relocate you myself.”

Fina didn’t respond.

“Understand?”

She nodded.

He depressed the emergency stop button and the car jerked to life. The doors opened on the fifteenth floor, and he pushed her into the hallway. “You can take the next one.”

The doors closed, and Fina doubled over with her hands on her knees. She took a half dozen deep breaths and gingerly probed her cut lip with her fingers. Reaching into her bag, she wrapped her fingers around her gun and then pushed the up button for the elevator.

Back inside Nanny’s, she turned the dead bolt, threw down her bag, and went into the bathroom. Her lower lip was starting to swell and split near the corner of her mouth, and a bloom of bruises was appearing around her neck.

This was no time to take a trip.

•   •   •

Fina lay on the couch for half an hour with a bag of frozen peas on her lip. Finally, she took some Advil and willed herself to get up and retrace her steps to the garage. Twenty minutes later, she walked into Carl’s office.

“Good,” Carl said. “I was just about to call you.”

Fina plopped into the chair in front of his desk.

“What happened to you?” He stared at her face.

“I had a little set-to.”

Carl sighed. “Are we going to get sued over this?”

“Your concern is touching.” Fina went over to the minibar and pulled two diet sodas from the fridge. She popped open one, took a long pull, then pressed the second against her swollen lip.

“How’s
he
look?”

“You always ask me that, and whoever he is looks fine.” She sat down on the sofa. “I was at a decided disadvantage, being ambushed in the elevator.” Her neck was starting to throb. “We should sue the building. Their security is shit.”

“We have bigger problems.”

“Great. What now?”

“Michael Reardon is on his way in.”

“To see you?”

“Yes. He’s not pleased with your progress.”

Fina screwed up her face in concentration; it hurt. “So he called you? Wouldn’t calling me be more to the point?”

Carl shrugged. He was seated in his large leather desk chair and slowly swiveled side to side.

“That’s ridiculous,” Fina said.

“What’s ridiculous is that you aren’t on top of this. You should have given him a progress report by now.”

“Give me a break. It’s been less than a week since he hired me.” Fina rotated the cold soda on her face. “Maybe he should hire someone else if he’s unhappy.”

Carl shook his finger at her. “The Reardons could be a cash cow, so make nice.”

Shari tapped on the open door and leaned into the office. “Michael Reardon is here.”

Carl nodded, and she ushered him into the room. He was wearing khakis and a checked button-down shirt. His sandy blond hair looked damp and neatly combed. The expression on his face when he saw Fina suggested that he didn’t expect the subject of the meeting to actually be in attendance, certainly not looking like a prizefighter.

“Michael,” she said. She struggled off the couch, and they both
sat down across from Carl. It was like being called to the principal’s office.

“What happened?” he asked, giving her a weak smile.

“Occupational hazard.”

“Don’t worry about her. She’s fine,” Carl offered.

“I was choked.”

“Like choked, your air supply was cut off?” Michael asked.

“Yes, hence the bruises.” Fina pointed to her neck.

“You should get that checked out. A lack of oxygen to the brain is no joke. It can cause serious damage.”

“How would you tell?” Carl mused.

Fina glared at her father.

“So, Michael,” Carl said as he sat back and rested his folded hands on his trim torso. “You sounded unhappy on the phone. I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

“Well, I don’t know about unhappy.” He avoided Fina’s gaze and looked at Carl. He was seriously off base if he thought Carl would be the friendlier of the two. “More like unsure.”

“About?” Fina asked. Carl shot her a warning look.

“The investigation. Where things stand.” He glanced at her and looked away.

Fina ran her tongue over her swollen lip and took a moment. The only thing worse than bitching about her was not having the balls to do it to her face.

“I should have called you sooner. I apologize for that.” Fina made an attempt at a smile. “I’ve been busy investigating.” She gestured toward her face. “Obviously. But you should never feel that you can’t call me directly.”

Michael pointed at her face. “That’s because of the investigation into my dad’s death?”

“It’s my primary case right now.” True, it wasn’t her only case, but Fina had difficulty believing that Greta Samuels had hired some muscle to scare her off.

“Jesus. I’m sorry.” He looked at his shoes.

“It’s not your fault,” Fina said. “I just hope it reassures you that I’m making progress.”

“People only beat her up when she’s getting close to a breakthrough,” Carl said.

“He’s right,” Fina added, “and I meant what I said. Don’t hesitate to call me. Anytime. Day or night.”

Carl rolled his eyes as Fina reached into her bag and handed her card to Michael.

“If I don’t answer right away, it means I’m busy being beaten or something similar.”

He pocketed the card. “I don’t want you to get hurt on my account.”

“She’s tough. Don’t worry about her.” Carl glanced at his watch and then Fina. “The update?”

Fina took a sip of soda. “I’ve spoken to Danielle, your mom, Renata Sanchez, Rosie Sanchez, Tyler Frasier, Dimitri Kask, Mickey Hogan, Joseph Skylar, Ellen Alberti, and the cops, of course. I’m making progress, but sometimes you just have to work the leads until something breaks.”

Carl tapped a finger on his desk. Fina was familiar with this motion, a metronome of his impatience.

“Wow, okay. I didn’t realize you’d done so much.”

“When would you like me to provide the next update?” she asked.

He thought for a moment. “How about in a couple of days? Even if you don’t have anything concrete to tell me, I’d feel better just hearing from you.”

“Of course. I’ll be in touch.” Fina moved to the edge of her seat. “I meant to ask you, where were you when your dad was killed?”

“Me?” Michael pointed at himself.

“Sorry, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask.”

“I was at home.”

“Is there anyone who can confirm that?”

Michael fiddled with the watch on his wrist. “No.”

“Great. Thanks.” Fina stood up. “There’s nothing else you need to tell me, right?”

Michael looked askance. “Like what?”

“Anything your dad said that seems relevant in hindsight. Your conversations with him.” She looked him in the eye and gave him the chance to come clean about his fight with Hank.

Michael shook his head.

“Then I’m off,” Fina said.

He
was unhappy with
her
? Well. She was none too pleased with him at the moment.

•   •   •

“I’m hungry,” Fina announced when she walked into Scotty’s office. Down the hall from Carl’s, her brother’s space was a fun version of their father’s. It had the same basic elements as Carl’s—glass desk, leather sofa, flat-screen TV, private bathroom—but the focal point was a pinball machine, the Magic Genie, which, though muted, flashed in some kind of amusement Morse code.

“Good for you for using your words,” Scotty responded, “but now try to do something about it, like a big girl.” He looked at her, registering her injuries. “Oh, Christ. Should I even ask?”

“Probably not. Is Michelle around?” she asked, referring to his assistant. “Can we order some lunch?” She plopped down on her brother’s couch.

“I already ate, and I have a deposition in fifteen minutes. But she’ll get you something if you want. Or you could just buy yourself lunch like most adults in the workforce.” He looked up from the documents on his desk and smiled at his little sister.

“Fine.”

“How’s the Reardon stuff going?” Scotty asked. “Is that”—he pointed at her lip—“because of the case, or did you cut someone off in traffic? Is it the guy from Saturday?”

“I assume it’s because of the case, but he didn’t introduce himself,
and I didn’t get a good look at the guy the other day. There are a lot of pissed-off people. It will take some work to narrow down the list.”

“Well, you must be making progress if you’ve got someone spooked.”

“That’s what Dad said. Speaking of which, Michael Reardon tattled on me to Dad.”

“Why? What did you do?”

“It’s what I didn’t do. I didn’t call him in a timely fashion, so he went to the big guy. We just had a little sit-down to clear the air.”

“Was it healing?”

“Extremely. I think he might be regretting pulling Dad into it. Dad did his stern-friendly thing.”

“Ahh. The stern-friendly can be very effective.”

“Exactly. Hey, do you know any plastic surgeons? I want someone to assess the damage.”

Scotty called out to his assistant. “Michelle,” he said, “will you get Fina in to see Dr. Whitmore?”

“No problem,” she responded. The Ludlows were on poor terms with many doctors in the city, but on very good terms with a select group who often testified on their behalf. These doctors were only too happy to keep the family in good fighting form.

“Thank you,” Fina said.

“Don’t let Dr. Whitmore talk you into anything.” Scotty grinned. “Thirty minutes with that guy, and he’ll have you scheduled for a hundred thousand bucks’ worth of work.”

“Don’t you worry. I can hold my own with the plastic surgeon.”

“So
do
you have anything to report on the Reardon case?” Scotty asked.

“I’ve talked to a lot of people, and there’s a fair amount of animosity, but no one has confessed, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s a stew of money and parenthood—or parentage, I should say.” Fina tapped her foot on the carpet as she thought. “Do you think Patty would have had kids if she hadn’t met you?”

“With someone else, you mean?”

“No. I mean, if she hadn’t gotten married, do you think she would have gone the single motherhood route?”

“I have no idea. You’d have to ask her.” Scotty got up from his chair and pulled on his suit coat. “There’s still time for you. The man of your dreams may be right around the corner,” he said, straightening the stack of papers in front of him.

“That would suggest I dream about such things, and I assure you, I don’t.”

Scotty walked around the desk and leaned over toward Fina’s midriff.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Just as I suspected,” he said, and patted his sister’s stomach. “You might want to have that thing looked at. I think it’s broken.”

Fina playfully slapped her brother’s hand. “Piss off.”

Scotty grinned. “Come by the house for dinner again one of these nights.”

He walked in the direction of a small conference room, and Fina went the opposite way toward the exit. Something was making noise down there all right, but it was nothing that couldn’t be cured with a snack.

•   •   •

At Heritage Cryobank, Ellen Alberti was unavailable, but the bank’s director, Dr. Walter Stiles, emerged from the back of the building to speak with Fina.

He strode back out onto the sidewalk, and she had no choice but to follow him.

“Ellen told me about your earlier visit. We have no comment to make, and you need to leave. This is private property.”

“Why so jumpy?” Fina asked. Her “meeting” in the elevator and Michael’s complaints had put her on edge. This case was starting to annoy her.

Walter was a couple of inches taller than she, dressed in suit pants,
a dress shirt and tie, and a white coat. His name was embroidered on his jacket, and an ID badge was clipped to the pocket.

“Ms. Ludlow, Heritage has no involvement in the Hank Reardon situation. We run a business here, and it’s paramount that our clients feel comfortable. Your presence has the opposite effect.”

Fina put a hand on her hip. “Come on. Those women sitting in there don’t know who I am or what I do.”

“Leave, or the police will be summoned.”

Fina smiled. “Yeah, they love being ‘summoned.’”

Walter glared at her. “Do you understand?”

“I do.” She started backing away. “But you have to know that this kind of reaction only makes me more curious.”

“There’s nothing unusual about wanting to protect my organization from harassment.”

“Maybe I’ll be in touch with Ellen. She seemed less defensive.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it. Our lawyers will be in touch if you continue this campaign.”